Request Manuscript

Transcription

Request Manuscript

[2]
THE DEN
REVENGE SERVED COLD
The Sequel to Tub of Spiders
Jennifer Patterson
David Rowell Workman
[3]
© COPYRIGHT 2015 JENNIFER PATTERSON
& DAVID ROWELL WORKMAN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
ISBN-13:978-1517271701
ISBN-10:1517271703
PUBLISHED BY PAPERCAPERS BOOKS
Contact email: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this
work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved.
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the
scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part
of this book without the permission of the publisher
constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s
intellectual property. If you would like permission to use
this author’s material work other than for reviews, prior
written permission must be obtained by contacting the
publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s
rights.
FIRST EDITION
2015 Papercapers Books Thriller Edition
www.papercapersbooks.com
Dedications
_______________________________
To my parents whose lives made them into tortured souls. Your pain, hardships, and struggles
propel me forward and inspire me to be the best I
can. RIP
For the one that I consider to be my Tommy.
You will forever be perfect in my eyes. My Hero.
May you always be happy in your life. - Jennifer
To the ones who got away. And to Tina P. whose
excitement and energy is contagious. - David
PART ONE
The Return of
Russell St. Cloud
Jennifer Patterson & David Rowell Workman
ONE
Detective J. J. (Kinkie) Kinkaid waited
impatiently for her partner Harry Harrison at the
edge of the crime scene, cordoned off with
yellow police crime scene tape. Red and blue
lights bounced from building to building in the
dimly lit alley entrance. The night smelled of
car exhaust and something vaguely resembling
burnt food.
Kinkie smiled when she saw the familiar
tired face of her partner lumbering up the alley
entrance. He wore his usual shabby gray
overcoat that he had bought when first
promoted to lieutenant and transferred to the
homicide division fifteen years prior. The entire
area was dotted with uniformed officers.
“Glad you could make it, Harry,” she said,
puffing at an E cigarette, the white vapor
floating around her.
“I'm about as glad as you are, Kinkie,” he
said in his classic raspy voice. He pointed at the
cigarette. “Thought you gave that thing up.”
Kinkie shrugged. “I did. Then I started up
again because I missed it so much.”
Harry shook his head and peered behind his
[8]
THE DEN – Revenge Served Cold
partner. A dark sheet covered something about
halfway into the alley on the ground, where it
turned into a small parking lot. “What's the
skinny here anyway?”
His partner raised an eyebrow. “Why do you
always sound like a bad gangster movie? Never
mind, don’t answer that. You'll like this one.
Remember the Arbor case?”
“Sure. The guy who got strangled with his
own belt.”
“This one is nothing like it.”
Harry made a frowny face. “Why do you
always joke at a crime scene?”
“Do I? I'll have to tell my shrink. She'll love
to dig deeper on that one. How’s the coffee?”
He smacked his lips together. “Tastes like
ass.”
“You’ll have to tell me how you know what
ass tastes like someday.” Kinkie led her partner
to the center of the parking lot.
Harry looked at the sheet, flat on the ground
puzzled. “There’s nobody under there?”
“Nope.”
“So where's the body?”
Kinkie pointed to the heavens. “Look up.”
Harry looked skyward and could hardly
[9]
believe what he saw. The body of a woman
hung from the middle of a heavy cable.
“You got to be shitting me.” He scratched at
his cheek. “How did she get way up there?”
“Best I figure it; she tied the rope around her
neck and shimmied across that wire. When she
got to the middle, she simply let go. And snap.”
“You're making that up.” Harrison tilted his
head to one side and looked at her down his
sharp nose.
“Nope. Might even have an eyewitness.
Closest thing we have to one, that is.”
“It's hard to believe,” he said, staring for a
moment into the small crowd of onlookers. He
pointed at the body hanging above him. “Are
we going to bring her down someday so we can
have a closer look?”
“Waiting for a mini-crane. City's
maintenance department is bringing it out.”
Harry glanced at the alley entrance again.
Several officers were standing around waiting
for the crane to appear. He looked up at the
body a third time.
“What the hell is she wearing?”
“That's called a thong, Harry. It's the latest
craze. I’m wearing one right now.”
[10]
His face went flat. “Seriously?”
She gave him a glare and tilted her head to
one side to mock her partner.
“Why?” asked Harry, ignoring her and
taking the last sip of his now cold coffee.
“Why is she wearing a thong or why is it
called a thong?”
“Both.”
“Are you sure you're a detective?” she
quipped. “Let me see your shield again, make
sure it's not plastic.”
“Hey, back off. Just because I'm not as
worldly as you are.” The detective let out a long
breath, then said, “Maybe she was a Prost.”
Kinkie shook her head. “Maybe. Ah, here's
the crane.”
The hoist lowered the dead woman to the
ground and several attendants in white wearing
blue gloves placed her on a black examining
tarp after removing the noose carefully from
around her neck. Harrison and Kinkaid stood
over the body. They quickly slipped on the latex
gloves. Kinkie moved in closer taking in the
entire scene. “Nice jewelry, not costume. An
eight or nine hundred Shinola gold watch with
bracelet strap. Not the most expensive but
[11]
worth a steal if you're robbing someone for a
couple of 8 Balls of Meth. Fancy shoes. Makeup.” She bent down and lightly ran a digit over
the victims bottom lip, straightened up then
stared at her finger. “Smear-proof lipstick.
Dressed for suicide? I wonder. Except she's
missing a pearl earring.”
Harry glanced around at the alley's rough
gravel terrain. “How do you know so much
about expensive stuff?”
Kinkie winked at him. “Jewelry is a girl's best
friend, remember?”
Her partner shook his head. “No note?”
“No place to put it.”
Harry yawned. “Well, since this is a suicide,
let’s let the Crime Unit have their pictures. I
need some beauty sleep.”
Kinkie stopped for a moment and stared at
the wire above her. She grabbed Harrison by the
arm as he started to walk away. “Not so fast,
partner. Something is wrong.”
He stopped but he didn’t like it. He yawned
a second time and said, “Didn't you just tell me
there’s a witness?”
“Well, I meant she found the body before
anyone else did. But I like all the little stuff
[12]
answered, don't you?” Kinkie said.
The detective pulled away from his partner’s
grip and ran a hand over his unshaven face.
“Not really, no.”
“Why is that wire there? It's not electrical.
And yet it's just heavy enough to hold a body. I
doubt she brought it with her and hung it there.”
Harrison shrugged. “Christmas lights,
maybe. Or hanging laundry. Who knows?”
“Christmas lights? Could be,” she observed
thoughtfully. “Not laundry. No way to get the
laundry to the middle of the wire. Still looks
awfully heavy for decorations.”
The detective moved toward the body and
knelt down next to it. “She doesn't look like she
weighs that much. Hundred and fifty pounds at
the most, maybe.”
Kinkie winced. “Knock it off. You'll bring her
back from the dead with that insult. I say she's
less. Let's send the crane operator back up to get
us that wire.”
Harrison sighed. “Sure. If it'll get me back to
bed any quicker.”
Kinkie said, “I doubt it. Wish she had some
ID. I’d like to know what drove her to this.”
Her partner started to get into the spirit of the
[13]
investigation. “She's not a street whore. There
isn't any hardness in her face. She looks as
innocent as my mother.” He moved in closer
and examined what appeared to be a rash on her
thighs. “There seems to be insect bites or a rash
on her skin. Mosquitoes?”
Kinkie agreed. “Yeah, maybe. Her nails are
professionally done. French manicured. Looks
like she's worth some money, too. That
diamond ring looks real enough.”
“If she was murdered why is she still wearing
a ring?” Harrison stood upright and looked at
the scenery around him, taking it all in slowly.
“And why did she pick this neighborhood? This
is no place to be at night. She could have got
mugged or raped.”
“Now you sound like a detective,” said
Kinkie. “The same thing crossed my mind. Why
come to this kind of neighborhood just to
dangle from a wire? Let’s not write this off as a
suicide just yet. We need more info on the Vic.
What do you think?”
Harry shrugged. “Don't ask me. I'm still
working on the whole thong thing.”
[14]
TWO
Gray Wilder sat on the edge of the large
oak desk. Behind the desk sat Sara Doyle. The
young girl appeared nervous and kept wringing
her hands together, which she kept in her lap.
The twenty-six year old proprietor of The
Treasure Attic had her face resting on her
palms; there was a downward turn of her
mouth. Something dark shone behind her green
eyes. She occasionally looked up at Gray, then
back down to the papers on her desk.
Sara said, “Denise, I've decided not to call the
police.”
The girl trembled in such a way as she spoke
it reminded Gray of his late wife's Chihuahua.
“I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I've never
done anything like that before.”
Sara held up a dismissing hand. “I don't need
to know that. But I’m afraid you've lost your
job here. And there won't be any reference, as
you can understand.”
“Thank you, Ms. Doyle,” her voice a quiver.
“Go clean out your locker. Here’s your final
check, seeing how we did recover what you
stole. Everyone makes mistakes in life.
[15]
Consider this an act of kindness. Now go
away.” The shaking girl rose from the chair and
took the check. Keeping her head down she left
through the door solemnly.
After the door shut behind her Gray said,
“Well, that wasn't any fun. Weren't you a bit
harsh on the kid, Sara?”
“You're being funny now, right?” She tossed
the pencil onto her desk and sat back in her
chair. She placed her hand behind her neck and
squeezed at the tight muscle. Her head throbbed
slightly. She had once worked at a law office
but after her abduction and torture at the hands
of the infamous Russell St. Cloud, she needed
different scenery to help her heal. She had
procured a secret stash of money from St. Cloud
senior that she happily took from him as she
walked away from that life and put all the
horror behind her.
She had even walked away from her job at
the law firm, which included Tommy Branche.
Leaving meant her soul would never experience
those fantasies of Tommy, but she kept walking
and didn’t look back! Money meant to ensure
her silence so her involvement in the St. Cloud
case had never been made public and she lied
[16]
about most of the kidnapping details, including
the spiders, chains, and mental torture. The
reports read she had been comfortably
imprisoned in a back room, eventually escaping
by jimmying a window open.
The truth wasn’t that heroic.
She had made a deal with Russell St.
Cloud’s father to hide the real truth. Probably a
crime in itself if she thought too hard about it.
And she did feel guilty about taking the cash
sometimes, but senior St. Cloud had been right
about some things, and the money gave her a
new start in life.
The St. Cloud affair aside, all the riches in
the world couldn’t patch up her and Michael's
relationship. Especially the cheating part. She
had spent most of the money when she bought
The Vintage Market from an aged man who was
ready to retire and spend his last days on the
Florida Coast, instead of Danner Falls. She
changed the name to The Treasure Attic and
made it her own. Her sister Mel helped her run
the day to day operations.
“I should have called the police, Gray, but I
didn't have the heart. I think she's a good kid,
basically. I work as a victim's advocate on
[17]
occasions, as you know, and I can’t have her
prosecuted unless I know more about her
situation.”
Gray frowned. “She did steal from you.
Letting shoplifters go free without any justice
isn't doing them any favors,” he said with a
strand of tension in his voice.
“A lecture from my ex-cop store detective.”
She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to meet with
Mr. Therapy tonight. It's my last session, you
know. Let's close up, start fresh in the
morning.”
Gray could feel the anxiety lurking in her
voice. “I'm just making an observation. It's your
store.”
“Gee, thanks. I feel so much better.” Sara let
her hands fall to her sides. “How long did it
take you to catch her?”
“This employee? Two weeks. She was that
good, which most likely means she’s done this
type of thing before.” Gray moved from the
desk and toward the door.
“You must be slipping,” Sara said. “You
used to catch the bad ones on the first day.”
He grinned at her. “No need to thank me. It's
my job, ma'am.”
[18]
“Gray, before you go have you thought
about Thursday night?”
“Yes, but I'm afraid I can't make it.”
“Can I ask why?”
“No.”
There went that tension again. This time
Sara felt it. Could it be sexual? Christ, I hope
not, she thought. Gray Wilder, a good looking
man by all accounts, was too old for her. He
used to be a homicide detective for the Danner
Falls police department; hell, he’d even worked
on the last remnants of the St. Cloud case. He
quit the force because of personal problems, and
from what she understood from the scuttlebutt,
alcohol problems. She still didn’t think twice
about offering him a job. She didn’t really need
a store detective, but it was nice and even a
comfort to have him around.
Since Michael's death, she felt so alone.
After they split, he went on a downward spiral,
hanging out with the wrong people. Drugs were
added into the mix of daily weed rations, and
next thing she knew he died. She even watched
her sister’s kids to keep the new house filled
with anything but echoes and shadows.
Before his death, she and Michael talked
[19]
quite a bit but he never followed through on the
promises to go on a date or even hook up for
sex. She didn't understand this until after his
death when the truth came out and she found a
letter he had written to her.
Sara struggled to pick up the pieces and
move on, but her therapist urged her to get out
and become more social. She tried to be social,
going out to restaurants and bars with friends
after work, but she still felt empty. She didn’t
even have Jackie to lean on anymore. She tried
having a barbeque at the house on the holiday
weekend to commemorate the end of her five
long years of therapy. Her effort to drag friends
and co-workers in the celebration hadn’t
worked out the way she had planned.
Without another word, Gray opened the
door, slipped out and shut it quietly behind him.
The room seemed uncomfortably empty all of a
sudden. Sara ran her hands through her hair and
began to twist it. “Crr-aaap!”
Later that evening, Sara pulled her black
SUV into the expansive Blooms Food
Emporium parking lot, searching for an open
spot. It seemed everyone in Danner Falls was
shopping at that moment. Finally, lucky enough
[20]
to find one close to the front door of the
supermarket she quickly pulled into it. As she
scrambled out of the car, her cell phone went
off.
“Hello. Yes, Chris. No I need the books
finished no later than Tuesday before taxes are
due. No. That won't work. Sure. Okay, I'll swap
you out for Wednesday. Candy can open the
shop. I'm not sure about Thursday. I'll let you
know. Bye.”
She dropped the phone into her purse, but as
she entered the store, her cell phone went off
again. The call came from home.
“Hi Eric. Where's your sister? Put her on.
Jenny, I'm at the store now. I know he's hungry.
I'll have the milk and the toilet paper…” A
black van barreled past, only missing her by
inches. Sara almost dropped the phone but
quickly recovered only a bit shaken. People
never watched for customers coming into the
store when they were in a hurry to leave.
Assholes, she mumbled under her breath. “Yes,
I’m still here. Have you heard from your mother
today? Don’t worry I’m sure she’ll call, after all
it’s a getaway vacation. I won’t be long,
sweetie.”
[21]
Sara wandered into the store and basically
speed-shopped to get the items she needed. She
knew she had to scramble to feed her niece and
nephew before she went to her last therapy
session. Mr. Jacobs had scheduled an extra long
one to make sure all the loose ends Sara wanted
to tie up could be addressed. She came out of
the store with a cart stuffed with bulging plastic
bags. I don’t know how my sister does it, she
thought to herself. Sara began watching
Melinda's two kids for her while she and her
husband Dalton tried to put some magic back
into their marriage. Right after high school Mel
shacked up with Dalton, her high school
sweetheart, and by her eighteenth birthday, she
popped out her first kid, Jenny. Sara envied her
in a way because of the way she loved Dalton,
but not because of her being a young mother.
Maybe Sara's own mother having a child so
young is why she became so shitty to her.
She didn’t think much of Dalton and felt her
sister could do better. His real name was James
but he went by his middle name instead. This
irked Sara for some reason. Why not Jim,
James, or even JD? No, JD screams rich, stuck
up kid. The moniker Dalton seemed kind of
[22]
egocentric. Also, his DNA had dealt him a plain
featured face. Nothing special. An average
nose. Not handsome, not symmetrical enough
for that. But not ugly. She would refer to him as
vanilla behind his back. To his credit, he was
quiet and introspective, as well, but book smart.
Melinda came off the total opposite being
social-friendly and outgoing. Perhaps that is
why it worked.
Sara frowned at the cart as she pushed it
around the parking lot. Just a few things, my
ass, she thought to herself. She wheeled the cart
up to the parking spot, and fished for her keys
before she realized the car had disappeared. The
parking spot was empty. An Escalade pulled up
behind her, waiting for the spot she blocked.
She reluctantly moved her cart and searched
around, panic rising in her mind. Then she
spotted her black SUV.
Had she parked the car in a different place
and got disoriented? No, that wasn’t the case.
She knew better than to second guess herself.
Someone moved the car.
“Shit!” She hurriedly pushed her cart toward
the vehicle. She recognized it and quickly
opened the driver's side door with her key.
[23]
Nothing seemed to be missing. In the backseat,
she found a crushed can of beer and an unused
condom straight out of the package. With
shaking hands, she dialed 911.
*
*
*
The police car sat next to Sara's car. The sun
had set by now and the officer hadn’t arrived
for over twenty five minutes since she’d made
the call. When he did, the young black officer
smiled and shook his head as if the entire
episode were some kind of joke or college
prank. She told him what had happened as
quickly as she could while holding it together
and he seemed to write most of it down in a
small black notebook.
“So what am I supposed to do?” Sara said to
him in frustration. She noticed her hands were
shaking slightly.
The officer smiled. “I checked with the store,
ma’am, and they don't have any video
surveillance on the lot. The cameras pointing
this way from the roof are just dummies. That
would have been a big help if someone did
actually move your vehicle.”
[24]
If someone did move your vehicle ? Did he
just say that?
“The store associates didn't see anything
either,” he continued. “Which is no surprise as
the place gets pretty busy.” He jotted some
more in the notebook, his young brown face
shining in the yellow light of the parking lot
lamps.
“There must be someone who saw
something,” Sara persisted.
The officer finally seemed bored with the
mystery. “Afraid not, ma'am. I suggest you get
a locksmith to change the lock just in case
someone has a copy of your key. Maybe your
boyfriend? Husband? Ex-husband?”
She had bought the SUV after she’d split up
with Michael and there hadn’t been an
opportunity for him to sneak out to get another
key made. And even if he had, he was dead now
and she couldn't think of anyone else who could
have gotten possession of it or would want to
play such a childish trick. It just didn’t make
any sense. She wasn’t sure about anything right
now apart from the fact that her watch showed
7:30 pm and she had missed her appointment by
half an hour. Mr. Jacobs would probably let her
[25]
reschedule and not charge her for the missed
session but she knew he frowned on clients
being unreliable. Besides, it was to be her last
session. The ride home was an uncomfortable
one and more than once, she checked the rear
view mirror to see if she was being followed.
As she finally made it to the house, she
opened the front door precariously gripping the
plastic bags of groceries as a twelve year old
girl hurried up to her anxious to help.
“Aunt Sara, what took so long? Eric almost
fell asleep.” The girl wore white and pink
sweats and a t-shirt that read ‘Girls Rule’
emblazoned over her chest in sparkling bold
letters.
“Sorry, hon. I had car trouble.” She wasn’t
about to unload on a twelve year old the
mysterious circumstances at Blooms Food
Emporium’s parking lot. No kid needed that
kind of stress.
[26]
THREE
Gray Wilder pulled up in his 1996 Buick
LeSabre Convertible. Jumping out of his car, he
made it to the front porch of the attractive wood
and brick house unsure of what to expect. He
quickly knocked on the door, ignoring the
lighted doorbell. The door flew open and Sara
Doyle stood there wearing a Terry cloth
bathrobe and holding a red plastic baseball bat.
Two children peeked out from behind her.
“You rang?” Gray quipped, then
remembered he had drank a few beers before
trying to sleep, which never seemed to work
anyway, and never seemed to be just a few
beers. He wasn’t supposed to be drinking at all
but images from his past were agonizing
without something to dull the pain. He was
supposed to call his sponsor before he cracked
open a bottle but he just wasn’t in the mood for
a lecture or someone to say “Be strong.” He
didn’t want to be strong, he wanted to be drunk.
“Thank God you’ve come.” Sara opened the
door wider and pulled him in. Then she
slammed the door shut, snapping both locks. “I
didn’t know who to call.”
[27]
Gray said, “Uh, the police? I hear they even
send a squad car out occasionally…”
“I’ve already had my fill of them.”
“What?” asked Gray raising his eyebrows.
“Never mind.”
Jenny spoke up first. “Aunt Sara thinks it
was the electric guy that showed up earlier.”
“Thinks what was the electric guy, I’m not
following you?”
“The men creeping around the house,” said
the exasperated twelve year old.
“Did you check the entire house?”
Sara’s eyes went wide as if saying ‘you’re
fucking crazy!’ “Are you kidding?” she said. “I
waited for you. Did you bring a gun?”
“What for?”
“In case someone is hiding in my fucking
house!” Jenny put her hands over the ears of her
ogling seven year old brother, who wore
superhero pajamas and seemed to be uncannily
quiet for a seven year old.
“Aunt Sara, Eric repeats things.” Jenny then
turned Eric around by his shoulders and started
to lead him into the next room.
“Sorry,” Sara stammered.
Watching the kids move into the next room,
[28]
she turned to Gray. “I’m just really spooked
right now. I don’t know what the hell’s going
on. First my car, then the electrician, now this
sandwich thing.” She stopped short of saying
what was really on her mind. It had been the
same feeling of being watched just like she’d
experienced prior to her abduction by Russell
St. Cloud.
Gray emitted a deep breath. “Sandwich?”
“I’ll explain later,” She placed a nervous
hand on his arm.
“Let me check the house, then you can fill
me in on the details.”
“Better take this.” She handed him the plastic
bat.
The man looked at the thing in his hand.
“This is plastic. Keep it. I’ll take my chances.”
He handed the bat back to her and Sara clutched
it to her chest.
The ex-cop pulled a small LED flashlight
from his coat pocket and headed up the stairs.
Jenny peeked out from the adjoining room
and called after him. “The other man asked Eric
to make him a sandwich.”
Across the street from Sara Doyle’s
[29]
residence, hidden in the shadows of a weeping
willow tree and away from the only street light
on the block, a dark-colored van sat with two
occupants inside. The young Asian man named
Len had a pair of binoculars pointed toward
Sara’s house, and a listening device attached to
his ear.
“Okay, Hamish. He’s headed back down the
stairs and into the living room again.”
“Wish I could see his face as he’s skulking
around,” said Hamish. “I’m surprised she didn’t
call this asshole when we messed with her rig.”
“How did you learn to pick a car lock,
anyway?”
“Trade secret,” Hamish said, smiling. He
wore thick lenses glasses and sported a bald
head. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and
beard not unlike the one Errol Flynn had worn
in the film Robin Hood. “Shit. We should have
put in cameras,” the bald man added lighting a
long thin brown cigarette.
“Woulda, coulda, shoulda,” said the Asian.
“That sounds just fine but a lot harder to hide. I
hope to Christ he doesn’t spot us. This van isn’t
exactly invisible.”
“Is he saying anything interesting?”
[30]
“She asked him if he brought a gun. He said
he didn’t.”
“Ohhh, the tough guy doesn’t need a gun.
What else?”
The Asian removed the binoculars from his
eyes and turned to his friend. “You asked the
kid to make you a sandwich?”
Hamish shrugged. “House breaking is
hungry work.”
“That takes real balls, man.”
Hamish ignored him, smacking him playfully
on the arm with a backhand. “God, the suspense
is killing me. Is he going into the basement or
not?”
Gray checked all the rooms downstairs after
he finished with the upstairs. Sara still stood by
the front door, her protecting arms placed
around the children. They all stared at Gray bigeyed.
The ex-cop said, “You can go into the living
room and sit on the couch if you want. It’s safe
down here.”
“We’re fine,” said Sara. Jenny and Eric
nodded in agreement.
“Nothing,” he finally said to Sara. “I’d say
[31]
it’s safe to go back to bed. Maybe Eric just
dreamed about someone asking him to make
them a sandwich. I’ve had realistic dreams
before.”
Jenny said, “Eric doesn’t make up stories.
He’s like daddy. No imaginary friends and he
reads a lot, mommy said so.”
Gray knelt next to the little boy and looked
deeply into his sparkling blue eyes. “Having an
imagination is okay. It’s not a bad thing,
Champ.”
“It wasn’t a dream. I heard a door close from
somewhere downstairs.”
“I'm making a point to whether the man who
came to his room was real or not.” He turned to
Sara. “You said something about an
electrician?”
“He came earlier today. Jenny let him in
before I got home.”
“Jenny, where did the man go when he came
into the house?”
“The basement,” the young girl said.
Gray raised his eyebrows. “You have a
basement?”
Jenny added, “But it wasn't the electrician
that wanted the sandwich. It was the bald man
[32]
with the shiny head.”
The typical dank basement had that smell of
something wet going into mildew. Gray flipped
on the switch at the top of the stairs but the dull
light left the room in creepy shadows. He made
his way to the box avoiding scattered strands of
cobwebs as he maneuvered the substructure.
He squinted in the dimness, trying to see
clearer. He finally gave up, pulled his flashlight
out again, and shined the beam at the gray box.
Cobwebs covered the outside of it. So, if he
wasn’t checking the fuses, what was he doing?
Gray wondered. Just as a precaution, he
checked around the crevices and dark places in
the basement that were large enough for
someone to hide in. He surveyed a bit more and
finally satisfied he headed back up the creaking
stairs.
When he returned upstairs, Sara and the two
kids had finally moved into the living room and
Eric was asleep on the couch.
“I’m sorry, Sara,” he said, keeping his voice
low. “I don’t see anything suspicious. I’d call
the power company tomorrow and see if they
actually sent someone out. And then I’d call a
Home Security company and put in some
[33]
alarms.”
Sara stood up and followed him to the front
door, unsnapping the double locks, her green
eyes moist with relief. “Thanks for coming out,
Gray.”
“Hey, I had to get up in five hours anyway.
See you at work.”
The ex-cop walked into the night air, and
headed toward his car. He glanced around the
neighborhood and made out the outline of a van
parked a short distance away. He slipped next to
a tree out of sight. He heard an engine start up
but didn’t see any lights.
Inside the van, the pair of young men were
smiling.
“So much for the Sam Spade wannabe,” said
the bald man. “Told you he’d never find the
wire.” Hamish wondered if he should have left
one of his specially designed paperweights for
Sara to find. No, he decided. There would be
plenty of time for that.
The Asian glanced at his watch, touched the
side of the dial, and a green illumination filled
the cab. “Phase one completed. Our work is
done here. The Oracle will be pleased. Shall we
[34]
go to the warehouse and get drunk?”
“I’m all parched.”
The driver started up the van and slowly
pulled out into the street. He didn’t flip on the
headlights until they were a half a block away
from the house.
[35]
FOUR
The homicide department consisted of a
claustrophobic 312 square foot room decked out
with four desks, eight chairs, and several file
cabinets filling all the spaces.
The water cooler found a home next to the
his/hers bathroom taking up a small space
between the large windows, a coffee pot,
several ceramic cups nestled on a paper towel,
two glass containers filled with sugar, creamer,
and a small container filled with red plastic stir
straws.
Kinkie sat at her desk pouring over the a
scene from the crime photos and beaucoup
reports when Harry strolled up holding two
Styrofoam cups filled almost to the top with
black coffee. Under his arm, he braced a small
white sack. He placed one of the cups down
onto the only bare spot on the detective’s desk.
“Any luck with the photos?” he asked
setting the bag down on the corner of the desk.
Kinkie scooped up the cup, took a tiny sip,
made a face, and then took another one. “Still
tracing the tire marks. We have about five
mixed in together. Don’t think they’re going to
[36]
be much use. How ‘bout you. Got the name of
the DB yet?”
“Oh, I got some good stuff. The dead body is
Andrea Gorman, nineteen, even got her home
address,” he said proudly. “And she's in the
system.”
That got Kinkie's attention. “For what?”
“She's been a Vic once before. A rape case
two years ago. And from what I gathered had
extensive therapy plus a victim's advocate. We
should have the file in about an hour. The perp's
serving time in a Cinderblock Palace right now.
So he's got an alibi. What did the ME's report
read?”
“Such as it is? At this time it’s still
undetermined but the boss is thinking suicide.”
“Really? So she shimmied across a thin wire
twenty some feet in the air, wearing a thong,
with a noose around her neck, got to the middle
of the wire, and just let go?”
“You really got a grasp on that,” Kinkie said,
propping her head up with interlaced fingers.
“I don't know about you but I'm starting to
have a problem buying that.” Harrison took a
seat on the clean side of the desk top. “If she
was forced to commit suicide I’d say that’s
[37]
murder in my book.”
“I agree,” Kinkie said nodding. “It's not so
much as whether she did it or not, I think it's
more why she did it.”
Harrison said, “What did trace find on the
rope?”
Kinkie rummaged through the reports on
her desk for a moment then singled a sheet out.
“The rope was used and fairly old, there were
traces of dirt molecules and a strand of hair
embedded in the hangman's knot.
Unfortunately, it belonged to the Vic.”
“Anything else not Jake with the case?”
“Um, the ME found a series of spider bites all
over her body. He believes they were from a
Brown Recluse. They’re running a separate Tox
screen on the bites.”
Harry's demeanor changed and his lips were
pressed tightly together. He went silent for a
few minutes, as he often did when he worked
out certain problems in his head.
“Enough bites to kill her?” he finally asked
with in trepidation.
Kinkie shrugged.
“So she tied her own noose,” he recounted.
“Her body is covered in spider bites and there’s
[38]
no suicide note. What does the CO think?”
“Boss thinks we should interview the
witness again, and then check out the DB's
apartment. Here.” She handed him another sheet
of paper. “Tox report.”
Harry scanned the sheet. “I can't even say
that word. What is it?”
“It’s Zyprixima. It's an anti-psychotic.”
“And Valium? Blood alcohol level 0.27?
Some cocktail. How did she manage to do all
that stuff when she was so obviously messed
up?”
“Let's find out.”
The girl sat in Interrogation Room One.
The room had gray-blue walls, a long banquet
table, and four chairs. The large window in the
wall was a two-way mirror. A tape recording
device sat on the table. The chairs were all the
uncomfortable deck gray metal chairs with no
cushioning.
Eileen Matthews sat with her elbow on the
table twirling a lock of her dirty blonde hair
with a forefinger. Her license read her age as
barely twenty-one but she looked as if she was
in her late thirties. The death head Moth tattoo
on her upper left arm had faded with time. Life
[39]
had not been kind to Eileen Matthews. Thinner
than she should have been, her cheeks were
sunken and not full, which to the detectives
could have meant she was a constant drug user.
The detectives placed a can of cola and a
Styrofoam cup in front of her. There were dark
circles under her dull blue eyes. The dark
circles seemed permanent. Eileen wore a pea
green tank top, blue jeans, and brown flip-flops
that had seen better days.
She drummed her black polished nails on the
fake wood grain of the table top and her eyes
drooped slightly as if nodding off. She jumped
in her seat when Harry and Kinkie entered the
room.
“About fucking time,” she said. “I've been in
here a half an hour. I got a life, you know.”
The detectives took a seat directly across
from her. Harry carried the white sack as he
entered and dropped it down in front of the
young woman. She eagerly opened the bag and
pulled out a jelly donut. “Sweet, I needed
sugar!” She shoved it into her mouth like a
snake eating a little brown mouse. She happily
chomped away. Small grains of sugar stuck to
her wet lips. An eager pink tongue dabbed them
[40]
away.
Kinkie said, “Now that you've been fed,
Eileen, tell me about last night.”
“What about it?”
Harry sighed. “The dead body hanging from
the wire? Any of that sound familiar?”
She took another generous bite of her donut,
crumbs falling helplessly to the table as she
devoured the pastry. “Oh, that.”
“Yes that,” Kinkie said irritably. “What were
you doing in the alley in the first place?”
Eileen sat her donut down and her eyes
bugged out, “You blaming me for what
happened to her? Jesus Christ, I was taking a
shortcut to my place after work. I do that every
night.” She spat some crumbs from her mouth.
One of the crumbs landed on Kinkie's shirt.
She flicked it away. The girl was not making
any points with her.
“For Christ's sake, lady. Cut me some slack.
I came to you, didn't I?”
“Where do you work?” Harry asked.
“The Mosaic Club, I'm a dancer.” She sat
back in her chair as if her job impressed her.
Kinkie said, “A stripper?”
“A dancer. I just happen to dance topless.
[41]
So I left the Club,” she continued. “Took off
down the alley and saw a shoe fall to the ground
a few feet away from me. Thought somebody
had tossed it out of a window or something. I
went over and picked it up. It was an expensive
shoe. I couldn't afford one of those. I looked up
and Tah-Dah, the bitch was hanging there for
all to see. Freaked me out.”
“How do you know?” Kinkie said.
“How do I know what?”
“That she was a bitch. Did you know her?”
“Hell, no.” She thought about it for a
moment. “Don't think I do. Anyway, that was
just a figure of speech. All women are bitches to
me.”
Harry said, “Did you see anyone else in the
alley? Or pass anyone when you went in?”
“Nope.”
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Matthews.”
The detectives stood up and headed for the
door. Harry left the donut bag with the witness.
“Hey,” Eileen called after them. “Do I get a
reward or something?” The detectives walked
out, the door shutting behind them, drowning
out her words.
[42]
*
*
*
In a bar called The High Fidelity on the
outskirts of Danner Falls three young men had
their butts planted in the scarred wooden chairs
drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. They
were all well-dressed college students, wearing
sweat-shirts and T-shirts with the college name
emblazoned across the chest, out for a night of
alcoholic fun. If they were lucky, one of them
could even get laid. Jon, Dale, and Cliff
hammered the beers down like flavored water
trading off jokes and funny stories. The bar was
crammed with other college students with their
own stories, and a lot of eye flirting had been
passed around. The smoke and noise finally got
to the students and they grabbed their bottles
and headed out of the front door for some air.
Jon took the lead with his latest adventure as
he leaned up against the weather beaten blue
wall. “And that's what I told her. There's the
kind of girl you sleep with and the kind you
marry. You're the first kind.”
“No shit? How did she take it?” Dale said.
Jon downed the rest of the beer in his bottle.
“Besides the whole crying thing? Pretty well.”
[43]
“That's just cold, man,” Cliff added. “Even
for you. You have a heart of steel.”
Jon shrugged. “I'm still young. I don't fall
for that shit where it's all love and we get
married and have babies. I got a life. Places to
see. I'll do all that settling down when I get old
in my forties.”
“I hear that.” Cliff raised his beer in
agreement.
“Jon, you’re my hero,” Dale said.
Jon tossed his beer the ten feet toward the
dumpster and it landed with a clunk inside the
wide opening. “Slam dunk!” he cried out. He
looked at his watch. “Got to run, bums. I'm
headed toward the coast tomorrow. Then to a
concert in Portland. Why can't you fags go with
me again?”
Dale said, “My dad's flying to Billings.
Wants me to have sometime behind the wheel.”
Cliff said, “Got that thing with Sheila.”
“That thing?”
Cliff stared at the bottle in his hand as if he
expected it to do something. “Stuff, you know.”
Jon shook his head. “You're going to be the
first casualty, Cliff. I can feel it. Has she talked
about marriage yet?”
[44]
“It has come up…occasionally.”
“Here's a clue: RUN!” Jon said as he
walked away from his friends and staggered
toward his red 2010 McLaren-Mercedes SLR.
His two buddies went back into the bar. Jon
dropped his keys, stooped to retrieve them,
dropped them again, and as he attempted to pick
them up a foot stepped on his hand.
Jon said, “What?” The foot moved away and
with much effort Jon looked up to see someone
wearing a dark ski mask peering down at him.
Jon scoffed, “Shhesh, if you think you're
going to rob me I warn you, you'll just open a
whole new world of pain.” He slurred the words
but continued anyway. “Back off and I might
not have to kick your ass, you pussy.”
Another masked person appeared behind him
holding a metal crowbar. They brought the
weapon down on his head. Jon fell to the
ground as the other masked person kicked him
in the ribs. A third masked figure came into
view holding something in their gloved hand.
A syringe.
He doubled over further in pain, and fell
sideways onto the gravel just in time to see a
boot coming at his face.
[45]
He felt the sting of something prick his arm,
and his reality began to fall, to fade until a silent
blackness overcame him.
[46]
FIVE
Sara was thanking the gods that be for her
upcoming weekend. She kept her shop The
Treasure Attic closed on Saturday and Sunday
because she desperately needed those days off
to nurture her body and mind. She had already
skipped a week or so without writing in her
journal, and that kind of therapy couldn't be
replaced by a bubble bath and a glass of red
wine. Though, to be honest, the bath and the
alcohol helped.
The kids went home to Melinda and Dalton
now that they were back from their romantic
getaway. The house was empty again and quiet.
Too quiet. She wondered if she should get a cat
or a bird or fish but laughed at her absurd
thought of getting a fish. To break the silence
she grabbed the remote and clicked on the
television. It was about five after the hour and
she should be able to find some local news. Not
that anything exciting goes on in Danner Falls
but there might be some fluff the overzealous
reporters could milk to death.
She plopped herself back onto the couch,
grabbed the glass of wine next to her, and took
[47]
a sip. On the couch cushion was her diary, but
she wasn't sufficiently relaxed enough to start
writing in it just yet. Maybe after the second
glass of wine, she thought. The television news
flashed on but the volume wasn’t turned all the
way up so she couldn't hear what the
commentator was saying. She took another sip
of her wine and when she looked up again a
familiar face flashed on the screen.
Andrea Gorman.
She had been one of the first rape victims
Sara had helped when she first became a
victim's advocate. She grabbed at the remote
spilling several drops of wine onto the fabric of
the couch. She ignored the red splatter. The
newscaster, a young woman with heavily
sprayed blonde hair, pouty lips, and an oval
shaped face told the story of how the victim had
been discovered hanging from a wire in a
rundown downtown alley. She stated an
ongoing investigation continued and that police
believed, at this point, foul play was not
suspected.
Suicide.
Andrea Gorman had survived the ordeal of
rape physically and mentally only to kill herself
[48]
two years later. It didn't make any sense.
Andrea had been strong and shared sensitive
information with Sara during the advocacy. She
came from a well-to-do family and had goals
and dreams to which, Sara heard through the
Victim Advocacy grapevine, Andrea had
succeeded in most of her future plans.
Sara's background in the legal system when
she worked for Newberry, Jones, Straub, and
Branche had made it possible for her to help
others through traumatic sexual encounters.
After her own encounter with the psychotic
Russell St. Cloud, becoming a advocate was the
best therapy for herself as well. St. Cloud didn't
rape her but that didn't mean it wasn't going to
happen. If Ryan St. Cloud hadn’t investigated
his son's odd behavior, she might have ended up
a homicide. She was sure of it.
Andrea had been her third case. By then she
had settled in as a reliable volunteer for the
local Social Services agency.
The man who raped, beat, and held Andrea
prisoner for several hours was a lowlife by the
name of Richard Todd Serling. Sara would
never forget the name. The entire crime
reminded Sara of Russ St. Cloud and his mind
[49]
games.
Under investigation, the overly prison
tattooed Serling had been a serial rapist in
several counties. His bad luck came when he
was stopped for a broken tail light and an eagleeyed patrolman saw women’s clothing sticking
out of a cardboard box in the backseat. The
driver said it was his girlfriend’s clothes. The
cop said, “Why are they bloody?” And it went
from there.
The news morphed into a commercial about
hemorrhoid sufferers and Sara clicked the mute
button. She sprung from the couch and into her
bedroom, heading straight for the closet. The
journals were all kept in a nondescript
cardboard box with the word JOURNALS
scribbled on in thick red felt pen. Funny how
she always started writing in them with 'Dear
Diary' yet she referred to them as journals to
conceal the contents from snoopy boyfriends.
Sara pulled the box from the shelf almost
knocking the .45 automatic she kept next to it to
the floor. She kept the clip and the gun next to
each other for fast loading if she ever needed it.
She prayed she wouldn't. After all, she was
terrified of guns, which is why she wanted Gray
[50]
to bring his own.
The thought of actually touching the gun
made her sick to her stomach, but since it
belonged to her late father, she kept it for
sentimental reasons. She tossed the box onto the
bed, opened the top flaps, and dug through her
many journals. There were about forty or so,
maybe more. She had been keeping a journal
since a preteen but one was missing. The one
Ryan St. Cloud took from Russ’s house when
he had rescued her. Sara often wondered if it
had burned in the fire with St. Cloud senior. It
was a reality check for her to pull one out just to
see how far her life had progressed and a
reminder of her growth when she started feeling
shitty about her life.
This time she was looking for a specific
one. When she saw the journal she wanted she
yanked it out, but another journal caught her
eye: Number 35.
Oh yes, this was the journal that followed
the missing journal. She grabbed Number 35
and headed back to the couch. Jeopardy flashed
on the thirty-six inch television screen. She left
it on but kept the sound off and planted herself
onto the couch to thumb through journal 35.
[51]
As she read the first page, she felt a cold chill
run down her back.
Dear Diary,
After punching Mr. St. Cloud in the face with all
of the strength I could muster, I pushed him
aside and walked out of that bathroom, out of
that house and kept walking. That asshole had it
coming since he created that piece-of-shit
spawn of a son. I suddenly felt adrenaline rush
through my body and what seemed like a few
moments passed. It must have been a long time
because I walked to the edge of town. I didn't
remember any of it, passing any landmarks, or
even putting my clothes on before leaving that
room. I only remember feeling enraged and
angry enough that I could possibly kill someone
with my bare hands. I looked around and
realized I was standing on the edge of the
gravel pit. How I had gotten there, I have no
idea. There was a man standing in the distance
wearing jeans and a hoodie to the point that I
couldn't make out who he was, but panic set in,
as I feared it was Russ. At that point, the
adrenaline left me like someone had pulled a
plug on a drain and I started crying
[52]
hysterically, convulsing to the point where I
couldn't even see through all of my tears. The
last thing I can remember is being on my knees,
hyperventilating before the lights went out.
She put her journal down as she remembered
that day. The day she met Gray Wilder.
[53]
SIX
“She's coming to,” a voice said. As Sara
tried to open her eyes, the images wouldn’t
come into focus. She could barely make out two
images and heard voices but had no idea where
she was or who was with her.
“Will she be okay, Doc?” one voice said.
“Yes, she’ll be fine. It’ll take some time for
her to regain her strength. But she's a fighter,”
the other voice said. Sara tried hard to keep her
eyes open, but she was weak, and could only
keep them open a moment. Lights out once
again.
Sara dreamed about her father when she
was a little girl. She had memories of him
holding her hand as they walked to the park. He
talked to her in those images as if she was right
there, but his words weren't as she remembered.
“Sara, you’re so strong. I’m so proud of you
and always have been. You're a fighter, now go
and fight, honey!” Just as he kissed her
forehead in her dream, the image of her father
faded away slowly but started to reappear. As
the image of her dad started to reappear, it
looked different. It came into focus and it was
[54]
the son of a bitch, Russ St. Cloud! He was
wearing his mask and that stupid red cowboy
hat, which was stuck right in her face. His eyes
were red like the devil and peered into her soul
as if they were burning a hole right through her.
“Take a really good look, you bitch! You made
me!”
He pulled her hair and banged her face
against the toilet over and over . . . “You made
me!” Sara opened her eyes this time to focus on
a man who looked rather rugged with his
unshaven face. His smile had a tendency to lean
to the left side, almost a smirk. The figure
standing next to him was her BF.
“Hey Sweetie, how are you feeling?” she
asked. “I called your sister, and she’s on her
way. This is Detective Wilder. He’s been
searching for you all this time.” As Sara
processed what Jackie said, she swallowed hard
trying to speak but her throat was dry as if she
had swallowed a handful of cotton balls.
Clearing her throat the best she could, Sara
spoke. “How long . . . was I gone?”
Jackie and the detective glanced quickly at
each other; then Jackie gave her the news. “You
were gone about a month, sweetie.” Sara's mind
[55]
raced, trying to comprehend what Jackie had
just said. It was difficult for her to believe, but
without a window in that hell-hole bathroom,
she couldn't deny it might have been that long.
“We’d almost given up on finding you, and we
were starting to face the fact that you might
have been...” Jackie paused as the tears welled
up in her eyes. “…killed.”
Wilder pulled out his pen and notepad,
ready to write. “What can you remember?”
Sara took several moments to speak while
collecting her thoughts. Detective Wilder stood
over her patiently waiting for her story. She
recollected her deal with Ryan St. Cloud, and
then remembered the check. With the check
came great responsibility. Her eyes searched
around for her jeans. They weren't anywhere in
the room. Panic set in again. “Where are my
jeans?” She fought back the urge to scream.
Without that check…
“I took them home and stuck them in the
wash,” Jackie said. “They were pretty filthy. Do
you really want to keep them anyway? I almost
burned them but I wanted you to make that
decision.”
“Holy shit! I need my damn jeans, Jackie!
[56]
What am I supposed to wear home?” Just then,
Sara realized she wasn’t wearing any panties
and felt uncomfortable with a man in the room.
Jackie must have read her thoughts because she
asked Detective Wilder if he’d step out of the
room for a few minutes.
“No problem, I’ll be outside in the hall,”
Wilder answered with a forced smile. Jackie
watched as he left the room. As the door shut,
Jackie leaned in close to Sara's face. “I found
the check, but don't worry; it's safe until you get
out of here.” A huge sense of relief came over
Sara but she also worried for Jackie since she
knew about the check. She wouldn't be able to
live with herself if anything happened to her.
After several moments alone, the door
opened and Detective Wilder joined them.
“Sara, let’s try this again. Do you think you
could tell me what you remember about your
abduction?” Without speaking, her mind reeled.
Should she tell him? But she promised Ryan St.
Cloud she wouldn't in exchange for a shit load
of money. However, after she cashed the check
what could he do to her? He couldn't take it
back but he could hurt her like Russ did.
Sometimes playing dumb is the better way to
[57]
go. “The last thing I remember is being at the
club with Jackie, taking shots of something
hideous as it burned going down my throat.
After that, it’s a blur. I remember glimpses of
being in a huge furnished room, lying on a bed.
Maybe eating. Nothing bad happened. I think I
managed to crawl out of a window.” She rubbed
her forehead for effect. “I don’t know. Sorry.”
Deflated, Gray didn’t know what else to say,
but his facial expression told Sara that he didn’t
completely believe her.
“Okay, you've had enough excitement for the
day. How about you rest and I'll check on you
tomorrow? Maybe some new memories will
pop up by then.” Gray left the room for the final
time and Sara felt her eyes growing heavy.
Weak, she succumbed to her exhaustion and
drifted quickly to sleep.
[58]
SEVEN
Sara folded the page back from the entire
written account of meeting Gray Wilder and
moved ahead to a different entry in her journal.
She began to read about the time she had spent
with Andrea before and after the trial.
Dear Diary,
Becoming an advocate is both rewarding and
draining. Even though it has been over two
years since that asshole, St Cloud, tormented
me with his twisted mind games, I can still close
my eyes and relive it as if I was right there in
that moment. In some sick twisted way, I want
to know what his ultimate plan was for me. I
know it sounds disturbing, but it's like watching
a movie all the way to almost the end and not
getting to see the ending. I wonder what
happened to that asshole anyway. He probably
slithered off and is waiting for his perfect
moment to strike. I have to be ready for him this
time! This means I have to force myself to take
shooting lessons with dad’s gun. I miss my dad.
Listening to my latest client is eerily similar
to what I went through except she was raped
[59]
and beaten. Russ didn’t lay a hand on me until
he bashed my face against the toilet because I
wouldn't stop looking at his penis. I couldn’t
help but stare. His cock was impressive, flaccid.
Michael's looked more like a turtle in its shell,
but fully erect, I wasn’t complaining. Russ’s
hung down further and I would guess it was at
least four inches long when limp, but at least
with Michael’s I seemed to have total control.
It was just like a Jedi mind trick because I could
look at him and he'd get hard.
Or is it because I didn’t know who he was?
How the hell would I have remembered
anyways? What grown man strips down naked,
wears a red cowboy hat and mask, and insists
you know who he is? Yeah, something I see
everyday…not!
The phone rang and pulled her attention
away from her reading. She hadn't had sex in
three years so reading about penises was giving
her a good sensation down south in the
underpants. Just what she needed since it was
the closest thing to orgasm she had experienced
in a long time. She glanced at her phone sitting
on the couch next to her and noticed the phone
[60]
number area code was 541.
The only phone call she ever received from
that area code was from the mental institution
where her mom was held. Her heart sank for a
moment and as she hesitated, the phone rang
and rang. Once she decided to answer it, she
took a deep breath and sighed, “Hello.”
It was too late, she missed the call.
Sara was relieved because after Andreas’
death and the day she was having she didn’t
want to deal with her looney bitch of a mother,
Susan. She put her phone back down next to her
and returned her focus to her diary when the
phone rang again. Area code 541 showed on the
screen. Sara again reluctantly answered the
phone. “Yes, this is Sara Doyle.”
“Your mother Susan is gravely ill.” The
voice on the phone continued to insist she come
to Klamath Falls immediately because her
mother wanted – needed to see her.
“Are you sure it’s me she’s asking for and
not Melinda?”
The voice on the other end of the phone
proceeded to tell her that her mother had only
days left to live. Sara glanced at her watch. “It’s
too late to head out tonight, so I'll get on the
[61]
road at first light.” Her mind was still trying to
process the conversation she’d just had when
the phone rang again. This time it was
Melinda's number. Before she could even get a
cordial greeting out, Melinda started rambling
in garbled speech.
“Slow down! I can't understand you.” Sara
shouted in the phone. “Mel, slow down please.”
Her incessant talking annoyed Sara, but she
refrained from interrupting her again since she
knew she was close to their mom – a feeling
Sara never felt. “I’m heading there tomorrow at
first light. Yes, I'll call you as soon as I know
something.”
[62]
EIGHT
In a dimly lit room, three masked figures
were standing over Jon Montgomery's prone
body. He lay on a stained cement floor bruised
and slightly bleeding from a cut on his face.
When they finally spoke, their voices were
muffled and distorted.
One of the figures began to slip off the black
ski mask; one of the others stopped him. “Leave
it on, stupid. Never, and I mean never take it off
when in the room with Johnny Boy here. Those
are the rules.”
He moved his hand from his face and said, “I
think you hit him too hard.”
“I don't think I hit him hard enough.” His
voice was deeper than the others and didn't
seem nervous about the situation at all, unlike
the others.
“Duh, don't be stupid, if we kill him we don't
get the money. We stick to the plan the Oracle
made. Get a chair and that brown bag by the
door. We'll get his clothes off.”
“Do we really have to do that?” said a
feminine voice.
[63]
“Did you hear me?” His voice showed a hard
strain of stress. The female of the group left the
room. “We stick to the plan. Every thing works
as long as we don't change the details.” He
gestured to the other masked man. “You. Get
his clothes off him.”
“Why me?”
He slapped a hand on the reluctant man’s
shoulder. “You drew the short straw.
Remember?”
The kidnapper began to pull off Jon's
clothes. The young woman came back with a
chair and a brown bag.
“Whoa, nice bod. I’d almost forgot,” said
the female.
“Keep your mind on the task ahead, just
like the Oracle said.”
When they finished with Jon and slipped into
an adjoining room for a moment and the masks
came off. One was the young man with the
bald head, short beard, and thick wire-rimmed
glasses. The young man next to him was of
Asian descent and next to him, shaking her hair
loose from the confines of the ski mask was a
young blonde-haired, fresh-faced girl. “That
went well,” she said.
[64]
“What if he wakes up, ?” The young Asian
man’s face filled with anxiety. Beads of sweat
were on his forehead and upper lip, some of it
from the mask and some of it from fear.
“We conk him on the head again,” said the
bald headed man.
“I don't know if I can do that.”
“For the kind of money we're getting you
can do it – and more,” the bald man said.
The bald man wiggled his fingers at the
girl. “Hand me the toolkit.” She did and he
pulled a small gray box out of the brown bag
and extracted a scalpel. The blade glinted in the
light.
“Close your ears if you want to,” said the
bald man. “If he wakes up you may hear some
screaming,” he added. He pulled his mask back
on and casually walked into the room that
housed the prone Jon Montgomery. He stood
over the naked man with the blade in his hand
and smiled.
*
*
*
Gray Wilder slumped in his well-worn
leather chair, sinking deep in the cushion. He
[65]
stared at the small screen of the ancient
television set watching the newscaster talk
about the latest Danner Falls crime report.
The woman's face on the screen was more
than familiar. He remembered the rape case he
and his former partner Harrison had worked on.
Harrison had done most of the work; Gray spent
most of his time too drunk to solve a crossword
puzzle much less a crime.
That was when he met Sara Doyle. She had
been involved in the St. Cloud case and perhaps
the mysterious fire. According to the official
files, she had been held against her will for a
few days. Unofficially, it had been nearly a
month before she was found. There was
probably more to the story – and he always
suspected there was. But whatever Sara Doyle
was hiding needed to stay with Sara.
He still had instincts, that‘s why he had been
a cop in the first place. He thought about
starting a private investigation business, but he
wasn't sure if he wanted to mess with all the
paperwork. He did do some work under the
table for different lawyers in the area. Mostly as
a process server, but that was only piece work
and didn't pay enough to buy a bag of chips and
[66]
a cola. The fact was, most of the private
investigators now belonged to big firms. Flying
solo didn't pay jack shit. Being someone’s store
security didn't do much better. There had been
an opening at the college for a security guard
and he had applied, he just hadn’t heard
anything back yet. Gary was just cooling his
heels, living a hum-drum life. Waiting for
something.
He wondered if this was it.
Instincts.
There was the suicide death of Andrea
Gorman. There was the foolishness with Sara's
car at the Stop and Shop, and her uninvited
guest at the house while the kids she was
watching were home alone. And finally, there
was the mysterious van. He wished he had been
quicker to catch a license number but if they
staked out her place again he'd catch them.
But what were they doing in the basement?
So now, he would be on his own private
case. Call it a hobby, for now.
His mind drifted away to the painful
memory of his dead wife, Candi. Candi
Sinclair-Wilder had been his wife for almost ten
rocky years. She was a sweetheart, and he was
[67]
an asshole and a bastard during their marriage.
A drunken bastard to be precise. Sara reminded
Gray of Candi in a painful way. He couldn't
figure out the connection yet, but in time he
knew he would. He sort of took the shop owner
under his wing. She probably didn't even realize
how he felt about her, even though he had
worked for her for over a year now.
He knew Sara wasn't exactly single, as she
still had a misguided flame for the dead man,
she called Michael. He was, as Gray understood
it, a juvenile that never grew up. Gray knew and
hated the type. Still pining over this dead guy
made Sara Doyle emotionally unavailable.
Women like Sara, who had hard and
complicated relationships always fell for the
bad boy types.
It never failed.
But then again, he was no prize either. He
was a drunk. A sober drunk, but a drunk just the
same. And there was that shadow of Candi that
haunted him at night as he slept, that crept into
his dreams like a savage dark thing with no
form.
When there was a form, it was Candi, just as
he had found her that night, lying in a pool of
[68]
her blood, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Gray's old service revolver lying beside her,
almost touching her cold fingers. He should
have kept the gun with him but he was only
going to the store for a bottle and some smokes.
No big deal, he was only going to be gone a few
minutes or so. He ended up being gone for
nearly an hour. Long enough for Candi to
decide she didn't want to live anymore. Long
enough to put the gun in her mouth. Long
enough to pull the trigger and blow the back of
her head off. If he’d had any inkling that she
would try to kill herself…
Where the hell were his instincts then?
Probably dulled by booze, he decided.
He shook the image away – at least most of
it. He needed to concentrate on Sara now. She
was in danger somehow. Could Russell St.
Cloud have come back? Not likely, but it was
an assumption. He would watch.
Right now, he wanted to have a good stiff
drink. He picked up the glass of half empty
lemonade and pretended it was whiskey. Then
he fell asleep in the chair until morning.
Across town, Sara was falling asleep as well,
[69]
the journal still on her lap, the wine glass
empty. The end table lamp threw a soft orange
glow around the room. She snored softly. The
wine had relaxed her so much she didn't hear
the man wearing the black ski mask; dark
clothing and skin-tight black gloves, come in
through the back door and creep through the
kitchen into the living room. He moved to the
big picture window and closed the Venetian
blinds. He stood quietly next to the sleeping
woman and watched her. Her breathing slow
and calm, having a peaceful rest. She was
wearing gray sweats and a skimpy white Tshirt. He could see her nipples through the
cloth. He imagined what it might be like to suck
on them.
How she might squirm underneath his
weight. She had aged some since he had seen
her last but she was still quite stunning. Her hair
was styled differently, of course. It had been
dirty and stringy from sweat and grime after
being held all that time in the specially designed
bathroom.
Russ wondered if she appreciated all the
trouble he had gone to back then. He figured
she didn't. He reached into his pocket and
[70]
pulled out a small silicone bubble with a flat
bottom. The paperweight had a Brown Recluse
embedded inside of it.
What do you fear most, Sara?
He sat the bubble next to the woman's empty
wine glass. Russ leaned in close and smelled the
fruity aroma of the alcohol on her breath. He
thought about kissing her on her cute little nose
but fought the urge. Russ loved Audrey but
there was something about Sara that brought out
a hatred lust inside of him. He looked once
more at her shapely form, sighed, and left
through the back door as silently as he came in.
*
*
*
Merle Munson peddled his rusty ten speed
bicycle down the alley stopping at all the trash
bins that had been sat out for garbage day. He
knew if he showed up a few hours before the
trash man arrived, he could dig down deep to
the good stuff. And if he were lucky the good
stuff would be on top. Yes, that would be
righteous! Today he wore his favorite military
green windbreaker he’d got for a dollar fifty at a
garage sale, his stained JEDI sweatshirt and
[71]
used high top tennis shoes from Goodwill that
still had a lot of good tread on them. His jeans
were worn but clean. He had two large, heavy
duty plastic bags attached to the back brace on
his bicycle, and one bag was filling up nicely
but the weight left Merle slightly unbalanced.
He sucked in the fresh warm air as he rode.
He peddled to the side of the alley when a
van pulled by going a bit too fast on the gravel
road, its back tires showering him and his
bicycle with small pebbles that hurt when they
hit the bare skin of his hands. The man behind
the wheel was Chinese looking and Merle
wondered if he was good at Karate or Judo like
Bruce Lee was. Merle knew for a fact that all
Chinese people, including the girls, could do
Martial Arts. He saw it on the internet and the
television. They were born with the power. The
Chinese man was making a frowny face and he
looked through the dumpster dipper as he drove
past, barely giving him a glance.
Merle watched as the van turned onto the
paved road and sped away, then went back to
what he was doing. He pushed his thick glasses
that were sliding down his sweaty nose back
between his eyes and surveyed the first trash bin
[72]
on the block. It was the second alley he had
visited this morning, and it was always the same
time every week. A Tuesday, trash day, and this
was his fixed route. Despite the morning heat,
Merle was wearing his red and yellow striped
stocking cap to hold his few stringy black hairs
in place.
So far, to his delight he had collected a
spare bicycle tire with only two missing spokes,
a small stack of comic books (there might be a
collector's edition of X-Men or Spiderman or
wouldn't it be radical if there was a Superman
Number One. It could happen; people threw all
kinds of cool stuff away sometimes). He had
also found an old Kodak camera, the kind that
needed a cassette type film roll, and a couple of
discarded license plates with a man riding on a
trail bike, and another cool looking horse
galloping, plus one of a silhouette of an old
jalopy. They would look really good on his
basement wall next to the mattress.
By the third bin, it was getting tougher to
find the good stuff. There were lots of slimy and
smelly things in there too, such as spoiled food
turning black, and that had attracted fat bodied
flies that were buzzing around Merle's head. He
[73]
was about to call it quits in this neighborhood
when he found a bunch of neat treasure on the
top of the next trash can. It was behind a house
that had been vacant for several months so there
was never anything in the trash can. But not
today. He dug through past the dark red/brown
stained woman’s clothes with his bare hands
and found a discarded brown wallet with a large
orange flower design on the front. Since it had
been thrown away, it was now his. That's how it
worked. He saw a cop show where the police
couldn't get a warrant to search a man's house
so they waited until trash day and when the can
was put out for collection they dug through it
and found evidence enough to arrest him. It was
the same principle here. He rummaged through
the wallet and found an ID. He read the name,
carefully sounding out the vowels like he had
been taught in Special Ed class.
“An-der-eee -a Gor-maaan,” he said aloud.
He looked at her picture. She was pretty so he
jammed the license into his windbreaker pocket.
He got excited when he found the cash. He
slowly counted the bills out in his head. His lips
moved but no sound came out.
“Jessssuzz Crimmminy,” he muttered. He
[74]
could hardly contain himself so he counted
again this time saying the dollar amount aloud
and thumbing through the green notes with
grimy fingernails. There were only three bills,
but they were big numbers. A one and two zeros
was the number in the corners of the notes. He
could hardly believe his luck.
“One…hun-der- red, two…hun-der-red…
thur-eee…hun-der-red.” Then he giggled.
Three one hundred dollar bills! Stupid people
throwing stuff like that away. Their loss, his
gain. It was in the trash, just like the cop show,
so it was now his – all of it.
He laughed out loud again, then quickly
shut his mouth, looking around. If someone saw
his find, they might take it from him. Life was
like that. Somewhere nearby a dog barked.
He could hear the crunching and rattling of the
garbage men working their way towards him.
Without anymore hesitation, he dropped the
wallet into the empty black bag and felt the
weight as it hit the bottom of the plastic sack.
Merle quickly peddled out of the alley and
headed for home.
[75]
NINE
Sean Riley, the lawyer for Huston and
Natalie Montgomery sat on an expensive leather
couch, holding a teacup of coffee. Across from
him in separate chairs were Jon's parents. An
awkward moment of silence filled the room.
Both men wore five hundred dollar suits, his
dark blue, his client's charcoal gray, and high
gloss black shoes. The woman wore a patterned
dress and comfortable shoes that said she didn't
need to dress up for work because the house
was her work. She kicked her shoes off and sat
in a blue leather chair, tucking her legs
underneath her. She chewed absently at her
bottom lip, which was cracked and raw.
“You see why this must be kept as quiet as
possible, Sean?” said Houston. He filled the
chair with his large frame that could have been
mistaken for a mountain of fat, but was actually
of solid build.
“As always, I understand. And the letter?”
Riley reached his hand out. The big man
hesitated for a moment causing the lawyer some
unease as if he was a monkey at the zoo holding
his hand out for a peanut.
[76]
“On the table,” Natalie said. “Hand delivered
sometime last night, I suppose. It was stuck
between the security screen and the door.” She
wrung her tanned hands nervously over each
other. She was a stunning older woman with
gray short brownish hair, and had spent time
under the knife keeping her chiseled goddess
appearance. Her hazel eyes shone bright but the
puffy circles and redness under them indicated
she had been up for most of the night crying.
“The maid found it and brought it to me
immediately.”
“But you didn't call me until the next day?”
Houston twisted his frame in the chair. “We
wanted to make sure it wasn't a hoax or a
college prank, so we waited, trying to get in
touch with him by his cell.”
Riley rose from his chair, crossed to the small
oak coffee table, picked up the letter, and
examined the envelope. Then he frowned.
“Probably didn't have any prints on it
anyway, and there’s no way to be sure now.”
He paused for a moment then continued. “It
appears the ink used in addressing the letter to
you has been written in blood. How theatrical.”
“You can't be sure of that,” said Houston, his
[77]
full face reddening.
Riley nodded. “I can. I worked at the
Medical Examiner's office for ten years before
changing careers. Trust me when I say this is
blood. Maybe even Jon's, or maybe they wanted
you to think that. I can tell for sure after a DNA
test but that would tip our hand to the
authorities, which you clearly don’t want to
do.”
Natalie covered her mouth with a
trembling hand. Her husband pressed his lips
tightly together for a moment. To Riley he said,
“Sean, let's go into my study and continue this
conversation. Natalie, go and lie down and get
some rest.”
She opened her mouth to protest but her
husband gave her a look and her mouth snapped
shut. She rose from her chair, looked at Riley as
if she had the final word, then turned and left
the room.
Riley followed his client into a large booklined study, complete with the largest oak desk
he had ever seen. There were intricate designs
carved on the sides and ornate legs. Behind the
desk was a dark leather chair Riley could have
slept in, and on his side of the desk a smaller
[78]
hardback chair with leather padding. He took
his seat, as did his client, and when they were
settled he opened the envelope and drew out the
letter. He frowned again thinking about the loss
of fingerprints if there had been any to begin
with. It read:
We have your son Jon.
We are holding him for a ransom of
Five Million Dollars. Unmarked bills.
This is not a joke. This is not a prank.
Do not go to the police. Do not ignore us.
We will kill him.
Wait for further instructions and proof.
The word WILL was underlined in red felt
pen. Riley folded the letter again and slipped it
into the envelope. He placed the envelope on
the edge of the desk.
“Amateurs,” he finally said. “They're using
cut and paste letters from magazines and
newspapers. A dramatic effect, for sure, just
like in the movies. But a professional wouldn't
bother with all the theatrics. He'd just call you
using the victim's cell phone or a payphone if he
was worried the call would be traced. Could this
[79]
possibly be an inside job? I'm afraid I have to
ask, Mr. Montgomery. Jon need a little extra
spending money?”
“Jon's not like that,” he said flatly. “He's a
decent son. If he needed cash, he’d come right
out and ask. I taught him that much.”
Riley leaned forward in his chair. “I’m sure
you did. But college students play pranks. It's
what they do. What is it you're not telling me?”
The attorney paused briefly waiting for an
answer.
“The letter isn't all that was delivered,”
Houston admitted. He reluctantly reached into
his desk drawer and pulled out a small box
about five inches long. He placed the box in
front of Riley and sat back in his chair. Riley
noticed the big man was trying to give the
impression he was in control but his eyes gave
him away. He looked like he wanted to jump
clean out of his dark skin and scream. Riley
silently hoped it wouldn't come to that. He
stared at the box not wanting to touch it.
His first thought was that they had lopped off
one of Jon Montgomery's fingers. Most likely
the pinkie as it’s easier to cut through. These
might be amateurs but they were playing a
[80]
mature game. The lawyer carefully opened the
lid and stared at the contents. At first, he wasn't
sure what he was looking at – then the
realization hit him as if someone had slapped
him across the face with the fleshy palm of their
hand. His mind reeled in horror. He fought the
urge to toss up his Vanilla Skinny Latte he had
consumed before his meeting with Houston
Montgomery. Bile mixed with coffee hung back
just below the gag reflex threatening to burst
forward. The thought of spewing all over
Montgomery's huge oak desk made him even
sicker. Riley slipped the cover back on the box
and pushed it away from him slowly.
“Point taken. So they're serious. I'll take it
from here.” Without another word, he pushed
up from his chair, exited the study, and made it
through the sitting room and into the foyer. The
maid opened the door and he slipped out into
the fresh breeze. He sucked the air in deeply,
made a beeline for his Blue Lexus RX 350 and
sat in the driver's seat his hands shaking. He
was proud of himself for not making a scene
and showing a weakness inside Montgomery's
estate. But the contents of the box had been
quite disturbing.
[81]
The bastards had cut off of the tip of Jon
Montgomery's penis, about half an inch or so.
And they had cleaned the blood from it so it
looked like a shriveled piece of chicken fat.
Without a doubt, the kidnappers were more than
serious.
[82]
TEN
In the middle of a dimly-lit room Jon
Montgomery was tied to a sturdy wooden chair,
a wool army blanket draped over his lower half.
His eyes fluttered open, closed again, and then
opened wider this time. The drug one of the
masked abductors had shot into him had left
him feeling woozy, and he shook his head
several times to clear it, but realized
immediately that was a mistake. His stomach
felt as if hot embers had been dropped into it
and his head pounded like he’d lost a round at a
WWE wrestling bout. He tried to think back as
far as he could. He remembered the High
Fidelity bar and his buddies Cliff and . . . and . .
. the name of his other friend seemed to escape
him at the moment. He could see his face in his
mind. Tall, lean, pimples playing tag on his
chin, a ruddy complexion. He wondered if he
really liked . . .what’s his name.
Jon narrowed his eyes trying to focus on the
room around him. A small card table, the flimsy
kind you could get at Wally World for cheap sat
against the wall to his left. There was
something on the table. A red and green rag.
[83]
But the red was more of a stain. He realized it
might be blood. There was a blanket covering
his lap. Put there, he believed, by someone who
didn't want him to get cold. That was
thoughtful.
The blood.
He forgot about the blood for a moment. It
was still hard to concentrate, as if he was
ADHD or some damn thing. Most of the light in
the room was coming from under the door.
Then a crawling soreness came up from his
groin. It was dull and distant and as the
moments passed, it started to hurt more.
"What the . . .” he said aloud, but his words
were slurred and sounded like they came from
someone else. As he squirmed, sharp tinges of
pain shot through his legs and his body tried to
double over but the ropes tied tightly around his
hands and arms didn't allow for that. Despite the
pain, he tried to loosen his bonds but he was not
only tied up with a rope but handcuffed as well.
He could hear the short chain rattle. He had
gotten in trouble once, breaking the window of
some ass wipe he hated. The cops caught up
with him before he got home, and handcuffed
him. The sound was just like that.
[84]
His dad had got him out of it, as he usually
did. You didn't mess with the man who
controlled nearly all of the respectable jobs in
Danner Falls. And you especially didn't mess
with his family.
Another sharp twinge reminded Jon of his
situation and he started trying to work the knots
of the rope. He'd worry about the handcuffs
later. Barely thirty minutes passed, or what felt
like thirty minutes when he gave up on that idea
entirely. He'd have to have someone loosen
them and then he could work out his escape. His
mind was clearer now, as was the pain, and then
he fretted a bit when he realized he had to pee.
This time as he wiggled the blanket dropped
from his lap onto the floor at his feet.
He peered down at his naked lower half, his
eyes widened, and he screamed.
In the adjoining room - lit in shades of blue
by black light bulbs in the overhead light fixture
and on the one table lamp perched on a wooden
crate next to them – three young women were
sitting around a beat up card table. A Ouija
board sat in the middle; all three touching the
plastic message receptor. The girls were passing
around a bottle of tequila.
[85]
Tiffany, Meadow, and Chrissy were
intensely involved with their conjuring.
Meadow, a short-haired freckled-face blonde
said, “Who should we contact?”
“I'd like to talk to Mary Shelley,” replied
Tiffany.
Chrissy got a confused look on her small
round face. “Who’s Mary Shelly?”
Meadow rolled her eyes. “Really? She wrote
Frankenstein.”
“I thought a guy wrote Frankenstein.”
“It's actually a love story disguised as a
horror story.”
“Hey, I'm not stupid. I saw the movies.”
Tiffany interrupted the argument. “She
wanted to sleep with her dad.”
Chrissy gave Meadow an EWWWWW look.
“Okay, forget Mary Shelley,” Meadow said.
“Let’s contact my grandma.”
The round-faced girl objected. “Why do
you get to pick?”
“You pick then,” said Tiffany.
“Sophia Loren.”
Meadow said snidely, “She isn't dead.”
“Sure she is.”
“I'm pretty sure she isn't. I think she just
[86]
posed for Playboy.”
Chrissy made a sour face. “Ewwww. She's
got to be in her sixties or seventies. Who wants
a pinup of some old woman with sagging
breasts and a wrinkled coochie?”
They all broke out in laughter, all the
bickering gone.
“It only works with the dead,” Meadow said
hesitantly, not wanting to start the arguing
again.
Chrissy just smiled back. “You pick,
Meadow but no family members. Pick someone
famous.”
Meadow's eyeball pointed up as if the
answer was on the cracked off-white ceiling.
“Hmmmm. I pick Lizzie Borden.”
Chrissy and Tiffany clapped their hands
together. “Sweet.”
And they all finally agreed on something.
The girls moved their fingertips back to the
receptacle on the board and they begin to call
the spirit of Lizzie Borden.
The receptacle started to move and Chrissy
nearly fell from her wooden chair. “It's moving.
It's moving,” she said in a loud whisper.
Tiffany screwed her eyes tightly shut.
[87]
“Lizzie, can you hear us? Are you there?”
The receptor moved again as all three were
touching it with their fingertips. It moved across
the board and into the corner. Y . . . E . . . S!
Meadow said in a shaking voice. “Did you
chop up your parents?”
The receptor moved to the YES again.
“Oh shit!”Chrissy said, eyes wide, lips
trembling slightly, not from fear but excitement.
“Spirit from the dead,” Meadow said. “Will
anyone we know die?”
The clear plastic receptor moved around and
around on the board as if it was struggling for
an answer.
The man in the next room screamed.
The girls all jumped and headed for the door
where Jon was tied to a chair.
*
*
*
It was early morning now, and the air was
crisp from a small shower that happened during
the night. It was enough to give the impression
that tiny diamonds were glinting from the
flowers and leaves.
The small chill felt good as Russ walked
[88]
through his old neighborhood giving him a
nostalgic feel. He ignored the gooseflesh that
had formed on his arms. He wore a thin blue
windbreaker, jeans, and tennis shoes. He also
wore his disguise. The thick black framed
glasses and his own goatee. His head was bald
but the coolness didn't seem to do anything but
make his ears red. He named his new persona
Hamish Creeley. He liked it and it had sort of a
musical tone when he said it out loud.
Besides, he paid good money for the new
identity. It came complete with a social security
card, birth certificate, and a detailed credit
score. The only thing he couldn't do was alter
his fingerprints. Not unless he disfigured them
but that would only bring on suspicion if he
ever had to be fingerprinted. He would just have
to stay out of trouble and do everything in the
background.
He needed to appear as a follower and not a
leader.
A St. Cloud is always a leader, his father
had drilled into his brain time after time. Deep
down he wished he had never been a St. Cloud.
Maybe his life would have been different that
way.
[89]
But maybe not.
For instance not being a St. Cloud there
wouldn't have been The Event. That was all just
a memory now. He had completed his revenge
on that chapter of his life. His torturers had paid
for their crimes, his father and his uncle along
with his meddling girlfriend Arlene. They had
all paid the final price: death.
But there was a cost he hadn't foreseen. Sara
Doyle, the bitch that survived because of his
father’s interference. Now there was a new
plan, much more complicated than locking
someone up in a bathroom and feeding them to
his little darlings. This would be more
psychological and there was less chance of
being caught; plus he had enlisted the help of
some fucktarded college students feeding on
their need for fantasy. They were his
unknowing posse. It was a brilliant plan if he
said so himself.
The good side of the coin was meeting
Audrey, though she thought she was helping
him when she killed Billy's girlfriend, Cassie.
But even that glitch-in-the-plan worked in his
favor eventually. And the Southern Oregon
Mental Institution where they kept his lover
[90]
didn't have much security. Now he and Audrey
were together again and she was an intricate
part of his plan.
A car drove past and Russ realized he had
been staring into space as he stood in the middle
of the field that housed his Aunt's former house.
He still had some money left from her safe but
it was getting dangerously low, so this next plan
would yield him enough cash so that when he
and Audrey were finished and Sara Doyle had
finally been punished they would be able to
move on. They would go someplace safe, start
new, and he would only kill if he needed to.
As he walked from the grass to the sidewalk
he felt someone watching him. He turned to the
house still standing and saw the decrepit old
man, frail with a small tank of oxygen slung
over a stooped shoulder watching him with dull
eyes.
An old woman came out of the front door
letting the screen door bang shut when she
joined her husband. She was huge. Much bigger
than she had been years ago.
He could eat no fat and she could eat no
lean. That's how the ditty went but he couldn't
remember the rest.
[91]
At first, he thought he may have been
recognized, but the fat lady took her skinny
husband by the hand and led him toward the
door and inside. Russ got a closer look at the
husband's eyes. They were as blank as a newly
washed chalkboard. Alzheimer’s maybe.
Russ jammed his hands in his pocket and
started back to the studio apartment he had
rented. He wouldn't be missed for a few hours
and he needed to get more sleep since the
night’s excursion dropping in on his favorite
victim. He had lots of plans for sweet Sara. It
would be interesting to see if she lasted as long
as the unfortunate Andrea Gorman.
Yes, the next few weeks were going to be
interesting.
*
*
*
The door burst open and all three masked
young women entered. The bright light spilled
over the young man, tied half-naked in the
chair. The blanket covering him was lying at his
feet and he stared at his groin in horror. It was
[92]
bandaged but some blood had seeped through
the gauze and the white tape.
“Maybe we should have dressed him,” said
Meadow.
Tiffany shook her head. “He gets what he
deserves. Hamish said he put a couple of
stitches at the end to help it heal over so he
wouldn't, you know, die or nothing.”
Jon slowly looked up at his masked captors
in surprise. There was moisture in his eyes and
his face were flushed.
“What have you done to me?” Jon screamed
again. Tears streamed down his face. “Stitches,
did she say stitches?”
Chrissy slipped out of the door and quickly
returned holding a brown paper grocery bag. On
the table was a partial roll of duct tape. Chrissy
ripped a piece off and placed it across Jon's
mouth, which he didn't even have time to
process what was happening to him. She took
the grocery bag and slipped it over his head.
Then she slapped her hands together.
“There, that will work for starters. I hate
hearing him whine anyway.”
“Wait, it needs something.” She dug into the
back pocket of her jeans and produced a thick
[93]
red felt pen. She moved in close and drew a
smiley face on the front of the bag. “There,
that's better.”
The girls laughed for a few minutes but
Tiffany broke the cheerful mood.
“What do we do if we get caught?” she said.
“Tell everyone it was just a college prank or
a hazing or something.”
Chrissy shook her head. “You don't cut off
someone's dick when you’re joking.”
Tiffany was the one who finally said what at
least two of them were thinking. “We'll
probably have to kill him when this is over.”
“Don't even joke about that,” Meadow said.
“Who's joking? I'm not going to prison for
this asshole.”
Chrissy said, “We'll make the boys kill
him.”
“Both of you shut up. We'll ask the Oracle,”
Meadow said. “She'll know what to do. This is
just to be some kind of ...lesson. We'd get some
money, just like the Oracle said we would.”
“That's what Hamish told us anyway,”
Chrissy added. “He's the one who found the
Oracle and he's the one she communicates with.
From what I’ve seen, she can’t even speak in a
[94]
complete sentence. He thinks she’s some kind
of savant.”
“So far everything the Oracle said came
true.”
“I don't even know that I believe in the
Oracle,” Chrissy continued. “She's probably just
some sick homeless druggie that Hamish
conned into playing a role.”
“I don't care as long as I get my vengeance
money from that fucker Huston Montgomery.
He’s taken everything from our families, Right?
Paybacks a bitch.”
They all nodded in agreement.
[95]
ELEVEN
Sara woke with a start, like someone does
when they dream they are falling and come to
just before they hit the bottom. Her mouth
tasted like dry twigs and cotton. She smacked
her lips together and gave the empty wine glass
a dirty look. She slowly leaned into an upright
position and waited for her brain to tell her if
there was going to be any throbbing in her head
to follow. There only seemed to be a slight
discomfort. She blinked her eyes, glancing
around the room. The shades were drawn and
she couldn't remember doing that at all, but
obviously she had.
Her journals were strung around her; some
had dropped onto the floor. She slightly
remembered being in a reading frenzy last night
and chasing the reality down with a few more
glasses of red wine. The only thing left in the
glass now was the dark red sediment in the
bottom. Why had she been so. . .and then it hit
her. Andrea Gorman was dead. Police were
calling it suicide. Sara didn't believe it one
damn bit.
She had gotten to know Andrea really well
[96]
and there wasn't a suicidal bone in her body.
Like Sara, she was a fighter. The entire story
didn't sit right, and that's why she had poured
over her journals. She had written her
impressions down on the case. It helped her to
keep all the facts straight. Oh yeah, mom, she
thought. She had forgotten that she needed to
make her way to the asylum to see her dying
mom.
Sara pushed herself off the couch and thought
about a shower to wake her ass up. Thank God
there was still something left of the weekend.
She didn't open the shop on Sundays.
She began to pick up her cluttered mess but her
balance wasn't quite right yet and as she
scooped up the wine glass, it fumbled from her
fingers knocking it and something else off the
small end table. The other object fell and rolled
under the table out of reach but she managed to
rescue the glass before it broke at the stem. She
sat the glass down on the table again and got on
all fours groping at the thing that had fallen. It
was daylight now but the blinds were still
closed so it was hard to see in the shadows.
With the object in her hand, she pulled it out
from under the table and stared at it for a
[97]
moment. It wasn't in the least bit familiar. It was
like a snow globe, or one of those clear silicone
paperweights.
Yes, that's what it was.
She drew it closer to her face and into the
dim light seeping through the blinds. She turned
it slightly in her hand and could see something
embedded inside of it. What she saw took her
breath away, and made a cold chill scream
through her body.
She now held it away from her as if it were
dripping with acid then dropped it onto the
floor. It rolled and bounced a couple of times
and ended up under a chair in the corner of the
room. There it could stay as far as she was
concerned. Spiders terrified her, especially
after the bathroom event and being pushed into
a pit with spiders as a child. The dead trapped
spider still looked alive inside the paperweight,
just as it did when it was on the ledge of the tub
staring down at her. Tears rolled down her face.
Russell St. Cloud was back and had been inside
her house watching her sleep, she thought.
Going to her bedroom she removed the gun her
dad gave her and slowly searched each room in
the house. She could have called the police or
[98]
even Wilder but she knew she had to prove to
herself she could stand up to the bastard.
Besides, she figured he was long gone by now.
After finding an empty house, she placed the
gun back where she kept it stashed. She needed
to go and see her mother so she told herself the
fears and the tears would have to wait. She
slipped into the bathroom and turned on the
shower. In the back of her mind, she wondered
if she should have kept the weapon with her.
The weight of the gun did make her feel safer,
As the water poured over her body, the
thought of Russ St. Cloud being so close to her
consumed her until she was almost entranced.
She couldn't help but feel dirty and not in the
sense of having soil on your body. She felt
violated. Sara turned up the temperature on the
shower until it was scalding her skin and almost
unbearable. She grabbed her loofah and liquid
soap and scrubbed herself raw. The pain of the
hot water snapped her out of her trance and she
realized she had to hurry if she was going to
make it to Klamath Falls at a decent time.
Towel drying her raw body was painful to
say the least but she had to dry off to get her
clothes on. Well, looks like a long sleeved shirt
[99]
is needed to hide this, she thought, referring to
her reddened arms.
*
*
*
As Sara pulled up to the mental institution,
she couldn’t help but think it would be great if
her mom hadn’t made it through the night. Her
thoughts consumed her as she struggled
between wanting this uncaring woman called
Mother to be dead just to end her own inner
misery to feeling guilty about having such
feelings.
She learned in therapy about compassion,
something no one had ever showed or taught
her, and she vowed that she’d live her life
giving more compassion to others. Feeling the
sting from her raw skin, she got out of the car
and noticed a dark figure in the distance. He
was wearing jeans and a hoodie and was
standing next to a bush. A car drove in between
Sara and her view of the character, and when
the car moved, the dark figure had vanished.
That feeling of Déjà Vu set in because she
felt certain she had seen him before.
Holy shit, it’s Russ, she thought.
[100]
Already agitated about the spider
paperweight and the incessant shower
scrubbing, her mind’s struggle continued as she
hurried to the entrance. The front of the brick
building looked more like a prison then a
mental hospital. Complete with a camera
mounting over the door.
“Can I help you?” asked the be speckled
woman behind the desk. She wore the
stereotypical white scrubs.
“I'm here to see Susan Doyle. I'm her
daughter.” The word 'daughter' seemed to lodge
in her throat.
“Yes, they’re expecting you. Down the hall
to room number thirteen on the right.”
As Sara slowly made her way down the hall,
she scoffed out loud but under her breath. “How
appropriate, she's in room thirteen, which is
fitting for an evil person.” She could hear
noises coming from all directions and
screaming off in the distance. Most of the other
noises were moans coming from patients in
various rooms she passed, squeaks from
wheelchairs, and the occasional orderly's cart
clanking as the defective wheel made its way
down the hall to pass out the 'happy' pills.
[101]
Room number thirteen.
Sara paused a moment before entering to
prepare herself for the view of her mother
hooked up to life support machines. In her
shock to receive a phone call from this looney
bin, she forgot to ask what was actually wrong
with her mom. Why was she dying? She
wondered.
Sara walked through the doorway and
stopped immediately two steps in. There were
no machines. But they said she was dying. Why
no machines? A doctor stood next to her bed,
and upon seeing Sara pulled his stethoscope
from his ears.
“You must be Sara.”
Sara hesitated. “Yes, I – I’m Sara. What’s
wrong with her?”
“Your mother has lung cancer, didn’t they
tell you this? I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
Still processing what the Doctor had said,
Sara couldn't help but look in pity at this frail
woman who was her mother, reduced to nothing
but skin and bones. She often fantasized of her
mother's death, and even sometimes wished for
it, but now it was all real. She approached the
bed, and as she reached the bedside, her mother
[102]
slowly opened her eyes. Susan had the darkest
green eyes. A shade Sara had never seen before
on anyone else. As her frail mother peered up at
her, Sara couldn't help but think that all of her
mother’s potpourri smoking had given her this
shitty cancer, or even those hundreds of
cigarettes she smoked when Sara was growing
up. The doctor nodded solemnly and left the
room.
In a scratchy, just above a whisper voice,
Susan Doyle mustered up a “Hello darling, I'm
glad you're here. Sorry you have to see me this
way but I needed to see you desperately.” Her
mother stopped for a moment, drew in a deep
breath and then said, “There's a box of things
behind you, on the chair that belonged to your
dad that I want you to have.” With great effort,
she pointed to the box.
Still staring into her eyes, Sara seemed to be
frozen and couldn't speak. Her mom closed her
eyes and drifted off. Sara stood there for several
more minutes before picking up the box and
leaving.
Driving home from the institution was
bittersweet and left Sara without any clue how
to feel. She was hoping for an ‘I love you’ or
[103]
some small scrap of affection from her mother,
but instead she merely mentioned a box she
wanted her to have. Disappointing to say the
least. But why after all these years should her
mother suddenly start showing her any sort of
‘give-a-shit’ emotion.
The road was long and boring but the curves
and occasional jagged cliff kept Sara on her
toes. Suddenly, she found herself overcome by
anger and the tears started to pour down her
face. Her body convulsed as it tried to spit out
the feeling of pain. Thoughts of killing
someone consumed her mind. She'd used the
phrase, ‘I'm going to kill you’ before, especially
with Russ St. Cloud, but only in a fit of anger.
Now she was contemplating how to kill him.
She envisioned stabbing him a hundred times,
as she sat on top of his body, pinned to the
ground.
Her thoughts grew, and the next thing she
knew she was talking out loud to herself about
how she would carry out the deed.
I’ll stab you repeatedly, you son-of-a-bitch,
and watch you bleed out every single drop of
blood that’s in your evil body.
Yes, she thought, that was a wonderful idea.
[104]
Or bashing your head in with a lead pipe. That
sounds good! Maybe then, we could burn those
evil brains of yours.
Sara's jaw was tight, and as she talked out
loud to herself, she clenched her teeth and her
words emerged in a seething manner. Her voice
wasn't her own, but gruff, and deeper. Before
she could realize it, her foot had the accelerator
to the floor and she was starting to lose control
of her car. The squeal of tires snapped her out
of her trance. She overcorrected as her car
skidded left into oncoming traffic then right into
the ditch. Over-correcting again, she rolled the
car on its side, then come to a rest in the ditch at
an angle next to the hill.
The car sputtered and died. Breathing
heavy, Sara put her hand on her eyes and let
loose of the pain. Her tears and wailing went on
for more than a few minutes, back to the
hyperventilating and crying where her body
would heave as if she was trying to get a huge
bubble of evil out of her like in the movie
Alien.
Finally able to slow the heaving down, she
took a slow deep breath and wiped her eyes
clear enough so that she could reach her purse
[105]
that was now wedged in between her seat and
the car door. Pulling and tugging she finally got
it loose, but not without tearing a hole in her
designer purse, which happened to be the last
gift Michael gave her.
“Shit! Just what I need!” She slammed her
steering wheel with her open palm. After calling
Gray and Melinda, both with no answer, she
rolled her eyes and dialed the only person she
knew could come and rescue her: her brother in
law, Dalton. She hung up the phone with Dalton
and noticed it was starting to get dark. Great,
she thought as she remembered the dark figure
that was watching her back at the institution. At
times like this, she wished she had her dad's gun
tucked in her purse, but her mace would have to
do.
Since Dalton was two hours away, she
double checked that the doors were locked and
crawled into the backseat with her mace in one
hand and her cell phone in the other. She
thought if she lay down, it wouldn't draw
attention from others driving by and she could
hide from that creeper in the hoodie should he
show up. Exhausted, her body decided a nap
sounded good, so she drifted off to sleep.
[106]
Her dreams started off typical of a bunch of
garbled nothingness where the characters,
sceneries, and scenarios never make sense, like
a dog driving a cab with her in the back seat, or
her riding a python that slithers down a water
slide. As she reached a much deeper sleep, she
dreamt about that day when she was pushed into
the spider pit.
It was at her dad’s company picnic just
across the street from her school at the main
park. There were so many people there that it
looked almost like the entire town of Danner
Falls was in the same place at once. The adults
were still eating at the picnic tables, and across
the meadow the kids were running around
playing tag, and various games such as statue
where the salesperson spins you around by your
arms until you’re dizzy and then let’s go of you
gently into the grass.
Whatever pose you end up in you have to
freeze because that becomes your statue. One of
the kids is the buyer and if he or she picks you
then you become the salesperson and the
salesperson rotates to be the buyer. Stupid, but
also exciting because you get spun around like
an airplane.
[107]
Sara loved to play tag because the boys
could never catch her. It wasn’t that she was
quick but because she had the moves to avoid
the tag like a wide receiver in football.
His hips, waist, and shoulders pivot and
twist in ways most can't to avoid the take down.
Sara had those moves and she always avoided
the tag to the point she became the conquest at
the company picnic. Sara was playing tag with
four boys, but she couldn’t make out their faces
in her dream. She remembered running to get
away from a short, somewhat chubby kid with
dark hair, and she suddenly stopped just short of
falling into a huge hole.
It looked as if someone had dug a trench to
service a water line, but had forgotten to cover
it up with plywood for the picnic.
As she stared into the pit, she noticed
something moving at the bottom. Holy crap, she
thought, it was a bunch of spiders! Ever since
her day at cardboard hill where that spider sat
on her hand, she wasn’t afraid of spiders, but
was rather fascinated by them. She stood and
stared, watching their every move, so
methodical she thought.
She felt hands on her back as she was thrust
[108]
into the pit. She fell to the bottom but caught
herself with her hands. Sara stood up and turned
around to see all four boys standing on the edge
of the pit, but she still couldn’t make out their
faces. The chubby boy said, “That’s what you
get!” and started laughing.
Oddly, he was the only one laughing out of
all of the boys. The other three stood there with
their mouths open as if in a trance when Sara
noticed she was started to itch. Looking down,
she could see spiders crawling up her body.
Panic set in and she cried out, “Awwwww,
Daddy.” As she screamed a spider scuttled into
her mouth.
Sara woke up startled and out of breath.
Grabbing for her phone, she looked around and
saw a shadow peering into the side window of
her car. She couldn’t make out the face because
it was now dusk, but she noticed it was the dark
figure because he was wearing that same grey
hoodie!
Fuck! she thought. Still fumbling for her
phone, Sara screamed. She thought she had her
phone but with all the fumbling around she had
accidentally sprayed the mace in her car.
Her screams scared the figure away, but her
[109]
car was now filling up with pepper spray that
was starting to burn her eyes to the point where
she couldn't stand it.
She needed air! But what about the figure?
Her eyes burned so bad that she now could
hardly open them, and her lungs were starting to
burn, too. Before she was totally immobilized
she realized she had to get out of that car before
she caused herself permanent damage, even if it
was Russ St Cloud. Shit, someone driving by
would see something, right? She reached for the
door lock. Struggling, she was able to reach the
button. Pop!
The doors are now unlocked, she thought. If
that bastard wants to come in and get me, let
him try. She fumbled again for the door handle
and finally found it. Sara pulled the handle and
fell out of the car onto the dirt below.
Coughing and gasping for air, a figure
approached.
“Sara, I got you. It's me, Dalton.”
She couldn’t focus because her eyes were
still burning but she knew his voice and
immediately grabbed onto his arms with a grip
that surely left marks behind.
Dalton scooped her up in his arms. After all,
[110]
she only weighed about 120 pounds, and he
carried her to his car. “I've got you,” he said as
he placed her in the passenger seat of his car.
He put her seatbelt on her after he reclined her
some. “Here's some water, Sara.”
Dalton got into the driver seat and started to
call for a wrecker. Still having trouble
breathing, she reached over to the door and felt
blindly for the door locks. Having been in their
car several times before, she knew where
everything was.
Click!
The doors locked. “It’s just west of Dead
Indian Road, before the Lake of the Woods.
Yes, that’s right. A Black SUV in a ditch.
You'll need a wrecker to pull it out.” Dalton
explained to the tow company exactly where to
find Sara's vehicle. After giving them his phone
number he hung up, and as he was about to put
the car into drive, Sara grabbed his arm.
“There’s a box in the back that mom gave me.
Please get it.”
“Sure.” Dalton got out of the car and
retrieved the box to secure it in his trunk. He
got back into the car and they drove towards
Danner Falls.
[111]
*
*
*
Riley sat on the edge of his desk drinking a
bottle of flavored water. Across the room was
another desk occupied by his law partner,
Sydney Lovejoy. Her short brown hair was
sprinkled with a tint of gray. She had a pair of
glasses holding the front of her curls back
against her scalp as she tapped away on her
Apple laptop. She suddenly stopped, looked up
at Riley, and frowned.
“They cut off his what?” she said, when she
realized what he had just told her.
“Not the whole thing. Only the tip.” He
chugged down another big gulp.
Sydney gave it some thought then said,
“Won't that kill him?”
Her partner shook his head, even though he
wasn't sure. “It looked like it’d been surgically
removed.”
“That rules out a hoax. Unless it was
someone else’s.”
“I thought about that too, but for the sake of
argument and Jon Montgomery's life, I'll go
with the idea that it belonged to him.”
[112]
Riley awkwardly leaned over, opened the
top desk drawer, and pulled out a new pack of
cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it with a
gold plated lighter.
“Really?” She looked at him disapprovingly.
“I thought you’d quit those things.”
“I saw a penis in a shoe box. I'm having a
cigarette.” He drew in a deep lungful of smoke
and almost choked to death.
“At least open a window so you don't kill me
too.”
Riley moved to the window, flipped the
release lever, and slid the window open. A blast
of cool air blew into the room and only
managed to push the smoke further toward
Sydney.
She fanned the smoky air with her hand and
said, “So what's the game plan?”
He took another puff without the hacking
this time. “Find the kidnappers before the
ransom is delivered. This could get
complicated. As usual there isn't to be any press
about this.”
“As usual. What's my part in this, or is this a
solo gig?”
“You'll be my ace in the hole.”
[113]
“How's that?”
“You're going to get that friend of yours to
help us and offer to pay him enough to keep his
mouth shut.”
“You sure?”
“Oh, I'm sure. What's his name?”
“Gray Wilder. The recovering alcoholic.”
Riley snapped his fingers. “Yep. That's the
guy.”
Sydney picked up her cell from the desk and
dialed.
[114]
TWELVE
As established earlier, Andrea Gorman was
the name of the dead girl. The toxic screen
revealed a trace of Prussic Acid. Not enough to
kill her but enough to make her extremely sick,
maybe even send her into unconsciousness. The
detectives arrived at her apartment thirty
minutes after her identity was known.
It was a decent apartment in a part of town
that catered more to students then families. No
kids, no pets, no parties. The complex was
owned by the Quasar Rental Association who
ran a tight ship especially where the college
students were concerned.
That and the fact the one bedroom apartments
were not cheap. The furnishings of the
apartment were at least ten years old but in
good shape. There was a flat screen TV, MP3
player, plus more than a few Seventeen,
Glamour, and other fashion magazines spread
out on the glass coffee table.
Kinkie and Harry, wearing blue latex gloves,
sifted through the dead woman's mail, checked
under the couch cushions and the usual places
police search when looking for something out
[115]
of the ordinary, but without finding anything in
particular. Until they moved into the bathroom
and everything changed.
“So our rape victim wasn't moonlighting as a
prostitute,” said Kinkie. “You missed the boat
on that one, partner.”
Harry shrugged. “No one's perfect.”
“So I guess the question is, what led up to her
murder ?”
“If it actually was murder,” her partner
quickly added. “That’s still not established.”
“My gut feeling is yes. Everything looked
staged. What she wore looked staged.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I'm not convinced yet.
Or maybe it was just a hazing that spun out of
hand.”
His partner pressed her lips together and
remained silent for a few moments, then said,
“I'm not feeling it. This whole scenario seems
odd. Including this apartment. There’s no mess,
you can see the kitchenette from here. There are
no dirty dishes, and the entire place is spotless.
A student is never spotless. And where are her
books?”
“Books?”
“We think she's a student, right?”
[116]
“It appears so. She’s living in student
housing,” Harry agreed.
“But she's way past early college age. Maybe
she was an assistant instructor.”
“Or screwing a professor and he stashed her
here for easy access. Or even pretending to be a
student for some reason or another.”
Kinkie shook her head. “There's something
off. We need to search the rest of the house. We
haven't touched the bedroom yet.”
“And if that fails?”
“We call in the ECI's and let them comb
through this place. Sniff the air. What do you
smell?”
Her partner sniffed the air. “My jacket smells
like cigarettes. Now I want one.”
“Besides that.”
He sniffed again. “A faint aroma of bleach.”
Harry had a smart ass grin on his face. “Is
that all you women think about?”
“Don't be a dick, Harry.”
Kinkie was the first one to open the door. She
didn't enter the room but remained rigid in the
doorway.
“Harry, come here,” she called out.
A few seconds later Harry sided up next to
[117]
his partner, and followed her gaze into the
bathroom.
“No frigging way,” he whispered.
Less than an hour later the ECI team entered
the apartment and began collecting the evidence
from the bathroom. Kinkie and Harry stood
leaning against the Crime Scene Investigation
van, him smoking a cigarette, and his partner
sipping at a Starbucks coffee cup.
“That's your third cigarette,” said Kinkie.
“Well, I'm planning on having a couple of
more when this one is spent.” He took another
drag and stared up into the cloudy sky.
“Ready to fill me in yet? Oh, and we found
that missing earring just sitting on the
bathroom shelf.”
After a pause, and a few more deep drags
from his smoke the detective began to speak.
“You've heard, no doubt, about the St. Cloud
case?”
“Duh! Danner Falls isn't that big. What
about it?”
“It was rumored that Ryan St. Cloud had been
murdered by his son when St. Cloud discovered
Russell kidnapped a young woman and held her
captive. Details are sketchy and some of the
[118]
story doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.
Russell had been presumed dead. Oh, and
something about spiders in the tub.”
Harry sniffed the air. “They weren’t ordinary
spiders. Not to mention the chain around the
toilet.”
“Okay. Still foggy here.”
“We never found Russ St. Cloud's body.” He
dropped the cigarette to the ground and mashed
it into the asphalt with the toe of a shiny black
shoe. “Most of that’s right. It was thought, since
we found his car next to the Danner Bridge, he
jumped into the river after killing his father and
torching the house.”
Kinkie made a frowny face. “But you think
he's back, did this girl in, and then what?”
“A message? He's here for revenge or some
kind of messed up mind game. Maybe to finish
what he started, I don't know.” The detective lit
another cigarette.
“Maybe it's not him at all. Could be a
copycat.”
“No, it's him. The sonofabitch is back. When
we get back to the office, I want you to read my
private notes on the case. Things that aren't
spelled out in the investigation. Things I wasn't
[119]
allowed to tell.”
Harry gave Kinkie a look. The kind of look
she didn't like.
[120]
THIRTEEN
Inside the cage, the Oracle laid on a blanket
of crumpled and torn newspaper and straw. She
was completely naked and dirt caked her feet,
arms, and was streaked across her breasts and
upper arms. Her dark hair was twisted into
knots and matted with dirt and grime. The room
where the cage sat smelled of urine, shit, and
the musty stench of body odor.
Russ shuffled into the room like a man going
to the gallows. In a chair, a few feet away sat
the obese figure of Oliver Tumms. The young
man was enjoying stuffing his orifice with a
large candy bar coated in peanuts. From the
looks of the floor beneath him, he had enjoyed
more than several of these hefty confections
during his watch. His cherub face lit up when he
twisted around in the metal folding chair and
saw his relief enter the room.
“Hamish, am I glad to see you. I've gotta piss
something awful. Plus my ass is asleep.” Oliver
let out a laugh that sounded more like an animal
choking on dead flesh.
Russ pretended to be friendly, when inside
his first urge was to beat the fat boy down until
[121]
he was nothing but a puddle of blubber and
grease mixed with empty candy wrappings.
“Hey Ollie, how's the Oracle tonight?”
“Sleeping as always. And smelly.” The heavy
set man gave a weak smile.
On the small wooden table next to Oliver
were several literary magazines, the latest
college newspaper, The Campus Hunt, and a
collection of prose by Richard Brautigan
entitled Trout Fishing in America.
“Have you read for her today?”
“Not really, since she was sleeping . . .”
Russ sighed. “No matter. I’ll read some to
her during my watch.”
Oliver stood up and squeezed at his ass. “Do
you know if they ordered pizza? Willow said
they'd order some and I'm famished.”
Russ shrugged. “Not sure, I've been out.
Had an evening class in economics.”
Oliver's face fell. “God, I hope they ordered
something.” The obese man headed for the door
then had a thought and turned back to his friend.
“If Willow ordered pizza do you want me to
bring you a couple of slices?”
Russ shook his head. “No thanks, Ollie. I had
a burger on the way home from class.”
[122]
Oliver created a puffy smile and bounded out
the door. Russ listened for a few moments as
the man's heavy footsteps faded away, and then
he moved to the cage and sat down crosslegged, his fingers resting on the rung of the
cage.
“Hi baby?”
The Oracle opened one eye. “Hi sweetie. I'm
so bored.”
“I know. But we’re making progress. We
should have the money soon so the masquerade
is nearly complete and we can move onto the
next step. I’m sick of auditing these classes.”
“I need a shower. I stink,” the Oracle said
with a pouty face.
Russ smiled. “Yes you do.” He reached into
his jacket and pulled out a wrapped burger and
a small bottle of apple juice. “I smuggled you in
some real food. You can thank me later.” He
gave her a seductive look.
She quickly snatched up the food, tore off the
wrapping, and took a large bite. When she had
swallowed the wad of burger she said, “You
can't honestly say I look attractive right now?”
Russ tipped his head back and laughed.
“In an animalistic way you’re really hot,
[123]
sweet cakes.” He stared eagerly at her shapely
olive-skinned body.
“You mean it?”
“Swear to God.” He crossed his heart with a
motion of his hand. “You’re very yummy.
Here, drink this.” He peeled the lid from the
juice bottle and slipped it through the thin bars
of the cage. It barely fit. She gulped it down
along with another large bite of burger.
“This is so good,” she murmured, finishing
off the sandwich.
“I visited Sara,” he said in a low tone, turning
his eyes to the floor. “I left her a present.”
“Did she see you?”
“No,” he answered looking up. “I added a
little something to her wine and she slept like a
baby.”
“And?” She locked her eyes onto his.
“She has an ex-cop watching out for her. His
name is Gray Wilder and he's the same asshole
that dropped out of my case because he was
such a worthless drunk.”
“Will he be trouble, Russ?”
“I don't think so. We planted the surveillance
device right under the bastard's nose.”
“Do the others suspect anything yet?”
[124]
“I don't think so. I'm still plain old Hamish
college student and a blind follower to the
Oracle.” He wiggled his fingers at her. “They’re
so into getting revenge against the man who
took over after my father's unexpected death
and downsized half the town, they're not
thinking straight.”
After she’d finished her drink, she handed
Russ the empty bottle and wrapper. He quickly
slipped the garbage into his pocket, gazed
deeply into her eyes and said, “What are the
chances of me kissing the Oracle?”
“Pretty good. I'm jonesing for you to be
inside of me.” Audrey puckered her lips and
slowly moved close to the thin bars. As Russ
leaned in, he heard the sound of heavy
breathing behind him. He turned and saw Oliver
standing by the chair. The obese man's face was
pale and there was a confused look in his eyes.
“What the fuck?”
Russ suddenly knew the fat man had been
standing behind him for some time.
“Hello, Oliver,” said The Oracle.
[125]
FOURTEEN
Dear Diary,
The last three years seemed like one thing
after another. First the tub of spiders incident
where I was certain I was going to be brutally
murdered; Michael’s parents dying in a strange
car accident, although the police said it was a
drunk driver; Jackie getting engaged and
moving away; and then, of course, Michael’s
suicide. That’s when the trinkets started
showing up. Aside from seeing my therapist
and writing in a journal, I secretly joined an
underground support group. Yep, underground,
where we met underground in an abandoned
subway tube or something like that. All I know
is that it's dark and creepy until you get to the
meeting place where, on the other side of the
door, there’s a well-lit room with no windows,
but brick walls and old linoleum floors. Rumor
has it that it was the old military mental
hospital years ago before the public found out
about it and lobbyist had it shutdown. I joined
the group after the bathroom incident when I
moved to Portland to get away from Danner
[126]
Falls. It took me two years to set foot again in
this damn town, so I make my way back to the
big city for my underground meetings. This
keeps me sane, for as long as I can see others in
their struggles, it reminds me of the journey I’ve
made.
Sara drove into the city to meet with her
Tuesday group down at the Shaft, (she referred
to it) but this Tuesday was canceled due to the
fact the lead speaker was sick. The note on the
door didn’t say much more but it was
handwritten and signed by Otis, the group
leader, who took over when she moved back to
Danner Falls. In the three years she made her
way down the shaft for these meetings, there
was never a cancellation.
A chill ran down Sara's neck.
After returning home, she poured herself a
much needed glass of red wine and sat down on
the couch. Next to the couch was an old stack of
books that seemed to have been sitting there for
an eternity.
Someday I’ll actually do some cleaning, she
thought. As she picked up the books and
glanced at the titles one by one, she mentally
[127]
read each title: A couple of cooking books, a
fashion magazine, and a book about Kings and
Queens.
Awww, a fairytale. I could use a fairytale
about now.
She opened the book and turned the pages to
begin a new journey when she discovered an
inscription on the title page. It read: “For Sara,
Love Michael.”
Sara paused trying to process it. Was it the
fact that he had actually given her a gift or the
fact that he loved her in his own twisted way?
Her heart ached, and feeling overwhelmed she
began to cry.
With her forehead in both hands, the tears
poured from her eyes. She couldn’t see, she
couldn’t breathe. Crying uncontrollably while
having a panic attack brought her into a fetal
position on the couch. She sobbed for hours
until she fell asleep only to dream about that
awful day when Michael took his own life.
In her dream, she awoke and looked around
slowly, feeling the dried salt on her cheeks. It
made her skin tight so as she started to move.
Her face felt as if it was made from taffy when
she pulled on it.
[128]
Sara sat up and looked around. Her drink still
sat in the same place but now it was nearly
empty. A light dusty film covered the outside
the glass . But how can that be! That much dust
doesn’t accumulate in a matter of hours, only
days or weeks.
She took a sip but as soon as the liquid
touched her tongue, she spewed it across the
room. It was rancid!
What the . . .
The phone rang.
It was Sarah, Michael’s sister. Sarah, with
an H. She had detailed the event in one of her
journals to keep the event fresh in her mind. She
never wanted to forget. Never.
Before I could mutter out a simple hello, she
was frantically going off about Michael and I
couldn’t understand anything she was trying to
say. Since their parents had died, she had been
over-protective of Michael. He never had a
great relationship with his father, but became
extremely close to his mom. Their deaths shook
him quite a bit.
"Calm down Sarah, I can't understand you!"
Her rambling quickly turned to sobbing and I
[129]
knew right away something was deeply wrong. I
let her sob for a minute until she finally started
to make sense. "Something is wrong with
Michael. His work called and he has missed two
days and no one can get a hold of him. I'm
worried!"
Then she said the sentence that would change
me for the rest of my life. "Will you go over
there and see if he's okay?" I didn't want to, but
my gut told me that I needed to because there
was something not right with Michael.
"Let me get dressed and I'll head over there."
"Call me as soon as you get there," she said
anxiously. The tone of her voice was shaky as
she tried to hold back the sobbing once more. I
hung up the phone after I promised I'd call the
moment I get there and the pit of my stomach
hurt so bad that I truly believed something was
deeply wrong. So much so that I didn't want to
go over there alone. I called Detective Gray
Wilder. He answered the phone in a groggy
tone - perhaps because it was barely 4 a.m. and
I probably woke him.
“Hey Sara, what's up?”
Caller ID is a great technological
advancement. I explained the situation and he
[130]
agreed to accompany me out of concern for my
safety. He knew Michael liked to drink and
when he had one too many he became quite the
bastard. Fortunately, Gray lived on the way to
Michael’s so I agreed to pick him up. I filled
him in during the ride about the strange
conversation I’d had with Sarah with an H.
By the time we arrived, we were both wide
awake, but extremely quiet. Michael's car was
in the driveway so I parked on the street. It was
quickly becoming daylight but we could see the
house was dark and the curtains were closed.
An eerie feeling swept across my neck as I
approached the front door.
"Now if he's been drinking and we wake him
he's going to be very angry," I said.
"I can handle Michael. I'm not worried about
it, but just in case I brought my gun." He
grinned and flashed open his coat to show me
the piece. "Don't worry, I'm not planning on
shooting him." He must have known by my look
exactly what I was thinking.
I knocked. No answer. I knocked again but
louder this time. No answer. I pulled my cell
phone out of my pocket and dialed his number.
We heard a ringing coming from inside the
[131]
house but still no signs of anyone home. I kept
calling out Michael’s name as Detective Wilder
walked the perimeter of the house hoping to get
a glance inside. I must have dialed twenty
times. Each time I could hear it ringing inside.
When Wilder returned he said, "No luck, all the
curtains are closed so I can't see inside."
Now I was really starting to panic.
I walked to my car and opened the trunk.
"What are you looking for?" Gray asked. I
didn't answer. I was fixated on finding
something to break open a window. My hand
emerged from the trunk with the tire iron and
Gray grabbed my wrist. "Whoa, what are you
going to do with that?"
I responded with a, "What do ya think?"
"You can't break a window because that's
breaking and entering. You could go to jail."
Holding back the tears, I went on a rant
about how something was wrong and we needed
to get into the house.
Detective Wilder wanted to follow procedure
so he called his Captain. After he hung up he
said, "We need to call it in as a welfare check
and the police will come out and do their
thing."
[132]
"Do their thing? What does that mean,
Gray?"
"I'm a homicide detective not a uniformed
cop."
I rolled my eyes and gave him the 'up yours'
look, and started to dial the police.
The dispatcher was nice but a little thrown
because I was calling in a welfare check on an
ex-boyfriend.
I explained everything from Sarah's call to
the history of Michael losing his parents to the
progression of his downward spiral. I hung up
the phone and waited for the cops to show.
About thirty minutes later, they turned up.
One was a plainclothes detective and flashed
his badge. The other was in uniform with a
shoulder mounted radio. The detective nodded
to Gray and then turned to me. I explained
everything again to them just as I had to the
dispatcher. Gray followed up by explaining
everything we had done to reach Michael up
until now.
Both cops walked the perimeter just as
Detective Wilder did, and occasionally the
uniformed cop talked into his radio. Then the
pair would be deep in conversation. I couldn't
[133]
hear what they were saying but I could sense
the escalating concern between them. Just as
both cops were coming back towards me, the
neighbor guy came out of his house to see what
was going on. It's not every day the police are
canvassing your neighbor’s house. I explained
to him what was going on as his wife stuck her
head out of the front door.
She heard the last part of the conversation
and interjected, "I think I have a key from the
previous owners. We used to watch their dogs
when they were on vacation. I'll get it and you
can give it a try."
A couple minutes passed and she emerged
with a key. She reached out to hand it to me but
I didn't respond. I was frozen. I think I knew
something was deeply wrong inside that house.
My days locked in that dingy bathroom
chained to a toilet were starting to play in my
head. My personal horror began again courtesy
of Russell St. Cloud.
Could Russ have done something to hurt
him? Or even kill him? When I didn't reach for
the key she turned to one of the cops and he
took it from her. He radioed in that they had a
key, said they were going in, and both turned
[134]
around and walked towards the front door.
I still remained frozen.
The key worked and they entered leaving the
front door wide open. We could see the cops
walking back and forth across the living room
and one of them slipped on a pair of rubber
gloves he removed from his pocket. At that
moment, Gray reached over and grabbed a hold
of my arm. I had no clue what was happening
but he knew all too well.
Both cops emerged from the house but no
Michael. The uniformed cop went to the police
cruiser while talking on his shoulder radio and
the detective approached Gray and I. I felt
Gray's grip tighten on my arm as the cop
started to speak.
"Do you want us to call a Chaplain?"
Blankly, I responded, "What? Why?"
He started getting choked up and said, "He's
gone."
"What? I don't understand." It still wasn't
registering to me that Michael had died.
Detective Wilder could obviously tell this
young cop wasn't experienced in delivering
news of this nature so he asked point blank if
Michael was dead. The cop replied, "Yes, he's
[135]
dead."
I let out a blood curdling scream just as
Gray grabbed hold of my other arm. I slunk to
the ground screaming and wailing.
The pain was like none other.
Sara awoke, startled and flailing her arms,
only to realize it was another dream. It took her
several minutes to realize she was at home on
her couch.
Recalling Michael's death was painful and
still haunted her. Breathing heavily, she looked
around to make sure she was alone and noticed
her wine glass still sitting on the table with a
smidge of red wine left in it.
Leaving the glass where it was, she went to
the kitchen to pour herself a fresh glass of wine.
Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, she peered
around for the box of wine she had just
purchased a few days ago.
“Ah, there you are,” she said as she poured
from the wine container.
The box her mother gave her sat in front of
her on the couch. Sara plopped down in front of
it and took a big sip of her wine. She stared at
[136]
the package as if she dreaded what could be
inside. She decided it was time to open the
damned thing after the second glass of wine.
After all, what could it be?
Russ St. Cloud can't pop out of it so how bad
can it really be, she thought. She dropped down
to her knees and slowly opened the package.
On top, there were some papers, mostly what
looked like her dad's military papers from when
he had served in the war.
Setting those aside, she could see the rest of
the box contained a small metal box, some
pictures in frames, a pocket watch, his hunting
knife in the sleeve, a small gold plated trinket,
and his modest coin collection.
Sara had seen nearly all of the items before,
but she slowly began sifting through them
anyway. Most the photos were of Melinda and
her, but there was one framed picture that was
much older, and upon further scrutiny, she
realized it was her dad in college.
He wasn’t alone in the picture. His Frat
brothers outside their Fraternity house
surrounded him; Delta Ki Beta or something
like that. Dad would talk once in a while about
his college days and always with a smile on his
[137]
face. Sara stared at the faces of the four young
men pictured, one of whom was her dad.
One face was eerily familiar, so much so
that it gave her the chills.
Holy shit, it’s Russell St. Cloud, she thought.
But how can that be?
Her dad was twenty-five years older. Anxious
for any knowledge of who was in the picture,
Sara carefully tore the back off the frame to
expose the picture and on the back were the
names: Robert Doyle, Ryan St Cloud, Thomas
Branche II, Gray Wilder, 1979.
Suddenly Sara felt her inner penis go limp.
Everyone has one, even women. When they
become aroused, their genitals swell just like a
man’s except there isn't the obvious outward
buldge.
For example, it happens when you see
someone after several years that used to be hot
and now they are ugly like at High School
reunions. For Sara, the thought that she was
actually attracted to Gray made her inner penis
go flaccid in less than 5 seconds. He is old and
how did she not know this?
Eww, she thought. She suddenly had the
urge to go and shower away those dirty
[138]
thoughts of Gray. Also, she felt betrayed that
Ryan and Tommy's father were so close to her
dad.
How did I not know this?
That explained why Ryan had rescued her
that day in the bathroom. But what about
Tommy? Were all his flirting and sexual
innuendos just a charade? Confused, Sara
poured herself another glass of wine, went into
the bathroom and turned on the hot water to the
shower.
[139]
FIFTEEN
Russ stood several feet from the dazed and
confused Oliver Tumms. “Didn't hear you sneak
back in, Ollie,” said Russ climbing to his feet.
“I-I forgot my . . . candy bar,” he stammered.
“Um, The Oracle was talking to you. I thought
she couldn't talk in complete sentences. Man, I
knew this was some fake shit. I just knew it!”
Russ could hardly contain his excitement
that Ollie had walked in on them, revealing who
they really were. He was tired of all the roleplaying. The masquerade was finally over, at
least as far as the fat boy was concerned. Russ
was glad he could bump up the scenario and get
the ball rolling. No more having to cater to
these adolescent college sophomores who were
eager to embrace the entire fantasy of The
Oracle. All of them had their hands out for a
piece of the money pie.
Audrey wore her “oh shit, we got caught”
look. What followed was what Russ had in
mind eventually, anyway.
He pushed himself up from the floor and
stood in front of Oliver the Fat Candy Man.
“Well, Ollie, I guess the cat is out of the bag
[140]
now, right big boy?” He lightly patted Ollie on
the cheek.
“I guess. What?”
“You still don't get it, do you?”
Ollie shook his head, his puffy jowls flushed
with red streaks.
Russ reached into the sophomore’s front
pocket and pulled out two Choco-Flav bars. He
carefully unwrapped them, dropping their foiled
skins to the floor.
Russ smelled the bars. “Nice, huh?
Chocolate on the outside, yummy caramel on
the inside. Dangerously delicious, ain't that
right?”
Frozen on the spot the obese man nodded
again. It seemed to Russ that the obese
sophomore was so confused his motor skills just
quit on him.
“Open up,” said Russ. Ollie kept his mouth
tightly shut. Russ' eyes burned into him as he
repeated the request. “Open wide,” he said
sternly this time.
Ollie’s jowls parted and his mouth dropped
open.
Russ smiled. “Good boy.” And he shoved
the entire bar into Oliver's mouth, followed by
[141]
the second one. The heavy student began to
choke, his hands flying up to ward off the
attack, his eyes wide with the 'this can't be
happening' expression.
Russ placed his hand over Ollie’s mouth so
he couldn't spit out the chocolate wad. Ollie fell
backwards to the floor, Russ tumbling over with
him. His strong arms kept the obese student
from escaping. His bulging eyes now filled with
tears and snot spraying from his nose. Oliver
thrashed his huge body back and forth on the
floor trying to loosen Russ’s grip, trying
desperately to suck down air that wasn't there.
Russ leaned in closer to the fat man's ear and
whispered, “You don't mean nothing to me.”
He remained with his weight pinning Oliver
down for a full ten minutes until the sophomore
stopped stirring beneath him. There was the
aroma of shit mixed with chocolate in the air.
Russ pushed to his feet. The strangling had
left him exhausted but inside there was an
exhilaration that replaced the fatigue. He wiped
the chocolate, snot, and spittle from his hand
onto his pants. He turned to his Audrey who
had been watching silently from the cage.
He clapped his hands together. “Well, that
[142]
was fun,” he said with a toothy grin across his
dark face. He ran a hand over his bald head
wiping the perspiration away.
“Wow, that was awesome,” Audrey said, her
deep brown eyes sparkling.
“It was cool, huh? I'd better lock the door
then we'll drag Oliver out of the tunnel and
plant him in the storage shed until we can
dispose of him properly.”
“Okay, but I'd better help. He looks heavy.”
The tunnel had been disguised as a large
screened ventilation grate. Once removed it was
the only way in and out of the warehouse
without being seen. Right now, it was perfect
for smuggling a dead body to the small tool
shed behind the building without detection.
Russ nodded and moved to the door and
turned the lock. No interruptions this time.
*
*
*
Therapist Marshall Jacobs’ day had finally
ended just before nine pm. He was dead tired
and his hand hurt from all the notes he had
[143]
scribbled during the day. Nan, his secretary, had
gone home hours before and he spent the
remainder of the time seeing the rest of his
patients. He listened to problems involving
sexual gratification and perversions that would
make a daytime talk show host blush or run and
hide.
However, it was his job and he was so
burned out from hearing about other people’s
screwed up lives and problems they mostly – no
always – brought about themselves, he didn't
give a rats-ass if they got better or not, so long
as their checks didn't bounce. It wasn't always
like that, not at first. When he received his
degree, he was out to save all the souls of the
world that were broken and mind-twisted. But
after six years, the realization had dawned on
him that he couldn't fix half the people that
walked through his door.
Maybe even less than that.
He trudged out of the therapy room and
entered his private office via an adjoining door.
He kept the light in the room dim; as usual, he
had a splitting headache after a full day of
listening to his patient’s whining. The darkened
office was his therapy. He felt cozy and warm
[144]
surrounded by his books and his super-fragrant
lemon balm plants. He loved the green
vegetation because they didn't need much light,
and all he had to do was keep them moist. He
shut the outer door and slipped comfortably
behind his desk. The expensive high back
leather chair fit his ass like a spandex work
glove.
He slipped his notebook and diamante pen
into the right side drawer, closed it, and flexed
his arms to his side. He sucked in the warm
room air and suddenly realized he wasn't alone.
He twisted the desk lamp into the darkest corner
and stared wide-eyed at the man sitting in the
stiff backed patient consulting chair.
“Rough day at the office, Marsh?” Russ St.
Cloud said.
“Russell!”
“I'm impressed. You recognized me through
my disguise.” He steepled his fingers together.
“Why are you here? You promised you’d
never contact me again.”
“I lied. You should be used to that, am I
right? People lie to you all the time. Sure they
tell you some of their secrets but not all of them
do they?”
[145]
Marshall was visibly shaken and he knew
Russ could see it. “That's none of your business.
Please leave or . . .”
Russ leaned forward in his chair. “Or what?
You'll contact the police. What will you tell
them? A dead man broke into your office, then
what?” St. Cloud grinned at him then
whispered,
“Do you think they'll find out that I paid you,
a lot of money I should add, for your private
client files?”
“Shut up.”
“Isn't that breaking some kind of Hippocratic
oath or something?”
“What would someone like you know or even
care about that?” Marshall said venomously. He
spat the words out as if they tasted rancid.
Russ tugged at his ear. “You don't have an
awful high opinion of me and that hurts, Doc.
How does this sound and I quote: Therapists do
not disclose confidential information for the
purposes of consultation and supervision,
without a client's explicit consent unless there is
reason to believe that the client or others are in
immediate, severe danger to health or life.”
Russ wiggled his eyebrows at the man then
[146]
continued, “Any such disclosure must be
consistent with laws that pertain to the welfare
of the client, family, and the general public. End
of quote.”
Marshall leaned forward in his chair,
wanting to stand up but afraid to. “I want you
out of my office. We have no business
together.”
“Oh, contraire, Monsieur. You took the
money, you pay the price.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing big, really . . .”
“I won't do it. I don't need any money this
time. You can't bribe me anymore.”
“Actually I can. Jan says . . .”
“Jan?” Marshall leaned back into his chair.
It didn't seem so comfortable anymore and all
the therapist wanted to do now was run out of
the room and get away from Russell St. Cloud.
“So now you've gotten to her.”
“Sweet Jesus, you sound jealous, you dirty
old man.” Russ rose from the chair and took the
short steps to the front of Marshall's desk, the
therapist's eyes glued onto the Bear & Sons
letter opener on his desk. He moved his hand a
few inches toward it. Russ watched him in
[147]
amusement.
“Really? You’re going to stab me, Mr.
Therapist?”
“Don't call me that.”
“Why not? In Sara Doyle's diary, she called
you that. But you knew that anyway, didn't
you? I know you worked for my father, that's no
secret. Everybody in town worked for my
father.”
Marshall moved his hand away from the
letter opener.
“That's better. Now get me the files of Sara
Doyle. You know the ones you didn't give me.
The secret files you keep somewhere in this
office, and the audio tapes too, pretty please.”
Marshall's eyes snapped up to meet Russ'
cold stare. Russ shrugged. “Jan. She was
terribly open to me. More than you know.
Please hurry,” Russ looked at his naked wrist.
“I have another engagement in less than an hour
and I don't want to be late.”
Marshall let out a breath and with trembling
legs, he stood up, moving toward a picture on
the wall behind him. It was a replica of Henry
Fuseli's The Nightmare. A disturbing dark
painting of an incubus sitting on the chest of a
[148]
beautiful prostrate woman draped over a bed,
head dangling over the side, obviously tortured
and accompanied by the watchful gaze of a
horse with bulging eyes between parted
curtains. The kind of painting a therapist could
sink his head into with hours of brutal
discussion.
Marshall swung the picture outward
revealing a hidden cabinet.
“Righteous,” said Russ, impressed with the
secret cabinet.
The therapist opened the cabinet with a key
from his pocket, pulled out the selected files,
and tossed them onto his desk a few inches
from where Russ stood. As he was closing the
cabinet St. Cloud told him to stop.
“Those are all I have. Take them and go.”
“I want one more thing.”
Russ told the therapist what he wanted and
the man nearly fainted to the floor. “You can't.
You mustn't.”
Russ tilted his head to one side and made a
pouty face. “I'm afraid it's a necessity, Doc.”
As the therapist dug deeper for the files, he
held them tightly in his sweating hand. There
was no reasoning with a sociopathic bastard like
[149]
Russell St. Cloud. Marshall knew what he held
in his hand would cause more people to be in
danger.
He didn't see Russ pick up the Bear & Sons
letter opener from the desk. And he didn't
register any personal danger when Russ St.
Cloud whispered, “You don't mean nothing to
me, Doc.”
When Therapist Marshall Jacob’s body was
discovered the next day people wondered who
could have done such a horrible thing to him.
The murder became more of a mystery when his
Secretary Jan Sterling’s body was discovered
twisted and broken in the trunk of the therapists
steel blue BMW 6 series.
[150]
SIXTEEN
Merle Munson sat nervously in interview room
three wringing his grimy hands together,
adjusting his glasses, and occasionally pinching
at the groin of his soiled jeans. Kinkie and
Harry watched him through the large one-way
mirrored window.
“Think he has to use the bathroom?” observed
Harry. “Is he retarded?”
“Really?” scolded his partner. “I take it you
skipped sensitive training module seven?”
“There's a module seven?”
“He’s mentally challenged, yes. And it
appears he has a nervous disorder as well. What
we need to concentrate on is him stumbling
across three hundred dollars, a woman's purse,
and bloody clothing.”
“How did he end up here?”
“His social worker was making her usual stop
to visit him when he just couldn't wait to show
her all the neat stuff he’d found.”
“Where's the social worker now?”
“In the waiting area,” Kinkie said. “I
promised her Mister Munson wasn't in trouble
but we needed some kind of statement about
[151]
where he found his booty during his dumpster
diving excursion.”
They entered the interrogation room and took
their usual seats across from the nervous man.
He obviously heard them enter but didn't make
eye contact with either of them. Kinkie began
the interview first.
“Mister Munson, I'm Detective Kinkaid and
this is Detective Harrison. We need to ask you a
few questions. You're not in any trouble. Do
you understand that?”
The man nodded. “Are you like Sherlock
Holmes?”
“Yes. Just like Sherlock Holmes,” said Harry
in a patronizing voice.
“Which one?”
“Which one what?” asked the detective.
“Which one of you is Watson?”
Harry sighed. “That's not important. Tell us
where you found the cash.”
“Can I have it back? I want to buy stuff.”
“We'll see. First I. . .”
“I found it. The guys in the van dumped it
off. I found it.”
“What guys in what van?”
“The karate guy and the bald guy.”
[152]
Kinkie interrupted before her partner could
ask another question. “Can you show us where
you found the purse and the money?”
Munson hesitated for a moment then said, “I
think so.”
“Either you can or you can't. Which is it?”
said Harrison impatiently. The nervous man
groped himself several more times, wrung his
hands together and readjusted his thick lenses.
“I make the circle. The stuff was inside the
circle at the empty house.”
“Then we'll drive the circle until we find it.”
“Are you going to take me in a police car?”
he asked eagerly still avoiding eye contact.
“Sure,” answered Kinkie. “Just like on TV.”
Munson grinned showing gaps in his teeth.
“Can I turn on the siren?”
*
*
*
Gray Wilder sat at a private table in the
back of the LaPointe Restaurant located in the
heart of Danner Falls downtown area. Across
the table from him, Sydney Lovejoy was
shuffling a folder with various official looking
[153]
documents. She was a good looking middleaged woman who’s greatest asset appeared to
be professionalism.
Gray was surprised at the phone call. He had
done a few quickies for Riley and Lovejoy,
mostly delivering a court summons or two. He
kept an eye on a client once during a domestic
violence case, but nothing long term.
After the call, he threw on his inexpensive
suit, which he’d got on clearance from the
Men's Warehouse and tore open a crisp new
light blue shirt from the cellophane wrapper he
had been saving for some important thing or
another. Riley and Lovejoy always paid a nice
bonus if he finished his assignment with no
complications so he wanted to look his best.
He’d even shaved his craggy face so not to look
like a dressed up drunk.
Gray looked good on the outside but he still
felt tired and beat down on the inside. Such was
life. He even had mixed feelings for his boss
Sara Doyle who had come out of a relationship
via the death of her ex-boyfriend and the
horrible experience with Russell St. Cloud
whom she rarely talked about. He could actually
love a woman like that but she wasn't available
[154]
emotionally and, if he was honest with himself,
neither was he.
An ex-drunk is only a sober drunk, his
sponsor once told him. He had looked himself
over one last time in the mirror for the final
decision on sporting a matching tie but since he
hated ties, he kept his attire the way it was and
only added the Timex watch for jewelry.
A plate of food sat in front of him that
included an oversized hamburger stuffed with
lettuce, cheese and mushrooms nestled neatly
next to generous helping of shoestring fries. He
didn't touch the food; he was only interested in
the cup of black coffee cooling in front of him.
So far, the conversation between Sydney and
him had been of the casual variety of, ‘How
have you been?’ ‘You look good,’ and ‘how's
the not drinking coming along?’ Gray was sure
the conversation would soon change to
something more down to business. That's how
the counselor worked.
Sydney pushed an unruly lock of brown hair
away from her glasses and tilted her head to one
side.
“You’re not touching your burger,” she said
with a pleasant smile. She had eagerly finished
[155]
her slice of Rösti Casserole with Baked Eggs, a
meatless delight for the so-called vegetarian,
and was sipping gingerly at a cold glass of ice
tea.
“I hate cheeseburgers,” Gray said frankly,
and pushed the plate further from where he sat.
“Then why did you order it?”
“I was being polite. Why am I here?”
“Okay, that's fair. As you’ve suspected we
have a job for you.”
“So where’s your other half?”
“In court. I can handle this. Besides, you don't
like Riley much so I didn't want that to affect
your answer.”
“I have a job now.” He took a sip of his
coffee to give his hands something to do when
all he really wanted was a cigarette. But these
days no decent restaurant lets you smoke inside
their establishment. A sign of the times.
Sydney's eyes did a series of blinks. “Really?
A security officer for a small antique shop?
Sounds like charity work to me.”
“Ouch! In all fairness, Ms. Doyle does have
some expensive items in her shop.” The urge
for the cigarette was growing in Gray's mind.
“This is only a quick piece-work,” she said
[156]
with a sour look on her face as if she'd just
sucked on a lemon. “It’ll take a few hours then
you can go back to guarding all those precious
vases.”
“You're so good to me.”
A forced smirk crawled across the lawyer's
face, which Gray hated. “I think so too. It pays
a thousand dollars.”
“Let me get this straight. You're going to pay
me one thousand dollars for a couple of hours
work?”
“That's correct.” She sat back in her seat and
crossed her arms.
Gray said, “As a rule I don't beat up people.
That's old school,” he joked. “I'm just a humble
private detective.”
“You mean security guard.”
“That too. So why me?”
“I trust you. You have to deliver a package.
It might be . . .” She paused for a moment
searching for the right word. “Dangerous.”
Gray leaned forward. “Dangerous in what
way?”
She held up her hand. “Do me a solid, Gray. I
can only tell you one thing. It's a payment for a
ransom.”
[157]
There was silence between them for a moment
as Gray rubbed at the side of his face. “FBI in
on this?”
“Nope. No police. No FBI. It's a delicate
situation.”
“You know that sixty percent of ransom
deliveries usually produce a dead victim?”
“That's not your problem. All I need you to do
is deliver the money.”
He stared at his lonely coffee cup. “How
much is the ransom?”
“Once again, not important for you to know. I
can tell you it's a substantial amount.”
“And the drop off point?”
She fished through her folder and passed a
blue envelope face down toward him. Then she
took out a white envelope that was thicker and
Gray knew it was the thousand dollars -in cashfor the job.
“And the package?”
“In the boot of my car. Say yes and we can
begin.”
Gray nodded. “When's the drop?”
“Tonight at eight p.m. I’ll stay with you until
then.” She slipped off her glasses and sat them
on top of the folder. “Do you still own a gun?”
[158]
Gray felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his
stomach and was glad he’d left the burger
untouched.
*
*
*
When Sara's phone rang, she was glad it was a
familiar voice. Gray sounded nervous over the
phone as he spoke in monotone sentences as if
he’d over-rehearsed what he was going to say.
After asking how she was he said, “I may not
be available for a good part of tonight. Not until
morning. I have some piece work that pays well
and I can't pass it up.”
“What is it?”
His voice hesitated then said, “I can't tell
you.”
She really didn't understand why he was
being so ominous and secretive all the time. She
wanted him to know he could trust her. She
made a mental note to have a serious talk with
him sometime in the near future. “Okay.” She
was about to say something else when he hung
up.
[159]
SEVENTEEN
Still tied to the chair, Jon Montgomery’s
arms had lost all feeling in them. He wondered
if he was dying. He pushed the thought from his
mind. It wasn’t that easy to kill a Montgomery.
Even though his arms had quit hurting, he
noticed the pain in his groin had grown
stronger. He gave up trying to untie his bonds a
while ago. The brown paper bag over his face
didn't help any. Since he couldn't see, he had to
rely on his other senses.
He could smell the aroma of pizza and could
hear the girls beyond the door chatting happily.
Earlier, they had fed him some grapes but kept
the pizza for themselves, the selfish bitches. If
he could only get loose, he would bash every
one of the bitch’s heads in. It would be selfdefense.
As he continued to listen, he heard the girls
call each other by name. He recognized two of
them, Tiffany and Meadow. He had forgettable
sex with Tiff once. It was at a football game
when they were both drunk (Tiffany a bit too
drunk.) He knew he was going to have sex with
her that night in the back of his buddy's pickup
[160]
and remembered she’d thrown up afterwards.
He didn't really care if she was sick or not when
he did her. She was hot. As for the other one, he
hadn't done Meadow. Not yet. He didn't think
he knew Chrissy but the odds were good that if
she was hot he'd checked her out one or two
times. If he could see their faces, he'd probably
know all of them by sight, including the males.
He didn't understand what the Oracle was
that the girls kept talking about but the other
names he heard were some idiot nerd named
Hamish and another one named Oliver who, Jon
figured, was a fat-ass because all he ever talked
about was food, video games, and how he was
going to spend his part of the ransom. Of
course, his dad would pay up and when Jon was
released safe and sound, he'd gather up his inner
posse and make everyone of these bastards pay
– on his terms. Then he'd get the most
experienced surgeon and fix his dick. Maybe
even have them make it bigger and badder.
They could do that these days. If you had
money, there was nothing you couldn't do.
The bitches in the next room were not as
smart as they thought they were. You didn't
mess with a Montgomery. Not in this town. He
[161]
figured most of their fathers worked for his
father now that St. Cloud senior was dead. Jon
was smiling to himself and every few minutes
winced with the pain from the wound when he
heard the door open. The girls were giggling
and sounding pretty well lit. He figured he
could manipulate one of them to loosen his
bindings, if he played his agony up some.
“I'm thirsty,” he cried out. He tried to make
his voice crack as if under the strain of pain and
anxiety. “You've ignored me for hours. And
I’ve got to piss. What about that?”
He heard the shuffling sound of feet
drawing closer. His plan was working.
Tiffany's voice was the first to speak out.
“Jesus Christ, there's blood dripping on the
floor. Who wrapped the wound?”
Jon thought, Blood dripping? Are they
serious?
“Hamish, I think.”
“No names. The Oracle said no names,”
warned Chrissy.
“Wasn't me,” said Meadow. The pizza inside
her stomach turning into acid and threatening to
come back up. “Someone has to . . . you know,
fix it or something.”
[162]
Am I really bleeding to death? Jon did feel a
bit woozy. Suddenly real panic set in. He envisioned gangrene eating away at his loins.
“Ewwww, I'm not doing it. It's gross.”
“Help me,” he cried out. “Am I bleeding to
death? Am I? If I die all of you are going down
for murder. They'll fry your ass in this state.”
“We should have put the tape back over his
mouth after we fed him,” Meadow remarked.
“You're not going to die; we're just waiting
on the money. Then you can go to the hospital.”
Tiffany's eyes widened. “Meadow, shut up.
The Oracle . . .”
Chrissy put her hand over Tiffany's mouth
and gave her a stern look. Tiff pushed her
friend’s hand away and said, “Sorry.”
“There’s a hammer in the next room, we
could smack him one and make him shut up,”
said Chrissy.
“I know who you are! Every one of you
fucking bitches!” Jon said, “Let me go right
now!”
The girls froze.
Meadow whispered, “He's lying. He's a
psychology major.”
Chrissy bit her bottom lip. “What if he's
[163]
not?”
“No, I have him in . . .”
“I mean lying. What if he's not lying?”
Tiffany backed away toward the door. “We
gotta go. One of the boys can handle this.” Her
voice was shaky and fluctuated between high
and normal. “Where the hell are they?”
Jon heard the door open and screamed out,
“Tiffany, don't do this! Don't let me die!”
Meadow said, “Oh shit!”
When Russ entered the room, still in his
Hamish Creeley persona, the room was abuzz
with anxious, panicky and screaming college
girls. Meadow, Tiffany, and Chrissy rushed him
as he entered the room holding a bottle of
champagne and some red plastic cups.
“One at a time, please,” he cried out to the
women. “Please.” He nearly dropped the bottle.
Tiffany began. “He knows us.”
Chrissy added, “We need to do something.
The Oracle . . .”
“Never mind the Oracle,” Russ interrupted.
“We’re moving on to the next stage.”
This did nothing to calm the excited nerves
of the girls. Meadow stepped forward. “And we
can’t find the others? What’s going on?
[164]
Where’s Oliver? He didn’t show up for free
pizza. That’s not like him, and Len hasn’t
shown up either.”
Meadow said, “What the hell, Hamish?”
Russ moved to the table, frowned at the Ouija
board, and pushed it to the floor. “We’re going
to celebrate. The others are on a special
mission.”
“Then why are we celebrating?”
“The ransom is coming through. We’ve won,”
Russ said proudly.
“That still doesn’t explain how we’re going
to get out of this and even have a chance to
spend the money as long as Jon knows who we
are?”
Russ kept shaking his head. “A small detail.
He isn’t going to say anything because we’re
going to convince him the authorities and his
parents will think he was part of the entire
kidnapping venture just to con money from his
tight-ass father.” He popped open the bottle
with little effort and began to pour the bubbly
liquid into the cups.
Meadow’s eyes narrowed. “Hamish, you
seem different.”
“Just excited to get the money, is all. We’ll
[165]
all be in the clear, trust me.”
“How are you going to do that, Hamish?”
Russ shrugged. “I’ve got that handled. We’re
going to be fine. Drink up.” The girls hesitated.
“Come on, don’t ruin this moment.”
He handed out the cups. The girls reluctantly
took the beverages. They drank the champagne
quickly not noticing that even though Russ held
a cup he wasn’t drinking. When they were
finished, the only one who went for seconds
was Chrissy.
Tiffany said, “So where and when do we
collect the money?”
Russ smiled. “You don’t. I’ll take care of
everything.”
“Why you?” Tiffany protested. “We should
all go.”
Russ set down his cup, shaking his head.
“Really? We’re all going to pile into the van
and go to the drop site?”
Tiffany said, “Yeah. I see your point.”
Meadow nodded in agreement.
Chrissy suddenly dropped to the floor
grabbing her stomach. Vomit spewed from her
mouth and splattered to the floor.
“Jesus, Chrissy. You shouldn’t have drunk
[166]
that down so fast,” said Tiffany. Then she
grabbed her stomach, her eyes going wide as if
she had been stabbed in the gut by a long
needle. She dropped to the floor near Chrissy.
Meadow hung on a bit longer, and Russ was
beginning to think he’d have to use the
champagne bottle and club her to death.
She was in the middle of the sentence “What
the. . .” then she plunked down to her knees,
tossed up some pizza and bile, and fell face
down in the puddle of vomit. Russ squatted
down facing the bodies of the girls and
whispered, “You don’t mean nothing to me,
ladies.”
The door opened and Audrey, no longer
dirty, was wearing designer jeans and a t-shirt
that showed off her flat stomach.
“Hi Oracle?”
“Hi sweetie?” She looked at the dead girls
lying on the floor. “Damn, that was easy. I was
expecting a fight or something.”
“Easy as . . .”
She quickly held up her hand. “No, don’t say
it!”
Russ shrugged. He took the hammer that was
lying on the table and headed for the door
[167]
leading to their prisoner. “Hold on. I got
something to do.”
“Shouldn’t you wait until we get the
money?”
“No need. You’re never going to believe who
they’re sending to deliver the ransom.”
“Who?”
“I’ll tell you when I get back.”
“Tease,” Audrey called after him, and he
exited through the door. She heard him say,
“Hello Jon, I got some good news and some bad
news.” Then he whispered something she
couldn’t make out, followed by a series of wet
dull thuds.
Phase two completed.
[168]
EIGHTEEN
Audrey sat cross-legged on the floor across
from Russ who had also sat cross-legged.
Between them were the remains of the
pepperoni pizza in a blue and red box
displaying the colorful logo of Brody Street
Pizza. Audrey took a generous bite of the crust
as Russ sipped at a bottle of beer.
The girl stared at Meadow, lying on the floor
as if she were only sleeping. There was no
terror on her dead face. Audrey couldn't tear her
eyes away. Russ noticed her interest as he took
another sip. “What's wrong?”
“I liked her,” she said sadly. “I liked the way
she dressed and the way she pulled
her hair back into a ponytail. She is, well was,
so pretty. I think we could have been friends.”
Russ shook his head. “I doubt that,” he said
setting his beer down and trading it for a slice of
pizza. “She was an airhead, Odd.”
She tore her eyes away from the body and
stared deep into Russ’ dark eyes. He never
called her Odd unless he was trying to make a
point. They’d met at one of Russ' mother's
boring parties that she hadn't wanted to go to in
[169]
the first place. But there was a sudden attraction
to him and they had sex that very night.
“Don't call me that. I got enough of that in
high school,” she said. But her brown eyes were
smiling and not the least bit upset. Odd-drey
they used to say. Russ had shortened it to Odd,
which to her didn't seem to be an insult at all.
“My bad. You cleaned up nice and you smell
so much better.”
Over time, she’d learned about Russ' dark
side and even embraced it. He made her feel
free and alive. She’d even killed for him to
show him that she loved him unconditionally.
She was caught for that murder and sentenced
to a psychiatric ward instead of jail thanks to
her parents and their connections.
Once again, Russ appeared and freed her
from her mental prison. His plans of making
people pay for the pain and suffering they had
caused him when he was in grade school hadn't
worked out as he had meticulously planned.
Russ had stashed the money away from his
departed aunt until he had set up a new plan,
and much to Audrey's delight he’d whisked her
away and used her in his latest scheme to obtain
more money.
[170]
“Um, thanks, I think.” Her gaze ended up to
the bodies gain. “Did they suffer?”
“Not much, I used a derivative of Prussic
Acid, a special mixture of mine. I tested it on
Andrea Gorman. As you can see it did the
trick.”
Audrey was silent for a few minutes,
lowering her head and seeming to stare at the
near empty box of pizza. “What do we do
now?”
“As you know, the special cell phone I used
for the kidnapping rang, and the ransom drop
has been finalized.” He clapped his hands
together. “I love living in a small town. A friend
of Sara Doyle's is delivering the money to the
specified drop. Can you guess who?”
Audrey shook her head.
“The asshole who worked on the case after
my father's death.”
Audrey's eyes widened. “He's that cop? Tell
me he's not that cop!” Her voice jumped two
octaves.
“Settle down. He used to be a cop,
remember? I told you about him. Now he's just
a drunk who Sweet Sara has taken under her
wing. I think he may even be screwing her.”
[171]
Audrey hated it when he called that bitch
Sweet Sara, as if he had a thing for her.
“Whatever. Let's just get the money and go
somewhere. I always wanted to go to Astoria.”
Russ scrunched up his face. “Astoria? Why
there?”
“I like the coast and the angry waves
splashing against the rocks and . . .”
“You romanticize everything, Odd.
Seriously.” He slapped his hands together to
knock off crumbs from the last bite of pizza and
let out a jet of air. “I guess we'd better finish
what we've started.” Russ turned his eyes to the
door where their prisoner was still tied to a
chair, a blood soaked paper bag covering his
face.
Audrey licked her lips slowly then said, “I
guess so.” Russ knew that look she was giving
him - it was the I-want-you-now look.
“Well we’ve waited this long to finish this
so it can wait a little while longer,” Russ said as
he leaned over to kiss Audrey. While he kissed
her, she started unbuttoning her blouse. Her
breasts were exposed since she wasn't wearing a
bra.
As soon as they hit the cool air, her nipples
[172]
hardened. The intensity of their kissing
increased as Russ reached up with his left hand
and took a handful of her breast followed by his
fingertips pulling at her nipple. Now lying on
the floor, Audrey mounted Russ in a sitting
cowgirl position. This excited Russ as he could
see the expressions on her face and her perfect
body enjoying every moment. She slid her body
down his, until her face was in perfect position
to tease his cock.
Audrey slowly unzipped his pants, and slid
down his boxers, exposing his full on erection.
She grasped his shaft and proceeded to lick the
tip a few times before taking a full mouthful.
Russ had only experienced a blow job a couple
times before so he didn’t know if he should
watch, or just sit back and enjoy it. He wasn't
sure if he should resist his climax or let it all
loose because then there would be nothing for
her to enjoy, so he concentrated on resisting the
finish. Sensing his excitement, Audrey stopped
the oral teasing and resumed the cowgirl
position, as she took control of her own ecstasy.
Even with all of the dead bodies around them,
Russ noticed she never broke her concentration.
Sex in the midst of death.
[173]
The bodies seemed to bother Russ without
phasing Audrey only because he felt the bodies
intruded on his alone time with his love. Just as
they finished their climax in unison, Russ
looked to his left and saw Grandpapa. He was
silently watching with dead sunken eyes and
bits of flesh hanging loosely from his face. He
had his arms crossed as he leaned against the
wall. Grandnana was nowhere in sight. Russ
ignored him and kept his attention on Audrey.
Go away Grandpapa, he screamed in his
mind.
[174]
NINETEEN
“Where's Len?” said Audrey as they finished
making love and quickly slipped on their
clothes. Russ had left the room for a few
moments and when he returned he was carrying
a red plastic gas can. He reluctantly glanced
toward the wall and set the can down next to
him. His Grandpapa had vanished.
Audrey repeated,” Russ, did you hear me?
Where is Len?”
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward
the door leading out of the building. “He's all
snug in the back of the van. I want you to go
outside and wait for me.”
She nodded numbly. Her feet felt heavy and
she had a hard time making them move.
“Don't be long, okay?”
He shot her a forced smile.
“Won't he be missed?” she hastily said as he
turned away. A look of concern crossed her
dark eyes.
“Len? Spring break started this weekend.
We'll be in the clear for a while.” Russ shifted
nervously from foot to foot and glanced around
as if he was worried someone would walk in on
[175]
them. But that couldn't happen. He had taken
care of everyone involved. He’d stuck to the
plan.
“Okay,” said the girl, but there was an
uncertainness behind her eyes.
“I want you to go outside and wait for me,”
he said sternly not meaning to make the remark
sound like a command. “Long enough to torch
this place.” He leaned over and picked up the
red plastic gas container at his feet. “Just sit
tight. Better yet, start the van up. This won’t
take long.” He tossed her the keys and she
clumsily caught them, nearly dropping them
twice.
“You're nervous. I can see that. But we're
almost done.”
She nodded again and sluggishly moved out
the door and out of his sight. Once she was
gone, he relaxed a little knowing he could
complete his task so much easier when she
wasn't watching him. He moved over the bodies
of the girls and tipped the can liberally,
splashing the gasoline over their bodies. The
strong aroma of gasoline stung his eyes and
nostrils. He then moved into the adjoining room
where the body of Jon Montgomery was still
[176]
tied to the chair like a seaman lashing himself to
the wheel of a ship during a storm. The brown
bag with the smiley face still covered his head.
There was a pool of blood at his feet. Jon’s
life blood had mixed with urine. He had pissed
himself as Russ beaten him repeatedly with the
business end of the dead blow hammer. He
dowsed Jon’s body with the gasoline letting the
fuel mix with the blood and piss.
Russ reached into his pocket and pulled out a
lighter he had taken from Len's pocket after
he’d knocked him unconscious. He also took
his friend’s wallet and a small bag of pot.
Audrey liked to smoke weed whenever she
was depressed, and even though he didn't
smoke it, he didn't care if she did or not.
Besides, she got extremely horny after she got
high.
He stroked the lighter wheel until the flame
grew bright and set the bag covering the dead
Montgomery’s head on fire. He watched as the
flame ate away at the smiley face turning it
black, along with Jon's hair and flesh. The acrid
smell of burning flesh, sweet and sour followed.
He quickly moved into the adjoining room and
dropped the lighter in the gas puddle next to the
[177]
girls. He didn’t stick around to watch them
burn. There was money waiting for him.
Him and his Audrey.
Audrey was sitting on the passenger side
hanging halfway out of the window smoking a
cigarette waiting with the van running. It was
completely dark now and occasionally a dark
cloud cut off the light coming from the half
moon overhead. Audrey jettisoned her finished
cigarette in the air and it crash-landed next to
the brick building. Sparks from the dying flame
skirted down the side like a miniature meteor
shower. He jumped into the driver’s side,
moved the lever into drive, and hurried the van
down the alley and through several streets to
make sure they were clear when the warehouse
went up. He drove as if he didn't have a worry
in the world. The traffic was nearly non-existent
for a Friday. Not surprising since the bigger
cities were only forty or fifty miles away.
“We're going to have to drive around for a
bit. The drop isn't for another forty minutes.
We'll stop somewhere and change our clothes.
How's Len?”
“He's still out. Maybe you gave him too
much.”
[178]
“Either that or he's pretending to be out. We'll
soon see. Are you feeling better?”
She shrugged. “Some.”
“Good. The phone is in the glove box. You
can pull it out and turn it on now.”
She did so. She also saw a small German .22
Luger in the glove box under a box of tissues.
She went to reach for it but Russ shook his
head. “We won't need that right now. I don't
anticipate a problem when Wilder brings us the
money. If I know Mr. Montgomery all he wants
is his asshole kid back.”
“But you killed him.”
“Hence, his stand in, Len.”
“He doesn't look anything like Jon.”
“He will when we put that black bag over his
head. First aid kit still under your seat?”
Audrey checked then said, “Yes.”
“Perfect. You just sit back and relax. I got
this.”
Audrey had a feeling everything wasn’t
perfect and she was afraid the whole plan would
turn into a shitstorm. She didn't want to go back
to the nut farm. She wouldn’t go back. She’d
rather kill herself first.
A siren rang out causing Audrey and Russ to
[179]
both jump in their seats. She relaxed as a fire
truck sped by them in the opposite direction.
It appeared the plan was working after all.
Maybe she’d get her wish and move to Astoria
with Russ.
Then Phase three would be complete.
[180]
TWENTY
Gray Wilder sat quietly in semi-darkness at
the drop spot waiting for the kidnappers to
show their ugly faces. He flicked the third
cigarette out of the car window, reached into his
pocket, and pulled out a silver flask. He popped
open the lid and took a pull at the whiskey.
Money wasn't as plentiful as it used to be so
instead of the expensive Crown Royal he now
had his flask filled with Old Thompson. It
tasted like shit but that wasn't why he was
drinking it. He needed to take the edge off.
Sure, he could have used the money Sydney
gave him for this job but he needed to save it
for some reason or another. He forgot what for
now. He did that a lot. Plus the stuff tasted so
bad he knew he wouldn't end up in a blackout
drinking that crap. He rolled the mud puddle
flavored liquid around with his tongue and
swallowed it. He was glad he didn't have a gag
reflex anymore. He pulled out another smoke
from his pack, lit it, and wondered if the
bastards were going to show up at all. Simple
jobs didn't always end up being so simple. With
time to kill he thought of his life and how he’d
[181]
screwed it up so. His job went to shit, his
romances went to shit, his life went to pureed
shit. He thought of Sara. He could love a
woman like that. Really love her and stay
monogamous this time. He thought of her smile
and her slender body, and for a few quick
seconds wondered what it would be like to be
inside of her. Gray wondered if he should tell
her about his feelings toward her and whether it
would make a damn bit of difference or not. He
chose not to.
Gray shook the thoughts away. He needed to
keep a clear head. Thinking about her right now
wasn't the right time. He fingered the .38 in the
seat next to him. It wasn't for shooting anything
but close up. Just in case. Next to the revolver
was the black suitcase full of cash. He stared at
it blankly for a moment. He was about to take
another swig from the flask when he saw the
headlights. The drop zone was the abandoned
Claymont Drive-in Theater. In its heyday, he’d
taken many a girl here. They never watched the
films on the large outdoor screens anyway.
They weren't there for that. That's not why the
drive-in was created.
The vehicle pulled up about fifty feet away.
[182]
He was sure it was the van he saw speed away
from Sara's place the night she’d called him in a
panic. A creepy feeling clawed its way to his
stomach. He picked up the gun and shoved it
into his jacket pocket. The .38 was a
hammerless Ruger LCR. This baby could hold
.38 slugs or .357 ammo. He chose the .38 shells
because the .357 made the gun pull more when
fired. Being hammerless, the hammer wouldn’t
get caught up in his jacket pocket.
He flipped on his headlights, grabbed the
suitcase, and stepped out of the rig. He left the
door slightly open in case he needed to shoot
behind it. If things went crazy-wrong.
He took several steps stopping just past the
bumper of his rig. He sat the suitcase at his feet.
The taste of the whiskey still burned at his
tongue. Cheap-ass shit, he thought. So much for
sobriety.
For a few minutes, nothing stirred in the van
and it was angled in such a way he couldn't
make out a driver or passenger. The side door of
the van slid open and someone unseen pushed a
naked man out to the ground. His head was
covered in a black cloth bag so he couldn't see.
It also appeared his hands were bound from
[183]
behind him. Gray noticed his penis was
wrapped in a white blood-stained bandage. He
fell to the gravel on his knees. He recovered and
clumsily pulled himself upright to his feet.
There was no doubt it was the Montgomery
kid. They had done quite a number on him.
He’d probably never piss straight for the rest of
his life. At least he wasn't dead. The odds had
been against it but this ex-detective had been
wrong before. Gray stayed frosty since the
kidnappers hadn't shown themselves yet. It gave
him an uneasy feeling. He was glad he brought
the gun.
“Toss over the money before I send him
over,” screamed out a female voice.
That surprised Gray some. He’d pictured the
kidnappers as all male. He picked up the
suitcase and hefted it, despite its weight, as far
as he could. It barely reached where Jon was
standing and shaking at the moment.
The female voice said, “Move asshole.”
The hooded man started walking blindly
toward where he’d heard Gray's voice. He
walked gingerly on the sharp pebbles.
Gray moved a few steps toward Jon
Montgomery when someone stepped out of the
[184]
van. They stayed in the shadows. Gray had the
impression it was the girl who had been barking
out the orders.
Were there others still inside the van?
The girl quickly shot over to where the
suitcase was, but she was wearing a hoodie that
hid her features. Jon had almost reached him so
he didn't bother trying to get more information
to identify her. His job was to rescue
Montgomery's kid. Gray kept his eyes fixed on
Jon who had almost reached him now. When he
looked over to where the girl and the suitcase
were they had both gone.
No surprise there.
The hooded man finally made it close enough
for Gray to reach out to him. The young man
almost collapsed in his arms and it took both of
Gray’s hands to hold him up. Up close, he
noticed the Montgomery kid had a crude spider
web tattooed on the inside of his right forearm.
Gray fumbled with the black cloth around Jon's
neck when he heard a voice call out, “It's all
here!”
Gray tore off the hood and looked into the
eyes of Russell St. Cloud. “Surprise,
Detective.”
[185]
Gray fumbled at his pocket for his .38 but
not before a barrage of jabs from a hidden knife
sliced into the ex-detective’s soft flesh.
Do me a solid, Gray.
As Gray Wilder’s blood dripped onto the
dirt and gravel, he knew this was the end. Russ
St. Cloud had stabbed him in the neck and
chest, slashed at his face, his hands, and even
three fingers of his gun hand as he desperately
tried to pull out his weapon. Now he lay on the
ground with a ringing pounding in his ears, his
lips trembling and his mind blank. He’d heard
that when you’re about to die your life flashes
before you, like a cinematic record of your
experiences. Not true. There was no film; there
was only excruciating pain and an enclosing
darkness.
He managed to struggle his bleeding hand
into his coat pocket, and with the strength he
didn’t know he had, pulled out the .38. His eyes
were blurry from the tears and he squeezed
them tightly together to force out the wetness.
He surprised himself by pointing the gun in
the direction of the blurry figure moving several
feet in front of him. He could hear St. Cloud
saying something to someone in the van but he
[186]
couldn’t understand what they were saying.
How could he have been so stupid to fall for
that asshole’s trap? His hands hadn’t been
bound from behind; he’d been concealing a
knife. The bastard was smart, he’d give him
that.
The heavy revolver swayed in Gray’s hand
and another wave of nausea and weakness ran
through him. His hands were slippery from the
sweat and blood. If only he was strong enough
to pull the trigger.
He needed to fire the gun and put a bullet into
that asshole before the blackness overcame him
a final time. Gray pooled the last of his strength
and fired once. And he missed.
In the blurriness, he saw Russ St. Cloud turn
and walk slowly toward him. The gun was too
heavy now for Gray to hold onto anymore and it
slipped to the ground settling in the pool of his
own blood.
Russ St. Cloud stood over him now. He saw
the psycho raise his leg. He saw the bottom of
the asshole’s bare foot bearing down toward his
head .
A pissed off Russ St. Cloud stomped on the
ex-detective's head until he heard a final crunch.
[187]
At each stomp he said, “Why . . . don’t . . . you
. . . die?” Crunch. He removed his foot from the
pulpy red mess and shook it off. “Shit.
Hardboiled to the end.” He turned back to the
van and hollered, “Can you believe that? He
tried to shoot me after he was half-dead. Piss
poor shot, though.” He strolled back to the van
and peered inside at Audrey.
“Hey, Odd. Hand me the gas can and we’ll
finish this thing off before we leave. I want to
burn everything. We‘ll drag Len’s dead ass over
and drop him on top of the dead Dick. Then I
want to make a visit to Sweet Sara and put an
end to all of this. We have all the money we’ll
need for now.”
Audrey, who sat in the passenger seat, now
remained silent. She didn’t move. Russ could
see the top of dark hair since she’d removed the
unneeded mask. “Audrey?” He reached out to
touch her black strands but stopped abruptly
when he noticed a hole in the back of the seat,
up toward the top, in line with the back of her
head. “Oh Christ, no!” he whispered.
[188]
PART TWO
Revenge is Served
[189]
[190]
TWENTY-ONE
Kinkie and her partner arrived at the scene
of the fire twenty minutes after receiving the
call.
“Why are we here again?” said the detective
lighting a smoke.
Kinkie frowned at him. “Fire chief Simpson
called the captain, the captain called me, and I
called you.”
Harry shook his head. “Jokes don't work for
me after I've been woken up from a dead sleep.”
“We got a lot of bodies.” She frowned and the
lines on her forehead looked like serious
creases. “C’mon, I want to show you something
you’re just going to love. Then we’re going to
have an extensive discussion.” Kinkie wasn’t
joking anymore. She was damn serious and
Harry didn’t like it when she was serious.
“That's been par for the course lately, hasn't
it?” He took a deep pull of the cigarette and
coughed. Then he dropped the smoke to the
ground and crushed it out with his shoe. Harry
followed Kinkie around the smoldering building
as the fire crew went through the debris
distinguishing possible restarts. When they
[191]
reached the back of the structure the incident
commander Naomi Stewart was waiting for
them next to a 10x16 utility shed. She seemed
lost in the fire gear she wore.
“Hope you know what’s going on here,
because we can’t make head or tail of this.”
Wearing heavy gloves Stewart pulled the utility
doors open. The metal scraping on metal made
Harry cringe. The noise didn’t seem to bother
his partner any. The inside was illuminated by a
floodlight aimed right at the inside.
“All the power has been cut but you should
be able to see everything clearly with our
floods,” said Stewart. “This is where we found a
body that wasn’t burnt. At first look, it appeared
the DB had choked to death on a mouthful of
Choco-Flav bars. But I think they were forced
down his throat. There are fingertip bruises all
over his neck.”
Harry raised his eyebrows.
“But the best thing of all is against that bench
attached to the back wall. It’s a large pickle jar
full of dead spiders.”
“Then there’s the thick cable that resembles
the one used to hang Andrea Gorman.” Kinkie
moved next to the detective with her arms
[192]
crossed. “Ring a bell, Harry?”
The detective remained silent.
“There’s also a box of electronics, listening
devices, that sort of thing. Something called a Q
Bug. No limit surveillance. I’ve seen some
before. They were tracking someone's
movements. There was some hand written logs
to go with that bug but they're too damaged in
the fire to make out what they said. I bagged
some fragments for the lab just in case.”
Harry still remained quiet but he figured he
knew who was being eavesdropped on. He
finally said, “Any other good news?”
Kinkie said, “The warehouse belongs to the
St. Cloud family, imagine that. It’s supposed to
be empty, not full of dead college students.
They’re pretty charred, though.”
“How do you know they are college
students?”
Kinkie crossed her arms. “A concerned
student recognized a classmate named Creeley
as Russell St. Cloud and called the police.
Looks like your cats out of the bag.” She looked
away from her partner as the bodies were being
removed. “Maybe he never left Danner Falls,
just stayed hidden. Some other students
[193]
reported their friends missing and something
about an Oracle, whatever the fuck that means.
Detectives Stiles and Ortega are sorting that one
out.” She let out a deep breath and glared at
Harry. “Now you want to tell me what the hell
is going on?”
Her partner shook his head. “Do I have a
choice?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“It's a gray area, Kinkie.” With shaking
hands, Harry lit another cigarette. Incident
commander Stewart frowned as she watched
him.
Harry turned to Kinkie, “I don’t suppose one
of those bodies belongs to St. Cloud?”
His partner didn’t bother to answer.
*
*
*
Before Ryan St. Cloud's premature death at
the hands of his son by a dead blow hammer
and a tub of venomous spiders, the man had
owned most of Danner Falls. Among his
property were the Danner Fall’s railroad station
and a short stretch of seven hundred feet of
[194]
track. When the fall of the railroad hit and St.
Cloud began using double semi-trailers trucks
instead, the property, now fenced in and
adorned with rusty barbed-wire, fell into
disarray.
There were three empty train cars inside the
fence. Two were unusable, but the third one, the
one Russell St. Cloud was in now, had been
altered for comfort. The entire 100 ton car
measured 67'-11" in length and 10'-8" in width.
Inside Russ had equipped the spacious car with
a heater, an army cot, an air mattress, a large
fan (all electricity was ran by a Yamaha
EF3000iS Inverter Generator), which gave him
nineteen hours of power at about 2800 watts. It
was perfect for his needs and relatively quiet.
After all, since killing that private snoop Wilder
and the Oracle disciple Len, he was sure the
police were looking for him.
Not Russell St. Cloud in particular but the
alter-ego he had created, Hamish Creeley.
Outside the car, about six feet away was a green
and off-white Texaco Steel Drum. Inside the
barrel was the body of the only person, other
than his grandparents who he had ever loved.
His beautiful Audrey. She’d been murdered by
[195]
that bastard Wilder during the kidnapping
exchange. Wilder was a close friend of Sara
Doyle's so whatever revenge Russ decided
should befall the murderer of his Audrey would
be automatically transferred to her.
She was the thorn in his life. She’d escaped
him once, thanks to his interfering father. She
wouldn’t escape him anymore. He had nothing
to lose now. With the death of his love, Russ
knew no boundaries. There would be no
moving to Astoria. There would be no 'they.'
There would only be him. He silently wished
his altered spiders were still alive. But there
were other ways to get even, to settle the score,
to end the torment Sara Doyle had dished out on
him the night of the Storm, the event that had
changed his life.
Russ slid the heavy door of the car open
without much exertion, though he did feel
drained emotionally. He jumped out to the
ground and slowly made his way to the barrel.
He slid off the top and stared at the naked body
of his dead lover. A wave of nausea and hatred
coursed through his body. Next to the drum
covered by a blue tarp were several plastic
containers of Hydrofluoric acid. Russ had
[196]
procured these from Adam Gunther, the same
man he’d purchased the altered spiders from
when he’d created the bathroom prison he kept
Sara in during the days he held her in captivity.
After paying Gunther off he’d actually
thought about killing him, since he didn't need
any witnesses to his purchase. He was glad he
didn't eliminate him since he was the only
person he could get his supplies from without
causing any attention. Russ shelled out the
money and Gunther came through, not asking
any questions. Not even looking surprised when
Russ showed up at the college unannounced. He
was supposed to be dead. Gunther also saw
right through Russ’ Creeley disguise.
Russ donned some cotton gloves and slowly
poured the liquid into the drum. He was careful
not to inhale the noxious fumes. He silently
wondered if he should have used sulfuric acid
instead like the serial killer from the 1940's
named John George Haigh. He kept pouring in
the containers until he’d emptied them all. From
what he learned, it would take at least two days,
maybe more, to make a pot of poozle out of
Audrey. Poozle was Mexican slang by drug
cartels to make a stew out of their victims.
[197]
Before he placed Audrey in the drum, he had
kissed her cold breasts and then ran his fingers
lightly over the curves of her body.
He said his goodbyes and it was now time to
destroy any evidence of her existence.
Whatever remained of the fleshy soup, bones
or teeth, he’d bury in a secluded place and let
nature take its course. As he slid the lid on
tightly, Russ pictured Sara's cold dead flesh
inside the drum instead of his true love. All in
good time, he told himself.
[198]
TWENTY-TWO
They sat in a back booth at Littlefield's
Restaurant. Harry hated the new laws where
you couldn't smoke in any public place. No
restaurants, casinos, bars. Bars made no sense.
You needed to smoke when you drank; at
least Harry did, especially when he had to talk
about shit he didn't want to talk about. When
Kinkie wanted answers, she hounded him as
bad as his second ex-wife. Right now, she
stared intently at him, her beady blue eyes
drilling holes of truth into his head.
Burrowing deep. Much too deep for seven
in the morning. He laid out the entire St. Cloud
murder investigation he’d been assigned to with
his then partner, Gray Wilder. Russell St. Cloud
slipped through the dragnet they had laid out for
him. He had seemed to have endless resources.
He was smart. He was a killer.
Kinkie sat back in the red vinyl seat and
drummed on the table with her neatly trimmed
fingernails. She finally said, “What aren't you
saying?”
Harry checked his watch, turned and looked
toward the entrance of the restaurant, turned
[199]
back and then checked his watch again.
“Are you expecting someone?”
Harry's face grew grim. “You wanted to
know more. In a few minutes you will,” he said.
They waited in silence. Kinkie thought
about leaving when a tall, well-dressed
businessman strolled in. His eyes searched the
occupants of the restaurant for a few minutes
then rested on Harry. When Harry locked eyes
with the man, all he did was nod.
The man moved to the booth where the
detectives sat and stood next to Kinkie.
Harry said, “Scoot over.”
Speechless, Kinkie did but wrinkled her
brow.
The female detective's eyes quickly
wandered over the man. He had a real presence
with his piercing blue-steel eyes, square jaw,
and stern face.
He wore an expensive suit, shoes, and
smelled of Serge Lutens’ Borneo 1834 Cologne
and she was sure it wasn't a knock off.
He smelled of money all right, plus power.
The man appeared to be much younger
than her partner, in his early to mid thirties she
guessed. Harry said, “Kinkie, this is Tommy
[200]
Branche.”
She nodded and he nodded back. “Well, this
is a real boy’s club.”
Tommy ignored her, and turned his
attention to Harry. “I confirmed that Russell St.
Cloud is back.”
“We knew that, deep down.” Harry's face
went grim.
“What's the damage?”
“So far he has killed Mrs. St. Cloud's
psychiatrist and his secretary. God knows who
else.”
Kinkie opened her mouth to object but Harry
held up an index finger and she snapped her
mouth shut.
Her partner continued, “I suspect he had
something to do with the unsolved Andrea
Gorman case as well.”
“You do? You didn’t mention that to me,”
said Kinkie. Her partner ignored her a second
time. To Tommy he continued, “We need to
catch this bastard before he disappears again. I
had a feeling he wasn’t dead since he pulled the
old abandoned car next to the river trick. A guy
like that never does us a favor and kills
himself.”
[201]
Tommy’s face grew grim. “There’s a bit of a
wrinkle. He’s obsessing over Sara Doyle
again.”
Kinkie quickly interjected, “Sara Doyle?
Who’s Sara Doyle?” She hastily flipped though
the report in her mind that Harry had given her.
The detective’s eye’s rose. “We could use her
as bait.”
Tommy frowned. “She’s a friend of mine.”
Harry said, “So.”
“She’s a good friend of mine.”
“It may be our only opportunity. He won’t
give up until he has finished what he’s started.”
“And what has he started?” Kinkie asked, but
no one was paying any attention to her.
“There’s something else, Harry. I hoped it had
remained private.”
“That is?”
“If he’s got the files he knows, or at least
suspects that one of the Doyle girls might be his
sister.”
“Excuse me?” Kinkie added.
“God, I hope not,” said the detective. “That
would be a game changer.”
Kinkie bellowed out, “For Christ’s sake will
someone at this table tell me what’s going on?”
[202]
Both men looked at each other, then at
Kinkie.
Tommy said, “You better order more coffee.”
[203]
TWENTY-THREE
Russ sat in the ragged lawn chair next to the
box car and stared at the now empty barrel that
once housed the remains of his Audrey. The sun
was nearly set but the young man felt no desire
to move from this spot. His mind played back
small scenarios of the good times he’d shared
with his dark-haired beauty. The sex, the
laughs, and the murders they shared. For Christ
sake, he thought, we’d even toyed with the idea
of creating a baby Russ. Not right away but
when they had fulfilled her dream of moving to
Astoria to start their new life. After Sara Doyle
was dead.
He had the money but it didn’t seem all that
important anymore. He was still gazing at the
rusted barrel when a shadow stepped into his
line of sight.
His Grandpapa stood there, what meat that
was left on his now brown streaked bones
hanging like small flags of flesh.
He was shaking his tattered head, the dried
skin flapping in the small breeze. “You should
have listened to me, boy. You should have
killed Sara Doyle. Look what she has done to
[204]
you now. Such a pity.” Grandpapa’s voice
sounded as if he was speaking through a mouth
of gravel.
Russ shrugged. He hadn’t seen his
Grandpapa since the night he’d made love to
Audrey in the midst of a room filled with dead
bodies. It all seemed so long ago now.
“I know. I know,” was all Russ managed to
say.
“Your Grandnana is dreadfully upset with you
too, boy.” The rotting corpse lifted a bony
finger and pointed to the far end of the boxcar.
Russ turned his head and saw the back of a
tattered dress that was once covered in small
blue and pink flowers.
He recognized it as Grandnana’s burial dress.
A few gray strands of hair clung to the bony
skull but that was all. The legs were but bonecolored sticks. There were no shoes on her feet.
She faced the metal wall of the boxcar but
didn’t move. Russ turned his attention to his
Grandpapa. He could feel the hot tears
streaming down his face, but he didn’t wipe
them away. “What do I do?” said Russ.
“You do what you should have done in the
first place, boy. You finish what you started.
[205]
Make Audrey, me, and your Grandnana proud
of you. You do this and make things right
again.” Grandnana let out a shriek. Grandpapa
tried to smile; at least Russ believed it was a
smile, so he smiled too.
Russ woke from his chair with a sudden jerk
and pushed himself to his feet so hard the lawn
chair tipped to the ground. After he was fully
awake he formulated a new strategy and it was
time to act.
Two hours later, dressed in a new disguise
with a long hair wig, a dark hoodie, and a pair
of well-worn Chinos, he sat fifty feet from Sara
Doyle’s apartment behind an overgrown Azalea
bush hidden from view. The darkness
enveloped him as well as he’d hoped and the
few passing vehicles from the adjoining strip of
road were only lit with a few overly spaced
sodium street lamps.
He watched nervously as two different patrol
cars passed during his vigil, and he wasn’t sure
if they were on the lookout for him or not but
they moved on past without stopping to
investigate what might be hiding in the
shadows. He slipped on the headphones to the
pocket listening device and switched it on.
[206]
Nothing but dead air. There was obviously no
one home. He decided to bide his time and wait
it out a bit longer.
After a few more hours passed, Russ’ legs
were getting stiff and cramping up. He thought
he’d take a break from his stakeout and make an
unscheduled stop that he’d been planning since
reading Doctor Quack’s files he had liberated.
Interesting reading that, he mused.
Walking the half a block to a newly acquired
gray Toyota sedan, he hopped in and headed to
the St. Cloud estate. Soon as he was done with
the encounter, he’d drop the new sedan off
somewhere. No sense driving a stolen car
around if he decided to kill the bitch, he
thought.
*
*
*
“Hello Mother.”
Russ had slipped in through a garage
entrance he knew had always been kept
unlocked after scaling the small wall that was
adorned on the inside by his mother’s prized
[207]
roses. The only sound he could hear was his
heavy breathing and a multitude of crickets
chirping noisily. The only smell that invaded
his nostrils was that of his mother’s flowers.
He had slowly maneuvered to the garage that
now appeared empty of two classic cars his
father had panted heavily over. He fearlessly
flipped on the light knowing the main road
couldn’t see the illumination.
A few dim lights lighted his path inside the
house. His mother was standing by the large
picture window overlooking a second garden
area that was lit liberally all night. She seemed
to be in a trance. She didn’t seem startled at all
by the sudden sound of his voice.
“Why are you here?” she asked him calmly
still keeping her back turned to him.
“I got homesick and I missed you.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” she said,
finally turning to face him. Her eyebrows rose
when she saw his disguise. “Cute, Russell.”
“Did you get my message a few weeks ago?”
She nodded. “Loud and clear.”
“I knew you would.”
“Who was she?”
Russ shrugged keeping his distance from his
[208]
mother. “A friend of a friend.”
“I didn’t know you had any friends.”
“You’d be surprised.” His mind immediately
pictured his dead Audrey but he pushed the
image away. “You still have the picture?”
“Of course.”
“Can I see it?”
“Why?”
“Just because.”
She wrung her hands together, and moved
several steps away to an expensive chest of
drawers fashioned from strong oak and
obviously an antique, opened a drawer, and
pulled out an eight by eleven piece of
newsprint.
She held the drawing up to where he could
see it. It was a child’s crude drawing in crayon
of a girl in a floral dress hanging from a thin
rope or wire, she could never tell.
A pair of shoes lay on the ground several
feet under the hanging girl. A yellow circle for a
sun and a few black specks pretending to be
birds flying overhead finished the picture.
It was signed RUSS in red crayon.
“It’s just as it was when you drew it the night
of the storm, when the police brought you home
[209]
naked.” Her voice quivered and Russ liked that.
“What does it mean, Russell? That you’re back
in town? I figured you’d never really left. Or
that you’re here to kill me.” She turned slowly
and returned the picture to the drawer, then
moved back to the window facing him.
“You’re not in any danger, Mother. I’m here
to find out more about my half sister.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do.” His mother stiffened as he
moved toward her. When he was close enough
he reached out and ran two fingers over her
trembling lips.
“My half sister, like you told Doctor Quack.
You neglected to give names. I need names, and
addresses too if you have them.”
“I …I …”
“Mother, don’t tease me. You know how I can
get.” He went to touch her face again and she
slapped it away.
“You killed your father. Brutally murdered
him, you little prick.”
Russ’ lips curled into a snarl and he shook a
finger at her. “You didn’t love him anyway, you
bitch. Just his money and this house. Just the
notoriety.”
[210]
“T-That’s not true. I’m not telling you
anything. Get out of my house, you monster.”
“A monster? Really Mother, who are you
really blaming? You made me.”
“I wish that I hadn’t,” she whispered.
“That may be, but what’s done is done. Now
tell me what I want to know,” he said as he
moved in closer.
[211]
TWENTY-FOUR
The emotional cat-and-mouse game Russ
had played with his mother had left him
physically drained. He’d learned so much but
wasn't ready to think about the mind-blowing
truth he’d forced his mother to tell him. At one
point he actually felt like killing her, but that
moment passed when he realized that would
only complicate the plans he was now
formulating to end this feud with Sara Doyle.
Now, sitting in his converted boxcar he and
Audrey had created as part of their mental game
with the naive college students, it seemed so
empty and gray without his Audrey.
On the way home from his mother's gaudy
mansion of closets with oak doors and fine
furniture, void of any soul, Russ' mind raced
with all the plans he and his love had made.
Sure, they were mostly her plans but he was
in so deep he felt he had no choice but to please
her. It was a feeling as alien to him as a warm
hug. Russ knew he had a dark-side, and
embraced that side so much it immersed him in
negative, violent feelings most of the time.
Until he met Audrey that night at a party, his
[212]
parents forced him to attend. He envisioned the
first time he saw her and the feelings of desire
that swept over him. So, after the tete-a-tete
with his mother Russ pulled into the Nightshade
Tattoo Parlor.
For a brief moment as he pulled the rig into
the parking space, Audrey was in the passenger
seat next to him, wringing her hands together in
excitement, her thin frame shaking with
anticipation. Russ reached out to touch her
smooth dark face but she was gone; his
fingertips touched nothing but air. They had
decided on a pair of tattoos. She had decided
they would sport tattoos that would match their
lives. It was something she had said, probably
as a joke, but the joke stuck home. There hadn't
been time to get the tattoos. Audrey had been
shot and killed. Murdered by that bastard Gray
Wilder. That friend of Sara's who stuck his nose
in during the ransom drop. A stray bullet
traveling through the back window of the van,
through the imitation leather passenger side
seats and drilling a fatal hole into the back of
his Audrey's head.
The inside of the tattoo parlor wasn't
anything Russ had envisioned it would be. He
[213]
saw a biker type clad in leather with tattoos on
his face and his bare chest showing more
prison-like tattoos, in a pot-smoke filled
environment.
The Nightshade was clean, spacious, and
designed in stark black and whites. Almost as
antiseptic as a hospital room. The countertops
were all smudge-free glass with shiny metal
frames. The aroma of incense clung to him
when he pushed through the door leaving the
sunshine behind. A willowy teen stood watch
over the register and gave Russ a plastic smile
when he approached her. She wore all black
(which vaguely reminded him of Audrey's dark
moods attire), but her face was too long for her
short purple hair that hung down around her
ears. On one lobe, a gold chair dangled
helplessly and she had a stud in the middle of a
pale cheek. Russ wondered what it meant but it
wasn't worth his time to dwell on it for too long.
He quickly told her what he wanted and she
slipped from behind the counter and
disappeared behind a gray curtain. A few
moments later she returned and pulled the
curtain back, motioning for him to enter. All
this without saying a word.
[214]
The room Russ entered was small and
sterile with pictures on the wall of celebrities
standing next to a middle-aged woman. The
same middle-aged woman that sat on a small
stool next to a designer chair with a headrest
that looked similar to a barber’s chair.
“Hello, I'm Connie,” said the woman, her
voice harsh and monotone. There was the tattoo
of a green vine up the side of her neck and
disappearing behind her platinum gray hair. She
had a row of gold and silver stud piercings on
each ear. And she wore light blue baggy shirt
and clothes.
She grinned at him pleasantly as she slipped
into a pair of blue plastic gloves. “This your
first time here, honey?”
Russ nodded and told her his name was
Daniel. He believed he could have told her his
name was Dumbass and she wouldn't have
given a rat’s ass. Before he slipped into the
chair, he reached into his back pocket and
unfolded a half sheet of drawing paper.
Audrey had sketched out her idea of the
tattoos they would share. The drawing was
crude at best but a professional tattoo artist
shouldn’t have trouble making the basic idea
[215]
look like a Van Gogh, Russ thought to himself.
It was the picture of a split heart with a dagger
piercing through each half. But that was for
them together. Matching tattoos to show their
love. He decided that idea was dead. He’d do
something different. He stuffed the picture back
into his pocket.
“I need a tattoo” was all he could manage to
say.
“Well, I didn't think you were here for a
massage, Sweetie.”
Russ' face flushed. “All I want is a name. No
cartoons or stuff like that,” he said, a bit too
harshly.
“What's her name?”
“How did you know it was a her?”
“I've been in this business for ten years. But
I have to tell you, most young men who get a
young woman's name tattooed on them come
back a few weeks later and either want it
removed or covered over.”
“I won't be like that. She's dead. I never want
to forget her.” He lowered his eyes. “Ever.”
The woman's face softened. “I'm sorry,
sweetie. Let's see what we can come up with.”
Russ hesitated for a moment. “How much?”
[216]
It was her turn to hesitate. She looked him
straight in the eyes and he wondered what she
expected to see in there. “I usually charge a
hundred twenty five to a hundred fifty, but for
you sixty-five.”
He nodded numbly.
She smiled and picked up a small book of
artistic fonts. “Look through this and tell me
what kind of type strikes your eye.”
The entire procedure took less than an hour
and Russ was pleased with the finished product.
He felt little pain as she drilled the ink in the
soft flesh between his wrist and elbow. Not like
the pain the night of the Storm or the pain when
he tilted Audrey's head back, and saw her dead
eyes staring back at him. That was an inner pain
on a larger scale. As he was leaving, the counter
girl gave him a small brochure on how to take
care of his new tattoo.
Something about putting Eucerin on the
healing flesh and not to pick at the scab. Russ
didn't want to press his luck by making too
many stops in the Mercedes he had acquired
from Jon Montgomery. If they did stop him that
would be bad. He wasn't prepared to kill anyone
right now, especially a cop. Not in his
[217]
weakened emotional state.
The drive home was uneventful and he took
the usual gravel road to the back of the
abandoned train car graveyard. Once through,
he locked the fence and drove to his converted
train car. He sat in the silence of the car
surrounded by the smells of Audrey that still
haunted the corners of the spacious room. Dusk
was setting in and he flipped the switch on the
strand of red and yellow patterned Japanese
lanterns that dangled overhead, which Odd had
picked up because someday she wanted to
travel to an exotic country.
Her clothes were scattered on the floor by
the airbed. He stared at the crate used as a
dresser with her brushes, makeup scattered over
the top of the stained wood. Every so often,
he’d find a single strand of black hair clinging
to his clothes but he wouldn't touch it. And he
could still smell her scent as if she was in the
room with him, even with the cars’ sliding
doors wide open and the breeze blowing in.
Clutching a bottle of half empty whiskey, he
sat in the bean bag chair and stared at the new
artwork on the inside of his wrist. Audrey had
once said as a joke, “These college kids are like
[218]
our den of spiders.”
She was referring to the collection of altered
spiders he’d once acquired to torture Sara Doyle
within his specially designed bathroom-prison.
Then surprisingly, she leaned forward and near
his ear, her soft lips touching his lobe, and the
sweet smell of her perfume invading his senses
she whispered, “Someday we'll have a den of
spiders of our own.”
That would never happen now.
There would be no children.
No den of spiders.
He stared down at his forearm. He gazed
deeply at the simplistic tattoo of a grey spider’s
web and the black spider that sat in one corner.
He had gotten that tattoo nearly a year ago as
his trademark. Underneath the web he had
Connie the Tattoo lady add AUDREY, in script.
The spider resembled his Recluses, except for
the face it was pure black. It sat in the corner
waiting for its next meal.
Russ mentally pictured Sara Doyle stuck
fast in the middle of the web naked and
struggling helplessly to free herself, and the
spider creeping toward his satisfying meal. A
smile on the dark face of the air-breathing
[219]
arthropod.
He flipped off the cap on the bottle of liquor,
letting it fall somewhere to the wooden floor
under a pile of discarded newspapers and took a
swig. He felt it as it burned down his dry throat.
Then he poured a good amount onto the tattoo
and welcomed the burning pain.
When he killed Sara Doyle he’d make sure the
tat was one of the last things she saw as she
died. And he’d tell her the biggest secret the
world had kept from her, as he squeezed the
fucking life out of her.
[220]
TWENTY-FIVE
Sara knew she was being followed so she
fastened her pace. Her heart raced more and
more as she became closer to the bookstore. It
was in sight but she wondered if she’d reach it
in time before the stranger following her would
nab her. She looked behind her with every few
steps and he was still following her, dodging
behind cars, behind a lamp post, and even trying
to throw her off by crossing the street
occasionally.
As she grew closer to the book store, fifty
feet, forty-five, forty, her heart felt as if it was
going to pound out of her chest. A full panic
attack had now set in as she reached for the
doors of the store, and then her fingertips
touched the door just as she felt a hand on her
right shoulder. She jumped around quickly,
hands wailing, and she threw an elbow at the
assailant.
“You sick fuck. You’re not going to take me
again,” she cried out.
Her adrenaline now full blown pumping, she
thrashed her hands about trying to punch the
dark figure as he tried to fight back.
[221]
The dark figure said, “Sara, it's me. It's me!”
It took a minute for it to register in her brain,
but suddenly she realized the dark figure wasn’t
trying to hurt her but rather restrain her from
beating the shit out of him. The familiar voice
was soothing.
She stopped flailing and the figure said,
“Sara, it's me, Tommy.” As she froze, he slowly
released her arms he had imprisoned to keep
from getting his face beat to shit. Besides, his
face was too beautiful to damage.
Tommy pulled his hoodie off to reveal his
face and Sara melted like butter on hot bread.
That wasn’t the only thing that was getting hot.
Sara’s attraction for Tommy had always been
too much to handle. She swore that if they ever
slept together it would be the most mind
blowing experience of her life and it often
scared her.
“We need to get in the store, quickly because
we’re being watched,” he said. Tommy held the
door for her and they both walked into the book
store and she felt safe again. “Let's find
someplace we can sit down and talk.”
They strolled to the small coffee shop that
was inside the bookstore and sat in the corner,
[222]
out of sight from most of the store. Tommy sat
facing the front door, because he still seemed
uneasy about something. The door was about a
hundred feet away, which was far enough but
too close if someone like Russ St. Cloud came
bursting in.
They sat down and Tommy reached across
the table and grabbed Sara’s hands gently. His
touch was warm and soothing, which made her
flushed as she realized she had tingling going
on in her panties again.
“I’ve been following you,” he said.
“What?” Sara was stunned to hear that he
was following her. This confused her because
she was certain it was that son of a bitch, St
Cloud. Now her mind was racing. Could
Tommy, sweet, luscious, forbidden love,
Tommy be the one behind the strange
occurrences? Behind the spiders in all of those
trinkets? Sara’s mind continued to race as she
stammered, “W-what are you talking about?”
Tommy took a deep breath and started
talking. “I’ve been following you to protect
you. It’s like this. Ryan St. Cloud paid me to
stay close enough to you that I could keep an
eye on you.”
[223]
Stunned at what she’d just heard, Sara
pulled her hands away from Tommy’s hold.
“I was there at the company picnic – the day
you were pushed into the pit by that chubby
bastard, Russ St. Cloud. It was my sophomore
year in High School and my girlfriend had just
dumped me because she wanted to date a
college guy. I took a walk to clear my head and
stopped when I saw you pushed into that awful
pit. I was standing about 100 feet away – I’d
just cleared the orchard in Claymont Park that
separated the park and the cemetery when I saw
what happened.
He hesitated for a moment finding the right
words to say. “I ran to the pit, got down on my
belly at the edge, and by hanging my upper
body over the hole, I was able to grab you and
pull you out. As I swept all of the spiders from
your body, the other boys stood there stunned. I
yelled at them to go and get help and they ran
back to the picnic, except for that St. Cloud
fuck. He stood there staring at us as I carried
you back to your parents. You passed out from
the trauma of all of the spiders crawling all over
you so I imagine you never remembered much
of that incident.”
[224]
He took a deep breath before continuing.
“From that day on, I vowed I’d watch over
you. And that sometimes meant I’d do things
for you behind the scenes.
“Like?” Sara asked.
“Like when you went into foster care, I was
working at the county courthouse as an intern
for one of the local law offices. I used this
‘opportunity’ to move you from foster home to
foster home to keep you safe.”
Sara’s face suddenly seemed puzzled but
annoyed at the same time. She cocked her head
like a dog hearing a siren from miles away,
because what she heard didn’t make sense.
Moving from foster home to foster home had
sucked because she felt tossed around like an
old shoe. “How was that helping me?”
Tommy took a big pause, and then sighed.
“Remember your first foster home? The
Bronson’s?”
“Yeah, I really liked those people and their
kids. I felt very at home and safe with them.”
Tommy took another long pause to choose his
words carefully. “They seemed to be a very
normal, loving family on the outside, but
Bronson was being investigated for child
[225]
pornography. His online browsing was being
monitored. This all started after you were
placed in the home, so before there was a big
bust, I ‘altered’ some documents at the
courthouse and had you placed with another
family.” Sara’s eyes grew bigger and bigger as
he talked, but at the same time her mouth
opened as in disbelief.
While she was still trying to process what
she’d just heard, he sighed again before letting
the floodgates open. “Then there was that time
when you were working at the diner. The owner
hired his niece, Shannon, because she was
desperate for a job but it meant cutting your
hours in half. I knew you couldn’t survive on
part-time work so I had my dad offer Shannon’s
husband a job in Medford so they would move
and you could have your hours back.”
He kept talking. “And when you bought your
first car. The guy at first wouldn’t budge on his
price, but you had your heart set on it. Did you
ever wonder why he changed his mind? I
greased his palm with $1000 bucks, closing the
deal for you. I could go on and on with more
examples.”
Trying to process what she’d just heard and
[226]
feeling mind-fucked, she slinked to the floor,
landing somewhat hard on her ass. A single tear
slowly worked its way down her left cheek.
The irony of all of this had Sara completely
baffled. She immediately felt drawn to a man
she’d just met – her heart connected somehow.
Coincidentally, the same man that had been
looking out for her as if he was controlling
everything in her life, manipulating situations
so she wouldn’t struggle. Sara looked up with a
stoic look on her face. Staring into his eyes, her
heart could not be any more drawn to Tommy.
Like a guardian angel sent from the heavens
above; a once in a lifetime love.
Tommy walked over to Sara and held out
his hand. She placed her hand in his and he
pulled her off the floor and into his arms. She
felt safe there. In their long embrace, Tommy
whispered, “Trust me Sara Doyle.”
She felt betrayed by the man who she
believed owned her soul; the man who she
wanted to pour her deepest, darkest secrets to
and he had just shot an arrow through her heart.
Her eyes swelled with tears as she realized that
all of the flirting he did was an act. She felt
embarrassed for acting like such a slut, and
[227]
dirty for having sexual feelings for Tommy.
“Please Sara, let me explain more.” Just as he
finished the last word in his sentence, Sara’s
hand met the side of his face. The slap even
shocked her. She had never slapped anyone
before. She had envisioned slapping but not like
this. It was more like her getting slapped by him
in the throes of passion as he slapped her ass.
The anger began to build within her as she
cocked her arm again to deliver a second blow;
Tommy grabbed one arm around her wrist, then
another.
“Please, Sara. I need to explain. Please!” he
urged. Sara’s tears had begun to flow down
both cheeks. Her arms started to flail and
struggle, but she was unable to break loose from
Tommy's grip. The next thing that happened
stunned her.
He pulled her forcefully to him and kissed
her. Resisting for a moment, Sara realized what
was happening, and as she’d daydreamed and
written in her journal many times, she stopped
resisting. He released her arms that had now
stopped resisting his advances, and she wrapped
her arms around him as he did his.
They intensely locked lips, passionately
[228]
moving back and forth in a sloppy motion. His
hands slid across her back, up and down, then
down to her ass. Her hands wandered equally as
much.
Would she now get what she had been
awaiting for so long? The chub in his pants was
growing with each second that passed.
Tommy realized he needed to slow this ride
down or else they might end up on the floor
banging each other in the middle of the coffee
shop!
He pulled his lips away from her even
though he wanted to take her right there and
give her the full force of his manhood. He knew
they needed to go somewhere else that was safe.
“We need to get out of here because I think
we’re being followed by Russell St. Cloud.”
The statement hit her in the face like a club.
Sara stopped kissing him as the pain returned to
her chest. Panic? Fear? Shit, shit, and shit, she
thought.
“Is there another way out of this place?”
Tommy asked.
Sara had spent many years frequenting this
bookstore so she knew every nook and cranny
of the place. Shit, she even knew how many
[229]
holes were in each ceiling tile in the ladies
room.
“Yes, the delivery dock. This way.” Sara took
his hand
[230]
TWENTY-SIX
Tommy lived in a huge house by a lake that
was probably worth a million dollars or so.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll get
us something to drink.”
Sara liked the sound of that! As he went to
get the wine, she wandered slowly through the
house looking at all of the expensive art on the
walls. The floors were made from travertine that
had been flown in from Italy, and the walls
were hand sculpted stucco like one might see in
a Tuscany Villa.
There were vases from Europe, rugs from
the Middle East. Shit, the man had more money
that she’d ever experienced! This was a castle
she’d only dreamt of living in.
Tommy returned with two glasses of red
wine. He handed her one of them and held his
hand out for her to take. Their eyes met and
Sara felt that trance she’d felt a few years
before.
All her feelings for Tommy started flooding
back. Fixated on his gorgeous blue eyes, she
gave him her hand. Tommy kissed the back of
her hand ever so gently. He then led her down
[231]
the hall and into the bedroom. Gulping rather
than sipping her wine, Sara had almost finished
the entire glass once they reached the room.
“Thirsty?” Tommy asked while giving her a
sultry stare. The question is, for what? Sara
thought.
“Dry as dust,” she coyly replied.
He took her glass and set both glasses on the
dresser near the window. His fingertips caressed
her cheek as she closed her eyes as if to take it
all in.
His hand slipped down her cheek to her
jacket. He unzipped her jacket slowly and
pushed the front of it open and up, and over her
shoulders until it ended up on the floor. Their
eyes stayed locked – her green eyes peering into
his sea of blues. His hands returned to her as
they started with her shoulders, sliding slowly
down the front of her chest, over her breasts,
just missing the nipples. Sara could feel her
nipples getting hard and tingly as the tingling in
her pants started to intensify. He stopped at the
bottom of her blouse, grabbed the edges, and
pulled it over her head to reveal her pink bra.
Chills blanketed her entire body.
His eyes left hers for a moment, just long
[232]
enough to position his hands on her jeans.
He slowly unbuttoned, unzipped, and slipped
them down to her ankles. Tommy held her hand
for balance as Sara stepped out of her jeans.
One foot, then another. He quickly took off his
shirt and flung it over his head and across the
room, then he scooped her up and laid her on
the bed. With the grace of a lion, he climbed on
top of her until his lips met hers. Mashing their
lips together, Sara reached down to unbutton his
pants and felt his erection pressing hard against
his jeans.
Determined to free his erect shaft, she
unbuttoned his pants and Tommy slipped them
off. Then his boxers. Sara rolled him over into
the submissive position of being on the bottom
and sat on top of him as if riding a horse, and
she reached behind her with the skill of one
hand and unbuttoned her bra revealing her
perky breasts.
Tommy caressed her breasts as she stared
deep into his eyes. A few moments passed and
Sara leaned down to kiss Tommy, once again
their lips mashing together passionately. He
flipped her over, resuming the dominant
position and slowly slid her pink panties down
[233]
her legs. He lay to the side of her so he could
take it all in.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
Every curve of her body seemed so intriguing to
him that he touched her chest, sliding his warm
fingers over her breasts, giving each nipple a
tease, and down her abdomen to the edge of her
passion.
As Tommy and Sara intertwined as one, she
hit her peak multiple times, which went on for
what seemed like hours – just as she’d written
in her diary many times.
Toe curling at its best.
Sara slowly awoke to a gentle light coming
through the blinds. It was barely dawn, but she
could hear the birds chirping outside. She lay in
Tommy's arms, in the spooning position, feeling
warm, happy, and safe. Her feelings quickly
vanished from the previous night’s passionate
escapade to the guilt of what she had just done.
Tommy was married and now she’d committed
the ultimate sin of coming between a husband
and wife.
It didn't matter how unhappy Tommy was, he
was still married and a pussy for staying in an
unhappy situation. Now she felt like a whore, or
[234]
a mistress. It wasn't long ago that being a
mistress wasn't such a bad thing.
Hundreds of years ago, Kings and Rulers had
mistresses, which was a honor and usually
meant the difference between being a starving
peasant or a slave. Sara’s guilt raged on and
soon she found her heart enveloped in pain.
Slowly, she moved his arm from her abdomen
and slinked away from the bed.
She thought a shower would be a good idea,
so she ran the water extra hot and walked into
the glass shower. The water was hot, almost
scalding, and it poured over her head and down
her body. It felt good despite the heat. She
lowered her head, staring at the floor of the
shower and the tears began to fall.
She suddenly felt dirty and wanted to wash
the filth off of her body; the filth of sleeping
with a married man. Pressing one hand against
the wall to support her body, she sobbed harder
and louder. The release felt so freeing to her
that she thought perhaps this wasn't only about
Tommy, but everything she had bottled up for
God knows how long.
Tommy touched her shoulder. He must have
heard her crying because when he joined her in
[235]
the shower, he kissed her forehead ever so
gently and scooped her into his arms. She
sobbed and sobbed to the point where they were
both prune-skinned. As he cradled her head
under his chin he whispered, “The passion is in
the risk.” After taking turns washing each
other’s backs, they got out of the shower.
Tommy handed her a towel and Sara started
drying off. Tommy dried himself keeping his
eyes on her for the entire time.
“Let me look at you.” he said. She had
finished drying and let the towel fall to the
floor, staring at the floor because she couldn’t
bring herself to look at him. She felt ashamed.
He lifted her chin until their eyes met.
“There’s those green eyes. What’s wrong? Tell
me.”
Her mind was reeling because she knew she
had to tell him what was bothering her but
where to start? She retrieved the towel to cover
herself, suddenly feeling dirty and ashamed
again.
“You’re married,” she said softly as tears
trickled down her cheeks. He knew what she
meant by this and once again pulled her close
and tucked her head under his chin .
[236]
He said, “My wife is in Hawaii with her
mother. We’ve been having problems and it's
no secret that we’re both unhappy. We’re
divorcing and the reason she is in Hawaii is for
both of us to have time to clear our heads. We
don’t want this to be an ugly divorce. We just
want to be happy apart.” As he put on his
boxers, he explained that he hoped he didn't
have to sell the house if she was willing to keep
the house in Hawaii as an exchange, but that
he’d divide up his retirement and sell some of
his car collection. He didn’t care about any of
that. What mattered to him most of all was
being happy. Money couldn't buy happiness.
Sara felt relieved, but at the same time,
scared. She had got what she wanted, to sleep
with Tommy, but now it was getting real.
Loving someone at a distance was different than
the current moment. It scared her to love
someone so much, because loving someone also
meant losing them some day. She had lost so
many people in her life that she didn't want to
experience it again. Being tossed around from
foster home to foster home, she had never felt
loved.
Before she could process the situation
[237]
further, he took the towel from her hands and
dropped it to the floor revealing her naked body
once again. Only wearing his boxers, he
scooped her up and walked into the shower
before he placed her feet on the ground.
Tommy started to kiss her as he reached down
and turned the water on once again. He pulled
off his boxers revealing his protruding cock. As
he kissed her intensively, he backed her against
the wall then picked her up into his arms with
both of his hands full of her ass. As he gave her
passion once more, her thighs and buttocks
slapped against his thighs in perfect sound and
unison. That sound of bodies slapping was
erotic and made Sara catapult to another level
quickly beginning her series of pleasureful
finality.
Slap, slap, slap!
He sped up his rhythm then she went limp in
his arms as she experienced the climax of
pleasure. As her body became somewhat rigid
again, she wrapped her arms around him and
felt safe in Tommy's arms.
[238]
TWENTY-SEVEN
Tommy's condo was comfortable and
private. Kinkie squirmed nervously in the huge
leather chair that seemed to envelope her entire
small frame. She felt privileged and disturbed
by being invited to this men's club, if you could
call it that.
Her and her partner were about to call it a
night when Harry received a call. After a few
minutes, he hung up, came over to her desk, and
whispered in her ear, “Come with me, and don't
ask questions. It's a matter of life and death.”
Kinkie was surprised when the door of the
condo opened and their host was none other
than Tommy Branche. She absentmindedly
pushed a strand of hair from her eyes, licked her
lips, and glanced around the room at the
expensive paintings, small statues, and
extensive bookcase that had been stuffed with
various sized leather bound books. Her curiosity
begged her to read some of the titles to see what
books this man read. If he read the books at all,
she thought. They may have been just a status
symbol. Plus, the place didn’t appear to be lived
in. It looked more like an out of the way
[239]
meeting place. She entertained the idea of
slipping into the bathroom to rummage through
his medicine cabinet. You could tell a lot about
a person by the contents of their medicine chest.
Tommy led them into the next room. Kinkie
noticed he was limping slightly.
“What’s wrong with his leg,” she whispered to
her partner just before taking a seat.
He gave her a broad smile. “He’s a college
football hero. He made the Danner Falls record
books for the numerous touchdowns per game.
Unfortunately, he was injured. Once in awhile
his bum leg acts up. Try not to mention it. He’s
sensitive about that.” He gave her a wink.
Kinkie nodded and returned her attention to
scanning the room with all its luxuries. Leaning
against a corner wet bar, Tommy Branche
interrupted her concentration. He began to
speak in low tones. Kinkie realized she could
listen to him talk all day.
“There have been developments,” he said.
“Not good ones, but they do give us a heads up
on where Russell St. Cloud is and what he has
been up to.”
Not thinking, Harry fished a pack of smokes
from his pocket, but Tommy cleared his throat
[240]
before he could pop a single one between his
lips.
Harry sadly returned the cigarette to the pack
and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. “Gray
Wilder is dead.” The man remained quiet for a
minute, his lips pressed together tightly until the
emotion passed. “Local uniformed police found
his burnt remains in the secluded Claymont
Drive area less than an hour ago. I had them
suppress the information until I could fill you
two in on what we're looking at. To get a clearer
picture, so to speak, of what we can do to stop
this maniac.”
Kinkie could have fallen off her chair if it
had been physically possible. This man had so
much power he was able to receive sensitive
information on a crime before the homicide
detective had been notified. Her idea of the
command structure of Danner Falls seemed to
be changing before her eyes.
Harry shook his head. “Damn. Fucking
damn. I told him to be careful but I had no idea .
. .” His voice trailed off as if he ran out of
steam. “Was it St. Cloud?”
Tommy nodded solemnly. “I've had a few
men on this for a while. They picked up his trail
[241]
a few times, but lost him again. Every time he
zeroed in on Sara Doyle, we'd catch a break. He
looks much different now.”
Kinkie held her hand up as if she was in
school and immediately regretted it. “Why are
you telling us this? I guess I'm not getting the
point.”
Tommy smiled. “You will, Detective
Kinkaid. Everything you’re working on right
now is connected to Russell St. Cloud.”
Kinkie pushed herself to the edge of the
leather chair with much effort. “Can you be
more specific? We work a lot of cases.”
“Okay. That's fair.” He slapped his hands
together and jammed them into his pants
pockets. “The Andrea Gorman case. The attacks
against Sara Doyle, in which I take a personal
interest. The fire at the warehouse. The
kidnapping of Jon Montgomery.”
Kinkie bolted from the chair. “What
kidnapping?”
“Please sit down, Detective Kinkaid, and I’ll
explain.”
“I prefer to stand, thank you. Harry, what the
hell is going on here?”
Harry hung his head. “Sit down, Kinkie.
[242]
Please. Trust me, and you'll know everything
we know.”
The female detective sat down, but this time
moving to a hardback chair, which appeared to
be a Chippendale. She sat but didn't like it one
bit. The room suddenly seemed too warm, too
quiet.
Tommy said, “Thank you. As I was saying,
after the kidnappers notified the Montgomery’s
of their demands a ransom was to be paid and
delivered by Gray Wilder. He was brutally
murdered during the exchange. Another body
was discovered as well; a young Asian student.”
Harry slowly rose from his chair. “I need a
drink, Tommy. This is some fucked up shit. I
had no idea how far this asshole would go.”
Kinkie squirmed in her chair. “This is stuff I
already know. Tell me something new.”
Harry said, “We have confirmed Hamish
Creeley is Russell St. Cloud, one of the many
pseudonyms I believe he has created.”
Harry moved to the bar and clanked some
glasses and bottles around. Though he kept his
back to her, Kinkie saw him down two shots of
something strong. He shook his head and turned
to his friend. “That’s better. Please continue.”
[243]
Tommy gave his friend a nod. “My sources
believe St. Cloud had returned to Danner Falls
with a specific agenda in mind. A meticulous
plan to get more money for his drained account
and to finish exacting revenge on Sara Doyle.”
Kinkie scoffed a bit too loudly and rose from
her seat. “Okay. Okay. I know you have your
sources, as you call them, but how do you know
if any of this bullshit is correct? I find it hard to
believe some psycho would create a plan just to
get revenge
on . . .”
Tommy took a step forward and the
detective's mouth snapped shut. “If you’d shut
up long enough to hear what I, we, discovered
about his plan you’d see the kind of person
we’re dealing with. He’s extremely dangerous.
He doesn't care who he kills. I sometimes
believe he doesn't have a true reason for killing
any of them. Can you at least give me that,
Detective Kinkaid? Kinkie?”
“Sure, okay.” She licked her dry lips. “So
why do you need me to know all of this in the
first place? I don't agree with any of it. This
boy's club of yours is keeping vital information
from an ongoing criminal investigation. I could
[244]
have you all arrested.” Kinkie felt her face
flush.
Harry stifled a laugh and Kinkie shot him a
murderous glance. Tommy held his hand up.
“We need your help. I need your help. There’s a
part you have to play. The part of Russell St.
Cloud's girlfriend.”
Kinkie dropped her butt into the chair.
“Girlfriend?”
[245]
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sixty-four year old Dana Smith worked for
the Danner Falls Rail Company for over forty
years. He was a strapping young man when he
started and strongly determined, but not so
much anymore. Not at his age. Overweight, and
out of breath most of the time, his varicose
veins made his feet swell when he was on them
too long. Because of his long service with the
company of Branche, St. Cloud and Field
Enterprises, he got a cushy job as a night
watchman for Track 74.
The job was fine with him. His Glenda had
passed away two years before so all he had in
his life was his dog, Toby. He and Glenda never
had children and that was fine, too. Many of his
elderly friends succumbed to the whims of their
children and ended up in an old foggy home. He
was self-reliant and self-sufficient. You didn't
get to work for a company like Branche
enterprises anymore. People these days jumped
from job to job. There was no loyalty by
employees or employers. That was a thing of
the past.
He slowly made his way across the gravel pit
[246]
to the end of the Track 74 fence. The loose
pebbles crunched under his feet as he walked
the line. His flashlight beam dotted among the
wooded and tall grass making the shadows
dance as he moved. The company didn't care
about the system anymore because they hadn’t
updated to the newer computer watch clock
systems now available. Dana didn't care about
that rigmarole either. He was fine with the old
system and he wasn't too excited about change.
Not at his age.
He made it to the key that was mounted on a
twenty-foot utility pole. He fumbled for the
clock around his neck then froze. There was a
smell in the air, an acrid sickly sweet odor.
Dana noted that smell before. It was the smell
of dead things. But there was another scent in
the mix. A burnt smell of flesh, like he’d
smelled in the war. He wasn't entirely sure if
what he was smelling was real or not. He’d
heard on the television that heart stroke victims
had detected weird odors before they keeled to
the ground.
“Oh shit liver,” Dana said to the darkness.
“You're scarin' yourself, old man.”
There was a movement behind him. Then a
[247]
hand slapped him on the shoulder. He dropped
the watch clock.
Bob Farley stood behind him. “You okay,
Dana? Heard ya talking to yourself just now.”
The scrawny flesh and bone Farley was the
primary guard at the watch station.
“Christ almighty, Bob, you scared the shit
outta me. Damn near had a coronary right here
and now.”
“Sorry, but I heard something at the other end
of the South perimeter track.”
“That ain't used no more and you know it. It
belongs to widow St. Cloud now.”
Bob scratched under his blue sweat-stained
guard hat. “That's what I'm trying to tell you.
There's some guy living in a boxcar. Dancing
with himself. Come look.”
That was the first and only time Dana missed
a watch clock checkpoint.
*
*
*
Russ sat in the rail car on a stool fashioned
from a large wire spool. Audrey had placed a
flowered seat cushion over the hardwood
surface to make it easier to sit on. The metal
[248]
box was full of her essence. He swore he could
still smell her perfume and the aroma that
shimmered off her soft olive-colored skin.
He privately admonished himself for
making so many mistakes, including the one
leading up to Audrey getting killed. He had
originally planned to go to the drop site and
pick up the money ransom himself. But it was
hard being separated from her even for a
minute. They had been almost caught the first
week they slipped unnoticed into Danner Falls
to set up their Oracle scam on ignorant college
students.
He’d cleverly come up with a passable
disguise. But it wasn’t him that was recognized.
Russ hadn’t counted on that. If only they had
taken more precautions when they had first
arrived in town then he would have never had to
kill Andrea Gorman who had recognized
Audrey when they were at the Danner Falls
mall.
The lucky part was that Audrey had noticed
Andrea staring and had whispered to Russ that
she might definitely become a problem. Russ
had swiftly taken care of the woman as she left
for her car. He had deftly kidnapped her in
[249]
broad daylight, and in the privacy of her own
apartment Russ had tortured her to learn if she
had used her cell to tell anyone about seeing
Audrey. She evidently hadn’t and swore she
wouldn’t if he’d just let her go. But Russ
couldn’t take the chance so he broke the bitch
down using his favorite tactics of torture and
persuasion.
He even convinced her, after drugging her
heavily, to hang herself or her family would die
a horrible death. C'est la vie. She was a privileged daughter of a wealthy family. He was sure
his mother had probably invited her stuffy parents over for cocktails and gossip at one time or
another. No great loss. Unfortunately, he had to
use the last of his specially bred spiders, which
he had once used against sweet Sara. The icing
on the cake was when he learned Andrea knew
Sara Doyle. She had been an advocate for Andrea after she’d been sexually attacked. Some
people were just born victims, he mused.
A jet flew over the railroad yard, pulling
Russ back into reality.
Across from him was the air mattress they had
slept on together when they had first returned to
Danner Falls to carry out their complicated plan
[250]
to extort enough money to paper their future
together. Now Audrey, his beautiful Audrey,
was dead.
After more shots of whiskey, when he had
drained the bottle nearly dry, he found himself
wishing he had danced with his dead girlfriend.
Russ had learned (by force of his parents) to
dance or waltz. It was their idea of giving him
much needed class. He wished he had taught
her to dance.
He stumbled out of the car, nearly falling to
his knees as he jumped onto the loose gravel.
Several feet from the rail car, he closed his eyes
until he could envision touching Audrey, hand
in hand, cheek to cheek. And he danced.
[251]
TWENTY-NINE
After their meeting, Kinkie and Harry
watched as the tail lights of Tommy Branche's
Mercedes disappeared into the distance. It was
dark now and the air was cool but not cold. The
sky was filled with pinpricks of starlight. They
stood by Harry's Buick LeSabre smoking. Harry
was enjoying his. Kinkie was not.
“So what was really all that about, partner?
And be straight with me.”
“You worry too much. Everything is how
Tommy laid it out. As soon as he gets a bead on
Russell St. Cloud we start with our plan to bring
him down.”
“What about the proper channels? This isn't
how it's done, Harry. Tommy Branche is
turning us into vigilantes.”
“This is the only way to put an end to St.
Cloud once and for all.”
“And you had to drag me into the middle of
this? We could lose our jobs. Did you consider
that? We could even go to jail.”
Harry shook his head. “Not going to happen.
Tommy will protect us.”
“That's what I'm worried about.” She flicked
[252]
her half-smoked cigarette into the road.
They stood in silence for more than a few
minutes. Then Harry said, “Go ahead, ask. I
know you want to.”
“Why is he so interested in Sara Doyle? I
don't get the connection.”
“I can't tell you. Not right now.”
“Can't or won't?”
“Won't.” As if to make the stream of
conversation final, he dropped his cigarette butt
to the ground and crushed it out with the tip of a
shoe.
“If I do this. . . if I pretend to be this girl then
you must think the actual girl is dead.”
“We believe she is, yes.”
“Well shit, Harry. What’s stopping him from
trying to kill me, I'm going to need more
assurance than what you're telling me.”
Harry let out a breath. “Okay. We found the
van Russ used when he killed Wilder. There
was evidence that Gray managed to fire off a
stray shot that ended the life of Audrey Carr. Or
maybe Russ did it himself. We haven’t figured
out all the details yet.”
“We? As in you and your men's club of
sleuths?”
[253]
He nodded. “Anything else?”
“Sure. As soon as this is over I'm putting in
for a transfer.”
*
*
*
Dana and Bob watched in fascination as a
young man danced in front of a well-lit
abandoned rail car. He had decked the shell out
with makeshift furniture, a portable generator,
and several empty oil barrels. Just to the right of
a rusted fence was a dust covered Mercedes.
Bob whispered, “That ain't something you see
every day. And he's got a pretty nice car for a
homeless man.”
Dana wished he had a chaw of chew even
though he’d quit chewing nearly three months
ago. “Probably not his, Bob.”
“Who do you suppose he's dancing with?”
“Most likely the devil. Oh shit-” Dana
suddenly grabbed his friend by the arms and
yanked him down. They both fell to the ground,
Bob bumping an elbow on a large rock
embedded in the dirt.
“Dammit to hell, Dana. What are you doin?
You old fool; you tore a hole into my damn
[254]
elbow.”
“I think he saw us. He looked right this way.”
Dana lifted his head enough to see through the
bushes at the bright lights and saw the bald man
climbing into the car.
“No shit?”
“He’s gone. Let’s get out of here fast.”
The old man helped his friend to his feet and
they stumbled down the dirt path, each one
falling occasionally after tripping over a root or
an outcrop of rock. They were panting heavily
when they made it to the guard shack.
Bob had torn pants and a bloody elbow. Dana's
pant knees were dirty, he had a cut on his palm,
and his legs ached something fierce.
“We should call the cops.”
His fellow guard shook his head. “No. I was
told to call Mr. Branche before we did anything
like that and that's what I'm going to do.” He
picked up the landline and dialed the number he
had memorized but never used. After a few
minutes, someone picked up at the other end.
“Mister Branche, this is Dana, your night
guard from track 74. I, we, have an intruder. No
sir, not on our side. On the St. Cloud side. In
one of the abandoned cars. He's got a sweet
[255]
setup. A generator and furniture and a shiny
new red Mercedes. Yes sir, I said a Mercedes.
Yes sir, we can do that. Bob's here with me. No,
I don't think he saw us.” Dana cradled the
phone and turned to his friend, a stark look of
concern across his aged face. “He said to sit
tight. So we sit tight.”
Bob wiped his sweaty brow with his uniform
sleeve leaving it damp. He reached into his
breast pocket, pulled out a pack of Switzer
Sweets, and lit one up. “Thank God. More
action than I've seen in twenty years,” he said
leaning back against a paint chipped wall.
“I hear that. . .”
A heavy thump on the guard shack door
startled them. They peered into the blackness of
the night through the smudged window. Dana
could see the outline of a face; the face of the
young man at the rail car; the face of Russell St.
Cloud.
*
*
*
A black Mercedes-Benz SL65 pulled up to
the gravel driveway leading to the Track 74
Guard Shack. The passenger side door opened
and a man in an immaculate suit stepped out.
[256]
With some urgency, a stocky man with skin that
shone with a golden-brown tint even in the
moonlight hurriedly opened the driver’s side
door and joined him.
The first thing Tommy Branche noticed was a
beat up Chevy pick-up with a door propped
open. The muscled man followed his
employer’s gaze and his lips drew into a grim
frown.
“Mark, tell me you’re carrying.”
The man nodded and slipped a Smith & Wesson
.50 Caliber short barrel revolver from a
shoulder holster. Branche nodded his approval.
“You take the lead. You know the score. If
Russell St. Cloud is in there feel free to empty
all the chambers into him. Don’t give it a
second thought. Understand?”
“Yes sir.” Determined, he spun on his heels,
his revolver pointed downward but cocked and
ready to shoot. The muscled man led the way to
the Guard Shack entrance. Even before the large
man opened the door, he could see the blood
splatter on the dingy windows.
“Open the door carefully,” ordered Tommy.
Mark Hines slowly turned the knob and opened
the door that swung inward.
[257]
Tommy touched the beefy man’s shoulder
and felt his muscles tense. “Hang back some,
I’ll look in from here.”
The bodyguard and chauffeur happily
stepped away allowing his employer to see into
the entire shack. His eyes darted around into the
darkness of the nearby bushes watching for any
sign of movement. He kept the gun pointed
downward and outward so he could make a
swift aim if needed.
Tommy Branche had seen many things in his
life. He had seen more than his share of dead
bodies, mutilated frames of what used to be
human beings. But he hadn’t seen this kind of
savagery. He could barely recognize the
tortured body of Bob Farley splayed on the deck
of the shed. What appeared to be a Switzer
Sweet cigar was now implanted where his right
eye had been. To make the scene worse a black
nightstick flashlight had been shoved down his
throat, forcing his head back at an odd angle.
Mark peered over his employer’s shoulder and
made a sound of shock and surprise that
sounded like a small dog being kicked by steeltoed boots. “Is he dead, boss?”
Tommy sighed. “I should hope so.” He
[258]
stepped back forcing Mark to quickly step away
so Tommy wouldn’t trip over him.
The pair found Dana Smith in the bed of his
truck. What they saw would stay embedded into
Tommy’s mind forever. Mark suddenly ducked
behind a clump of bushes.
Tommy said, “When you’re done throwing
up, I want you to take that dirt path to your left
and follow it until you reach St. Cloud’s
property. Then I want you to find that fucking
rail car that psycho is living in and kill him. I
want this over. Go!”
Mark wiped his mouth with the back of his
coat sleeve and disappeared down the path.
[259]
THIRTY
He wasn’t at the top of his game. Not even
close. It took Russ a full twenty minutes to kill
the security guards. He hoped he’d stopped
whatever plan they had been making before
they had a chance to call the authorities. He
never made mistakes like that. One of the
guards even managed to make it to his pickup
before Russ could catch him, and the old
bastard had to be at least seventy. But now that
nastiness was over and he could concentrate on
other things. Important things like killing Sara.
Audrey’s untimely death had taken a toll on
him he hadn’t expected. It made his mind fuzzy.
Even the headaches had returned stronger than
ever. And the images of his Grandpapa and
Grandnana had returned. He’d trade his soul to
the Seven Devils of Hell to see his Audrey
instead of them. He peeled off the blood-soaked
t-shirt, pants, shit, even his shoes were
splattered with the old men’s gore.
He tossed the ruined clothes into one of the
oil drums. He’d burn them later, along with
anything that revealed who he was if the police
showed up. He did have an escape route if it
[260]
came down to that. Wearing only his boxers he
jumped back into the rail car, rummaged
through a trunk full of clothes, and pulled out
the darkest ones he could find. He felt lucky he
had a backup pair of boots. At the bottom of the
trunk, he dug out a small box. He flipped the lid
and pulled out the black .32 automatic. If he’d
have been thinking he would have used a gun to
finish off the old men, instead of the cheek of a
nearby hammer lying on the guard’s watch table
next to their logbook. He glanced over the book
carefully but there was no mention of him in
any of the pages. Russ silently wished he’d
thought about a portable radio or better yet a
police band radio. Little inconsistencies like this
could be the end of him.
His head reeled from all the things he’d
learned in the last few days. The fact that his
dead father couldn’t keep his wife happy
sexually and she looked for pleasure somewhere
else. But that’s just what women did, right? Not
Audrey, but other women. Women like his
fucked up, neurotic mother who was unable to
show her only son love and affection but didn’t
think twice about getting her cunt stroked by. .
Russ’ head began to pound against the side of
[261]
his skull. He viciously slapped at the sides of
his temples but this only made the pain worse.
Concentrate! Concentrate!
He kept screaming the words inside his head.
What if he’d killed himself into a corner?
Other people like him had done that. He
remembered everything he’d read in his
Auntie’s library, in those old books that smelled
musty and were covered in dust that made him
sneeze as a kid. If only those old men had
minded their own business. When they spied on
him that had made more noise than a herd of
deer running from hunters. He squinted into the
darkness and saw them clearly scrambling away
and knew he needed to take care of them. Get
the job done. That’s what Grandpapa would
have told him.
He glanced into the darkness of the woods
expecting to see his Grandpapa but there was no
one there. No specters, no ghosts, and no
Audrey. If he didn’t push her from his mind
soon she would be his downfall. But that was
easier said than done. Audrey had been the
centerpiece of his entire life. The first woman to
actually get him. The first woman to know what
he was thinking and who could put up with his
[262]
brooding when he was in those moods he
couldn't control. She asked for nothing in
return. Unless they were in bed and then she
was merciless. The thought made him smile.
Actually, she did want something. They’d
talked about their future after Russ had finished
his business with Danner Falls. They talked
about moving to Astoria to start a new life. She
hinted at a child. Russ tried to ignore that.
“Can we move somewhere you won't try to
kill anybody?” she’d asked.
He said he could, not truly believing what
he’d said in total honesty. Russ didn't kill
because he needed to; he killed to erase certain
obstacles that needed to be removed. He’d
learned that lesson from Ryan St. Cloud and
from his Grandpapa. The St. Cloud men had to
be strong. His father used money to remove
obstacles. Grandpapa had used his influence as
a founding father, and Russ used a hammer or
some other hard surface. He was tired of killing
people. The only person who deserved to die
now was that bitch who started it all to begin
with. Why couldn't he just kill her and get it
over with? She seemed to have a charmed life
as if she was being protected by an unseen
[263]
hand. If there were some actual protector for
Sara, Russ would deal with that as well.
“I want to be a painter or make jewelry or
maybe pottery,” Audrey rambled on while lying
naked on the sex soaked bed sheets. “Something
with my hands, and sell those on the boardwalk
or local craft store. Do they have a boardwalk in
Astoria? You could start an online business,
work at home or something. You could even get
plastic surgery and become someone else. I can
write down some sexy man names.” Her dark
eyes were moist and searching his for any sign
of hope.
The night before she officially became the
Oracle, (my God, college students were so
fucking gullible, Russ thought) Audrey and him
had smoked enough weed to be stoned for days,
played CLUE, and his dark-haired beauty had
stuffed two suspect cards in the tiny
EVIDENCE envelope instead of a location
card. In her defense she said, “We're partners in
crime, baby.” Russ couldn't argue with that.
The thoughts of his dead love made him smile
for a moment, even feeling a longing in his
groin. But the reality of the real world shattered
his thoughts. Her lifeless eyes staring blankly in
[264]
the passenger seat of the van. The hole in her
forehead.
Concentrate! Concentrate!
Once he had finished dressing – all but his
boots – he strenuously pulled out a large
weather-beaten trunk he kept stashed near the
back wheels of the rail car. He pushed the heavy
lid open and gazed down at the contents. There
were chains, restraints of all kinds, several pairs
of handcuffs, rope, pulleys and other prized
possessions used for restraining his horrified
quarry.
There was even a shoebox that contained the
penis of an unfortunate victim and Jon
Montgomery’s stand-in, Len. He slowly
reached in and pulled out a featureless white
mask that he’d carefully wrapped in the comic
section of the Sunday Newspaper. He held it up
to the moonlight as if making a sacrifice to the
Gods of Darkness. He would don his usual
stalking attire – the dark hoodie – and stuff the
pockets with a bottle of chloroform, a soft
washcloth, and a pair of handcuffs. In the
distance, a siren echoed.
He stiffened and waited to see if it grew
louder. He absentmindedly placed a hand over
[265]
the butt of the automatic he’d tucked into his
waistband. After a few minutes, the shrilling
horn faded away. He relaxed some slipping on
his boots and lacing them up tightly. Checking
his watch, he knew exactly where his mark
would be. He followed her there many times.
Using Jon Montgomery's car (with new plates
attached this time) it would take about twentyfive to thirty minutes to get there depending on
the traffic. No worries. It was time to visit Sara
Doyle and bring her home.
*
*
*
While waiting for his employee to scope out
Russell St. Cloud's lair Tommy Branche popped
open the trunk of the Mercedes and unzipped
the overnight bag. Inside, he had a change of
clothes. When he followed Sara, he was dressed
down. No expensive suits, no expensive shoes.
He could blend into the woodwork of Danner
Falls without anyone recognizing him. He
slipped out his phone and pushed a speed dial
button. A second later Harry's voice answered.
“Yes,” was all he said.
“We have a situation.” Tommy kept his
[266]
voice low. “I found St. Cloud. He's berthed at
his parents’ unused rail yard.”
“So, kill him and I can get back to bed.”
“It's only nine pm.”
“I'm old and I've been drinking,” remarked
Harry.
“He murdered two of my guards. Not in
pleasant ways, either. You need to get your
partner and make her up to look like Audrey
Carr.” Over the phone, Tommy could hear the
detective lighting up a cigarette.
“What will you be doing?”
“Making sure Sara Doyle is safe. What
else?”
“That's a tall order, given the circumstances.
Do you think he's actually going to kill her this
time?”
“I'm thinking something worse.” Tommy
clicked off the cell phone and tossed it into the
trunk. Then he began to change his clothes.
When Mark returned to the Mercedes, he
placed his hands on his bulky sides and sucked
in a few large gulps of air. Tommy had changed
into his non-descript attire. The bodyguard was
taken aback for a few minutes and leveled his
gun at Tommy.
[267]
When he realized who it was standing
behind the car, he made a frowny face. “Sorry,
boss. I thought you were the psycho.”
Tommy narrowed his eyes at his oversized
employee. “Your knees are dirty, you have a
sweaty face, and you seem to be out of breath.
Have you taken up smoking again?”
Mark eased the gun back into the shoulder
holster. “No sir. It was dark and I didn't take a
flashlight. I fell a couple of times.” He shrugged
weakly.
“And St. Cloud?”
“He wasn't there, boss. But I heard a car
leaving by the time I made it over the fence.”
Tommy mashed his lips together then said,
“Unfortunate. I need to go while there is still
time. I want you to call some of the boys get
them down here and clean up this mess.
Tomorrow I’ll announce that there has been an
accident involving my two oldest employees. I
don't want any negative publicity so tell
everyone to keep their damn mouths shut.”
All Mark Hines could do was nod.
[268]
THIRTY-ONE
Sara Doyle left the confines of the Victim's
Support Group, stepped out into the cool night
air, and checked her watch. The luminous dial
read 9:54 pm. The meeting had calmed her
quite a bit, with everything that had gone on in
her life during the last few weeks. She didn't
share much. She just listened to the others tell
their stories. She rounded the corner, heading
towards her car and noticing how quiet the night
was.
As she approached her car, she rummaged
in her purse for her keys and noticed something
on the ground right next to it. She resisted the
impulse to bend down to see what the shiny
object was. A wave of Déjà vu came over her.
She remembered this was eerily similar to the
night she was abducted and chained in St
Cloud’s bathroom of horrors.
A light breeze touched her neck and goose
bumps appeared on her arms as if the Grim
Reaper was blowing on her neck. She looked to
the left and saw no one. She looked to the right
and still no one. She bent down and picked up
[269]
the object. Grasping it in both hands, her eyes
focused and she realized it was a trinket similar
to the one she had found in her apartment that
held that awful spider! Holy shit, she thought.
That fucker Russ is nearby. Before she could
react, she sensed someone behind her. A cloth
closed over her nose and mouth and she
immediately recognized the aroma of
chloroform.
She struggled, doing her best to break free
using her latest Jujitsu moves. She threw her
elbows backwards trying to hit her attacker in
the abdomen but with all the struggles she was
merely flailing her arms.
Then darkness.
Sara opened her eyes and blinked. As the
fuzzy frame came into focus, she saw a figure
waning over her. She tried to move her arms so
she could rub her eyes thinking it would clear
up the image, but realized she was handcuffed.
It took a few minutes before she comprehended
she was in the trunk of a car. Her sister's car.
The man standing over her wore a stark
featureless white mask, just holes for eyes, a slit
for a mouth, and a bump in the middle of the
face for a nose.
[270]
The figure leaned closer and slowly removed
the mask. Russell St. Cloud’s face was fixed
with a devious grin. “Hello, Sara. What do you
fear most? Please say it's me.” His hand stroked
her hair before grasping a handful and jerking
her head forward.
She felt his hot breath on her face. She felt his
lips pressing hard against hers. Then he pulled
away but not before biting her bottom lip. Russ
slammed the trunk shut.
Darkness again.
Still feeling disoriented, she felt the slight
shift of the car as he got into the driver's seat
and slammed the door. Soon the car was in
motion.
Think Sara, think. She remembered a scene
from the TV series Castle or one of those crime
shows and kicked out the tail light. She wiggled
her body around to look out of the newly
formed hole but felt disappointed to see the dark
road appeared to be desolate. There wasn’t a
single car in sight and only a few scattered
street lamps.
She lay on her back to think of a plan B and
felt something cylindrical next to her. Wait, she
was in her sister's car that she'd been using since
[271]
her SUV was in the shop after running off the
road coming back from the asylum! She felt her
baseball bat. Her backseats folded down and the
latches to fold them were accessed from the
trunk. She remembered this from when Eric was
little as she had to adjust his car seat every time
they took a road trip. But her hands were tied.
Quickly thinking she brought her hands
down her back, past her butt, and scrunched her
feet up so her hands were in front of her. Thank
goodness for her Jujitsu and kick boxing classes
because it made her as limber as a cat and a
tiger in bed!
Knowing the driver could see the seat
directly behind him in the rear view mirror, She
slowly and ever so quietly folded the passenger
back seat forward. Sara knew she’d only have
one shot at this so she’d need to move quickly.
Russ seemed distracted and appeared to be
talking to himself. On her knees, she brought
the bat up to her side and grasped the barrel
tightly with both hands. Her fear turned to rage
as she thought about what he’d done to her in
that bathroom. She lunged forward with one leg
leading and swung the bat as she had many,
many times in softball.
[272]
Russ snapped out of his trance and
instinctively blocked her attack with his right
hand, but the blow was enough to do some
damage.
She hit him a second time as he grimaced to
protect the side of his temple. She dropped the
bat and lunged toward the door. In pain, Russ
found it difficult to control the car with one
hand and soon the car was slow enough that
Sara pulled at the handle and jumped out,
rolling onto the ground. She scrambled to her
feet and ran into the woods. Russ tried to reach
for the gun in his waistband but it slipped from
his broken fingers and fell to the floorboards out
of reach.
The bitch Sara Doyle had escaped again.
With his left hand, Russ retrieved the automatic
from the passenger side of the floorboard and
stepped out of the car with some difficulty. He
carefully slipped the gun in the waistband
behind his back and pulled the hoodie over it.
His prisoner was no longer in sight. She had
escaped him again. He could feel the blood
flowing into his temples like a busted dam. The
blow to the head by Sara had done him no
[273]
favors.
His aching eyes scanned the shadows outside
the boundaries of the low pressure sodium street
lamps. Nothing. He tilted his head and closed
his eyes but he didn't hear any fading footfalls.
Still nothing. The pain in his fingers and hand
had spread to his elbow. Even in the dim light
he could see the swelling. He reached into the
vehicle and retrieved the keys from the ignition
making his way to the back of the car. With his
good hand, he jiggled the keys into the lock and
popped open the trunk. The trunk light was
broken but he could see into the boot and he
spied the small white box emblazoned with the
Red Cross design on the front. He pulled it out
and flipped it open. He dug through the contents
until he pulled out a roll of medical tape. Using
his teeth and his good hand, he managed to
wrap three of the injured fingers together giving
them limited stability. He bit off the tape end
and slipped the remainder of the tape into the
pocket of his hoodie.
He saw them emerge from the shadows as
he turned around. They were just kids. Two
black ones and a white one. They dressed the
way street kids did these days, and the white kid
[274]
overdid it by having his pants hang so low it
appeared that magic was the only thing holding
them up. They had that look of teens hoping for
trouble and they had just found it. He knew the
type. As a force, they were as brave as a platoon
of Marines. Russ figured they had bad
childhoods, sucky parents, druggy friends, and
trashy girlfriends.
They couldn't have been more than
seventeen or eighteen but kids looked older
these days and Russ figured they were only
fifteen or sixteen. None the less, he’d deal with
them if they pushed him too hard.
The taller of the boys stepped closer. He
appeared to be the leader and his dark face
showed an inner anger. Russ used to have that
too. But now he kept it only on the inside and
not betrayed by any outside tells.
“Hey homey, got car trouble?”
Russ took a deep breath as the pounding in
his head grew. “I did, but fixed it. You want
something?”
The leader turned and looked at friends and
then at Russ.
“Yeah. We need a few bucks. You got that,
right homey? And your car keys. It's a nice
[275]
night for a walk.”
The leader was trying to sound older than he
was. It wasn't working. Russ said, “Run along
children before you get hurt. I'm in a bad
mood.”
“Yeah, well your bad mood ran down our
alley so I'm afraid you owe us. What happened?
She find out you were gay?”
His friends laughed. They were having a
good time now. All three moved in closer. Russ
could see the white kid holding a metal bar. The
other black kid was holding something too but
Russ couldn't make it out. The leader pulled a
knife out of his back pocket and flipped the
blade out. “Money, keys, or get your shit kicked
around, you fucking douche.”
“You don't mean nothing to me,” said Russ.
The leader tilted his head. “What the fuck did
you say to me, dawg?”
Russ pulled the .32 automatic from his
waistband and shot the black kid next to the
leader in the face. Blood exploded as if a water
balloon had popped and there was a sick
sucking sound as the young kid fell to the
ground.
Without hesitating, Russ popped two slugs
[276]
into the white kid and he fell backwards on the
asphalt.
The leader held up his palms. “Wait, wait.”
The first bullet went through his mouth and
out the back of his head; the second bullet
struck him in the left eye almost
simultaneously.
Russ winced at the pain in his right hand
from tensing up during the shooting. He
casually walked back to the car, shut the door,
and started the engine. The pounding in his
head had eased some. All he needed now was a
few extra strength pain pills to numb the hand.
He backed over all three bodies as he left to
search for runaway Sara. And despite the
broken fingers, he felt good inside. “I still got
it,” he mumbled.
[277]
THIRTY-TWO
After scouring the back roads, closed
businesses, and abandoned warehouses, and
using his headlights to peer down dark alleys,
long stretches of empty roads winding the
nearby hillside, Russ found that Sara Doyle was
nowhere in sight. The altercation between him
and the adolescent gangsta wannabes gave her
enough of a lead to hide somewhere either in
the city or catch a ride out of town. He realized
the bitch could be anywhere. She could be
watching him at this very minute.
Once he had searched a mile radius, the only
place left to hunt was a short stretch of road that
dead ended into the woodland area of the city
park but there was no time left to search there.
With Sara on the run, he figured the cops would
be on his tail soon. Russ decided his best plan
was to ditch the car Sara had been driving and
retrieve the Mercedes. Chances were good he'd
be stopped for a broken tail light and that would
be bad.
There would be another time. The failures of
finishing his work depended deeply on his
emotional stability. He craved a cigarette and
[278]
the only reason he occasionally smoked had
been for Audrey who once said he looked hot
when taking a drag off his smoke. Audrey, save
me from myself.
He drove to where he snatched Sara, then
another two blocks where he parked Jon
Montgomery's car. As he turned the corner, a
patrol car snuggled in close to the Mercedes.
Two uniformed officers stood outside their car
as the Red Line Towing Company loaded the
Mercedes onto a flatbed truck.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath
as he slowly drove by making sure not to catch
the officers' eyes. That left him only one other
option. Get back to the rail yard in the stolen
car, bad tail light and all.
Could this night get any fucking worse? he
thought.
The trip back took twice as long since Russ
dodged all traffic he encountered. At one point,
he desperately turned down a cul-de-sac after
bright headlights appeared behind him by a few
blocks. Once he made it to the familiar dirt road
leading to his converted box car, he relaxed
some but the anger inside him swelled to new
heights. He was tired and sore. His fucking
[279]
hand hurt. The more he thought about the entire
situation the angrier he became. How the hell
did this bitch do it? She was nothing special
despite the facts he learned from his mother's
file and his mother herself. Fuck, maybe it
wasn't true at all. Or maybe it was. Maybe, just
maybe that's why there had been this block as
he tried to do her harm. Maybe he was the
problem. That was a lot of fucking maybes.
He slowly drove to the end of the road where
his floodlights revealed his hideaway. He hit the
bump gate and it swung open with a jangling.
He steered the car behind the rail car and
tucked it behind a pile of discarded cross ties.
He killed the lights and stepped out of the rig.
He stopped and listened to the night sounds. No
sirens. No voices. No scrambling in the brush.
Obviously, the dead guards had not been
discovered yet. He checked his watch. It was
two a.m. His head still ached from the blows
and the usual frustration he felt when he needed
to kill. Not to mention what the bitch did to his
hand. He needed pills to ease the pain and
maybe a quick nap to recharge his body so he
could stay alert.
As he jumped up into the railcar, Grandpapa
[280]
threw him against the opposite bulkhead. Russ
hit the steel siding hard, and sparks of light
exploded in front of his eyes. He shook his head
to clear his vision. His head continued to pound
furiously. He stared up at the phantom that had
emerged deep from his exhausted mind. His
visions had never been so real. The angry, bony
man stood over him. His skin resembled leather
as it hung down from his chin, waving
desperately in the slight breeze. “You fucking
idiot. Why haven't you killed her yet, boy?”
Russ tried to scoot away but the old man
blocked his path.
“Leave me alone. You're dead.”
“You're just like your father. A waste of
damned sperm.”
“Stop,” Russ screamed. He used the bulkhead
to push himself up using the muscles of his leg
and his back against the wall. “I'm tired of your
shit, Grandpapa. Go away. I don't need you.”
“Kill her. Kill your sister, the way I killed
your cancer-suffering Grandnana!”
Russ clamped his hands over his ears. He
squeezed his eyes tight ignoring the shooting
spasms. When he opened his eyes, Grandpapa
was gone. Russ sank to the floor.
[281]
He crawled to one of the duffle bags kept by
the bed. One belonged to Audrey. The one with
the pills was his. Russ dumped the amber pill
bottles in front of him and shuffled through the
mix. A few Fentanyl patches. Hydrocodone.
Oxycodone and Tramadol. He ripped open one
of the Fentanyl patches and slapped it on his
upper right arm, then snapped open the bottle of
Oxycodone, popping one into his mouth.
He reached to the whiskey bottle he had
nearly drained hours ago and took a big swig,
feeling the tablet slide down his throat. He
pushed himself to the mattress. He could smell
Audrey's essence on the pillow. A black strand
of hair clung to the yellowed fabric. All that
was left of the only woman he had ever loved.
He closed his eyes, pulled the gun from his
waistband, and laid it next to his chest.
A few minutes later, Russell St. Cloud was
asleep.
*
*
*
Tommy Branche devised a hastily plotted
design to rid Danner Falls and Sara Doyle once
and for all from the sociopath Russell St. Cloud.
Sara called his cell while he had been searching
[282]
for her car. He knew of her appointments with
the victim’s advocacy group in Medford but by
the time he’d reached the city she had gone. He
was about to head back when a breathless Sara
called his cell again. She had taken refuge in a
local park and stayed hidden there until a couple
of late night lovers strolled through the park
path on a rendezvous. Still wearing handcuffs,
she convinced the couple she wasn't on the run
from the law, but they seemed amused at her
situation and happily let her use their cell phone
to make the call to Tommy. She waited next to
the park restroom, but it had closed after sunset
so all she could do was stay hidden in the
shadows until Tommy rescued her.
She heard a car approaching the outskirts of
the park, the headlights of the vehicle splaying
shadows across the wooded area. Her heart
stopped at one point when a figure approached
wearing a dark hoodie. She relaxed when a
voice called out her name. It was the voice of
Tommy Branche, not Russell St. Cloud.
[283]
THIRTY-THREE
Tommy's railroad engineer Amos Freely
answered the call when it came to putting his
plan into motion. The forty year veteran
employee would fire up the '78 Comeng Alco
engine, back across the tracks from the Branche
side to the disused St. Cloud side. He would
back the engine and a couple of cars to Russ's
boxcar and tow the damn thing to the middle of
the Springfield Trestle a half a mile away. Russ
would be trapped and whatever happened,
happened. He'd play it by ear.
Tommy had no qualms about killing the sonof-a-bitch if it came down to that because he
more than cared about Sara, he realized he
loved her. Branche’s bodyguard, Mark, was
ordered to lay in wait and keep an eye on the
box car and keep the M24 sniper rifle handy,
just in case he could get a clean shot, especially
if he killed Branche, tried to hurt Sara, or jump
from the train before the engineer could reach
the Trestle.
*
*
[284]
*
Tommy arrived at the rail car site after
dropping Sara off at the now empty and bloodfree guard shack. He told her to stay put until
this was all over. No matter what the outcome.
Tommy slipped up close to the well lit rail car
and used small binoculars to scope out the inside. Russell St. Cloud lay on the floor in his
hideaway. He appeared to be in a deep sound
sleep. Tommy could see the man’s chest rising.
Despite the original plan, Tommy Branche saw
no reason not to take the bastard out now. No
tricks, no dead girlfriends beckoning for him to
come out into the open. No, much easier to take
him down now. Freely still had orders to hook
up to Russ’ rail car and pull the damn thing
away and take it out of the equation. There was
no way to let the engineer know the change of
plans.
Tommy crept quietly through the camp, and
ever so delicately pulled himself inside the car.
He slipped the gun out of his pocket and inched
forward. He could cap the asshole in the back of
the head, no questions asked. He could end it all
for Russell St. Cloud if not for the fact he
wanted to know a few things. Mainly his inter[285]
est in seeing Sara Doyle dead. As he edged
closer to the sleeping man, he saw a strange
acrylic globe lying on the floor. A spider frozen
inside. He quietly squatted down to pick it up
when he heard a pop and a shard of pain shot
through his knee. Shit, his old football injury –
the bum leg, at a time like this!
Russ turned over in the mattress holding the
.32 automatic in his left hand. Tommy’s gun
was pointed downward. The psycho had the
drop on him. “Toss the gun out the door, pretty
please.”
Tommy slowly raised his hands, “Take it
easy.” If he could get Russ to the opening of the
boxcar, Mark could get a bead on him and put a
bullet right between the bastard's eyes. The hell
with asking questions. Tommy tossed the gun
out of the opening. If anything, that would be a
signal to Mark that he was in trouble. “No one
has to get hurt.”
“Really, I had a different idea. Where’s that
little bitch of yours? We have unfinished business.” Russ held up his bandaged right hand.
“She has learned to play rough. I like rough.”
“She doesn’t know I’m here, but the Police
do and they’re on their way right now."
[286]
“I’m here, too.” Sara rounded the doorway
startling Russ. He flinched and as he pointed the
gun at Sara, she did a roundhouse kick and
knocked the automatic out of his hand. It clattered out of reach. There was a sudden jolt of
the boxcar forcing all three of them off balance.
Russ fell backwards onto the mattress but
quickly pushed to his feet. Tommy Branche
smiled. Freely had successfully coupled the
engine to Russ’s rail car. He spun around to
Sara, “I told you to stay at the guard shack.”
“Not a chance. I also have a score to settle
with this prick.”
Tommy knew Mark was under orders not to
shoot if there was ever any danger of hitting
Sara by mistake. They were on their own now.
As the train gained speed, Russ sprang for
the .32. As he took a step forward, Tommy
tripped him with his good foot but putting his
weight on the bad leg left him unbalanced, and
they both tumbled to the floor. Russ swung at
him and missed but Tommy got a couple of
good face shots in with the left. The train now
traveled at a good clip - too fast to jump off
safely.
[287]
Tommy let go of Russ and dived for the gun.
Russ realized he needed to get to higher ground
and darted out to the side of the car, grabbing
the ladder, and climbing to the top of the rocking rail car. He had no reservations leaping to
safety even if it broke a few more bones just to
get away. A sharp wind blew into his face, and
for a moment, he stopped to catch his breath.
The moon, full overhead, lit the scene like a
spotlight.
“Shit!” Russ knew that little bitch Sara had
found his hideout and set up a trap for him.
Someone had hooked the box car to an engine,
and now it looked as if these assholes were
headed in the direction of the Springfield Trestle. If that happened, he’d be trapped on the
rigid steel bridge. A limping Tommy and Sara
emerged from the railcar and climbed the ladder
toward the roof in pursuit. Tommy lost his
footing for a moment while climbing the ladder
nearly falling off into the brush and rock below.
In his effort to climb to the top of the car, the
.32 slipped from his hand and dropped off into
the darkness below.
Russ saw them gaining on him, even more
determined to make it to the engine compart[288]
ment so he could force the engineer to stop the
train. Tommy motioned for Sara to hang back
since his words were lost in the noise of the
engine and the wind. He limped closer as Russ’
attention seemed to be focused toward the
Comeng Alco Engine. Grimacing in pain, he
knew what he had to do. Tackling like he did in
his college football days, Tommy lunged at
Russ, knocking his legs out from under him,
taking him down onto the hard surface.
“Why are you helping her?” screamed Russ
over the engine clamor. “She kills everyone
who enters her life. Her boyfriend, my Audrey.
She killed me, you dense asshole, years ago
when I was a child. She coaxed her friends to
do despicable things to me.” Russ pointed a
forefinger at his chest. “My life ended that
night. It’s always been her – not me. She’ll kill
you too. You’ll see.”
Tommy connected a punch to Russ’ mouth
and the killer dropped face down onto the metal
roof, the rocking of the car nearly knocking him
over the side.
“I’d like you to shut the fuck up now, psycho,” said Tommy, a grin of satisfaction on his
face.
[289]
Russ rolled onto his back and kicked out at
Tommy, hitting him in the face before using his
other leg to push him over the edge of the boxcar. The man fell over the side without a sound.
Pain surged through Russ’ broken hand as he
tried to struggle to his feet and registered in his
brain to the point he couldn’t bear the pain and
agony he was in. His body went into the fetal
position with his damaged hand tucked deep in
the middle of the cocoon his body now formed.
“No!” Sara screamed. She rushed to the
edge in time to see Tommy had fallen into what
looked like a patch of Dewberries that thrived
along the rails. She prayed silently his fall was
broken. Her breathing quickened, her face
flushed with new determination, she turned
back to Russ and saw that he was still rolled
into a ball. Her rage began to build. Before the
night ended, she swore she would kill him with
her bare hands. Just as he had taken everything
from her, she was going to crush his windpipe.
“You Mother Fucker, I'm going to kill you!”
She jumped on him like she was doing a body
slam in a wrestling match. Russ’ body straightened out and he groped the steel roof trying to
crawl from her grip. Russ's eyes bulged as she
[290]
flipped him onto his back and rained her fists
down on his face, one after another, plus the
occasional elbow or two. Sara couldn't feel the
pain of her hands hitting his skull anymore.
Russ, trying to keep from rolling off the
swaying roof of the car, wiped blood from his
face with his sleeve. Exhausted and out of
breath, Sara slowly pushed to her feet, trying
hard to balance on top of the moving train.
“You hit like a girl,” he said, spitting a spray
of crimson between his swollen lips.
“You’re the one bleeding, ass-wipe.” She
kept her legs apart, doing her best to keep balanced as the train moved rhythmically from
side to side. “What do you fear most, Russell?
Please say it’s me.”
“Not going to happen, sis.”
Sara moved in closer to him, bending down
over the top of him once more. The wind was
beating at her eyes and her hair. She grabbed a
fist full of his t-shirt. “What the fuck did you
say?”
“I got proof. I have proof. We're brother and
sister.” He grinned through bloody teeth, his
bottom lip swollen. “Half sister, but that counts,
right? Wait until you hear how that happened.
[291]
Mr. Therapy knew. Christ, even your mother
knew, you stupid bitch we’re blood. Tell me,
how does that make you feel?”
“You’re a goddamn liar.”
“What? No hug?” He winked at her with the
only good eye that wasn’t bruised and puffy.
“I would know. Someone would have told me,”
she said severely.
“Maybe ask your Tommy-boy down there, bet
he knew as well. If he’s still alive.” Russ sprung
forward; grabbing both of her wrists, then with
little effort flipped her over on her back, knocking the wind out of her. He straddled her body
and grinned. Even with his injured right hand,
he seemed too strong for her. “Time to die,
sweet Sara. Just like my Audrey. But I'm going
to make it hurt.”
Sara struggled under his grip, screaming at
Russ to let her go. Blood from Russ’ face
sprayed over her, some of it splashing into her
mouth.
“Like the taste, sis?” His eyes were wide, his
lips curled in a grotesque grin. Russ lowered
himself closer and pressed his lips next to her
ear.
“You don’t mean nothing to me,” he whispered.
[292]
Sara head butted him and with all the strength
left in her exhausted legs, flung him off the side
of the boxcar.
He disappeared into the night without a
sound.
Sara exerted so much force that she lost her
balance, rolled over the edge, and found herself
hanging by her fingertips on the side of the
boxcar. “Help! Somebody help me!” She
screamed until her throat hurt. The train was
going at full speed and picking up more. Gusts
of wind came and went, some so strong that
every time she tried to pull herself to the roof
and onto her stomach the wind seemed to push
her back. She felt her grip slipping. She yanked
herself up one last time but before she could
swing her leg over, she plummeted into the
darkness below.
*
*
*
Russ wasn't sure how long he had been out;
it may have only been a few minutes, but probably longer. His face hurt, his legs hurt, and he
[293]
realized he had a broken thumb on his right
hand.
He glanced around him in the semi darkness,
the light from his floods at the boxcar shown in
the distance. He squinted at his surroundings
trying to gage his location. He'd fallen from the
top of the Trestle and wondered how he was
still alive.
The mud. He was lying in mud, next to the
stream that led to the Rogue River. He considered trying to cross the stream but wasn't sure
how deep it actually was.
The moon peeked out from a sliver of cloud
and he could see he would be taking a chance
trying to cross it. A clump of redwoods dotted
the opposite side of the body of water. It may be
his only chance. He pushed himself upright but
in the slickness of the mud, he slipped back to a
prone position. He heard voices growing louder.
They were looking for him. Police. He wasn't
sure who the voices belonged to but he was sure
that Sara Doyle and her guardian had trapped
him and he had fallen right into their web.
Russ pulled himself closer to the stream. If
he had to he'd drag himself into the water, try to
[294]
swim, or in his shape, dog paddle his way to the
other side. He needed to stay in the darkness.
He couldn't give up. Not until he took his last
fucking breath. A beam of light flashed in his
face. He couldn't see. He groped into the mud
for a weapon, a large rock, a stick or a strip of
rusted metal from the railroad debris. Something. Anything.
The beam left his face and shone downward
to the ground. His slight vision returned. He
stared in awe at Audrey standing over him.
“Help me, Audrey. Help me.” He believed he
was having another vision, like with Grandpapa
and Grand-nana. Yet he still asked the phantom
from his fevered mind for help.
He could see her clearly now as she knelt
down in front of him. She was holding a silver
automatic in her right hand and it was pointed at
him.
“Hello, Russell. You've upset a lot of people,”
the soft voice said. It wasn't Audrey's voice.
The pitch was wrong. The way she spoke and
said her syllables.
“Why are you dressed like my Audrey?”
“The plan was for me to lure you out into the
open so Tommy Branche and Company could
[295]
take you down. Seems Tommy decided for a
frontal attack instead. Did you kill your
girlfriend, Russell? ”
He shook his pounding head, letting out small
bursts of uncontrollable laughter. “Fuck you. I
loved her. That washed out ex-cop shot her
while trying to kill me. Ha! Ain’t that a fucking
hoot?”
“Wow, everybody seems to want you dead.
Except for me. How does that make you feel?”
Russ said nothing.
“Where’s the suitcase with the money?” she
asked in a low tone. “Tell me where you hid the
ransom.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Tell me where the money is, Russ. Trust
me.”
“W-who are you?”
The woman pulled her black hair away revealing an angelic face that he had never seen
before.
“If I told you, you’d never believe it in a
million years.” She rose to her feet. The gun
pointed at his head. It was over. Finally over.
The moon disappeared behind a cloud and
the sound of a gunshot filled the night air.
[296]
EPILOGUE
As she opened her eyes trying desperately to
focus, Sara recognized the person immediately
by his gorgeous blue eyes. “Hey beautiful,”
Tommy said. He was covered in dirt, scratches,
and she noticed a hole in his hoodie on his left
arm. There was some blood so perhaps the
bushes broke his fall but not without some
damage. “Mark, wheels up. We’ve got to get
her to a doctor to repair this leg break.”
Mark Hines nodded to Tommy and took his
seat in the cockpit, and soon the plane left the
blacktop ascending into the night sky. Sara
looked out of the small window to see the horizon changing as the plane climbed higher.
Another face came into focus next to Tommy’s
– the face of her father. “We have a lot to talk
about, Sara.”
THE END ?
[297]
[298]
About the Authors
Jennifer Patterson has enjoyed writing since
she was young. With two finished novels, she is
also writing a children’s book and has several
other projects in the works. She currently
resides in Portland, Oregon, enjoys the
outdoors, playing softball, and spending time
with her family and her pets.
____________________________________
David Rowell Workman has been writing for
many years and recently released a collection of
prose, stage plays, short stories, and several
detective novels. David currently resides in
Vancouver, Washington.
[299]

Request Manuscript

Transcription

Similar documents

Celebrity Guests

replace petroleum fuels

SNU Rally at the Fallon Cantaloupe Festival September 2012

residential - Universal Remote Control

VIEW PDF - Big Sky Tent and Party Rentals

VIRTUAL FOCUS GROUPS and WEBCAM TECHNOLOGY

The Planing Form Put a Hex on the News

Mansion Messenger 9-16-11 Reduce