by Peter Parken
Not one light was on in the house—darkness was preferred. The only illumination coming into the room was from the constant parade of headlights going up and down the busy street that his dingy rental home was situated on. God, he missed his old house. And, God, he missed Linda. Terribly.
John poured himself another full glass of scotch, then lit another cigarette. The ashtray was half full and the bottle was half empty. He was making progress.
As he sat there getting more and more drunk, he took stock of his new status.
He was alone without the love of his life. Linda was gone forever—all he had left were the memories they’d made together. There would never be another Linda and he might have another thirty years in front of him without her. That thought made his heart ache.
He had a son, but had no idea where he was. And Vincent wanted nothing to do with his dad anyway. He wondered how he was doing, what he looked like, who was in his life.
He had lost the job that he’d toiled at for decades—a job that for the most part he’d loved, except for the TWA 800 lies and the Black Mamba tragedy.
John had discovered that he could kill, and kill quite easily. He’d slaughtered four men in ways that would probably make even the most hardened murderers cringe. He’d discovered a rage inside him that had become insatiable.
And the end result of the Black Mamba intrigue was a faked terrorist attack on innocent Americans. The images of those poor souls lying in the streets of Milwaukee tugged at John’s heart. The heart-tugging part was a good thing though—it was encouraging to John that he hadn’t totally lost himself.
He took a long sip of scotch and lit another cigarette.
Poor Doctor Joyce Hatfield. She had been so happy—it was probably the highlight of her career, and John wished he could have celebrated a bit with her. She was a good person.
But what Joyce didn’t understand was that John was shattered with the news. It was the last news he’d wanted to hear. He had been welcoming death. Wanted it to hurry up. It was the only thing that had kept him going since Linda died. He needed to join her and there was absolutely nothing on earth that was worth living for anymore.
He had no purpose, no zeal, and no passion. And that emptiness inside had helped him become a killer. It was that absence of feeling that had enabled him to exact vengeance for Linda. It allowed the rage to burn through him to the point where he became an animal—just long enough to do what needed to be done.
Because he knew at that time that he wouldn’t have to live with it for very long.
But now he would have to live with it.
And because of the ‘miracle’ it would be decades before he saw Linda again.
John chugged the rest of his scotch and stubbed out his cigarette. Then he stood up, swaying a bit from the scotch, and felt his way through the dark to the basement stairway. He flicked on the light switch and held on tight to the railing as he made his way down the steep stairs.
He staggered with purpose towards the stool in the corner. Picked it up and carried it over to the center of the room, placing it underneath the noose that was still hanging from the steel beam running along the underside of the ceiling.
John Fletcher took a deep breath and climbed on top of the stool. He positioned the noose around his neck and adjusted the knot to the back and slightly to the side. Then he pulled tight on the knot until he could feel his neck bulge and his throat constrict.
John closed his eyes and thought a silent prayer.
Then she was there.
He saw Linda as clear as day, floating once again in front of his eyes. She was frowning at him and her mouth wore that cute little pout that she always put on when she didn’t get her way.
Her hair was flowing down past her shoulders and her eyes had that same twinkle that he remembered and adored. God, he loved her.
Then she spoke. But not really—it was not the same as listening to someone speak. There was no sound—it was only in his head. The words bypassed his ears and went directly to his brain. It was a weird sensation, but weirdly wonderful.
“John, you’re making me sad.”
He answered her, not with the spoken word but with his brain—silent words.
“I want to be with you. There’s nothing here for me.”
“You’re a good person, John. What you did for me was heroic. You shouldn’t be ashamed of yourself. It had to be done and you did it. You did it for me, but also for so many others.”
“I’m not the same person I was, Linda. The only way I can be the same is to be with you again.”
“I don’t want you to do this, John. I don’t want you to come to me this way.”
“I have nothing to live for here.”
“Yes, you do. You have reasons to live.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I won’t let you do this, John. I made you all better for a reason.”
“Why did you do that? When you rubbed my head that night, it was soothing. But if I’d known what you were really trying to do, I would have chased you away. I wouldn’t have to do this now if you’d left me alone.”
“I couldn’t leave you alone then, John. You know that. And I can’t leave you alone now either. I’m going to stop you.”
“There’s nothing you can do to stop me, Linda dear. I’m coming to you tonight.”
“No, you’re not. I love you, John.”
Then she was gone. John was all alone in a musty basement with a noose around his neck. The same noose that not too long ago he’d used to execute a man in cold blood.
Well, he wouldn’t be long.
John raised his right foot and pulled it back behind him. He was just about to give the stool a mighty kick when the phone rang. He suspended his foot in midair. He didn’t know why, but for some reason he waited until the phone rang three times after which he knew the message machine would pick up.
Then he heard a familiar voice. It still sounded the same, even though it had been more than ten years since he’d last heard it.
“Dad, it’s me, Vincent. If you’re there, please pick up. I know it’s been a long time and maybe you don’t even want to ever hear my voice again…but I hope you do. I was planning to surprise you tomorrow, but I just got this sudden urge tonight to give you a call.
“I’m flying back to the States tomorrow. That lawyer you hired tracked me down—he told me about Mom. I’m so sorry and so sad that she’s gone. Dad, I want you and me to start fresh—life’s too short. And I’ll have a surprise for you when I come; actually two surprises. My wife is the first surprise—and guess what? Her name is Linda, just like Mom! Isn’t that weird? You’ll love her—she’s a lot like Mom, too. And I have a son! He’s five now. And I named him after you, Dad. You’re a grandfather to yet another John Fletcher. Okay, just wanted to let you know. We’ll see you tomorrow. And…I love you, Dad. I’ve missed you.”
As tears poured down his face in a torrent, John concentrated on keeping his balance. It wasn’t easy with the inebriated state he was in. Slowly and carefully, he brought his right foot back down to the top of the stool. Then he loosened the knot and yanked the noose from around his neck.
Before even stepping down from the stool, he began making mental notes. He had to shop for groceries…and toys. And…he had to make up the two guest bedrooms, and…
But the first thing he was going to do was burn the noose. And then give some more water to the new grass sprouts in the backyard.
John raised his wet eyes upward and smiled through his tears. “I love you, Linda. Thank you. See you later?”
The Authors
Peter Parkin
Peter was born in Toronto, Canada, and after studying Business Administration at Ryerson University he embarked on a thirty-four year career in the business world, primarily spent in the executive ranks. He retired in 2007 after serving as the Chief Operating Officer of a major national company. Peter has written six novels; the last four with co-author, Alison Darby, of England. When he's
not writing novels, Peter is active serving as a Director on four corporate boards. He has two grown sons and two grandsons and resides near the city of Calgary, on the threshold of the Rocky Mountains of Western Canada. Find out more about Peter by visiting his website. http://www.peterparkin.com.
Alison Darby
Alison is a life-long resident of the West Midlands region of England. She studied psychology in college and when she's not juggling a busy work life and writing novels, she enjoys researching the wonders of astronomy. Alison has co-authored four novels with Peter Parkin, and has two grown daughters who live and work in the vibrant city of London. Alison resides in an historic home in the charming town of Tettenhall, U.K.