The Three Monkeys, a Carter A. Johnson & Kate Menke Thriller

by Robert Schobernd

  He wheeled an aluminum table with surgical instruments on it over beside Johnny.

  Johnny hesitantly looked to Paul for approval. Paul nodded. "It's alright, just relax. It will be over soon."

  "Breathe deeply in and out several times," Wilson directed.

  Next Paul watched Wilson check the pulse above and below the wound. Softly he said, "Now, son, flex your fingers and thumb." Satisfied with the range of movements, he asked, "Is there any tingling in the fingers?" Johnny shook his head.

  Paul stepped back when Wilson noisily wheeled his stool across the floor to a shelf unit

  The ketamine bottle sat on the wheeled table; Paul palmed it and slipped it into his pant's pocket. He wasn't familiar with the drug and would learn about it on the internet at home.

  Wilson reached for a blood pressure monitor and stethoscope and then rolled his chair across the space.

  Back at his patient, Wilson checked Johnny's blood pressure. "Good. One thirty over eighty-two. You're a healthy young man." He studied the bandage Paul had hastily applied, smirked then used scissors to cut through the gauze and tape. The dried blood at both wounds was reddish brown and caked over the surrounding areas of skin.

  Wilson smiled at Johnny and patted his forearm. "I'll give you a local injection to deaden your arm around the wounds and help you relax." Wilson's bedside manner was far more compassionate and patient than Paul expected. Wilson made the two hypodermic injections and then started the I.V. solution in Johnny's left hand. Satisfied, he stood and make a pan of soapy water at the sink. Sitting beside Johnny he scrubbed the dried blood away before applying an orange antiseptic solution around both wounds. Johnny winced, but didn't cry out.

  A probe on the end of forceps from the table was used to push past the clotted blood at the entry wound.

  Johnny flinched and grunted. "That hurt."

  "Sorry," Wilson said. He glanced at the wall clock then at Paul. "I'll wait a few more minutes. The drug obviously hasn't fully taken effect yet." He stood and walked to the wall cabinets. From the end section, he removed a bottle of Scotch and took a hefty slug directly from the uncorked spout. The bottle was extended toward Paul who shook his head. Paul wasn't about to imbibe the cheap rotgut brand or touch his lips to anything Wilson's mouth contaminated. Wilson took another short pull on the bottle, put it back, then returned to his seat.

  Johnny's eyes had closed and his breathing was slow but steady. The doctor used the probe again to open the coagulated blood at the entrance wound then pushed deeper. Johnny appeared cognizant. Wilson closed his eyes to concentrate on what the probe was touching.

  Wilson stopped, laid his instrument aside and stood to address Paul. "This is more complicated than I anticipated. There's a good-sized chip out of the humerus and it shattered into pieces. I can remove them, but it's going to be more expensive than I originally quoted you."

  Paul's face blanched in surprise. "What kind of scam are you pulling? We agreed on a price for you to repair the damage and that's what I'm paying – no more. Five thousand in cash is what I brought and that's all you'll get. Now finish so we can get out of here."

  "That's your choice. For the five thousand I'll finish cleaning the wound and bandage it. The chips stay where they are. They may cause him problems in the future and have to be removed then."

  "You bastard. How much are you asking to finish the job correctly?"

  Wilson smirked, confident the haughty asshole before him finally saw it his way. "Ten thousand, cash."

  "What! I don't have that much cash with me. I'll write a check."

  "No checks or credit cards. But I will take that fancy watch on your wrist and that diamond ring."

  "Like hell you will, we made a good faith deal. Now abide by it."

  Wilson said, "Have it your way. I'll put a dressing on the boy, and you can leave."

  Paul glared at the man with evident hatred. Then he softened his expression; two could play that lying game. Johnny needed his arm repaired correctly, but there was no way in hell he was leaving his prized Bulova watch with the raunchy, grungy conman named Wilson. "Alright, you win," he said dejectedly. Paul removed the cherished timepiece from his wrist, slipped the ring off his finger, stepped over to the desk near the door and laid it on the accumulated clutter. The one-caret, high grade diamond mounted in an eighteen-caret gold setting was worth more than fifteen thousand dollars. From inside his sport coat he removed the thick wad of fifty one-hundred dollar bills and laid it alongside the jewelry.

  Paul turned toward Johnny as Wilson again sat and proceeded to attend to his patient. Johnny looked confused. The raised voices had pulled him out of his slumber. He understood what had transpired between the older men and was surprised to see Paul give up his treasured watch. He wondered why Grandpa smiled and winked at him then silently mouthed that it was okay. His head lay back and he succumbed again to the drug.

  Forty-five minutes later, Wilson finished suturing both wounds then applied a sterile dressing. He stood and peeled off the gloves. "I'll send some pain pills along. Change the dressing in two days." He moved the money and Paul's watch and ring to a desk drawer and locked it. "I'll get the pills after I remove these bloody scrubs and get cleaned up."

  Johnny sat in the chair with his eyes closed, still breathing deeply. Paul turned sideways to Johnny and moved his hand from his right pants pocket to his sport coat's outside pocket.

  After waiting five minutes, Paul coaxed Johnny from the chair, ensured the boy was able to stand without feeling faint, and helped Johnny with the clean long sleeved shirt they'd brought along. Johnny sat on a plastic chair and closed his eyes again. His head nodded with each breath.

  Wilson returned ten minutes later wearing the dingy robe. Paul addressed Wilson with his palm turned upward. "Pain pills."

  Wilson opened a wall cabinet to sort through numerous prescription bottles on three shelves. Selecting one, he poured a number of pills into an envelope. He turned and extended the pills to Paul. "Give him these as needed, no more than two at a time or six in twenty-four hours. There's enough for three days, which should do it. He's young, he'll heal fast."

  The envelope slid into Paul's shirt pocket slightly ahead of his right hand removing the .38 caliber revolver from the sport coat pocket. "Now, Doctor Wilson, we are reverting back to our original verbal contract."

  "You can't do this, you agreed to the new price. We made a deal."

  Paul ignored his protestation. "Unlock the drawer and step aside while I take my possessions back. The money is yours to keep, I agreed to that, but the watch and ring are mine. Now move, or I'll pry the drawer open myself."

  Anger flashed across Wilson's face as he extracted keys from his robe pocket.

  Johnny muttered, "Grandpa."

  Paul ignored the statement and waved with his left hand for him to be quiet. "Not now," he said crisply. The revolver never wavered from Wilson's back as he nervously fumbled with the keys. The sound of the key scratching against the keyhole cover seemed loud in the pregnant silence as Paul waited for Wilson's next move. Would he comply? Or would he do something stupid?

  The noise stopped. Wilson's right forearm flexed as the key turned. Why was Wilson hesitating? The keys jangled as they were tossed onto the desktop. The sudden movement and noise caused Paul to flinch. His eyes focused intently on Wilson. The drawer slowly slid open on its wooden slides then stopped. Wilson's right arm extended as he reached inside the open drawer. Then the arm suddenly surged forward before the doctor's body pivoted to the right. The elbow shot backward and the hand swung to the right.

  Paul's arm extended and his finger squeezed the trigger as the pistol in Wilson's right hand came into view. The first shot hit Wilson's right shoulder. A second bullet entered the right side of his chest. Wilson's trigger finger fired off a single round. A mere two feet from Johnny's head concrete chips flew from the wall where the wild shot hit. Paul's third bullet hit the doctor dead center in the chest as his body continued to turn and hi
s knees buckled slightly. Wilson's right arm faltered and dropped to his side; the hand loosened its grip and the semiautomatic fell to the floor. Wilson's eyes stared at Paul in disbelief. His knees folded and his torso pitched forward face first onto the gray painted concrete floor. A pool of blood formed and a narrow stream moved hesitantly and irregularly toward the floor drain.

  Johnny looked on groggily with concern. "You shot him, Grandpa. Is he dead?" He squinted, fighting to stay awake. Apparently, the drug was wearing off.

  "Yes. It looks like he's dead." Paul picked up Wilson's semiauto as he thought of the unexpected predicament they were in.

  "Good." Johnny uttered slowly, "I didn't like him, and he stank."

  Paul recalled their arrival. As they'd walked around the side of the house, the garage attached to the neighbor's house was next to Wilson's property and twelve to fifteen feet away. It was likely the neighbors slept in bedrooms on the opposite end of the single-story house and didn't hear the four shots emanating in the basement room. Paul extracted the cash from the desk drawer and put it back in his sportscoat pocket. He slipped the watch over his left hand and onto his wrist and the ring onto his right ring finger. The Bulova indicated the time was two thirty-three. He ushered Johnny from the surgery and closed the door behind them. After placing Johnny in a chair and telling him to stay there, Paul hurried upstairs and searched kitchen drawers in the dim light until he felt the shape of a flashlight. As Paul stepped outside, the neighbor's dog awoke and barked and howled at him once more. He left the house and jogged to a rusty, white metal shed he'd seen out back against a chain link fence.

  Paul stepped inside the shed and pulled the door closed. His pulse rate was elevated. The flashlight revealed miscellaneous yard tools and mowing equipment amid an array of accumulated junk on shelves. The neighboring dog's barks and two others drifted away. Two fuel cans grabbed his interest. He assumed the two-gallon and five-gallon cans each held gasoline. He sloshed the liquids and smelled each can. Both felt at least three-quarters full. He hesitated in deep thought knowing the next step would be dangerous.

  Back in the basement, he woke Johnny and helped him walk upstairs and sit on a kitchen chair. "Stay here until I come for you". The boy seemed confused and unusually agitated, almost hyper. He sat and his legs quivered uncontrollably as he blinked and nodded.

  At a workbench in the basement, Paul used a hammer and a large nail to punch three holes close together on the side near the top of the five-gallon plastic gas can. He made a torch of twisted newspapers. After removing the spout from the two-gallon can, he splashed the contents over the accumulated junk and boxes of materials. The five-gallon can was placed on top of a gun cabinet with the nail holes pointed downward. Gasoline spewed from the can in three fine streams and the fumes grew stronger. He lit the paper torch with his lighter and held it downward until the flames raced high. Paul placed a towel over his head to shield his face, and then tossed the flaming torch in the direction of the fuel soaked debris. A loud WOOMPH sounded and a bright flash illuminated the basement. Heat and flames flashed past Paul momentarily before the fire was contained to the soaked areas.

  The floor creaked above him as someone moved about the kitchen. Gasoline from the five gallon can ran across the floor and caught fire, and flames ran back to the gun cabinets. He tossed the towel on the fire and ran up the stairs with the .38 in his hand.

  Johnny ambled about the kitchen staring wild-eyed.

  "Let's go, Johnny. We've got to hurry. Johnny, wake up; the house is on fire." Paul had never seen the boy behave so strangely.

  They stumbled outside around the house in the dark before entering the car. The damned dog barked again, but half-heartedly. The engine started and Paul backed down the driveway then onto the street. Without headlights, the car moved painfully slow to the end of the block, made a left turn, and headed for the highway.

  Johnny said, "Thanks, Grandpa, I love you," before he snuggled in the back seat and closed his eyes. He seemed to have calmed considerably in the space he was familiar with.

  In thirty minutes, they were on Highway 160 East headed for Poplar Bluff, Missouri. Paul's heartbeats had stopped pounding as he forced himself to relax. In retrospect, the experience had gone well. Johnny had been treated at no cost and his watch and ring were rescued from the thieving doctor. He made a quick stop in Poplar Bluff as Johnny slept. Twenty minutes later he stopped at the edge of town for coffee. After paying the gas station’s lone attendant, they were on their way once more. They would arrive at home around eight thirty when the sun started its climb up into the sky.

  He would need to think of a cover story to appease Anastasia's curiosity. If she saw Johnny's condition and the bandage, she would want to know what happened. He had several hours to fabricate a plausible lie. She'd been spying on him for quite some time he was sure. He couldn't recall when it had started but it was more obvious lately. Johnny could wear long sleeved shirts for several days to keep the nosey, old cow from asking questions. If it became necessary, he could resort to his original plan and say he accidentally shot his grandson.

  An oldies but goodies radio station fed past hits through wires into his ears. His encounter with the late Dr. Wilson ended with Machiavellian overtones he'd never experienced before. But his actions were far less unethical than those of the radical doctor. Wilson got what he deserved.

  Guns. Never had he felt as powerful and in control than the two instances when he used a pistol to defend him and Johnny. Killing wasn't hard after one worked his way past the first few victims. The first, Ms. Estes was the hardest. The ramifications of that first horrific act bothered him greatly for weeks. Johnny suffered much more than he, and the boy's pain lasted far longer. For a week, Anastasia hovered around him incessantly. Afterward, Johnny required almost constant counseling for the weeks following that first trio. Even Anastasia noted and questioned his sullenness, erratic behavior, and bouts of crying. Finally, with the two victims from Seattle, Johnny assisted without visible negative effects.

  His personal tally was seven humans and one dog. He'd never ended a life through his seventy-sixth birthday. Then, in the past five months, the tally had started to rise and continued to grow. How many more lives would need to be squelched before his self-imposed political mission was successful? He didn't know the answer and didn't care. The results justified the means. His motives were pure even if his actions were primal. He knew he could and would kill again to achieve the goal he craved in order to secure the future of his country. It was his God-given duty.

  A smile surfaced in the dim light from the dash. The Colt .45 caliber revolver Johnny used on the woman belonged to his son. He found it and a .40 caliber semiauto pistol in his son's closet after the funeral. He was surprised John owned the guns. There had been vicious rumors about his management of the family firm; could those be true and were they the reason for the boy's need of personal protection? He flushed those thoughts from his mind; he didn't want to go there. He had faith in his son whose memory deserved better than that.

  Anastasia once more barged into his mind. It was evident they would reach home after she arrived to start her menial duties. He didn't like that she could have knowledge of his coming and going. Who knew what wild concoctions her mind could create out of several independent happenings? He chuckled aloud. If she ever attempted to blackmail him with her suspicions, he'd give her a personal one-way tour of his private hell in the basement. His features hardened. He'd need to be careful and plan for Johnny to be gone. The boy clearly had a crush on her and would defend her. Could she be sneaking up to Johnny's room for sexual trysts? Was that her hold on the young man?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Anastasia entered the mansion twenty minutes early. The coffee pot was cold, primed as she had left it the previous evening, but it had never been switched to brew. She immediately knew the men were either gone or still in bed. She hurried to Johnny's room and gently opened the door. His bed hadn't been disturbed overnig
ht. Louie Louie stood near the door and wagged his tail. As she scurried down the grand staircase, the ancient grandfather clock showed seven forty-eight. She needed to decide whether to leave the house or stay and let Master learn she was aware they'd been out all night again. The key caddy in the kitchen had two sets of car keys hanging; Master's set was missing. She wanted to avoid a confrontation, so she made her decision before taking most of the lettuce and other fresh produce from the refrigerator's crisper drawer and dropping them in plastic bags.

  Grabbing her purse, Anastasia practically jogged away from the house. She dropped the plastic bags into neighbor's garbage cans two and three houses down the alley. She needed an excuse for getting to the house late. Four blocks away and close to her apartment building, she entered a local donut shop and bought a cup of hazelnut flavored coffee before placing a call to the mansion's landline. The time was thirteen minutes past eight and no one answered. At a booth, she sipped her cup of coffee and waited.

  Her life had been mostly good but also very lonely. When she accepted Paul’s advances, she foolishly thought, no, hoped he was serious. At first, he treated her like a lady, then their affair moved to the bedroom and became sexually active. He cajoled her to testify against his wife at their divorce hearing. She still regretted that act of betrayal to Eunice even though she was paid handsomely.

  Initially, he was kind and patient with her and gave her reason to believe he was in love with her. But then the sex acts he firmly demanded became kinky and turned violent. Ropes, whips, dildos, and other sex toys became every night staples. To her they were instruments of torture. As a condition of their relationship Paul insisted she refer to him as Master. Her subservience was only one more stipulation of their arrangement. She endured all of it as the price of marriage – a marriage that would bring citizenship and respect from Paul's society friends. Eventually, he pulled away from her at the same time the physical pain and humiliation often reached unbearable heights.