The Vanished

by Tim Kizer

  “Shoot her now!” Devon yelled.

  Holding the pillow to the muzzle, Tom fired the pistol. The bullet hit Carol in the back. Moments later, her body went limp, and Devon let it fall to the floor.

  They moved Vincent to the living room, and Tom shot him in the head through the pillow.

  “What are we going to do with the bodies?” Tom asked as he cut the rope that tied the investigator to the chair.

  “We’ll bury them in the woods. There’s a good spot fifteen miles west of here.”

  It was a lie. They were not going to bury the bodies in the woods.

  Devon cut the rope off Carol’s ankles and picked up the pistol. Tom removed the cuffs from Carol and Vincent, checked them for blood stains—there were none—and then put them in a drawer.

  Devon could see no blood stains on his clothes or shoes. He would get rid of his shirt, pants, and shoes anyway when he returned to his hotel, just in case.

  “Do you have a show tonight?” Tom asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

  “Ten.”

  As Tom searched for people who had been wrongfully convicted in Pima County (he did it out of curiosity, just to see how bad things were there as far as justice was concerned), he had come across Michael Camp, who had spent six years in prison for a rape he hadn’t committed. Unlike Tom, Camp had gotten lucky: his conviction had been overturned. When Tom discovered that David Miller had been the prosecutor in Camp’s case, he decided to recruit the guy to help punish David and to be their fall guy if necessary. He called Camp, suggested that they meet and have a chat. Camp hadn’t showed up, and Tom had come to the conclusion that Camp wasn’t angry enough with David Miller and therefore wasn’t going to be a good partner in crime.

  Michael Camp was a pussy and had no self-respect. He was one of those meek people who counted their blessings and took it lying down. Tom, on the other hand, had guts. He had pride. He was a passionate man. Devon had a lot of respect for him. He liked Tom. He sympathized with him. But he had to do this.

  Devon sat down on the couch.

  “Are you ready?” Tom asked.

  “Yes.” Devon patted the couch next to him. “Let’s have a little rest.”

  “It’s five-forty.”

  The fact that Devon held the gun in his hand didn’t seem to concern Tom. Why would it? They were friends.

  “I know.”

  Tom sat down next to Devon. “We were really close before she married this motherfucker.”

  “You and Carol?”

  “Yes.”

  Devon turned his face to Tom and said, “Oystercatcher.”

  Tom’s lids slowly closed. Tom fell into a trance.

  Devon ordered him to move to the chair to the right of the couch, and he did. Devon stood beside Tom.

  He had never killed anyone in his life. He had never even wounded anyone. And he wished he didn’t have to kill Tom.

  Devon pressed the muzzle to Tom’s right temple. It had to be the right temple because Tom was right-handed.

  His heart thumping hard, he slipped his finger into the trigger guard.

  One move of his finger, and Tom Powell would be no more. He would turn into a lifeless pile of meat. Whatever was going to happen in Tom’s future would not happen.

  Although he had murdered three people, Tom was a nice guy. If Devon were sure that Tom would never get caught by the police, he wouldn’t take his life.

  Feeling a wave of warmth coming over him, Devon pulled the trigger. A shot rang out, and Tom’s head slumped to his chest. Devon put the gun on the floor to the right of the chair, then checked his shirt for blood.

  He didn’t enjoy killing Tom, but he didn’t hate it, either.

  Devon looked at his watch. 5:46.

  He couldn’t take Tom’s or Carol’s car because that would be risky: the police might wonder who had driven that car to Houston and they might figure out that Carol had had one more accomplice. He was going to walk a mile and a half from Tom’s house and call a cab. He would make the call from the disposable phone he had purchased this morning and which he hadn’t used yet. The show started at eight, and he was sure he was going to get to the venue on time.

  Devon went to the kitchen, took a plastic grocery bag from the drawer by the stove, then returned to the living room and put Tom’s laptop in the bag. He decided it would be too risky to leave the laptop in the house because it might contain information that could lead the police to him.

  After placing the bag with the laptop on the desk, Devon walked over to Tom’s body, pulled the keys from Tom’s pocket, and headed for the guest bedroom, where Annie stayed. When he reached the guest bedroom door, he stopped and listened.

  Was the girl asleep? Could she have slept through the gunshot that had killed Tom?

  Tom had given Annie a sleeping pill to keep her silent six hours ago. Devon believed six hours was enough for the sedative to have worn off.

  He slipped the guest bedroom key into the lock and turned it.

  Chapter 29

  1

  He opened his eyes and saw a white wall in front of him. Then he realized he was lying on his back, which meant that what he was looking at was not a wall but a ceiling. His mind was empty. He had no thoughts.

  Was it possible to think about nothing?

  Well, being aware that his mind was empty was a thought, wasn’t it? It was a trivial, useless thought, but a thought nonetheless.

  He couldn’t remember his name. He had no idea what day it was.

  He raised his head and looked at his arms. His arms were fine. He saw a heart-rate monitor on his right index finger. He bent his knees, wiggled his feet, and curled his toes. His legs were fine, too.

  “Oh, you’re awake,” a woman’s voice said.

  The voice belonged to a nurse. She was short and solidly built, and wore a blue uniform.

  “Is this a hospital?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the nurse said. “Memorial Hermann Hospital.”

  “Where? What city?”

  “Houston.”

  “What happened to me?”

  “You were shot in the head. You’ve been in a coma for four months.”

  “I can’t remember my name.”

  “Your name’s Vincent Daley. What do you remember?”

  “Nothing. What day is it?”

  “November twenty-ninth.”

  He’d been shot in the head and survived. He must be a very lucky guy.

  2

  On November 30, Vincent had a visitor. He didn’t recognize the man, so he asked who he was.

  “My name’s David Miller,” the visitor said.

  David Miller. The name didn’t ring a bell.

  “Are you a friend of mine?”

  “I was your client. You’re a private investigator, do you remember that?”

  “No.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “I’m so glad you’re alive.” David smiled.

  “Me, too.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “I can move my legs, but I’ll have to relearn to walk.”

  Fortunately, he did not have to relearn to talk, unlike many patients with gunshot wounds to the head.

  “I want to thank you for finding my daughter. Her name’s Annie.” David gave him a picture of a young girl.

  “Did she go missing?”

  “She was kidnapped. You were shot in her kidnapper’s house.”

  “Who kidnapped her?”

  David took his phone from his pocket and said, “It was a fake kidnapping, and my wife was behind it. She made a video confession. Let me play it for you.”

  The video was one minute and three seconds long. David’s wife said, “My name is Carol Miller. My husband’s name is David Miller. Right now David’s in prison for killing our adopted daughter, Annie. I want everyone to know that my husband is innocent. He didn’t kill Annie. Annie’s alive. I m
ade it look like she was murdered by David because I wanted him to go to prison. I framed my husband to get control of his fortune. Greed is the root of all evil.” Carol paused. “I’m truly sorry for what I did. David, if you’re watching this, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  When the video ended, David said, “I believe part of Carol’s motive was revenge. Tom spent six years in prison, and it was me who put him there.”

  “Were you the prosecutor on his case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your wife now?”

  David hesitated, then said, “She’s dead. The cops think her brother, Tom, killed her. And they think it was Tom who shot you. Do you remember who shot you?”

  “No. Was Tom her accomplice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did they hold your daughter?”

  “Tom’s house.”

  “Did they arrest Tom?”

  “Tom committed suicide shortly after he shot Carol.”

  “Did he hurt Annie?”

  “No.” David pocketed his phone. “After Tom killed himself, Annie went to a neighbor’s house and told him about the dead bodies.”

  “How is she doing now?”

  “She’s doing fine.” David cleared his throat. Tears welled up in his eyes. “I’m going to pay you a million dollars for what you’ve done for us. I’ll wire the money to your bank account today.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What are the doctors saying? Is your memory going to come back to you?”

  “There’s a chance it will eventually come back.”

  When David left, Vincent shut his eyes and tried to remember David, Carol, Annie, and Tom. He couldn’t.

  He was glad the story had a happy ending. The bad guys were dead, and the little girl was alive. He might never remember what had happened to him in Tom’s house, and that was fine with him.

  THE END

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  Other titles by Tim Kizer

  · Days of Vengeance, horror novel

  · Mania, suspense novel

  · Spellbound, suspense novel

  · The Mindbender, suspense novel

  · The Dreamer, suspense novelette

  · Dark Luck, suspense novelette

  · Scorned, suspense novelette

  · Hitchhiker, suspense/horror novelette

  · Intoxication, suspense novelette

  · Deception, mystery/suspense novelette

  · Sixtus, horror novelette

  MANIA

  Description

  Serial killer Richard Brower buried his cheating wife, Mary, in the woods on Saturday.

  On Monday, Mary calls her brother's girlfriend.

  A few days later, she calls her mom.

  Then Mary bumps into her friend at a mall.

  Are all these people lying or has Mary actually come back from the dead?

  Richard has no idea, but he will get to the bottom of this. Or at least he'll try.

  CHAPTER 1

  1.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, Laura. It’s about your brother, Richard.” Jack placed his palm on Laura’s hand and looked into her eyes. “Your brother is a killer.”

  After noting that Jack’s hand was soft and very warm, Laura drew her brows together and said, “A killer?”

  “Yes.” Jack nodded. “He murdered a young woman a year ago.”

  “How did he murder her?”

  “He strangled her. And then he cut off a finger from each of her hands.”

  “What?” Laura’s eyes widened. “How do you know it was Richard?”

  “I saw him strangle her through a window. She was my next-door neighbor.”

  “Why didn’t you help her?”

  “I thought it was some kind of sex game.”

  “Were they dating?”

  “Yes.”

  Laura bit her lower lip and was silent for a few seconds. “What was her name?”

  Laura did not know how to react to these outrageous accusations against her brother. On the one hand, Richard was a gentle and kind man who did not seem capable of hurting a fly. But on the other hand, Jack, her boyfriend of three months, had no reason to lie to her.

  “Karen,” Jack replied. “Karen Chandler.”

  “Did you tell the police that you saw Richard kill her?”

  “Yes, I did. But nothing came of it. Perhaps they didn’t believe me.”

  Laura sighed and then rubbed her forehead. “Maybe I should talk to him about it?”

  “What for? He’ll deny everything.” Jack paused. “Besides, he might hurt you.”

  Laura didn’t need a lot of persuading to abandon this idea since she realized it was the wrong move. That was what dumb characters do in horror movies: they confront the villain, usually unprepared, unarmed, and with no backup, hoping he—or she—will confess, and then get murdered on the spot by the said villain.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Jack shrugged. “I want to bring Richard to justice, but I doubt it’s possible. I told you this to warn you.” He squeezed her hand lightly. “I’m afraid that Karen wasn’t his only victim.”

  “You think he’s killed other women?”

  “Yes.”

  Could Richard be a serial killer?

  It depended on whether he enjoyed killing. Laura hoped that he didn’t.

  “I wonder what he did with those fingers,” Jack said.

  There might be incriminating evidence in Richard’s house. And she might be lucky enough to find it.

  By the time Jack left, Laura knew what she was going to do this weekend: she would search Richard’s house.

  CHAPTER 2

  1.

  Thinking he’d heard Laura's voice, Richard drew a deep breath and looked back. He was surrounded by luxuriant oaks and thick bushes. The rich mixture of forest aromas that permeated the air was powerful and invigorating. He had still not gotten used to this cacophony of scents dominated by the smells of soil, bark, grass, and flowers even though he’d been wandering the woods for about half an hour now.

  ”Laura!” Richard called loudly, spinning his head around.

  She shouldn’t have followed him. What was she trying to achieve by that, anyway?

  He had been about thirty miles from Richmond when he had noticed that he was being shadowed. It was a white Honda Civic, he couldn’t make out how many people were in it. In order to confirm his suspicions, he turned off the highway onto a dirt road that led into the forest. The Civic followed him. He drove for a mile before he pulled to the side of the road and got out of the car. The Civic stopped, too, and moments later Richard found out that he was being followed by his sister, Laura. She was alone. He figured she had borrowed the car from one of her friends.

  When he had asked her what this was all about, Laura had called him a killer and then run off into the woods. He had no idea why she had fled; he had not touched or threatened her.

  ”Laura! I’m begging you, please come out, don't be afraid!” Richard strained his ears, hoping to hear the answer. ”I know you're under stress now. You want to get out of here. So do I... Let me help you!”

  He noticed a movement in the bushes fifteen yards away from him, and then Laura stepped out from behind from them.

  “You’re a murderer!” she shouted. “Did you kill anyone in Boston? Or Cincinnati?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone. Who told you that?”

  “I saw the jar.”

  “What jar?”

  “The one in the garage.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “There were fingers in the jar. They belong to the women you murdered.” Laura laughed nervously. “Do you think I’m stupid? I know everything.”

  “When did you see it?”

  “Three weeks ago, when you were in Vegas. Did you really go to Vegas or did you go hunting?”

  “Hunting? Laura, they lied to you. That jar isn’t mine.”

  “Of course it’s yours.”

/>   “Where is it now?”

  “It must be still in the garage unless you moved it.”

  “Laura, I swear, that jar isn’t mine. Someone planted it.”

  Richard started toward his sister.

  ”Stay where you are!” Laura yelled in a hoarse voice. “Don't come any closer!”

  She wiped tears from her eyes and raised her right hand, showing him a large kitchen knife. The blade glinted in the sunlight. Richard halted.

  ”I've got a knife.” She was staring at Richard without blinking.

  He nodded calmly and forced a smile.

  ”That's good.” He took a small step forward. ”You shouldn’t be afraid of me. I’m unarmed. It’s me who should be scared here, isn’t it?” He laughed in order to demonstrate that he had no malicious intentions toward his sister. ”Laura, let's talk. Let's sit down and talk. Otherwise, this will never be resolved. Someone could get hurt.” As he spoke, he was inching closer to the woman.

  ”Hold it right there!” Laura screamed, waving the knife in the air. “Don’t move. You’re sick! Why are you doing this?”

  Richard made a wry face and stopped. “Okay, I’m going to leave you alone.” He sighed loudly, giving her to understand that he was tired.

  He was tired of running around the woods. And he hated the hot sweat that covered his face and body. He walked up to the closest tree and sat down under it.

  He shouldn’t have turned his back to Laura. She might try to kill him.

  In his mind’s eye, Richard saw her approach him from behind, stealthily, her hair tousled, her eyes red, her heartbeat rapid. She would stare at the back of his head for a while, deciding where to deliver the first blow, and then she would stab him.

  Richard started. He suddenly realized that he had zoned out when he had imagined the attack, and forgotten about Laura, who was waiting for the right moment to strike. But she was wrong if she believed she could catch him off guard. He could hear the quietest rustle; he could detect Laura’s slightest movement. Now he was like a dog, whose sense of smell was a million times better than that of a human. He could almost read minds.