Earlier, John X had walked to a 7-Eleven and called for a taxi to take him to the bus station in Dallas. It was departing at 12:45 PM, and he was cutting it close. Buford had wanted the job done right away. If the taxi got there soon, he would make it.
He had studied the lunchtime customers as he waited. The Indian guy behind the counter had three people standing in line. There was a fat woman with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, bouncing around like a conductor’s baton, as she demanded a carton of Virginia Slims. Next in line was a construction worker type. Behind him was an impatient young executive wannabe in a cheap suit, holding a diet Coke and a Snickers bar. He appeared to have already consumed more than his daily allowance of caffeine.
On one of the isles was a young woman holding a crying baby on her hip while scolding her toddler, who had just successfully toppled a giant display of microwave popcorn.
The first bullet would go to the Indian, before he could press an alarm button or go for a gun under the counter. Next, he would take out the construction worker before he could react. The big hulk could have ripped off John’s head with his bare hands. But he would never get the chance. One clean shot to the head and he would hit the floor like one of those huge bags of dog food you buy at Wal-Mart.
The young guy would be peeing in his cheap pants. He would be easy to do. The young mother would frantically try to shield her kids. No way she could make it to the exit in a hurry. The fat woman might take a run at him, but he doubted that she could move very fast. The biggest threats from her would be cigarette burns, or suffocation under her gigantic butt.
Too bad all of them would have to die. He really only wanted to kill the construction worker, who reminded him of Peter, Jackie, and Phillip. He had wanted to kill that trio every day of his life since high school. Good thing he didn’t get his hands on a gun until after graduation.
A lot of teachers and students could have died. But he didn’t have any intention of going to prison. His killings must all be done in such a way that he could escape cleanly. None of his corpses would ever lead the police to him.
He would never actually kill Peter, Jackie, or Phillip. He would get caught if he killed them, because he would want the world to know he did it. He would want his entire graduating class to know that he finally got revenge on those three football player punks who mercilessly picked on him, beat him up and made him the biggest joke of his school. But if he could have, maybe it would have finally ended the laughter that still echoed in his ears.
Instead, he played his favorite video game over and over: High School Retaliation. He figured that the people who wrote the game must have been abused in school, just like he was. In the game, he was a character named Johnny who showed up at school one day with a .44 Magnum. Presumably, the game writers were Dirty Harry fans.
As Johnny went from classroom to classroom, he would seek out the punks who had beat him up, pulled his pants off and stuffed him in a locker the day before. A crowd of students had cheered them on. He could blow away some of them too.
John always felt the adrenalin rush when he blew their heads ‘clean off,’ as Harry Callahan would say. Sometimes he would wait until his victim was standing in front of a window so he could watch the head fly off and crash through the glass, leaving the body standing headless for a brief moment before it collapsed to the classroom floor, jerking hopelessly.
Nothing gave John X more pleasure than playing the game—except real killing with real guns. And yes, he even owned a .44 Magnum. But he had never used it on a job. Yet.
The taxi had arrived in time, and John had made it to the bus station, paid the $35.00 fare and got onboard. He had just murdered five adults and two babies—but only in his mind. Killing them would have served no purpose—other than the sheer joy of it. But it would have been too risky.
And besides, he had a job to do. Marty would be a sitting duck. But John would occupy his mind on the four-hour trip with devising some interesting new way to kill Marty. That was the real fun of it for him. Each murder had to be a little different in some way. He liked being creative with his craft.
**********
Marty had decided to wait at the Holiday Inn for Cynthia Blockerman to return, as Buford had requested. Her car was still in the parking lot, but he didn’t expect to see her any time soon. He did expect Buford to send somebody to kill him. He knew the killer would come soon, but he didn’t know whether his death would be by gunshot, poison, an explosion, or some other means.
He was not too worried about it. He would take reasonable precautions, but wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Marty knew he was a dead man. Buford would keep sending hit men until somebody got him. Or he would just call his buddy on the parole board, and Marty would eventually be found and thrown back into prison. If he couldn’t be fishing, he’d just as soon be dead anyway. Years of killing and prison life had numbed his senses.
He had been surprised a few years earlier when a new cellmate’s sad story actually revived something in a deep, long-forgotten place in his heart. It was a young black man, who at age 12, had seen his older brother brutally and senselessly murdered. It had destroyed his life. The young man’s story had stirred a righteous rage within Marty. He would have hunted down that murderer and slaughtered him if he had known the killer’s name.
Marty wanted revenge for him so badly that he would have given his own life just to see that wretched man in the grave. It would have been like Marty killing his own father for the years of misery he had dealt his son. Alcohol had killed him before Marty could work up the nerve to do it himself.
**********
Greg and Cynthia were approaching Dallas. Soon, they would meet the notorious Buford Bellowin. In the meantime, Greg struggled with his mixed emotions about Cynthia. He was very attracted to her. But he couldn’t let the physical attraction blind him to the fact they she might well be a murderer.
He wanted to believe her story, but he didn’t want to be a fool. Was this an innocent, kind woman of high moral value? Or was she a talented liar, capable of killing without remorse? He hoped he could survive the relationship until he knew the answer to that question.
Then Cynthia looked at him and smiled, and he knew he couldn’t possibly resist her, no matter what she had done. It felt as though the two of them had just stripped naked, and dived off a high cliff over a beautiful river. The water below looked cool and inviting.
But what if it was only six inches deep?
23 - DALLAS
Greg and Cynthia walked through the spacious marble lobby to the large, circular reception/security booth, which separated them from the hallway of elevators. A huge digital wall clock read 4:08 PM. Two uniformed men were carefully watching an array of closed circuit television monitors.
In a quick survey of three screens, Cynthia saw a young couple in one of the elevators, a woman walking down a hallway with an armful of folders and a man opening a door.
One of the guards looked up at Greg. “May I help you, Sir?”
“Yes. We’re here to see Buford Bellowin.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Uh, no, we don’t.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t let you go up. You’ll have to call his secretary and set up an appointment. The office numbers are listed over on that board. I’m sorry—but, that’s all I can do for you.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Why hadn’t he lied to the guard about having an appointment? No—the guard would have called Buford’s secretary to verify it.
They walked to the information board and found Bellowin & Associates. It was located on the seventeenth floor. Greg typed the office phone number into his cell phone, but did not press the ‘Send’ button. “Let’s go over there,” he said to Cynthia.
He led her to a small couch close to the lobby entrance. He didn’t want to be within earshot of the guards. “Okay. Here goes.” He pressed the ‘Send’ button.
“Bellowin and Associates. How may I help you?”
; “I would like to make an appointment with Mr. Bellowin.”
“Are you one of Mr. Bellowin’s clients?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, now, Mr. Bellowin is booked up for the foreseeable future. But one of his associates could see you…next Wednesday at 5:30. Would that work for you?”
What had made Greg think they could just walk right in and meet with the mighty Buford Bellowin?
“No, Ma’am. I’m sorry—this is not about a legal matter. I’m an old friend of Buford’s, from his hometown of Coreyville. I’m in Dallas on business and just wanted to drop by and ’shoot the bull’ for a while.” He hoped he sounded like one of Buford’s friends. On second thought, he didn’t know whether Buford actually had any friends.
“Oh, I see. Well, he’s in court for the rest of the day, but I could probably squeeze you in sometime between 8:30 and 9:00 tomorrow morning. He reads his email during that time, but I’m sure he could spare a few minutes for an old friend.”
“That would be great.” It wasn’t great. Now he and Cynthia would be forced to spend the night in Dallas. They had planned to meet with Buford and be back home by late evening, having solved the mystery of the Coreyville killing spree. It had seemed like a good plan. What were they thinking?
Cynthia had an ear close to Greg’s phone, and didn’t like what she was hearing. But Greg gave her a look that said, ‘We have no choice.’
“Now, what was your name?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather surprise him.”
There was a brief pause before the secretary responded. Maybe Greg had blown it.
“Okay. Just tell the guard that you are Buford’s friend from Coreyville. He will call me, and I will give him the okay for you to come up.”
“Oh. Actually, there are two of us. The other one is a lady friend of his.”
The secretary knew Buford would not want to miss an opportunity to see a lady friend. “Got it. Two friends from Coreyville at 8:30 AM.”
“Thanks. See you in the morning. Bye.”
“What if he figures out that it’s us?” said Cynthia.
“Even if he does, I think he will be curious to hear what we have to say.”
Cynthia’s cell rang, and Greg was about to advise her not to answer—but, he was too late.
“Hello?… Ten o’clock? I would prefer afternoon, if that’s okay. … Good. I will see you at 2:00.”
“Who was that?”
“Andrea Newly, the Assistant D.A. Thank goodness for cell phones. They have no idea I left town. I’ve got to meet with the D.A. tomorrow afternoon at 2:00. Can we be back home by then?”
“I hope so. If we can see Buford before 9:00, we should make it back in time. But we may be cutting it close.”
**********
“Bellowin and Associates. How may I—”
“—Millie, it’s me. I just got out of court, and I have special dinner plans tonight. So, I do not want to be disturbed by anyone for the rest of the evening.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“Any important calls?”
“No, Sir. But, you did get a call from an old friend.”
“Who?” Buford had no friends—just associates and clients.
“He wouldn’t give his name. Said he wanted to surprise you. And there’s a lady friend too. They’re from Coreyville.”
“Coreyville?”
“Yes. I told them to come by at 8:30 in the morning.”
“Did they say anything else?”
“No, Sir. That was all.”
“Okay. Thanks, Millie. See you in the morning.”
Buford got into his Mercedes, locked the doors and thought for a few minutes. Who would be coming to see him from Coreyville? He hadn’t been there in eight or ten years. What if Marty had suspected that Buford sent someone to kill him? He might be coming to kill Buford right there in his own office. He wouldn’t care if he got caught. But who was the woman?
What if it was Cynthia Blockerman. And Greg Tenorly? What if Dorothy Spokane had told one of them what Buford had done? Marty had killed Dorothy. But what if she had already told Buford’s dirty secret?
His pistol was locked safely in his office drawer, along with plenty of bullets. He would have it ready to go by the time they got there. He had spent an adequate amount of time at the shooting range to handle this situation. If they knew too much, he could shoot them and say it was self-defense. He could put one of his big, heavy golf trophies in Greg’s dead hands and say that Greg was about to hit him with it.
He would come up with some way to justify Cynthia’s killing as well. He had a very sharp legal mind. He would get himself out of this. And of course, the police would believe almost anything he told them. He was a powerful man. A man, who would, in a few short years, be governor of the Lone Star State.
**********
Angela Hammerly popped her head into Andrea Newly’s office. “Got Cynthia Blockerman lined up for tomorrow?”
“Yeah. She’s coming in at 2:00.”
“Why not first thing in the morning?” The D.A. was clearly disappointed in her new A.D.A.
“She had a conflict in the morning. I don’t know—”
“—you should have made her come in to suit our schedule—not hers!”
“I’m sorry. Should I call her back?”
“No. I don’t want it to look like I’m undermining your authority. We need a united front.”
“So, you really think she killed her husband?”
“Well, let’s look at the facts.” Angela walked in and took a seat. “The night of the murder, as I was getting out of my car at Cynthia’s house, I saw Greg Tenorly driving by. Or at least I saw his big red convertible. It’s the only one like it in town. I can’t be sure he was driving it—but, for now, let’s just assume he was.
“Why was he driving down her street at three o’clock in the morning? And one of the vice presidents at her bank said he saw Greg go into Cynthia’s office on Tuesday afternoon. By tomorrow, we’ll have their phone records. That should be interesting.
“We also know that she attended his choir rehearsal Wednesday night, the very night of the murder, and stayed late for a private meeting with Greg. And here’s the best part: the church organist says that she overheard Cynthia telling Greg she wished Troy was dead.”
“Are you thinking Greg Tenorly is the murderer?”
“I don’t know which one of them actually cut Troy’s throat, but I think they planned it together.”
“So, Greg and Cynthia were sneaking around having sex while plotting to kill Troy?”
“Something like that.”
“I can get their credit card records and see if one of them has checked into a hotel lately. If so, we can try to find out what the other one was doing at that time,” Andrea said with a wicked tone Angela particularly liked.
“Now you’re thinking. If we can catch them in bed together, after the fact—then we’ve got ‘em.” Angela almost looked proud of Andrea.
“I just hope they were stupid enough to use a credit card.”
“They’re not stupid. But I can guarantee you they’re not as smart as they think they are.”
24 - HIT MEN
John X stole a silver F-150 pickup from a Wal-Mart in Shreveport. It was easy. The owner had parked it thirty feet away from other cars, probably in an attempt to avoid dings. It was a 2004 model, but looked brand new.
If someone had seen him stealing the truck, he would have been too far away for a positive ID. Even if the owner himself had walked out of the store at the moment John X was popping the lock, he would have had no hope of stopping him. He was just too good. Too fast. Too cool.
He didn’t like the George Strait CD or the preset Country radio stations. But it didn’t take long for him to find a heavy metal station and crank up the volume. He wasn’t happy unless the music made his teeth rattle, even if it blew out the speakers.
He took Interstate 20 West, then Highway 59 North to Marsh
all. Then he merged into Highway 154. Coreyville was fifteen miles away. He knew Marty was much older than he was, but probably a little wiser too.
But he had no intention of giving Marty any chance to avoid extermination. So, it had to be right—on the first attempt. One perfect shot, delivered without warning. Marty was just an ex-con punk. John X was a professional hit man.
Over the past two years, he had averaged two jobs per month, the first few for a measly $5,000 each, and then upped his price to $10,000. He was now ready to raise it again. After all, he’d never failed to complete an objective. A failure could put his employer in jeopardy. And that would mean the end of his career, and maybe his life. It was an extremely dangerous occupation, and the salary should reflect that. His goal was $50,000 per hit.
John X liked to visualize a kill before performing it, much like a golfer who envisions a perfect putt before stroking the ball. It enabled him to check every detail of a scenario in his mind, and then correct any flaws in his plan.
First, he would steal a uniform. Next, he would find a discarded room service tray outside someone’s door. Then he would carry the tray with his left hand and hold his .45 under the tray with his right hand. The silencer would greatly reduce, but not eliminate the sound of the shot. Cloth napkins draped over the sides of the tray would conceal the gun.
He would knock on Marty’s door and say, ‘Room Service.’ If Marty opened the door, John X would place one bullet perfectly in the center of his heart. A hole in one. John X would calmly close the door, set down the tray and walk away.
But if Marty looked through the peephole and refused to open the door, John X would shoot him several times through the door. It would not be a clean kill, but it would have to do. Because once lost, the element of surprise could not be regained. A wig and glasses would alter his looks sufficiently.
Once he arrived at the hotel, he would check the layout and the environment, the number of guests, escape routes, etc. Then he would reevaluate his plan.
**********
Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set Page 8