| Welcome to the Website of Author/Photographer J L Foster |
| Site Page - Marilyn |
| Coming Soon: Marilyn: A Requiem of Terror |
| BLURB TO BE ANNOUNCED UNEDITED EXCERPT - COPYRIGHT 2008 - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED |
| Prologue Nashville, Tennessee Five. Four. Three. Two – The crewman mouthed the word “one” and pointed to the young lady who sat in one of the two chairs on the set. Heavy lights shone down on her from above and blasted her from the sides. Her make-up was heavy and fresh. Her short blond hair had been freshly cut and trimmed specially for this interview. She wore her best smile, kept her eyes on the man with the cue cards, and spoke in her most pleasant of voices. “Welcome back,” she said with steady cheer as she addressed her nationwide television audience. “Up next, we’ll be taking a looking into a shocking blast from the past that caused a nationwide upset and shock, right here in Middle Tennessee not long ago.” Shifting her head to the left, she followed the off-screen direction to face another camera. “It was three years ago this week that a young woman named Marilyn Becker woke from a six month long coma, following the most brutal murder spree Tennessee has ever known.” The television host fell silent as her cue was given and footage began to role. She watched on a small screen beside her, seeing what her audience was watching – a snippet of clips from news reports, uncovering the details of the Two Forks Killer – Jack Robinson. At the end of the selection, a copy of the book Jack Robinson: the Life and Death of the Two Forks Killer appeared on screen, and then shrunk down into the upper right corner as the camera switched back to the host. “I’m sure this is a story that many of us remember and are not likely to soon forget,” she continued. “You might also remember our next guest. He was with us three years ago, promoting his second best selling title Jack Robinson: the Life and Death of the Two Forks Killer. He’s back today to tell us about his brand new book out now called Jack and Jill: a Requiem of Terror. Please welcome back author Jackson Wells!” The live studio audience cheered with great enthusiasm as the tall man with salt and pepper hair and a brilliant smile began his way onto the stage, approached the host with a hug and a kiss to the cheek, and then took his seat. As the applause sign blinked off, the clapping and cheering stopped and the host began to talk. “Welcome back, Jackson.” “Thank you, Judy,” Jackson said before offering her one of his infamous winks. His appearance was quite stunning as he sat in a fine tailored Armani suit, diamond studded watch, and various rings on his fingers. Television host Judy Holidae swooned. Gathering herself, she smiled wide and began. “Jackson, in your last two books, you uncovered some rather grim facts about not only the Two Forks murders, but also the killer himself, Jack Robinson. The details of this tragedy are horrifying still today – three and a half years since the last murder.” “That’s right, Judy. Jack Robinson was a severely twisted man. The depths of his mind boggle me. The man had so many personalities – so much pained history. He watched his parents get murdered. He watched his childhood home burn down. He experienced so much harm at such an early age that I don’t believe he ever truly knew who he was. In a way, I wish he was alive today so that he could undergo psychiatric treatment. If his mind could be tapped into, we could learn so much about him, about many more serial killers, and even possibly about future serial killers.” “So you think that by learning more about Jack Robinson’s past would do what? Show warning signs of this possible behavior?” “I don’t think this, Judy. I know this.” Jackson Wells smiled wide and chuckled just a bit, prompting the audience to chuckle with him. “I asked you this next question before, but I want to ask you again.” The camera zoomed in closer, catching her eyes as they stared dead into his. “It’s been three and a half years now and still no body. Jack was able to fake his own death before after murdering his first wife. How can you be so certain that he’s not still alive out there somewhere?” “Because he didn’t finish the job,” he said plainly – calmly. “If he was still alive and out there, I think we would know.” “What do you mean by ‘finish the job’?” “Marilyn Rhodes is still alive.” “And how is Marilyn doing?” “You know,” he said with a sigh and shuffled in his seat, “Marilyn and I have never met. She’s never granted an interview to me, but through some close contacts I know that she has left Tennessee and is beginning her life anew again.” “Imagine the things you could learn from Marilyn about Jack Robinson.” “Marilyn is one of the few people who knew the different sides of Jack intimately. He romanced her and loved her as Jonathan Becker, and he locked her pregnant and starving in an attic as Jack Robinson. She’s probably the one person who knows Jack better than I do in a lot of ways.” “And they never learned anything of Marilyn’s son Christopher?” The question seemed forced but needed. “No,” Jackson replied, slowly shaking his head. “That case was closed while Marilyn was in her coma and never reopened. I believe the same as the general public and nearly everyone else on this. Christopher froze in the snow and died that night.” “A shame,” the host said, paused, and then smiled wide as she changed the subject. “So tell us all about your new book, Jack and Jill: a Requiem of Terror. It just hit stores today?” “Yep, it’s fresh on the market. Jack and Jill is a revisiting of the murders. I spent four months there summer and fall last year, touching base with many of the good, heartfelt people of Two Forks that I grew to know and love during my many visits there. I learned a lot about the history of the house on Prosperous Avenue and more about the town itself. “But my main focus with this book,” he said, pausing briefly to clear his voice, “was to learn more about Jack and Jill Robinson as the residents knew them. Jack very rarely left the house, but Marilyn – or Jill – had found a bit of freedom before becoming a prisoner in her home. She had made friends, and of course, she had been the subject of a lot of local gossip.” Interrupting him, Judy asked, “And you said you actually toured the remains of the house?” “Over and over actually. I was also given privilege to several of the Robinsons’ belongings that had been salvaged after the fire, including part of a portrait that Jack had painted long ago. I learned that Marilyn bought the painting as a gift for Jack at an art gallery in Two Forks when she first arrived, unaware until much later that he was the artist. She had been told that the painting had been done by the victim’s boyfriend right before his suicide.” “That’s amazing.” “This whole case is amazing and still horrifying today.” “Yes, quite so,” she agreed and then smiled again. “Thank you so much for being here with us today, Jackson. It was wonderful to see you again.” “Thank you for having me again, Judy. Always great to be here.” Turning to another camera for a close up, Judy Holidae smiled wider and said, “Jackson Wells’ new book Jack and Jill: a Requiem of Terror is in stores today. Up next, celebrity chef Monica Sanders teaches me how to make her tasty jalapeño mustard burgers. Mmm. Coming right up after this!” Pointing to the camera, she held her smile until she heard “cut” from the director and then exhaled. Jackson stood with her, hugging her again, and thanking her in a whisper for having him. “Are you kidding me,” she replied with half a laugh. “My ratings go out of sight when you’re on.” “What can I say? I’m gold,” he joked. “You sure as hell are.” “Hey, it’s no secret I owe my fortune to Jack Robinson. His fucked up head has me set nicely for the rest of my life.” “You’re one in a million, Jackson.” “Not even close, Judy.” Winking at her one more time, he said goodbye and followed as he was led off stage, behind the scenes. “We’ll get you back to wardrobe,” the man said as he led him. “You can change into something more comfortable before you go if you like.” “I don’t think so,” Jackson scoffed. “These threads and these diamonds are about as comfortable as I get these days, and believe me – I’m pretty damn comfortable.” “Sounds like you know what you want then. I’ll lead you around to the green room so you can get your things.” “No need to waste your time,” he said dryly. “I’ve been on this set plenty. I know my way around.” “You’re the boss,” shrugged the assistant as he began to move away. “And don’t forget it,” Jackson remarked with a wink of the eye. Jackson was in and out of the green room quicker than he would have been if the tubby assistant had held him up. Jackson Wells was a busy man with an agenda to keep, and he hadn’t the time for slow moving snails along his uphill trail of success. He was out of the television studio less than five minutes later – something that even the daily employees of the station found hard to achieve. Across the small courtyard and over to the parking garage, he strolled through three lanes of parked vehicles until he came to his own. Today, he had chosen his black Lincoln Continental – sleek, sophisticated, and wealthy. Tinted windows. Beautifully waxed. It was the envy of every other car in the garage. Pulling his keys from his pocket, he pressed the alarm button on the keychain and waited for the security system’s double beep. There was no sound, and the head and tail lights did not flash on and off. He pressed the button again. Still nothing. “Fucked up security system!” he cursed loudly, kicking the tire of his car. Of course, the alarm did not sound. “Piece of shit. Okay, I know where my next stop will be today. To kick some alarm salesman’s ass.” Putting the key in the lock, he turned it and opened the door in unison, climbing inside in a huff, and strapping himself in with his seatbelt. He slammed the door shut and cranked the car, calming just a hair at the sound of his smooth running engine. “That’s right, baby,” he said, petting the steering wheel. “Purr for daddy.” Pulling the gear into reverse, he eased out of the parking spot, shifted into drive, and then peeled off with a screeching of the tires. Moments later, Jackson Wells was easing on to the interstate, cruising down the road with few cares in the world. At the I-40/I-65 split, he heard the voice whisper grimly from behind him in the backseat. “You think you know me, Jackson?” the man hissed, rising up behind him from the floorboard. “You don’t know jack.” Jackson could say nothing. He had been rendered speechless. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror and he stared with disbelief at the reflection of Jack Robinson – a man whose face he had only seen before in photographs. Seeing him in person – and alive – was a much different thing. |
