by Jada Ryker
Mist…a cemetery. As she stared at the pages of her book, Marisa remembered the old, neglected graveyard on the grounds. Mrs. Hill, the nursing home administrator, had tried to get permission to raze the old tombstones. Because it was a historic site, not to mention hallowed ground, her request was denied.
Marisa shot straight up in bed, sending her book flying to the floor. What if that was the cemetery Jonah had been talking about? Not long ago, one of the nursing assistants had told her and Althea about the cemetery and the path to reach it, and had waved in its general direction.
After a wild ride through the dark streets, Marisa guided her car through the tree-lined driveway and into an empty spot in the parking lot of the nursing home. Shivering, she gripped both her flashlight and her resolve. Marisa strode through the parking lot and into the woods. Playing the beam of the flashlight on the ground, she found the trail the nursing assistant had mentioned.
As she pushed past clinging branches and sticky spider webs, Marisa thought she heard something behind her. She stopped and cocked her head. A scurrying in the underbrush was probably an animal. She let out her breath and pushed on.
When the path widened into the clearing, the crumbling headstones were dark shadows in the pale moonlight. Tendrils of mist seemed to crawl among the headstones. Unseen crickets chirped.
Marisa swallowed. It was definitely creepy. She thought about all of the zombie movies she’d ever seen. If this was a horror movie, she’d wonder at the stupidity of the woman to explore a graveyard at night.
When an owl’s mournful hoot broke the silence, Marisa jumped and dropped her flashlight. Feeling foolish, she retrieved it from the ground. She moved slowly among the headstones.
A mound caught her eye. Was it a new grave that hadn’t yet had time to settle? Marisa shook her head. None of the graves could be newer than a hundred years.
Marisa forced herself forward. She couldn’t go running back to the nursing home in hysterics without checking it out. What if it was just an old coat? She’d look ridiculous causing a huge brouhaha over discarded clothing. Her hand shaking, Marisa shone the flashlight onto the lump.
Long, black hair trailed from a still, pale face. The low-cut top was stained black on the left side. The short, leather skirt revealed dead white thighs. The legs and arms were flung out on the dirt and leaves near a shadowy tombstone, as if she’d tried to catch herself from falling backward. Marisa reached for a white hand. It was cold as ice. When she tried to move the arm, it was stiff.
Marisa lurched to her feet, her ankle twisting painfully. Her arms flailing, she stumbled backward. Strong hands gripped her shoulders. She tried to kick her assailant’s ankles and twist away from the painful fingers. “Let me go!” She turned her head and bit one of the restraining hands.
“Ow! Would you stop? I work at the nursing home. I saw a light in the woods, and I came out to investigate.” He released her and shone his own flashlight into his face. The light reflected glasses and short black hair. “Russell Meeks, the payroll coordinator. I’ve seen you at work, visiting Mrs. Flaxton. Now, let’s see what is going on here.”
CHAPTER FIVE
In the dim pool of light cast by her reading lamp, Althea laughed softly to herself. Her alternate identity as Seretha Ranier was a well-kept secret, and she planned to keep it that way. Althea settled in her chair and her fingers nimbly flew across the keys of the ancient manual typewriter.
As the Crow Flies
By Seretha Ranier
Part One
Her chapped hands tightened around the steering wheel as Fresna peered through the heavy rain pounding on her windshield. In an effort to see further than a foot in front of her headlights, she flipped her defroster as high as it would go and switched her wiper setting to frantic. She had to get to work at the nursing home in time for her afternoon shift. However, she also needed to get there in one piece.
What would her husband do if she got herself smashed to pieces along the wooded, two-lane road? As she thought of Steve, her hands gripped the wheel tighter. Would he grieve? Would his heart ache? Fresna shook her head, tossing around the dull, graying hair just below her shoulders. If any tears fell, they would stem from his loss of a free meal ticket. Even a fleeting sense of his grief would be easily assuaged by her life insurance policy.
After getting fired from his last job, it took Steve a year to find his present position, loading boxes at a warehouse. She snorted to herself. He hadn’t even looked for the damn job; rather, his brother practically forced it on him.
Only two weeks at the warehouse, and it had already started; Steve complaining about how hard he has to work. How he doesn’t like the way his boss treats him or plays favorites, and his assumption that his co-workers were out to get him by making him look bad. Oh, yes, it had started... and she knew exactly how it would end.
Why did she continue to expect anything different from him? Steve’s father had spent decades on the couch in front of the TV, with a “bad back”, while his dutiful wife worked full-time as a waitress, took care of the house, and raised the children. And yet, whenever Fresna’s father-in-law wanted to go to the pool hall or fishing with his buddies, his “bad back” never prevented him.
Steve had always been lazy and self-centered––just like his father––and that would never change.
Fresna’s eyes filled with tears. At the same moment, the sky flooded with white lightning and a huge, black mass covered the windshield.
Fresna braked, turning the wheel as hard as she could toward the right shoulder. The car jarred to a stop.
“What the heck? Did I slide off the shoulder?”
The unidentified black object disappeared from the windshield, as if it had flown away or was pushed off by the wind. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky as she opened the door and slid out onto the gravel. Fresna walked to the front of the car to investigate. Her wheel had fallen off, leaving the jutting metal bare.
Fresna dropped her jaw and covered her mouth with her hand. “Thank God that black shape hit my windshield! If I hadn’t stopped before the wheel fell off, the car would have careened out of control and...”
She sucked in her breath. “If I died, Steve would be set with the money from my life insurance policy, and he’d never have to work again. He would be able to sit at home, and play those dark, twisted video games all night and sleep all day. Just like he always does when he’s not employed—”
Althea stopped, her fingers resting on her typewriter keys. She listened. A stealthy, rustling noise came from right outside her bedroom. She knew the nursing assistants, Flora May and Starla, were working through their bed checks and changes on the other wing. It couldn’t be them.
A lump of fear lodged itself in her throat, threatening to choke her. Her mind flew to Marisa’s horrifying experience earlier in the day. What if Jonah’s grandmother hadn’t died of natural causes? What if the murderer was working his way through the nursing home, picking off the residents one by one?
With a firm admonishment to herself to get a grip, she pushed the panic down. She was being an alarmist. However…What about a weapon? Just in case. Not her cane. She needed it to keep her steady on her feet. She racked her brain. Her knitting bag! It always hung on her bedrail, handy for her use whenever she wanted to work on the soft, woolly sweater for Marisa’s birthday. Now it was the heat of late summer. However, fall would soon be here, and a nice sweater would keep her dear friend warm and toasty. And she’d chosen a nice, bright color, too…candy apple red. Marisa had really gone too far with the somber colors. She was becoming positively dowdy…
Althea reined in her drifting thoughts. There could be a murderer waiting outside her room, and she was worried about Marisa’s color and style choices!
Althea stiffly pulled herself to her feet and reached for her aluminum cane. Thanks to her intensive therapy, she was walking fairly well now with the help of her cane. Proud of her quite steady hands, Althea snagged the bag off the rail. She
dug into the silken rectangle, and disentangled the cool metal of one of the needles from the fluffy red wool. One hand gripped her cane and the other clutched the knitting needle like a weapon.
Her feet silent in her fuzzy slippers and her cane muted by its rubber tip, Althea crossed the dimly lit room. She stopped short as she noticed her door standing open. She was positive the nurse had closed it.
As she stepped through the doorway, she collided with a dark figure.
The murderer! With a soft oomph, the shape staggered. They both fell against the wall. Quickly, she brought up her fist, the knitting needle clutched in it. The figure twisted against her body, and a strong hand grabbed her wrist.
In the dim illumination from the baseboard lighting, Althea realized the strong profile and thick hair were familiar. “Clay Napier!”
“What on earth is in your hand?” He emitted a low chuckle. “Are you preparing to slit my throat with a stiletto you’ve just drawn from your garter?” He pulled her hand up nearer his face and examined her weapon. “Ah ha, the dreaded knitting needle, just right for disemboweling the unwary!”
Althea was stunned. Her fear was soon swallowed by her anger, and she tried to push his heavy weight away from her. “What were you doing lurking outside my room?”
“I don’t lurk. Well, hardly ever. I wanted to talk to you. It concerns your friend.”
Alarmed, Althea’s hand flew to her heart. “What’s happened to Marisa?”
With a small grunt, Clay pulled himself away her. He refused to think about how her body had felt against his. He picked up her cane from the floor, and hooked it over his arm. His sharp features softened by concern, he tried to place both his hands comfortingly over her clenched fist. He flinched when the sharp point of the knitting needle pricked his hand. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He ran his tongue over his suddenly dry lips, not sure how much she knew. “I saw you earlier with Marisa Adair. Did Ms. Adair tell you what happened to her today?”
“Of course she told me,” snapped Althea, pushing away his hands. “If you’re here to pump me for details with which to titillate your audience of adoring fans, then you can just march right on back to your own room.” Althea lifted her chin in defiance, noticing although Clay was fully dressed, his suit was creased and his white shirt was rumpled.
Clay’s grim lips unexpectedly curved into a slight smile. “My adoring fans? I didn’t think you cared enough about me to notice me and my activities.”
Althea huffed, “It’s not as if I care what you do. It’s so obvious, I’d have to be blind not to notice.”
“Notice what? That I’m polite and mind my manners with the other residents?” countered Clay mildly, raising his silver brows in gentle inquiry.
“Do you think I’m a complete idiot? If a sociologist had been observing your deplorable behavior with the female residents, he’d publish a paper entitled ‘Mating Habits of Senior Citizens in Captivity’!”
When Clay’s face stiffened and his gray eyes flashed in stormy anger, Althea feared she’d gone too far.
Clay’s gravelly voice was taunt with simmering anger. “If being sociable with the other residents is a crime, then I plead guilty. It helps pass the interminable time for me, and enlivens my days in this God-forsaken place. However,” Clay leaned into her, meeting her wide eyes directly, “I have never laid a hand on any woman in this place. My heart belongs to another, and I’ll never settle for anyone but her.”
In spite of herself, Althea was touched by the old-fashioned words. Clay must be in love with a deceased spouse or long-ago sweetheart, she thought. For some reason, the idea was depressing. Her grave face pale and translucent in the dim light, she met his eyes in tentative apology. “I’m sorry, Mr. Napier, if I jumped to conclusions.”
Clay’s stern face relaxed slightly, but remained solemn. “Please call me Clay.” He looked around the deserted hall. “Let’s find a better place to talk.” As he handed her cane to her, he quirked a silver brow. “I’m assuming you’re not inviting me into your room.” He saw her chest rise in outrage, and hurried on before she could explode. “Perhaps a secluded corner of the common room will serve our purpose.”
As the couple made their nearly noiseless way through the dimly lit, deserted corridor, the sharp tones of venomous anger shattered the quiet.
Jolted, Althea glanced at Clay. He placed a silent finger to his lips.
They moved to a door which stood slightly ajar, the light from the opening slanting across the tiled floor.
“You’re a pathetic old woman and you’ve been a burden to me all of my life! You even kept me from getting what’s rightfully mine! Last year, when my father died, he left his pile of money to you, a woman he’d left in the dirt twenty-five years ago! He should have left it to me, his only remaining child! Now, you just lie here, day after day, while the bills for this hideously expensive place constantly eat away at my inheritance in greedy, horrendous chunks!”
Clay lunged to the door, elbowing his way inside the room, with Althea close on his heels.
The dark figure was bent over the hospital bed, his pudgy hands grasping the elderly woman’s shoulders and shaking her like a terrier with a chew toy. His bald crown and greasy ponytail gleaming in the overhead light, the round, middle-aged man swung around in surprise.
Her eyes taking in the frightened eyes and pale face of the woman in the bed, Althea hurried to the terrified woman. A low snarl caused her to swing her head around. Althea blinked in shock. Clay Napier seemed to have grown a foot taller. His white head was thrown up and his strong chin jutted in sharp aggression. Poised for attack, his shoulders seemed wider under the rumpled jacket. Instead of an elderly man, he had morphed into a huge, silver jungle cat, his body ready to spring for the kill.
As quietly as a hunting cheetah, Clay approached his prey. He towered over the short, gibbering man like an avenging fury. Twisted by rage, his face was nearly unrecognizable. His eyes seemed to have absorbed the darkness, and concentrated entirely on the man who had raised his ire. He quickly pinned the younger man to the wall with his cane at the man’s throat.
Sputtering with fear and rage, he tried in vain to wiggle out of Clay’s iron-hard grip.
“If you don’t be still, I’ll strangle you, you cowardly, despicable lowlife.” He pushed harder, turning the sputters into wheezing gags.
Clay was transformed into a predator, preparing to slay his prey. Unconsciously, Althea braced herself for a howl of rage. The soft, controlled tones were somehow more menacing, and caused a chill of fear to trickle down her spine. “Be quiet and listen, you little worm. You’ll upset your mother even more with your pitiful mewlings.”
Surprisingly, the man stopped struggling. When Clay marginally loosened his hold on the man’s throat, he actually laughed from his uncomfortable position. “At first, I didn’t recognize you. I’ve seen you here. You’re nothing but a broken down old man, just sitting here day after day, waiting to die. And now, you’ve gone psycho, senselessly attacking the defenseless family member of a resident.” The mirth left his face as he snarled. “You are in big trouble. I’ll sue you and this place, and when I’m done, I’ll own whatever you have AND this nursing home! I’ll buy cars, luxury home…maybe even a boat.”
“You won’t sue me or anyone else. Don’t you know what you’ve done to your mother is abuse, and is a criminal offense? I have the legal and moral obligation to contact the authorities about it. With my testimony and Mrs. Flaxton’s supporting eyewitness account, you’ll be put away for a long time in an extremely unpleasant place.”
Clay shook the man and bared his teeth in his face. “You’re an unappetizing specimen, but I’m sure some big, brawny prisoner will take a shine to you while you serve your sentence. He’ll protect you from the really violent prisoners. For a price, that is...and unfortunately for your hemorrhoids, I don’t mean money.”
As the pleasant, misty vision of cars, boats, and luxury homes purchased with funds from
a lucrative lawsuit faded from his mind to be replaced with a much darker one, the pudgy man began to struggle.
“However, Mr. Witherspoon, I think we could perhaps reach a mutually satisfying compromise. If Mrs. Flaxton and I kept our mouths shut, you’d have nothing to worry about.”
“Do you want money?” he gasped, his face flushing in anger.
“We have no interest in your money. In exchange for our silence and your continued freedom, you will become the model son. Under my personal supervision, you will visit your mother once per week. You will concentrate exclusively on making those visits happy for her. You will tell her, at length and in great detail, what a wonderful woman she is and how happy you are to be her loving son.”
Squirming and sputtering, Witherspoon wiggled helplessly. “That’s extortion! You can’t do that to me!”
Clay shook his head sadly. “Extortion. It is such a harsh word with negative connotations. I prefer to think of it as friendly persuasion.”
He glanced over toward the bed, still gripping the hapless Witherspoon. “I see the solicitous Mrs. Flaxton is blocking Mrs. Witherspoon’s vision of our—negotiations—quite effectively. Since Mrs. Witherspoon is rather hard of hearing, there’s no reason for her to ever know the details of our deal.”
The shorter man struggled against the hands holding him to the wall. “Why are you doing this? Why do you care?”
“I have many reasons, although I’m not sure how many, if any, of them you would understand. For one, every human being deserves to be treated with dignity and respect, regardless of his or her age. Secondly, I can’t sit idly by and allow a helpless, vulnerable person who cannot fight back to be attacked by the one person she loves most. Also, and perhaps most compelling, it so happens I have had numerous conversations with your mother. She worked long, grueling hours in a food-processing factory for twenty years after her husband, in the throes of a mid-life crisis involving your eighteen-year-old babysitter, left her and their four young children. Your brother was killed in an automobile accident ten years ago. Five years ago, your sister’s abusive husband killed her, your other sister, and himself. That leaves you, miserable and despicable as you are, as the last child to make a mother’s last years pleasant and comfortable.”