Fate of a Murderess

Part 3: A Short Interlude

Angela Devoneste (her professional name, of course) woke from a deep sleep, and briefly wondered where she was. Then she remembered. An out of work actress, she had taken a curious job purely because she had no other way of paying her bills this month, and would have to leave LA and head back home to her parents unless she earned some cash, quickly.

"We'll fly you to Latin America, you then spend the day pretending to be a character we've created for you, we've even got a credit card in her name (which charges to our company, it's not illegal or anything). You can buy just about anything you like with it, we don't mind. Then we will fly you back on a private jet that in the story is owned by this woman that you're pretending to be."

She was on the jet plane supposedly owned by this Jennifer chick. She hadn't seen any film cameras or anything during her stay in – whatever city it had been – but that didn't mean anything. There were so many ways of making a film these days, for all she knew the camera had been hidden in the clothes they gave her to wear. She had passed out after drinking a couple of glasses of the wine that the pilot had given her.

Other facts started to creep into her consciousness. The first being that someone had stripped her naked while she was out cold. It dawned on her that she must have been drugged, and that this was going to be one of those nightmare kidnapped-and-sold-into-slavery type stories. The money had been too good to be true, and now she guessed she knew why.

She was on a bed, she realised, which was about as big as could be fitted onto this particular aircraft. She rolled off the bed and decided to go look for someone, maybe get her clothes back (or at least, some form of clothes). No luck. The door to this compartment was firmly locked. Desperately she searched the room for something to wear, but the single cupboard had also been stripped of all its contents. Somebody definitely wanted her naked during this flight. And the pilot had had such a charming British accent, she couldn't understand how such a person could be involved in white slavery. She curled up on the bed and started to cry, sobbing into the sheets at the unfairness of a world that treated the ambitious so harshly.

Then she heard footsteps approaching. Frantically, she gathered the sheets around herself to cover up her private regions. The door opened, and in walked the pilot.

William DeMoeira strode confidently towards the cabin of his captive. She had played her part beautifully, and would have one last act in which she would star as Jennifer. He had just listened by encoded radio transmissions to the events in North Africa thousands of miles away as the real Jennifer was nailed to a couple of planks, and half way through was nailed by a couple of planks (William had little respect for his cousins Joel and Francis). He had appreciated the dedication made by his father James Edward, but it didn't improve his mood at having to miss out on the big day. Perhaps of all the DeMoeiras, he had been the one who most wanted to fuck Daniel's wife (even while Daniel was still alive). It wasn't love for her, though: he had wanted to rape her, brutalise her, punish her for being cheap and lowlife and different in the world of the DeMoeiras, and for leading his cousin astray. Of course, if he had done so before the murder, then it would have been he who faced death by some hideous concoction of the families twisted minds.

Ah, well. He couldn't have the real thing yet, but there was no reason why he shouldn't have his own private celebration with the faux Jennifer. Ms. Devoneste was still made up as Jennifer, and might as well take her place. With the plane on autopilot, he stripped in the lounge area and made his way to the bedroom at the back of the aircraft.

When he opened the door to the rear cabin, he almost laughed out loud to see the living, breathing simulacrum of Jennifer cowering amidst the bedclothes. It would be so sweet to degrade and desecrate the dumb actress who had leaped at the chance to play the part. Her little "eek" of surprise at his nudity just added to the effect.

Lightning-quick, he grabbed a handful of sheet and whipped it away, her fearful grip no match for his animal strength. Then he was on her, skilful hands snatching her wrists and forcing them back onto the bed, his weight pushing her body after them. Violently, he lunged into her, letting the stupid bitch scream for mercy as he held her down on the bed. Hard, brutal strokes, but not uncontrolled like his cousins in Africa had been. He was in command of himself, drawing out his victim's suffering as those two were unable to do for very long. She was struggling, of course, but made no difference to her situation and only had the same effect on him as if she had been responding positively to his approach.

Then he let go of the girl's arms. She flailed at him immediately, but it was short-lived. Almost without missing a stroke in his rape of her now severely bruised pussy, he grabbed one of the pillows and shoved it into her face. Now he was holding it down over her pathetic mouth, and he had raised the tempo of his thrusting. She was struggling still, but weaker and weaker as he built himself up into a crescendo. He felt an unmistakable shiver run through the body beneath him and it triggered his orgasm just as he had hoped it would. He slumped over the lifeless corpse of Angela Devoneste, the pillow still firmly over her mouth just in case there was some vestigial trace of life in her. But it was unlikely.

After ten minutes to recover, William made his final preparations. He drew a pair of pliers from his pocket and carefully removed every tooth from the actress's mouth, before wrapping her in one of Jennifer's bathrobes and arranging her on the bed. He returned to the cockpit where he shuffled the corpse of Jennifer's usual pilot, who had been carefully strangled while he and Jennifer slept on the flight to South America, into the pilot's seat of the aircraft. William DeMoeira made one last adjustment before he donned his jumpsuit, strapped on his parachute and abandoned the plane to its fate.

The timing was perfect, a little before dawn over the Pacific Ocean, not far from the US coastline. The location was just as expected and, if all had gone to plan, there would be a DeMoeira yacht waiting to pick him up. He had activated a coded radio beacon that would tell the rescue crew where he was coming down, just in case they missed each other originally. A High-Altitude, Low Opening (HALO) jump was called for, for secrecy, but William was already a skilled parachutist and that was why he of all the DeMoeiras had been chosen for this part of the mission.

And it befell just as intended: in fact, William had to steer slightly to avoid the mast of his rescue vessel. While the rescuers were busy fishing him out of the sea, the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle fell into place, as the jet plane exploded in mid-air. It was set up to look like an electrical engineering fault had caused a spark in a fuel tank. If anyone should ever be recovered, there would be two bodies that could be presumed to be Jennifer DeMoeira and her pilot. And so the newspapers reported the following day on the continuing tragedy of the young DeMoeira couple, first the climbing accident and then the air disaster ripping the fairy-tale couple from the world.

All William cared about was that there was no way anybody would ever come looking for the real Jennifer DeMoeira.