The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  THE MAY DAY MURDERS SEQUEL

  A novel by

  SCOTT WITTENBURG

  ©2016 Scott Wittenburg

  Discover other titles by Scott Wittenburg at http://www.scottwittenburg.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters and events of this book are entirely the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, or to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Special Thanks to Louise Darvid for her invaluable input and expertise in the production of this book.

  Chapter 1

  Trent Mason couldn’t believe his good fortune. He’d only been in London a few days and already he was about to score with this English chick. As expected, his plan was working flawlessly.

  Life is good.

  He peered through the crowd and spotted her returning from the loo, hips swinging in her tight skirt like some kind of sex goddess. Her ample boobs were half-exposed and nearly falling out of the low-cut sweater she was wearing. A damn shame her face didn’t match her luscious body, but you can’t have everything. Her teeth were crooked beyond what could be considered acceptably cool and she had a honker that made him think of his high school Algebra teacher. A nice enough smile, though.

  “Sorry I took so long,” she said, sitting down beside him at the tiny table. “There was a bit of a line.”

  “No problem,” he replied. “Gave me time to buy us another round.”

  Sarah Clark took a sip of her Margarita and smiled. “So tell me more about yourself. What part of the States are you from?”

  “The Midwest, originally. But I couldn’t stand the boring place so I moved to L.A. in short order once I turned eighteen.”

  “That’s fantastic! I’ve heard it’s wonderful there. And all of those Hollywood movie stars—it must be exciting!”

  Trent flashed her a knowing grin. “Oh yeah, there’s plenty of action there. Folks are so laid back. Ever been to the US?”

  “No, but I’d love to one day. I get so tired of being stuck here in this crowded city, trying to make ends meet. It’s crazy!”

  “Funny how the grass always looks greener on the far side of the hill—or should I say ‘pond?’ I’d much rather be here than back there. This place has got so much more class than the States and I love all the history. You just take it for granted because you live here.”

  “But at least you’re in a position to form a freaking opinion! This is the only place I’ve ever really been except for boring Germany and France.”

  “I didn’t really hear you say that, did I? France and Germany, boring?”

  “You did,” she replied with a wry grin. “I mean, I guess it’s okay here but I want to see all those places that make America great—New York, L.A., Vegas! That’d be so bloody cool!”

  He laughed. “Well, you may someday realize it’s not all what it’s cracked up to be—just saying. But you make a good point. You need to experience it for yourself before you can make a judgment call.”

  “So what line of work are you in?”

  “Music production, actually.”

  “Really? What sort of music do you produce?”

  “All kinds. I’ve had my hands in everything from rock to hip hop to movie scores.”

  “That’s so cool! So are you famous?”

  “Nah, not really. I’m fairly well known but not what you’d call famous.”

  “I think you’re just being modest.”

  “Why would you think that?” He winked.

  “I don’t know, you just look famous. There’s something about you.”

  She pronounced it, “shumthing.” Sarah was already beginning to slur her words. Time to get this show on the road.

  “Enough about me, already. You’ve hardly told me anything about yourself, Sarah—just that you’re some sort of agent for a consulting firm. What brings a girl like you to a place like this on a Friday evening?”

  “Well, I live nearby for one thing. Had a rough week at the office and decided to drop in to chill out a bit. That happens quite often, come to think of it!” she giggled, draining her Margarita.

  “Let me get you another drink—”

  “I think I’ve had enough, actually,” she said. “Been here a couple of hours already. Should be getting home.”

  “Damn, I’m really enjoying your company, Sarah. Sure hate to see you go,” he said, crossing his fingers.

  “I’m sorry, but I really must. You’re welcome to join me for a nightcap at my flat, though, if you’d like.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “We’re off, then,” she said. She nearly tripped over a leg of her chair and shot him a sheepish grin over her shoulder as the couple meandered their way through the crowded pub. Out on the street Mason noticed that the rain had stopped and he saw this as a good omen.

  “ My flat is this way,” she said. “Sure glad it’s clearing up.”

  “Me, too.”

  He took in the sights and sounds, feeling the energy London generated all the way down to his toes. He loved it here. He hoped to make this his new home if at all possible. He’d have to wait and see how things went. All he knew for certain was he sure as hell wasn’t returning to the States.

  They arrived at Sarah’s flat and Mason was impressed with the simplicity of the place. She was clearly no interior decorator but had managed to create a cozy, comfortable atmosphere.

  “Lovely place,” he said. “How long have you been here?”

  “A couple of years,” she replied. “It’s costing me a bloody fortune but my folks are helping out with the rent. They refuse to let me risk getting murdered in some run-down place in a bad neighborhood. What would you like to drink? I have Guinness, some white wine and a half-bottle of Tequila.”

  “Guinness would be fine.”

  “Right, then. Make yourself comfortable—I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Mason sat down on the sofa and gazed around the flat. He wondered how anybody could live in such a tiny, cramped place and tried to imagine how much Sarah was paying for it. He knew from experience that apartments in the city cost a king’s ransom—and this place was in a prime location. He’d take his chances in the burbs before he’d ever succumb to that sort of tyranny.

  Sarah returned and he peered down her top as she bent down to hand him his stout. Soon he’d be milking those jugs, he thought, feeling a pang in his groin.

  She sat down beside him and took a sip of her drink. He could tell she was forcing herself to stay focused. “So how long will you be in town?”

  “Not sure yet. At least until the end of the week. Just going to play it by ear.”

  “Will you be returning to America then?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m going to do some traveling for a while. You might say I’m on holiday.”

  “Must be nice—I’m envious. I haven’t taken a trip in over a year.”

  “So what’s stopping you?”

  “Funds mostly. And demands of the job. My boss is a bloody slave driver.”

  “Maybe you should look for another job.”

  “I’ve kept my eyes open but nothing’s come up. At least not yet.”

  “Maybe you’ll find something soon,” he said.

  Mason to
ok a long pull of Guinness. He smelled the faint scent of Sarah’s perfume and felt the heat of her body. He stole a glance and noticed she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. Perfect.

  She took another sip of her Margarita and set the glass down on the coffee table.

  “I can’t believe how tired I am all of a sudden. Those drinks at O’Dowd’s were fookin’ powerful! Must have hired a new bartend.”

  “I’ve always appreciated heavy-handed bartenders myself. Not enough of them to go around back in the States.”

  “Jesus, I can hardly keep my eyes open! I think I’m going to have to turn in—I’m sorry.”

  “That’s fine, I understand. Is there any chance we could get together again sometime soon?”

  Sarah was running her finger along the rim of her glass. Her eyes were shut tight. She remained silent.

  “Sarah, you all right?” Mason asked.

  Her eyes flickered open a moment. “Just tired—bloody hell—”

  She fell back against the sofa like a rock.

  “Sarah?”

  There was no response. She was out cold.

  Mason stood up. He felt his heart jacking like a hammer in his chest as he took hold of Sarah’s feet and swung them up on to the sofa. He placed his hands in under her arms and gently pulled her toward the armrest before placing a throw pillow behind her head.

  “There now, that’s better.”

  He sat down on the edge of the sofa and placed both hands on her breasts. They felt warm and firm to his touch, heaving in rhythm to her deep, steady breathing. He waited a moment, content simply to sit there fondling and staring. When he couldn’t wait any longer he stood behind her, leaned over and grasped the hem of her sweater. He pulled it up in haste, his eyes becoming fixated on the sheer white fabric of her super-low-cut bra. He unfastened it with deft fingers, his breathing growing heavier by the second.

  Christ, what a pair!

  Mesmerized by her breasts and the anticipation of what was yet to come—no pun intended—Mason momentarily marveled at the power of modern science. One single roofie slipped into Sarah’s drink at the bar was all it had taken to render this fine specimen of a woman putty in his hands. Like clockwork, she had slowly but surely succumbed to the effects of the drug. Now there she lay at his beck and call—his love slave for the remainder of the night.

  There’s control and then there’s total control. This was total control. He felt like God right now. The world lay at his feet; he was all-powerful.

  He moved around to the front of the sofa and knelt down before Sarah. As he pulled down her skirt he was shocked at how hard he was panting—so hard he actually thought he might go into cardiac arrest. This was such exciting shit! Just knowing he wouldn’t have to worry about this babe recalling a goddamn thing when she awoke was about as fucking cool as it got!

  His hands now trembling, he yanked her skirt down over her knees before pausing a moment to look her over. She wore a creamy white thong that left little to the imagination. Disappointed, he wondered why women wore these things nowadays. Not only did it seem way over the top, it made them look like sluts. Like, where are your morals, girl?

  Shrugging it off—he wasn’t about to kick the slut out of bed for eating crackers—he resumed where he’d left off and managed to remove her skirt without creating a single wrinkle. He folded it up neatly and placed it on the coffee table.

  He was rock hard now and barely able to resist hopping on top of her. In a flash, he took hold of her thong and stretched out the elastic as he wrenched it down to her ankles. He removed the offensive thing and flung it across the room in disgust.

  Fucking slut!

  Mason had to stifle his anger as he peeled off his clothes. What had started out as a beautiful day was swiftly heading south. He mustn’t let this get out of hand, he reminded himself, recalling what had happened the last time.

  Never again—no way he’d ever go back to that hellhole. He’d kill himself first.

  With a vengeful smile, he commenced to reap the spoils of his conquest.

  Chapter 2

  Sam set the last box on the ottoman with a grunt, stepped over to the enormous bay window and stared out at the view. What he saw was the reason for his random bid on this place at the Sheriff’s auction: a view to die for. He’d been absolutely shocked after learning he had outbid everybody and that this place had suddenly become his new home. He’d had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

  He was now living atop the highest point in Smithtown, Ohio. This fifty-year-old, two-story split-level home was the sole dwelling on what was known as Three-Mile Hill. Sam Middleton was king of the hill, literally.

  He spent a few moments scanning the view that so far hadn’t failed to bolster his spirits. To the south the entire town spilled out below him all the way to the foothills of Kentucky across the Ohio River. To the west lay farmland as far as the eye could see bounded by a sprawling chain of hills that virtually surrounded the entire county. For these precious moments Sam felt immersed in his own little private microcosm on earth in some semblance of control, able to put his past aside—the pain, the loss, the guilt. But the moment he turned away, he felt this little slice of magic slip away, reminded once again that this diversion was little more than an illusion.

  The truth was, he was a lonely man living a lonely life. He had lost nearly everything he’d ever loved on that horrible night nearly a year ago. It had all been swept away while he was at the highest point in his life. And if it weren’t for his daughter Amy, he would never have lasted this long. Amy was his savior—Amy and her beautiful daughter.

  Ten years had passed since Sam, his estranged wife and daughter had reunited to become a happy family again. It had been pretty rough that first year, being forced to endure the repercussions of the Stanley Jenkins case that had all but taken over their lives in one way or another. But after Jenkins was convicted and sentenced to life without parole for murdering Ann’s friend Marsha Bradley, his family and the rest of Smithtown were able to breathe a collective sigh of relief. The monster had been put away and they could at last get on with their lives.

  Life had eventually returned to normal the following year. Ann began taking online courses and Amy resumed her studies as a sophomore at Smithtown High. Sam continued working as a reporter for the Smithtown Observer while writing his first mystery novel. Old wounds healed and things started looking up after it was announced that Smithtown had been chosen as the site of a new steel castings plant. The town had been in serious economic dire straits for decades.

  By the time Amy graduated high school, Ann had become a paralegal and Sam had become a published author. Amy had married Mark Quinn a few years later, whom she’d met while attending Ohio State. The young couple settled down in Columbus and soon thereafter became parents of little Hannah. From the moment he’d first held his tiny granddaughter in his arms, Sam knew he had to be the happiest man on earth. He had everything he could ever possibly hope for: a loving family and a promising new career as a novelist. Although the first of his three published novels remained his greatest commercial success, the others had earned favorable reviews and continued to sell well.

  Then suddenly everything came crashing down when Ann had been killed.

  Sam could recall that night as if it were only yesterday. He’d been in his office at home working on his latest manuscript. Ann had decided to do some shopping that evening to avoid fighting the crowds the following day. It was the holiday season with everybody gearing up for Christmas.

  Sam had spent a couple of hours writing and became concerned that Ann hadn’t come home yet. He didn’t know why or where it came from, but he had a strange feeling that something was wrong—a sort of premonition. The phone rang. It was the hospital. They had called to inform him that Ann had been struck by a vehicle while crossing a street. She was in critical condition. The driver had fled the scene.

  In utter shock, Sam sped across town to Smithtown Memorial. He was
told that Ann was in surgery and he would have to wait. So he waited. An hour later the doctor entered the waiting room. His expression was a mixture of sympathy and exhaustion as he came over to where Sam was sitting.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Middleton. I’m afraid she didn’t make it,” he said. “We did all we could but her injuries were just too serious.”

  Sam broke down and wept uncontrollably. His wonderful, beautiful wife was gone. He later learned that an eyewitness had seen a large, dark vehicle, possibly an SUV, accelerating toward Ann as she stepped off the sidewalk on to the crosswalk. The witness said it almost looked as if the hit had been intentional, taking into account how well lit the area was and the way that the SUV had seemed to speed up just before striking Ann.

  To think that the driver had mown down his wife on purpose had been the most unsettling aspect of all. Who in the world would want to harm such a sweet, wonderful woman? Sam could think of only one person: Stanley Jenkins. It was Jenkins, aka Jerry Rankin, who had assaulted Ann while holding her against her will in his country retreat and had come within minutes of murdering her. But she had been rescued just in the nick of time. Now Jenkins was out for revenge. He had failed to kill the last woman on his list and needed to finish the job.

  The former Smithtown resident/serial killer had been serving a life sentence in the state prison but had managed to escape a couple of years ago. This news had come from Sam’s longtime friend, Roger Hagstrom, the lead detective with the Smithtown PD who had taken Stanley into custody after his assault of Ann. A statewide search had been put into place to find Jenkins but he remained at large.

  Although Sam felt certain that Jenkins had killed Ann, Detective Hagstrom disagreed. For one thing, Hagstrom doubted Jenkins would take the kind of risks necessary to have committed a crime like that while on the lam. To have lain low for that long and then suddenly resurface in Smithtown of all places with the sole intent to track Ann down while she was shopping and mow her down seemed unlikely—especially taking into account he had never been sighted.