“Gotta use your restroom, honey,” she said in her soft but commanding voice, slinking with feline grace into the downstairs lavatory and closing the door with a thud. Walter shivered and thought about the news reports Lorraine had been watching incessantly; the accounts of the brutal, bloody murders that had drawn a pall over the city.
For a moment there he had honestly feared for his life, but of course that was patently ridiculous. Kat was tiny; if she was five feet, two inches tall he would eat his hat. There was no possible way that petite little hooker was going to do any damage to him; not at six-two. He probably outweighed her by a hundred pounds or more. Even though he was rapidly approaching sixty years of age, Walter knew he had nothing to fear from his houseguest. He tried to chuckle at the lunacy of his mounting fear and the attempt died in his suddenly dry and scratchy throat.
In the bathroom, Kat was changing her clothes, she must be, because Walter could hear her moving around. But how could that be? She had tossed her purse on the table, it was right next to him, and there were certainly no pockets in her leather outfit big enough to store a change of clothes, of that Walter was certain. I should know, he thought, I spent enough time staring at that catsuit.
The racket in the downstairs bathroom continued. In fact, if anything, it seemed to be growing louder and more out of control. Was something wrong with Kat? Was she sick? Suffering from convulsions? Good Christ, what if she died in his house? How in the hell would he ever explain that to Lorraine?
Walter crept to the closed door as quietly as he could and listened. He thought he could hear furtive scratching, almost as if some small animal was trapped in his bathroom, which of course was impossible. He had seen Kat disappear into the room just ninety seconds ago, and he certainly didn’t own any pets. They were smelly and needy and messy and he refused to have them in his house—There! There it was! The scratching noise again, and this time it was joined by what sounded like a soft panting. What the—?
“Kat? Are you all right?” Walter’s voice was shaking and realized he had been holding his breath as he listened at the door.
Silence
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The panting and scratching continued unabated.
“What the hell is going on in there?”
Nothing.
“Goddammit, I want to know right now what the hell you’re up to! You can’t just come into my home and destroy things!”
No answer.
“Kat, you answer me right now or I’m coming in there in about five seconds, and you don’t want that, believe me!” By now, Walter was furious as well as terrified. Whatever was happening in that bathroom was not normal and was definitely not what he had envisioned when he picked up this clearly insane Kat person.
Still no response, but now Walter was convinced the panting coming from the bathroom was louder than it had been just seconds ago. He had a sudden, vivid vision of something otherworldly poised just inches away, on the other side of the door, ear pressed up against the oak surface just as his was. Startled by the thought, he jumped back, smashing into the hallway wall and bruising his lower back.
A roaring noise filled Walter’s ears. His panic was now complete. He was panting just as hard as whatever lurked on the other side of the bathroom door. He wondered if he was having a stroke and pictured Lorraine rushing home because he wasn’t answering the phone and finding him lying face down on the hallway floor.
“SAY SOMETHING,” he screamed, and when he received no response, as he knew he would not, Walter grabbed the brass bathroom doorknob and flung the door open and froze, staring in open-mouthed horror at a five-foot tall leopard crouched on the floor in full stalking mode. The feral beast was completely motionless, glaring at him with eerily intelligent eyes.
Wide green eyes.
Kat’s wide green eyes.
A scream bubbled up from Walter’s throat; it exploded out of his mouth at a volume he hadn’t known he was capable of producing. The big cat’s tongue lolled out of its’ huge mouth as it panted, staring at Walter with—and this was impossible, but this whole goddamned horrifying thing was impossible, so why not?—mocking green eyes.
Then it struck, springing at Walter with deadly grace, its razor-sharp claws extended. Its front paws landed squarely on his chest, knocking him to the floor and shattering his glasses as his head smashed off the tile. Their now-bent frames skittered into the kitchen.
Walter screamed again, but only for half a second. The sound was silenced as the huge cat ripped his throat out, sending blood squirting majestically down the hallway, splattering onto the hardwood floor in random delicate patterns.
The gigantic paws ripped down Walter’s body, tearing off long strips of skin as he kicked and bucked, wildly at first, then not so enthusiastically, then not at all. His now-unseeing eyes stared up at the hallway ceiling, where, incredibly, a splash of his blood had formed a passable imitation of a bulls-eye.
It was over in a matter of seconds, although it probably seemed much longer to Walter. The big leopard stood next to the dead body, staring at it as if assessing the damage, before stalking purposefully back into the bathroom.
Seconds later Kat exited, picking her way daintily around the hideously disfigured body of her latest victim, careful not to step in any of the blood and leave a footprint that might be traced. Her tawny hair flowed behind her as she moved through the living room and lifted her purse delicately off the coffee table, then walked out the front door. She double-checked to be sure it was locked from the inside before pulling it firmly closed behind her. After all, you couldn’t be too careful. The city was a dangerous place.
Finally she turned and strutted unseen down the street, moving with her unusual feline gait toward the red light district and anonymity.
Heart and Sole
There’s no such thing as the perfect crime, although that fact doesn’t ever seem to stop people from trying to commit it. But if you have an air-tight alibi, if you’re hundreds of miles away in front of dozens of witnesses when your spouse dies, and she dies of natural causes anyway, doesn’t that seem to come pretty close to qualifying as the perfect crime? That’s the premise of “Heart and Sole,” which began its existence as a three thousand word short story told in the third-person perspective. After I finished writing it, I thought it would be perfect for a charity anthology being put together by Shroud Publishing called NORTHERN HAUNTS, benefiting cancer research. The only problem was the publisher wanted flash-fiction stories of 750 words or less, told from the first person perspective. I went back to the drawing board and reworked the story and I believe the result was a stronger story than the original. NORTHERN HAUNTS was released in January, 2009.
I hadn’t always wanted to kill my wife. There was a time when we were quite the happy couple, of that I am certain, even if I can’t put my finger on exactly when that time was. Everything changed, though, after Debra moved in next door.
Debra Janet Morgan was her name, and she was everything Marion was not. Deb was young and beautiful, while Marion was older and plain. She was funny and outgoing and socially graceful, Marion being quiet and shy and clumsy. After starting my affair with the alluring young beauty, it became patently obvious that my wife and I no longer had a future together.
Debra was newly single, living off the support payments of her bond-trader ex-husband, who was slaving away down in Boston’s financial district. She had nothing to do and wasn’t one to spend her days lazing around the house; at least not by herself and not fully clothed.
After we had hooked up, I began to obsess over the fantasy of arranging Marion’s permanent removal from the otherwise happy picture of Debra and me. Divorce was out of the question—my salary as a postal supervisor would not to be enough to hold Debra’s attention for long. It was absolutely imperative that I inherit Marion’s trust fund; the one established by her rich daddy years ago that would disappear forever if I divorced his little girl.
Being cautious by nature, I consider
ed and then discarded numerous methods of disposal before settling on the perfect plan. It was foolproof—I would be hundreds of miles away when poor unfortunate Marion took her final breath!
An avid distance runner, Debra had struck up an odd friendship with my Marion, despite our affair. They ran together constantly, a situation I was never comfortable with until I figured out how to use it to my advantage. I managed to wrangle a business trip to Philadelphia on the very day of the local 5K Fun Run, which Deb and Marion were planning on competing in together.
The morning of the race, I awoke while Marion was still sleeping and packed a bag for my two-day trip. Before walking out to the garage, I sprinkled a dose of specially customized powder lightly over the soles of Marion’s running shoes.
The mixture was composed of ordinary talcum powder laced with arsenic, which my research had informed me is water-soluble. Shortly after starting the race, Marion’s entire body, including her feet, would begin to sweat in the warm weather. The perspiration would then soak through her light socks, mix with my deadly concoction, and be absorbed through her open pores into her bloodstream.
Marion would suffer greatly for a short time, unfortunately, but before rescue personnel or anyone else would be able to react, she would succumb, leaving Debra and I free to get on with our lives. I would avoid any suspicion, being nowhere near the scene of the tragedy. I congratulated myself on planning the perfect crime as I boarded my flight at Logan Airport.
Later, as the plane began its’ descent into Philly, I realized the starting time for the Fun Run was approaching and decided to give Marion a call. Sure, I had to eliminate her, but that didn’t mean I felt good about it.
She surprised me by answering her cell on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Hello, Marion; ready for the race?”
“Oh, hi honey, not exactly. You wouldn’t believe what that silly goose Debra did!”
I checked my impatience and asked, “What did she do?” After all, this was the last time I would ever have to listen to her ramble on.
“The crazy girl drove all the way down here before realizing she had forgotten her running shoes!”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, but I solved the problem. I lent her mine. She was much more excited about the race than me, anyway.”
My heart stuttered and I shouted, “What? Where’s Debra now?” Annoyed passengers glared at me.
“I have no idea,” she replied. “We got separated in the crowd, but I’ll find her after the race. Enjoy your trip, honey; I’ll be waiting when you get back.”
Independence Day
As someone who is rapidly approaching middle age—I’m 51 and some people would say I’ve already left middle age in the dust—I often marvel at how much things have changed since I was a kid. Personal computers, cell phones, the Internet, HDTV, frozen pizza that’s actually edible, all of these things have been developed over my lifetime. I began to wonder what it would be like to walk out of prison after serving, say, a forty year stretch. How could you even begin to adjust to the changes in the world? This story is the result, about a man sent away for murder who wants nothing more than to reunite with the girl he left behind so long ago. “Independence Day” first appeared in the July/August 2008 issue of Crime and Suspense and I’m very proud to say was a finalist for a 2009 Derringer Award for Best Short Story.
Chris Milton’s personal Independence Day started out like any other. A bland prison breakfast followed by some quiet reading time, an hour of exercising in the yard, another bland prison lunch, and then a trip to the courthouse in his cheap, well-worn suit. He had been to so many pointless parole hearings over the last several decades that they all seemed to run together in his mind. He certainly didn’t expect this one to be any different.
Right from the start, though, this one was different. The warden of the Concord Penitentiary, who had been there almost as long as Chris had, spoke on his behalf, something he had never done before, saying, “Mr. Milton has been a model prisoner all these years and has earned a second chance to make something out of his life.”
Next up was the superintendent of the prison motor pool, testifying as to how much money Chris had saved the taxpayers of the great state of New Hampshire with his automotive maintenance skills. “Our vehicles are lasting forty percent longer, and are worth twenty percent more at the end of their useful lives, than they were before Mr. Milton started working with them. Frankly, I hate to lose him, but I believe he will be able to make a significant contribution to society in the job he has waiting for him at Caulfield’s Garage in his home town of Compton if his parole is approved.”
Chris could feel his threadbare shirt sticking to his skin where it pressed against the hard-backed wooden chair as he started to sweat. He had never so much as sniffed a successful parole hearing before, and he could scarcely believe this stroke of good fortune as he sensed the tide turning his way. He knew it was still touch-and-go as to whether the board would approve his parole – they were extremely reluctant to release convicted murderers back into society in this law-and-order state, even if the circumstances of the murder conviction were somewhat muddled, as was the case with Chris.
***
The sun beat down on Reservoir Road, thick and heavy and unrelenting in the summer of 1968. More than a mile away, at the far end of the road, the brand-new red brick reservoir maintenance building shimmered in the heat radiating off the newly-paved blacktop. Kids lined the mile-long route in groups of two and three, anxious to participate, if only vicariously, in the excitement and danger of illegal street racing on the arrow-straight access road.
Out of a car radio blared the Beach Boys, sounding tinny and strangely high-pitched, singing in harmony about a little deuce coupe, as the DJ announced breathlessly that Jan and Dean would be up next, right after a short break. “Be sure to keep the dial right here for our rock and roll special, running through the entire 1968 Independence Day holiday!”
At the makeshift starting line, Nikki Littlefield pleaded with her older brother to be allowed to race. “I know I just got my license, but I can do this, please Jimmy, let me try.” Heads turned and every male eye checked out the long, tanned legs, petite body and jet-black hair of the girl causing the commotion.
“Forget it,” Jimmy Littlefield answered gruffly, but out of the gathering crowd walked Chris Milton, eighteen, long-haired, trouble in engineer boots. “She can drive my car,” he said with a smirk, staring down Jimmy Littlefield and his small group of clean-cut Compton friends.
Jimmy started to argue but Chris cut him off. “I told you, punk, she could drive my car. She has a license and I have a car and that’s the end of it, so do yourself a favor and shut your freakin’ mouth.” Jimmy reddened with anger but stopped talking.
Chris turned and faced Nikki. “You know how to drive a stick?”
“Does a fish know how to swim?”
The response was so unexpected, Chris flashed a wide grin in spite of himself. “Let’s go then; see if we can drum up somebody with the guts to take you on.”
***
Chris Milton hadn’t pulled the trigger on anyone, although it was true that he had carried a loaded revolver into the bank forty years ago on the day that would change his life forever. Chris had never intended to use the weapon; it was strictly for show—to frighten the bank employees into compliance—and to give him a fighting chance if the cops showed up before he could make his escape.
Everything had gone smoothly, though, inside the bank. He herded everyone into the back, customers and employees alike, forced the manager to open the safe, and loaded his canvas duffel bag to the brim with cash and bearer bonds. The whole operation had taken maybe five minutes, max, and then he had rushed out the front door of the bank and into the blazing sunshine, feeling the sticky heat envelope him like he was stepping into a sauna.
Nikki had been sitting at the corner of Main Street and Broadway as planned, the big engine in the stolen Plymouth rumbli
ng softly as the car waited patiently at the curb. With Nikki driving and the engine tuned perfectly by Chris, there was no way the cops could ever catch them.
***
Jake Vaillancourt was next up on the starting line in his customized Charger, all red paint and shiny chrome and hundreds of horsepower. Jake hadn’t been defeated at Reservoir Road in almost a year; it had gotten to the point where nobody even wanted to take him on—why bother? He piped up and said, sure, he’d be glad to race against Nikki, he didn’t mind kicking a girl’s ass.
For just a second, Chris regretted telling Nikki she could race his car. He had only done it to make that wuss Jimmy Littlefield stop yapping. Okay, maybe he had also done it to get an in with Jimmy’s cute little sister. The fact that her bigshot judge father was going to freak out if he ever discovered she had been hanging out with the likes of him was nothing more than sweet icing on a very delicious cake.
But racing Jake Vaillancourt? That was a different story altogether. Chris had been there the last time Jake lost a race at Reservoir Road—Jake had been so angry he had put Beetle McDonough in the hospital after the race. Oh well, he thought, too late to back out now.
Chris watched Nikki as she familiarized herself with the Barracuda. The car was midnight blue, nothing flashy but it was fast—Chris and his brother Joe had made sure of that. “This is a beauty,” she said.
Chris grinned. “Detroit steel, baby.”
Nikki laughed and said, “Okay, I’m ready to go.”
“Let’s go then,” Chris answered.
Postcards from the Apocalypse Page 5