by Teri Woods
Kimberly came home from work on time as usual. He could hear her entering the apartment from the bedroom closet he was hiding in. He looked at his watch. Same time as the past three days, he thought to himself. At least she’s punctual, if nothing else. Nard heard the locks turning and the door to her apartment opening as he pulled the rope from his pocket, making sure it was there before stuffing it back. He patiently waited, and waited, and waited, resting patiently on a plastic bag of clothes that was in the corner of the closet.
Kimmie, home from work after a long hard day, did her normal routine. She played with her cat, Mittens, for a few minutes, stroking him and rubbing him behind his ears, and then she opened a can of his favorite food and served him his dinner. Then she poured a glass of white wine and made her dinner, eating it on a tray in front of her living room television, drinking another glass of wine afterward, taking a shower, and finally, lights out.
He made sure she had had enough time to fall quietly to sleep, then tiptoed from the bedroom closet over to the side of her bed, making sure not to make a sound. He stood over her, looking at her body under the sheets. She was resting peacefully, and he decided not to choke her, but to suffocate her. He lifted a pillow lying next to her as she opened her eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked, as if in a dream, but realizing she wasn’t, she began to scream.
Nard quickly took the pillow and covered her face. Kimberly fought off her attacker as best she could, but her fight was useless. Moments later, her body went limp as the last breath of air escaped her and Nard suffocated her to death.
Like a thief in the night, he left and waited patiently for her body to be discovered, her family to be notified, and her next of kin to come claim her. It was impossible to track down a person in police protective custody. Instead, Nard had decided to go about it another way, and what better way than this? The only question was whether it would work. And of course it did. Nard spotted Daisy the moment she walked through the door. His heart pounded as she walked by. This was the woman that had ruined his life. Sure, she had aged, but her face was the same, her eyes unforgettable, and besides maybe an added ten pounds, she looked just like the girl in the video he had become used to masturbating to every night. You fucking sold me out, bitch, you fucking hung me. We’ll see now, though, we’ll see now. She was dressed all in black, carrying a black clutch in her hand, a black clutch that before the day was out would be missing, until it was found in the bathroom of the funeral home.
“See, you probably left it. You’ve been so upset, this has been a very trying week,” said Webster, rubbing his wife’s back as he consoled her.
“You’re right, it has been quite stressful. I just can’t believe she’s gone. Now I have no one.”
“Yes, but at least you have your bag, and you have me,” he said, trying to cheer her up. “The most important thing is that you took care of everything for your cousin. You gave her a wonderful homecoming. And yes, the stress of leaving your bag is nothing, we found it, and all is well. Now, I’d say it’s time to catch our flight back to Scottsdale.”
Nard watched as the suited gentleman escorted Daisy, as if she couldn’t walk on her own, out the door and into a rented 760 Volvo.
“I’ll see y’all back in Scottsdale,” Nard said as he nodded to himself, looking at the address he had written down from her driver’s license. “Yep, looks like I’ll be seeing both y’all motherfuckers in a minute.”
The Come Back
Scottsdale, Arizona
One Month Later
Diana Praeliou emerged from the kitchen patio. “It’s absolutely beautiful out today,” she said to her husband as he kissed her cheek. “A perfect day for a hot-air balloon ride,” she said, like a kid wanting a lollipop in a candy store.
“I wish I could, but you know I’m out of here today.”
“Oh, yeah, that,” she said, having completely forgotten. “I remember, you did say that you had a convention in Miami, and next month, the Doctrine of Medical Excellence Ceremony, which I’m shopping for a dress to wear to as we speak.”
“I know my schedule is tight.”
“You think?” she asked sarcastically. “Do you think you could pencil me in for a quiet dinner alone, just the two of us?”
“Someone has to pay the bills around here, Diana.”
“This is true, and you do a wonderful job, honey,” she said jokingly, wrapping her arms around him.
“Do you remember the first time I ever hugged you?” he asked, as he lovingly stared into his wife’s eyes.
The first time we hugged. Only he would remember the first time we hugged. Jeez, he always does this to me.
“Hmmm, now let me see, darling,” she said, playing for more time.
“You don’t remember, so I might as well tell you.”
“No, I do, I do, wait,” she said, as her husband began fidgeting and tickling her sides.
“I know, stop that, our first hug, body to body, was at the game. Remember, the Hawks won the game seven to zero, remember, and I was there cheering and you were watching from the bleachers and you ran down on the field and you hugged me, swung me around, and squeezed the living daylights out of me,” she said, batting her perfectly fitted eyelashes at him as she felt his hand sliding down her back and into the middle of her legs.
“Now,” she said, as she passionately kissed him.
“Now,” he said, as he lay down on top of her, simply destroying her first attempt at getting dressed for the day. They passionately made love as they did most mornings, a perfect start to every waking day they spent together. Webster came inside his wife, taking less than five minutes from start to finish, but leaving Diana with a feeling that could last an eternity.
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” she said, smiling as she wrapped her arms around her husband and moved her leg in between his, holding on to him as if to let him go would be to let go of her last breath.
“I wish I didn’t have to go, too, but can you wait for Spain or what?” he asked, kissing the tip of her nose.
“No, no, I absolutely can’t. Spain is going to simply be the best, our fourteenth wedding anniversary, and we’re going to see the bullfighting. Oh, my God, Webster, can you believe it’s been fourteen years?” she asked.
“No, it doesn’t seem like we’ve been married that long.”
“I know, right, but it’s been the best ride of my life and you’ve been the best husband a girl could ask for. I do dreadfully adore you, and I am most proud of you,” she said before kissing his lips gently.
“I love you, too, more than you will ever know.”
He kissed her cheek as several knocks on their bedroom door startled them.
“Yes, Rosa?” she asked, as Webster walked into the bathroom and out of sight.
“Excuse me, Señora Praeliou, would you like me to make your breakfast now?” asked Rosa, her housekeeper.
“No, I think I’ll take a ride this morning. I would like a hot bath drawn for me when I come back and then I’ll have my breakfast,” she said, tying her hair in a long ponytail on top of her head.
“You going for a ride?”
“Yes. I will see you when you get back. Safe travels, my love,” she said, offering a quick peck of the lips to seal the deal of his safely returning to her. While Webster showered, she quickly dressed and grabbed a pair of rusty brown Valentino riding boots from her closet.
The stables where her champion stallion Thoroughbreds were kept was a half-mile walk from the house. Carlos, their butler, had a golf cart. Rosa used a walkie-talkie to reach him, and he was at the side door waiting to whisk Diana away to the stables. Polo, Misfit, and Rags were all retired now from racing, but they had made their owner, Diana Praeliou, a very rich woman. Misfit had won the Kentucky Derby and had taken the Triple Crown. Misfit had made Diana rich beyond her wildest dreams. Rags had won four Grade One races, including the Breeder’s Cup Classic at Belmont Park, and he had been Horse of the Year in 2004, 2005, and 2
006. He retired with a record of twelve wins, nine second-place finishes, and one third-place finish. His career earnings topped five million four hundred fifty-three thousand dollars, no cents required. She herself would have never believed it had she not known better. Polo, until he injured his left leg, had been a prize-winning racehorse. His record far outweighed that of Misfit and Rags. He took home first place at every race, and every horse show, but after he fell and suffered a fractured leg, she never raced him again. Instead, he retired to a quiet, tranquil life with her. “We might be a little broken, hey, Polo, but we’re survivors, huh, boy,” she’d always tell him, feeling most attached to him and most grateful for all the high times he had brought her.
It was Webster who first introduced Diana to the thrill of riding. Until then, the last creature she ever dreamed of having for a pet was a horse, but Diana loved her stallions so passionately that she cared for them personally. Even though she had stableboys to walk them, feed them, and brush them daily, she still every day was hands-on with them. For her, they were the babies she never had, and she loved each of them dearly. Some women get dogs from their husbands; Diana got Thoroughbreds. Sometimes she thought she was closer to her horses than she was to her husband. All the time he spent at the hospital and at Bio One’s pharmaceutical facility, took up the time he would have spent being the perfect doting husband. But Diana understood, and she gave her husband all the mental and physical support he needed to be one of the creative, genius forces behind Bio One’s search for a cure to Alzheimer’s. It was unbelievable, and she would have never imagined twenty years ago that her life would be this rich in luxury or love, but it was, and now her husband was receiving recognition for his contributions in medicine. His discoveries were groundbreaking. The practice of medicine had led Webster all over the world to care for the sick. And over the years he had grown into the security of having a beautiful, strong, faithful wife by his side. Not only was Diana the epitome of grace and charm, but she had a feminine quality that other women seemingly could not project. She walked into a room and effortlessly illuminated it. People were attracted to her beauty and charm, and of course most of the men in their tight-knit circle of friends secretly lusted to share her bed. They were unable to take their eyes off her, even in the presence of her husband. If he hadn’t been told what a lucky man he was at least one hundred thousand times, his name wasn’t Webster Praeliou. Her every move was watched, from how she held her husband’s hand, to how she danced the waltz, to every bite she’d take of her liver pâte. And she commanded respect. Had she wished for others to bow as if in the presence of true royalty, then it would have been so. In the secret society of Scottsdale’s Who’s Who, Webster and Diana Praeliou were at the top of the list, invited to every event and envied by everyone who had the pleasure of being in their company. They were the social couple of the century, throwing fundraisers and donating time to raising funds for city and state officials. Diana Praeliou could throw a barbecue in her backyard and rake in more than five hundred thousand dollars for charity. She was a mover and a shaker, and she made things happen. Every year Diana threw a Christmas party in their home for all Webster’s family and friends. The guest list was over five hundred people. Every name on the list was someone of great importance, from the city and state politicians to the medical professionals associated with her husband’s practice and every other scientist on his team from Bio One. They were all in attendance. No doubt, Webster and Diana Praeliou had the perfect life, she was the perfect wife, and he was the perfect husband. They were two souls that had joined together as man and wife in a union truly blessed by God. And in the past twenty years, there had been no man or woman who could come between them. How many women could say they were married to a neurosurgeon, a genius, a rich, handsome genius who happened to be on the cusp of a cure for Alzheimer’s? Forget the money. They were rich beyond their wildest dreams, but then again, money meant nothing, they already had everything they wanted financially and materially, and most important, they had each other, and for the two of them, that was all that mattered.
Diana finished her ride with Rags, patted him down, told him what a good boy he was at least one hundred times, then called for Carlos on the walkie-talkie. Once in her bedroom, she began to undress as Rosa prepared her bath and turned on the plasma flat-screen hanging on the wall above the Jacuzzi. She put on a robe and walked into the wall-to-wall marble bathroom. She handed her robe to Rosa as Rosa held her hand and helped her sit down.
“Bien?” Rosa asked.
“Si, bien, Rosa. Gracias.”
The Jacuzzi sat catty-corner under a large window with a perfect, picturesque view of the Arizona desert and Camelback Mountain. Several large saguaros, cactuses, and paloverdes lined the yard. There were scattered patches of red fairy dusters and desert willows and a few summer poppies strategically placed around the backyard. Arizona was truly the home of mother earth, and all the holistic benefits of the desert were there at Diana’s fingertips. At forty-two years old, she looked as if she could pass for her late twenties or early thirties.
“Señora Praeliou, will you be eating downstairs today?” asked Rosa.
“No, I’ll eat on the bedroom balcony. Bring the newspaper and the mail also,” she ordered, before pressing a button and turning on the twenty-two-jet Jacuzzi.
Diana finished her bath and dressed in a cool tan-colored sweatsuit and white tee. Her toes were perfectly manicured, and she slipped on a pair of Bonjour Fleurette slippers and made her way to the balcony. A tray containing fresh fruit, toast, preserves, and freshly squeezed orange juice was waiting on the master bedroom balcony. She sat down, glanced at the headlines in today’s Arizona Capitol Times, and then started to open the small pile of mail.
The envelope she held in her hand was handwritten, barely legible, foreign to her. She opened it and pulled out a folded sheet of yellow tablet paper. Small and large cut-out letters that had been pasted on the page read: “I know who you are, Daisy. Does your husband? Call this number, 602-555-3773, at 4:00 p.m. today or I call Webster!”
Large letters, small letters, red letters, black letters, white letters, all cut out and pasted on yellow tablet letter paper. She read it again, and again, and again as a horrible feeling of uncertainty fell on her shoulders like a heavy burden. It seemed as though someone was out there, watching her. He called Webster by name. Oh, my God, what am I going to do? She folded the note and put it back in the envelope.
“What am I going to do?”
“I am sorry, you talk to me, Señora?” asked Rosa, who was coming in to take the tray.
“Oh, my God, you startled me,” said Diana. She had not realized Rosa was in the room behind her. “Rosa, please, some privacy for one moment.”
“Do you need anything, Señora?”
“No, no, just a few minutes alone.”
“Si, Señora,” Rosa said, closing the bedroom door behind her.
Diana began to pace across the floor of the room. What do they want? Why, why now, after all these years, why? All those years of lying, pretending, and living a life that was a lie. She thought back to when she was younger, to all the mistakes of her past. She thought she had put them to rest, skeletons in a locked closet. She had paid her price and been given another chance at life. But now, all that was turning upside down, and her past was here, right here in her present. Jesus, what am I going to do? She had no options. The bottom line was that Webster could never, ever find out who she really was or any other sordid detail of her dirty, trifling life. Her secrets had to remain safe and unknown. It would ruin her marriage, ruin her life, and ruin everything. No, her secrets must never ever be exposed. She would do whatever had to be done to keep her past life a lie. She had to. She had no other choice. It was the only way to protect her husband, to protect their perfect life.
Cocktail Time
Diana left her house at three-forty-five and went to the closest gas station where there was a pay phone. Whoever this person was, she didn’t
want him connected to her in any way. That meant she wasn’t calling whoever it was from her house or her cell. She knew she had to think, and think smart. She wanted nothing more than to make sure that whoever this person was, he could never be traced back to her once this was over.
She parked her car, looked at her watch, and grabbed her purse. It cost fifty cents to make a pay phone call. She remembered the days it only cost a dime. She looked at the cut-and-paste note in her hand. It disgusted her that someone would even have the audacity to put her through this. Whatever it was he wanted she needed to know. Then she wanted him to be done with it. And if he even thought about coming back, then she would know she had a bigger problem. But first, she needed to find out exactly what this guy wanted.
She dialed the number, and a man’s voice answered on the first ring.
“Hello, what do you want from me?” she asked, completely frozen still at the thought of being blackmailed.
“I’m glad you don’t want to beat around the bush. Let’s just say I have video footage and photos of you doing what you do best.” Nard chuckled as he spoke, just fucking with her.
“And why should I believe you,” she asked.
“I can post it online for you, if you like, or just turn the bachelor party with you and your girlfriend into a DVD. Wow, I didn’t know some of the shit you’re doing was humanly possible, but somehow you managed, amazing, really amazing. One hundred thousand dollars, bitch. No more questions. You meet me in one hour at the Sleep Inn near the airport. Go into the back of the hotel and park next to the green Dumpster. And you better be there in one hour, alone, or the deal’s off. Understood?”
“That’s not enough time,” she said calmly, recalling the night she and Trixie did a bachelor party for Sticks and were drugged with the date-rape drug, gamma-hydroxybutyrate, which the streets referred to as a mickey. Trixie never came back from it. That night, thanks to Daisy, messed her up for the rest of her life.