Bastard (A Novel)

Frank Miller looked out of a window at Hotel Boulderado. He was in room 5.

He sat down at the desk provided and ruffled through his documents.

There it was: his passport. He adjusted his black wig and puffed up his shoulders with pride.

"That's me. Enrico Balderas."

He said to himself.

He examined his passport to make sure all of the details were correct: He had created an entire story for the man he was playing: Enrico Balderas was a hardworking Mexican immigrant who had tediously achieved American citizenship.

If anyone asked, he said he was a history professor at the University of Colorado.

He'd been working there for 15 years or so, so he said, but he'd retired since he'd gotten older and wanted time with his children: He didn't want anyone to blow his cover, and he knew people would talk.

The problem with telling lies is that the truth eventually catches up with a person.

I have to get out of here soon. They'll know who I'm not Enrico. Unless...

He pulled out his laptop, powered it up, and began searching.

No. No.

He tapped his fingers on the desk.

There's no one I can screw over. No one by the name of Enrico.

He could only be Enrico Balderas for so long, and then he'd have to change his identity again.

Fortunately, his fake passport looked genuine, and it had served him well as he'd boarded the plane to America.

Here, no one knew that he was suspected for murder. Not even the cops.

Of course, he could only stay in Colorado for so long. He couldn't stay in one place.

Frank Miller was on the run, and he'd soon have to change his identity once more.

He rubbed his forehead with his temple.

I can't believe I did that to Sarah. She was and is such a good girl. Such a good daughter. It's just that bitch Roseanne. She never saved anything for me. She only slept with strangers, that woman, and my lust got away on me. I hate myself for it. I really do. I'm such a bastard. Such a worthless piece of shit.

Deciding to ease his mind, Frank Miller went down to the lobby and poured himself a piping hot cup of coffee.

He stared at the dark brown liquid as it made its way into the white paper cup.

It reminded him of the blood oozing from Roseanne's chest the night she died, and he savored the memory.

That bitch got what she deserved. At least I provided for Sarah though, after what I did to her. She has enough cash to support herself. That's probably what she wants anyway: a quiet life. I only wish her DNA hadn't been on that body.

He shivered even though it wasn't particularly cold.

I only wish my DNA hadn't ended up there. Now I'm having to deal with all of this shit. Had to leave the country. That detective will never find me. Blockhead, he is. He'll never find out who did it. I'm just glad the wretch of a woman is gone.

Back in England, George Hamilton continued pounding his head against the wall, figuratively.

I can't believe this Frank guy. He's up and disappeared. We can't find him anywhere in the country, or out of the country.

He paused.

That man must have changed his identity and left. He must've. There's no other explanation for someone cleaning their tracks so efficiently. If only Darlene were on the case with me. She's good at this sort of thing. Shit. I guess I'll just have to do it myself.

George paused, then began examining the internet for people with false identities.

Fuck. Nothing.

He threw his hands up in the air and walked back to his apartment, his spirits down.