Dark Screams, Volume 5

by Dark Screams- Volume 5 (retail) (epub)

  “Stay here,” he instructed his wide-eyed wife.

  Fists clenched and wearing only boxer shorts, Arn made his way toward the garage. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, with every step he mentally prepared what to do should there really be an intruder. Hit first, hit fast, and make an example out of anyone foolish enough to try to steal his mint-condition Camaro.

  The walk from the bedroom through the living room to the hallway leading to the garage took only a few seconds, but tonight it felt like a lifetime. Arn’s heartbeat pounded in his ears, and images of some drug-crazed, hippie cult members flashed through his overactive imagination.

  His shaky fingers gripping the doorknob, he hoped the element of surprise would work for him. There would be no easing the door. Instead he swung it open and flipped on the light.

  “Hey!”

  Instead of some drug-crazed long-hair, Arn recognized the intruder.

  Eyes bugging out of his zit-laden face, Joey Monahan was a gangly eighteen-year-old who used to deliver the local newspaper, mow lawns, and walk dogs in the neighborhood before he turned into a good-for-nothing delinquent.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  They both knew.

  To run seemed futile. Arn would certainly call his parents or the police or both. His folks he could handle, but the law was a much different story.

  If the homeowner called the cops, Joey understood that he was going back to County. The last time he got locked up he had been assaulted and raped repeatedly by sadistic inmates. Back against the wall, Joey would rather die than suffer through that hell again.

  In a flash, the car thief whipped out a Buck knife.

  “Joey, put that away.”

  “So you can call the cops on me? No fucking way.”

  Rather than run, Joey took a step forward.

  “Don’t make this situation worse than it already is,” Arn tried to reason, but his voice cracked.

  Another step. This time more determined. Killing Arn was the only way to stay out of jail and get what he wanted.

  “I just want to take your car for a spin.”

  Joey was full of shit. You don’t steal a man’s prized possession—that of a neighbor, no less—and after taking it for a joy ride, return it.

  A glint of light flashed off the American-made blade as Joey raised the knife with murderous intentions.

  Bamm!

  Blowing out his eardrum, a .38-caliber bullet zipped past Arn’s head and entered Joey’s pimply face. The slug exited through the back of Joey’s skull, splattering blood and gore all over the immaculate Camaro.

  Smoke wafting out from the revolver’s barrel, Betty looked to her husband.

  Nobody was going to hurt her man or steal his precious car.

  This was the first time either had seen a dead body or been involved in anything quite so irreversible. Neither had ever been arrested, and for the most part they were law-abiding, decent people. Other than owning a much-coveted car, they had done nothing to bring this horrible situation upon themselves.

  It seemed like an eternity before either person spoke.

  “We have to get rid of the body,” Arn declared, trying his best to remain calm.

  “But his parents will be looking for him.”

  “So we’ll make it so they never find him.”

  After wrapping Joey in plastic and putting him in the not particularly large trunk, the couple did their best to emulate what the drive-in movies had taught them about disposing of a corpse.

  Making sure not to exceed the speed limit, they drove high up into the mountains and, with the headlights on low, slowly entered a dense forest. When a narrow dirt trail proved no longer drivable, they carried the body, which was surprisingly heavy.

  After finding a very remote, secluded area, Arn quickly dug a hole and left the rest to Mother Nature.

  No secret remains buried forever.

  The remains of Joseph Monahan were eventually discovered in a shallow grave in Topanga Canyon. That unearthing occurred at the end of 1998 by a search team looking for female victims of a sadistic serial killer. The rapist-murderer was convicted of five slayings but linked to eighteen possible disappearances. To avoid the death penalty, the repugnant murderer agreed to cooperate with law enforcement and help them solve other cold cases.

  When a search team discovered rotted bones, including a molted skull with a bullet hole, that forensically proved to be male bones, the convicted killer insisted he had nothing to do with that kill. As he put it, he “only hunts cunt.”

  The authorities believed him, as further analysis revealed this was approximately a thirty-year-old crime. The serial killer would have been about three when it occurred.

  No one ever suspected Arn or Betty. That it had been a case of self-defense was moot, since the couple never spoke about the shooting or disposing of the corpse. Their unwavering love for each other understood the strength of silence.

  The Camaro Super Sport showed its mechanical gratitude for the owners who saved it from being stolen by some greasy punk by never breaking down or giving them any major problems. A tune-up every few months, change the brakes and get an alignment, but right up until the day Arn passed away in 2013, the car drove smoothly.

  When she got the call that Arn had died from a series of health complications, Betty wished that it had been her instead. Regardless of how old and frail they’d grown, to no longer have the love of her life went beyond excruciating. Her suffering cloaked her in darkness, consuming her with spiritual blight.

  How dare God take away her Arn?

  With her eyes watering uncontrollably, the hyperventilating woman knew that she should call a taxi, but against better judgment, she did something she rarely did.

  With trembling hands and a thumping heart, Betty drove the Camaro to the hospital.

  The sun shined brightly as Betty cruised past buildings and billboards and road signs and other cars, but nothing really registered. Most of the details went amiss. Driving purely on instinct and memory, she sullenly glided toward her destination.

  Experiencing a dreamy sensation that some might call déjà vu, by sitting in the driver seat a feeling of closeness to someone who was not present filled the distraught widow. As radial tires gripped the road, the perfectly tuned engine revved a warning to all other vehicles to stay out of the way. The speedometer and tick-tock tachometer seemed to gleam from the dashboard a little more brightly than usual. Even the faded leather interior smelled a bit fresher.

  To honor Arn’s memory, when the traffic light turned yellow she did as he would have done and floored the gas pedal.

  Click. Click. Click.

  In heavy traffic zones, red-light-running cameras were used to photograph vehicles that have entered or passed through an intersection even though the traffic light was red. By automatically photographing the vehicle from three different angles—a wide angle of the vehicle and the traffic signal, a tighter shot of the driver, and a rear angle shot showing the license plate—law enforcement could mail proof of red-light offenses. Along with the proof came a very expensive moving-violation ticket.

  As Betty blew through a red light, the first camera image showed the traffic signal, which was red, and the 1968 Camaro SS about to be creamed by a brand-new Cadillac Escalade that had the right of way.

  The rear-angle traffic camera revealed that the hard collision with the much larger Escalade sent the speeding Camaro off the road headfirst into a telephone pole.

  The ’68 did not come with harness seat belts, just the standard-issue individual waist belts. In her desperation to get to the hospital to view her husband’s body before they took it away, distraught Betty forgot to click her seat belt and was violently thrown through the windshield.

  Crunched in like an accordion, the ’68 was totaled.

  Smoke swirled out from under the light blue hood; the mangled front grille appeared to be frowning.

  Even without the red-light camera gathe
ring evidence, putting together what had occurred would not have been very difficult for traffic enforcement officers.

  What proved impossible to explain was the image of the driver.

  The camera clearly captured an elderly lady behind the steering wheel, but whether it was a flaw of exposure or shadows creating an illusion, everyone who viewed the tight-angle shot of Betty Rinaldi right before she died insisted there was a second person in the car.

  Someone who didn’t look too happy about riding in the passenger seat.

  The One and Only

  J. Kenner

  Will Underwood was looking to get laid.

  Oh, sure. He’d prettied it up in his own head. Told himself he’d come to New Orleans for the unique history. For the architecture. The nostalgia. As a tribute to the housekeeper who’d done double duty as his nanny. A woman who’d grown up in New Orleans and had told him repeatedly that he would end up permanently in her hometown.

  “I’ve got the Sight, William,” Aimee Dufresne had told him over and over. “So you listen when I tell you something, and you pay attention good.”

  Even at seven, he’d known better than to believe her. When he grew up, he was going to live in Dallas and run Underwood Petroleum. That’s what his mommy and daddy always said. But he’d nodded earnestly and promised that he’d remember what she said even when he was all grown up. He’d kept that promise, too. Even though he’d cried and cried and been so horribly hurt and angry when she’d left their house in the dead of night without saying goodbye, her words had stuck with him. New Orleans. Someday he’d go there and see the city that she’d talked about. The city with a heartbeat. The city where there was dancing in the streets and good food and black magic and where the cemeteries had tombs because they couldn’t bury anyone because the body would ooze up if it rained too hard. That was the story he loved best, even though it gave him nightmares.

  Thanks to Miss Aimee, for all those years, New Orleans stayed on his mind. So when he needed to get the fuck out of Austin, he’d answered the siren’s call of the Big Easy.

  He knew damn well that the trip was a Band-Aid. Jess had thrust a knife through his heart and then proceeded to twist it. He still didn’t understand how he could have been so wrong. He’d been so damn certain that she was the one. Hell, he’d bought a ring and everything, and he’d been planning to drop to one knee and pop the question two weeks before they both began their senior year at the University of Texas. He’d spent days imagining the sweet, grateful smile that would spread across her face. Her eyes would light up, and she’d whisper a tremulous yes, too overcome with emotion to manage any more than that one simple word. Then she’d throw her arms around his neck and he’d pull her close, and after graduation she’d become Mrs. William Underwood III, and they’d take off for their honeymoon. Maybe six months traveling the globe before he settled in as heir to the Underwood throne.

  “Forever, baby,” he’d whisper. “You and me, forever.”

  It hadn’t happened that way. Five days before the big night he’d planned, she’d come to his apartment and told him that she didn’t think it was working out. She liked him as a friend, but blah, blah, blah.

  Bitch.

  His best friend Luke had sympathized. “She wasn’t worth a ring, bro. Get drunk, get laid, and think about your one and only later. You’re twenty-one, dude. Who wants to get tied down forever with vanilla before you’ve sampled Mocha Almond Fudge or Orange Dreamsicle?”

  And now here he was with his two best friends on what Luke called their Summer Blow-out Pussy Patrol. Not that they were having much luck in that department. They’d rolled into town yesterday afternoon planning to hit the ground running, and had pretty much scored a big fat zero. Less than zero, even. That dumb fuck Carson had downed too many Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s and ended up puking his guts out in the street between Jackson Square and Café Du Monde. Even after he’d spread the contents of his stomach across both Luke and Will’s shoes—not to mention half a block of Decatur Street—Carson had been blind drunk. Will and Luke weren’t too far behind, but they were steady enough to hail a pedicab and get back to their hotel on Canal Street.

  The acidic scent of puke had shoved aside all thoughts of chasing pussy, and the evening had ended with room-service french fries, a bottle of Macallan, and exceptionally bad porn piped in through the hotel’s pay-per-view system.

  Not exactly what Will had hoped or expected for his first night in the Big Easy. But Will was an optimist with a wallet full of cash and an American Express Black Card. Tonight was a brand-new night and the French Quarter was hopping.

  This time, he and Luke had left Carson in the suite with a six-pack of Heineken and a football game. “I’ll text you if the game turns to shit,” he’d said. “And if you haven’t gotten lucky, I’ll meet you somewhere.”

  Will silently hoped that the game didn’t turn to shit, then felt like a prick for wishing that one of his two best friends stayed away. Carson was just too comfortable with the whole drunken-frat-boy stereotype, and in Will’s experience, that wasn’t the kind of vibe that got women going.

  “Holy shit, man,” Luke said, grabbing Will’s arm as he nodded toward a pair of girls in too-tight tank tops who were wobbling down the uneven street in three-inch fuck-me heels. “It’s like a goddamn buffet.”

  Will wanted to appreciate the view, but surprised himself by yanking his arm free.

  Luke turned to him, his eyes narrowed in an attempt to focus. “What bug’s up your ass?”

  “Nothing,” he said, feeling like an ass. “Forget it.” Jessie. Now the bitch was poisoning his thoughts.

  “Forget her, man,” Luke said, obviously reading his mind. “She’s not worth the brain drain. You come here, you have a good time, you get your head clear, you move on.”

  “I get it. It’s just…” He trailed off with a shrug. What was he supposed to say? That it pissed him off that Jessie didn’t want him? He was an Underwood, goddammit, and that meant he was supposed to have his pick of women. He should be the one deciding, not them. Who the hell was she to walk away from him?

  Luke laughed. “Come on. My brother told me about this bar at the Hotel Monteleone. The Carousel Bar and Lounge. It rotates, you know. Like one of those revolving restaurants. Let’s go find someone with long legs and a tight skirt and buy her a drink. Trust me, you’ll feel better, and by the time we get back to Austin, Jess will be a bad memory.”

  Will shrugged. His friend was right; he was in a funk, and there wasn’t a damn reason for it. “Lead the way.”

  Luke did, leading them down Bourbon Street back the way they’d come. They walked down the middle of the street, breathing in the scent of sweaty bodies and stale alcohol as they ignored the calls from burly men in doorways hawking nude women dancing just over their doorstep. “There,” Luke said, pointing to the next intersection. “Turn left and then it’s just about a block down.”

  They were about to do that when Will saw her. Just a glimpse—just the slightest awareness of the woman in his peripheral vision—but he stopped short, then turned back.

  She was stunning.

  Tall and lean, with a proud tilt to her head and golden hair that was piled high but fell in soft ringlets around her face. She wore the kind of gown he would expect to see on Downton Abbey. The kind of loose, beaded dress that was the rage among well-to-do women in the Roaring Twenties. Her hands were hidden by white gloves that covered her skin to her elbows, but the rest of her arms were bare in the sleeveless dress, and for just a moment he imagined his fingertips touching that delicate flesh.

  Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and she seemed to glow. As if she was absorbing the ambient light from the darkened street and radiating it back into the mire. She was better than this place. Better than the crush and stink of Bourbon Street. She was exceptional. She was regal. And when her haunting pale blue eyes met his, he knew that she had been his reason all along.

  This woman was why he’d come to New
Orleans. This woman was simply his why.

  “Jesus, Will!” He felt the tug on his sleeve as Luke pulled him back, and Will realized that he’d stepped blindly into the intersection and had come close to being run down by a car racing down Bienville Street.

  Reflexively, he looked at Luke, then almost immediately turned back toward the woman, but she wasn’t there. All he saw was the reflection in the window. Listless men wandering the street with washed-out skin and vacant eyes. One lifted his head and seemed to look right at Will, and as he did, he opened his mouth, revealing a gaping black maw.

  Will shuddered, then blinked, then looked again.

  Nothing. Just the reflection of the lights, of the crowds, of the cart hawking daiquiris to go.

  “Did you see—”

  “What?” Luke asked.

  “Nothing.” Will ran his fingers through his hair, trying to dismiss the image. He’d always thought of New Orleans as a place laced with magic. Maybe Aimee’s stories had gone to his head more than he’d realized. “Come on. Let’s get to the bar.” Suddenly, Will wanted nothing more than to get the ever-loving fuck out of there.

  “Wait, wait,” Luke said, laughter in his voice. “It’s New Orleans, right? Voodoo and black magic and all that shit?”

  Will just stared at him, too surprised by his friend’s words to respond.

  “Oh, shit, Will, don’t look at me like that. I don’t believe that crap. But check it out.” He pointed across the street to Madame Darkling’s Voodoo Emporium. A small door was open, revealing a dark entrance into which he could see nothing. Not people. Not merchandise. Not a stairway to hell.

  “We are totally going in there,” Luke said.

  Will shook his head, his feet feeling suddenly heavy. “No.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Luke started across the street, then turned back to frown at Will. “Come on, man. I mean, there’s even a psychic reader. Maybe she can tell you if you’re going to get laid this weekend.”

  “I can tell you that myself,” Will said. “Let’s just get to the bar. All this Bourbon Street voodoo stuff is bullshit, anyway. The real stuff isn’t for the tourists, and you don’t mess around with the real stuff.”