**********
Kantrell Jamison was tired of sitting in jail. Kyle Serpentine, his pro bono lawyer, had promised he would get off. But now the trial had been suspended until the police could investigate the murder of a juror. Why couldn’t they just go ahead with an alternate juror? All he could think about was how he would spend his money. He had stashed the envelope containing the $30,000 in a place nobody would ever look: in a metal file box, buried under the house.
The Jamison’s 1946 home sat on concrete blocks that suspended the floor two-and-a-half feet above the ground. He and his sister, Jolee, had often played games under the house when they were children. It felt great on a breezy summer day. Kind of a poor man’s playhouse—with a low ceiling and a dirt floor.
And their mother could easily call them for dinner from any room in the house, since you could hear everything under there. If they didn’t come right away, a couple of stomps on the floor always did the trick. But you learned to stay out from under the bathroom.
Kantrell didn’t know much about the law. But he had seen the movie, Double Jeopardy. So, he knew the police wouldn’t be able to touch him after he was found ‘Not Guilty’—even if they caught him with all that cash.
A deputy escorted a very big black man to Kantrell’s cell. He looked like an NFL player, at 6?5?, 295 pounds. “You’ve got company, Kantrell,” said the deputy, as he unlocked the door. “This is Ben Jones.”
“They call me Big Ben.”
As the deputy closed the cell door, and locked it, Kantrell said, “No use in locking it, deputy—I think Big Ben could rip it off the hinges if he wanted to.” Kantrell’s smart mouth was always getting him into trouble.
**********
According to the sign on the door, the office would be closing at 6:00 PM—in fifteen minutes. A younger woman named Jennifer was now sitting at the desk. Greg and Cynthia said hello, and began to pick out groceries. Bread, milk, peanut butter, two kinds of cereal, mustard, hot dogs, chips, a variety of soft drinks, plastic utensils, ice, a Styrofoam ice chest, two Dallas Cowboys T-shirts and two pairs of one-size-fits-all stretchy shorts.
Cynthia whispered to Greg, “How are we going to carry all of this stuff?”
He shrugged. “We’ll manage somehow.”
Jennifer bagged their purchases, while Cynthia made small talk. They paid in cash, and walked out—loaded down like pack mules for the long trek back to Cabin 17.
As soon as the door had closed behind them, Jennifer flipped open her cell phone, and entered the number she had written on the pad. Her thumb hovered over the ‘Send’ button. She wondered whether those two were really the fugitives she had seen on the news. They looked a lot like them. But what if she was wrong? That would be embarrassing. And the police weren’t offering a reward. So, why take a chance? They seemed like nice people. She closed her phone.
Greg and Cynthia walked down the dusty road with their groceries hanging from their bodies in plastic bags. Thankfully, the trees shielded them from the blazing sun. But the humidity was so high they might as well have been walking through a steam room.
“You think the killer’s still alive?”
Cynthia looked around for eavesdroppers, and then said softly, “Maybe we’d better talk about something else while we’re outside.”
She was right. They needed to look and sound like they were on a fishing vacation. Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d been fishing. Maybe when he was a young teenager.
“I really like Johnny Depp—especially in those Pirates of the Caribbean movies,” said Cynthia.
“Yeah, he was good in those. I think he was funnier in the first one, though. But why does he have to wear so much eye makeup?”
They talked about movies and TV shows until they got back to their cabin. And nobody seemed to pay much attention to them as they walked by.
Greg started laughing. “Why did we buy hotdogs? We don’t have any way to cook them.”
“Yeah, that was dumb.”
“Of course, they’re actually pre-cooked. So, if you don’t mind eating them cold…”
“How about peanut butter and jelly for dinner tonight?”
“Sounds delicious. May I be your chef for the evening, Mademoiselle?”
“Why, yes, that would be delightful.”
“Very well. And may I also act as your maitre d’? I have a very special table for you.”
“Oh, really? I’m intrigued.”
Greg pulled one of the chairs out from under the little rickety table, and offered it to Cynthia. “Mademoiselle?”
Greg filled the ice chest with ice, drinks and the hotdogs. Then he used the plastic utensils to make their sandwiches. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Ruffles, and warm diet Coke. They were both so hungry from skipping lunch and taking a long walk that it tasted as good as filet mignon.
**********
John X had been chasing Greg and Cynthia all day. And his old friends, caffeine and adrenalin, were beginning to fail him. Even a 25-year-old has to rest sometime. But he continued to push himself. He knew he was getting closer. By the time he found them, they would be sleeping. Then maybe he would take a brief nap himself. But he knew better. Finding them would re-energize him immediately. Just the thought of it made him feel stronger.
They would be so sorry they had caused his truck to wreck. They would wish they’d died in a car crash, as he had intended. That would have been an easier way to go. But now he would torture them. He wouldn’t get the extra $10,000 for making it an accident. But he didn’t care. This would be more fun.
He stopped at another convenience store. The old man behind the counter remembered seeing the Bonneville. John X jumped into the Mustang, and drove away. He could hardly wait to see the look on their faces when he whipped out his .44 Magnum.
The man in the black Camry gave John X plenty of lead time. It was more difficult at night, but there was less traffic now. And John X should have noticed that he was being trailed. But he was just too cocky. The man lit another cigarette and pulled onto the road.
36 - KANTRELL'S DISRESPECT
It was 8:20 PM. Kantrell Jamison and Big Ben Jones had stayed on their beds, napping and ignoring each other for three hours.
Kantrell jumped down from the top bunk and walked over to the wooden table and beat-up chairs. He picked up the deck of cards on the table, and turned to Big Ben. “How about a game of poker?”
The bunk bed creaked, as Big Ben began to rouse himself. He rolled toward Kantrell, bleary eyed. ”The only game I know is Spades.”
“That’ll do.”
Big Ben lumbered over to the table, and sat down. Kantrell nearly started laughing. His cellmate’s oversized body made the table and chairs look like children’s furniture. Kantrell shuffled the deck. Then they began to take turns drawing their hands.
“What are you in for?” said Kantrell.
“Hot checks. It was stupid. I got laid off. First thing you know, I was broke. But the guys were coming over to watch a big game. The Mavericks were on a roll. I had to buy beer and chips.”
“They threw you in jail for one hot check?”
“No. Four. I was gonna cover that first one, and never do it again. But I never got around to it, and then I needed groceries for the family. Then I needed gas and more beer. I told you it was stupid. And I’m never doing it again. Gotta serve thirty days. Then they’ll let me pay out what I owe.”
“Well, how are you going to pay it back if you don’t have a job?”
“My uncle has a landscaping business. And he said he’d hire me. I really don’t want to work for him. But now I’ve got to. At least until I can get something better.”
They continued to pick cards.
“And you’re the one who’s on trial for murdering Sam the Bicycle Man. Right?”
“Yep.” Kantrell didn’t bother to look up.
“Hope you’ve got a good lawyer.”
“Yeah. He’s pretty good, I think.”
“
‘Cause you don’t stand much of a chance in this town. The white people are gonna send somebody to the electric chair for that murder. And you’re black, so it might as well be you.”
“Nope. I’m gonna get off. And then I’m moving to Shreveport. Gonna buy me a brand new car.”
“So, you’ve got money, huh? Rich family?”
“Nah. They’re poor. But I’ve got my own money.”
“What kind of car?”
“I’m thinking a Cadillac XLR Roadster. A red one.”
“Really? So, you’ve got $90,000 to spend on a car? Hey—you want to be best friends?” Big Ben laughed at his naive cellmate. “Really—I could use a new car too. How about it?”
“No. I don’t have that much to spend. And I’m sure not buying you one.”
“Maybe you could settle for a Miata. It’s a girly car, but it might be more in your price range—around $25,000, I think.”
“I don’t want no girly car.” Kantrell had not even checked the price of his dream car. To him, $30,000 was a fortune. It should have been enough to buy anything he wanted.
“So, where did you get the money?”
“Where do you think?” A wry smile slowly formed on Kantrell’s face.
“You mean you really did do it?”
“Not so loud.” Kantrell looked down the hallway, checking for guards.
“You killed Sam?”
“No.” His lips lied, but the smirk on his face told the truth.
“You did do it. I can see it in your eyes. But Sam wouldn’t have had that much money in the shop. Somebody must have hired you to do it. But why? Sam didn’t have any enemies.”
“Yeah, he did. He had at least one.”
“You stupid fool! Don’t you realize what you’ve done? Sam Spokane was a great man. I don’t care what color he was. He cared about everybody. When I was twelve years old, and starting to get into trouble, Sam helped turn me around. I grew up poor, and the only bike we had was so busted up we couldn’t even give it away.
“But somehow Sam found out about me, and offered me a deal. He told me that he and I could take an old bike he had in his shop, and rebuild it together, a few hours a day, after school. Then he’d give it to me. It was great. And I didn’t see it at the time, but all those funny stories he told were actually teaching me lessons.”
“Yeah, everybody talks about how great he was. But he was real old. He didn’t have much time left anyway. And I couldn’t turn down that kind of money.”
“Not everything is about money, punk! That old man was like a grandfather to me. I oughta bust your head wide open!”
Without backing away from the table, Big Ben jumped to his feet, flipping the heavy table onto his cellmate’s chest.
Kantrell’s chair tipped backward. He tried to jump out to the side, but found himself pinned to the chair by the weight of the table.
A bicycle helmet might have saved him. But he had no helmet, nor anything else to protect his bare head from the rock-solid surface. His skull crashed into the unforgiving cold, hard concrete. A coconut thrown against a boulder would have produced a similar crunch. But cracking open a coconut would not have caused Big Ben to vomit all over himself.
In a single motion, he yanked the table off Kantrell, and threw it into the wall behind him with such velocity that two of the legs broke off. Kantrell didn’t appear to be breathing. Big Ben looked at him in horror, fearing he had killed the boy.
“Guard! Guard! Call 911! Hurry!”
**********
One of the jail guards had phoned Kantrell’s mother right after calling 911. She was pacing the floor in the emergency room when they rolled him through the doors. Kantrell’s eyes were closed.
“I want to speak to my son.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ll have to wait,” the guard said.
“Besides—he’s barely conscious,” said one of the paramedics.
“I don’t care. I’m gonna talk to my boy!” Ella Jamison was a large, strong woman. She grabbed the stretcher, leaned over Kantrell, and whispered, “Kantrell, this is your mama. Do you hear me?”
He opened his eyes a little, but was in a daze. “Yes, Mama.”
“Where did you hide the money?”
“That’s my money.”
“Kantrell, you gotta think about your poor mama and your little sister. Now, where is the money?”
“I’m gonna buy a new car.”
“That’s fine. We’ll hold the money for you until you get out of jail.”
“No, Mama. That’s my money. I earned it.”
“Now you listen to me, Kantrell. You hit your head real hard tonight. What if you die? Then we won’t know where to find the money. Then what are we gonna do?”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
The guard pulled Ella away from the stretcher. And before she could think of what to say next, Kantrell had disappeared through the double doors.
**********
Between Cabin 14 and Cabin 15, there was a small road. John X drove down the road until it widened near the lake. He made a u-turn, turned off his lights, and killed the engine. He had finally found the Bonneville. It was parked in front of the last cabin—number 17. He checked his watch. It was 10:45 PM.
Greg and Cynthia would probably be asleep soon, he thought. Unless they were having sex. Maybe he should go now, and find out. It would be fun to crash through the door in the middle of it. But no—that might be risky. It would be safer if they were asleep. Being safe was not normally a high priority for him. But after the fiasco with the 18-wheeler, he was feeling a little more cautious.
He would wait a couple of hours. Then he would walk to their cabin, quietly pick the lock, and slip inside. Then he would flip on the light, and wake them up—with his .44 Magnum in hand. And they would, of course, do whatever he said.
He had decided to use his ‘two hearts for the price of one bullet’ plan. He would set them up back to back, and then blow a big hole through both of them with one shot. He would enjoy watching them cry and beg for mercy.
Of course, the .44 Magnum would be very noisy. It’s a revolver—like an Old West pistol, except bigger and more powerful. And it’s impossible to effectively suppress the sound because of the open chambers. But he couldn’t resist using it. He had owned the gun for over a year, but had never used it on a job. The people in nearby cabins would definitely hear it, but would initially be afraid to go near the source of the blast.
John X would be long gone before anyone worked up the nerve to investigate, and discovered the gruesome scene in Cabin 17. And if anyone saw the Mustang driving away, that wouldn’t matter either. He would dump it a few miles down the road.
**********
Greg woke up to the voice of Jay Leno. He had dozed off during the monologue. Cynthia was asleep in her bed. He clicked the remote to turn off the TV, and tried to go back to sleep. But now his mind was wide-awake.
It had been another wild day in a crazy week. And even though they had nearly been killed in a car wreck, he wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. There was something about being with Cynthia that made life special. He had never felt this way about any other woman. Even his ex-wife.
Sure, she was beautiful and sexy. Sweet and caring. Smart and funny. He imagined holding her slender, but curvy body in his arms, while kissing her warm, wonderful lips. It gave him chills. The kind of chills you want to feel every day for the rest of your life.
But it was more than just physical. Much more. He loved talking to her about anything and everything. And joking around with her. Just having fun together.
How sad and miserable he would be, if he found she didn’t feel the same way. In that case, wouldn’t he have been better off not to have ever met her?
No. Even if they were only together for these few days, it still would have been worth it.
Worth every minute of it.
37 - TWO HEARTS
John X had waited until 1:00 AM to leave his car. More than likely
, Greg and Cynthia were sleeping, he figured. Hopefully the people in all of the cabins were sleeping. But he wondered how the animals in the woods could ever sleep at night—the crickets and the bullfrogs created a wall of sound as loud as a rock concert.
He walked along the lake behind the woods, in the direction of Cabin 17. Each cabin had its own little pathway to the lake. Cabin 17 was surrounded by the road in front, the woods on the right and back, and Cabin 16 on the left. The trail he was on would come out behind number 17. A flashlight helped him avoid snakes and other critters. He was carrying a small overnight bag, containing the .44 Magnum revolver and two rolls of duct tape.
Each cabin had only one window. The bottom half of the window held a large air conditioning unit. Cabin 17’s window faced the woods. As John X carefully walked around the side of the cabin, he noticed that there was no light coming from the cabin. He ducked under the window, walked to the front, and put an ear to the door. All he heard was the hum of the window unit.
He picked the lock. It was even easier than he had expected. He turned the doorknob, and eased the door open very slowly, counting on the air conditioner to mask the sound of any squeaky hinges. The room was illuminated only by moonlight. But he could see that they were both in their beds. The top half of the window was uncovered. But since there were only trees and brush in that direction, he didn’t care.
He reached into his bag, and pulled out his big, heavy revolver—his most prized weapon. All six rounds were loaded, even though he only intended to use one. Then he felt along the wall by the door for the light switch and flipped it on. “Time to wake up, and die!”
Cynthia simultaneously woke up, gasped, and jumped back against the headboard. Greg opened his eyes, but was frozen in place. The young man standing before them was holding a very big gun in his hand. A gun big enough to hunt buffalo with.
“Hello. My name is John. And I’ll be your killer tonight. But first we’re gonna have some fun. Or at least I’m gonna have some fun. But you’ll be a big part of it. So, thanks for flying with us.” He laughed.
Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set Page 14