Death Smell
Page 3
Mack stared down the barrel. Now I wish I hadn't loaded it with hollow points. Come on, Dickhead, get it over with. She took a deep breath. Her last? That death smell returned. Bile crawled up her throat. She swore she could hear blood rushing though her veins. Small sounds were magnified--a TV in the upstairs apartment, a car starting outside, the dumpster lid being closed, and Reynolds had not turned the faucet off all the way. The drip echoed in her ears.
Mack didn't want to die. Not like this. Maybe in a shootout or a break in a bungee cord. A few minutes before, she'd tested the duct tape binding her hands where she'd used the nail file. Not even close yet. The file had a smooth edge so she'd had to resort to dragging the flat side across the tape. Would've been awkward with free hands.
Reynolds smiled a crooked smile. "Not just yet, Teresa." He uncocked and lowered the gun.
Mack released the breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding, as a bead of sweat trickled into her ear. Her heart still hammered against her chest, and she tried to slow her breathing. Although she fought the impulse, relief flooded through her. She wasn't going to die. Not right now anyway.
"I need a smoke. Do you smoke, Teresa? Nasty habit everyone says. I say screw it. My life. I saw a patio off the kitchen, so I'll be right back--and then we can continue our chat. You wait here, okay?"
He stuffed her gun into his jacket pocket and rose. "I want you to think about what will happen when I get back. Our game will begin. Of course you'll wait. Won't you? Ha, ha, ha." He pulled out a pack of Marlboros and shook one into his hand. Fishing in his shirt pocket, he retrieved a folding matchbook and pulled out a single match.
Mack watched him go into the kitchen and heard the latch click on the patio slider. She shifted position and again sawed on the tape. Mentally counting the seconds, she set a goal of two minutes to saw through the tape.
Her hands were sore and losing feeling. She prayed she was striking the same place each time she drew the file over the tape. Thirty seconds. Right hand, shaking in pain. At least it has feeling. One minute. She thought she heard a rip. God, if only. No noise from the kitchen yet. A minute and a half. There. A definite tear. She pulled with her last bit of strength and her hands were free. Breathe, Mack, breathe.
She reached down to her feet and sawed through that tape. Oh! Both legs are asleep. She struggled to get up. Needles shot up from her shins. Then the unmistakable sound of the patio door opening. Panic hit. Got to get to the bedroom for the Glock Reynolds didn't find. Move legs, she commanded. Trying to hurry, she hobbled past the kitchen and down the short hall to her bedroom. Closing the slider door, Reynolds had his back to the kitchen entrance, so he didn't see her pass.
Wouldn't take long for him to find her gone. She switched off the light and threw herself across the bed. Dropping to the floor she located the compartment her brother had installed for her Glock. She ripped at the wooden cover, grabbing the gun, and flexing her right hand to gain more feeling. The gun seemed annoyingly awkward. Rising to her knees, she quickly doubled checked to insure it had a full load, and then gripped the handle with both hands. She put her arms on the bedspread to steady her aim, aimed at the open bedroom door, and waited.
"Teresa? Now, darlin', where'd you go? This is gonna be fun. Hide and seek. I'm it. Here I come."
Then silence.
Nine
Mack waited. Come on sucker. I'll ventilate you quicker than snot. Mack had never shot anyone. Not that she wouldn't, just that she'd never been forced to fire a shot to kill.
Not a sound came from the hallway. Where the hell is he?
A blurry, fuzz ball jumped onto the bed and Mack almost blew Truman away. "Stupid cat! Get out of here," she whispered as she pushed Truman. He wouldn't budge. He hissed, but he didn't move. Must've come in when Reynolds opened the slider. She refocused on the doorway.
"Come on, Teresa. Come out and play. Do you have another spare gun or are you playing hide and seek? Are you in the bedroom? Here I come. Ready or not." His insane giggle filled the apartment.
Mack tensed and blinked. Her eyes were beginning to blur from the damn cat. Not now, please, allergy. Make your move, Reynolds. Get it over with, before I sneeze.
The creak of the wood floor gave him away. That board was only two feet from the bedroom door. Mack blinked again. She couldn't afford the time to wipe the tears leaking from her eyes. Steady. Steady. Rivulets ran down her cheeks.
Then Reynolds flashed by the doorway. But instead of running past, he did a forward roll and threw off a quick shot. The impact of the bullet smashing into her right arm froze it, and she dropped her gun onto the blanket next to Truman. The force spun her into the windowsill beside the bed.
Shit, didn't even get a shot off. She sat slumped on the floor, blood dripping from her arm. Why don't I feel any pain?
Reynolds stepped into the doorway in a crouch and flipped on the light. "Well, lucky shot, huh, Teresa?" He still had a blood-soaked tissue in his nose, and was wearing a shit-eating grin.
Mack used her good arm to struggle upright. She was not going to be killed sitting down like a coward.
Reynolds watched, allowing her to wobble to her feet.
I'm going to stand up. I can…if I don't pass out.
Reynolds moved forward, waving the gun.
A feline scream filled the room. Truman arched his back, then crouched, and with a hearty yowl, sprang at Reynolds. He landed with all four legs outstretched across Reynolds' chest.
God bless his little claws. They dug into the man's face. Reynolds tried to rip the cat off but still holding the gun, only one hand was useful.
Mack fell onto the bed, grabbed the Glock with her left hand and fired four shots into Reynolds' chest. Truman jumped back to the bed as the man stumbled wildly backwards into the hallway. Mack grabbed her robe off the bed to stem the flow of blood from her arm, and went to check on Reynolds. No pulse. Truman swirled around her legs. She looked down. Boy, do I owe you, cat.
Two weeks later, Mack sat at her kitchen table reading the newspaper and attempting to eat a bowl of cereal with her left hand. A sling and heavy bandages rendered her right immobile. The doctors had said she'd fully recover, but it would be several weeks before she could begin therapy. If she didn't starve before then.
Truman was finishing a bowl of expensive cat food. He looked up at Mack and licked his lips.
"You deserve it, cat." Was that a purr she heard? Probably not. Thank God the allergy medicine worked.
The cell sitting next to her coffee vibrated, and she answered. "Macklin."
"Hey, Mack. Captain Daniels here. Just got word from the FBI. Seems Reynolds has been active in three other cities. Total of twelve vics. A search of his main home revealed a souvenir room and details of his spree. In Peoria, you were to be number three. The others were just a part of his game."
"What's the significance of Fleur-de-lis, Cap?"
"He was a New Orleans Saints fan. Born in Louisiana and grew up worshiping the team. Also had a religious theme to it. His father was a religious zealot, very strict, and attached the symbol to the Holy Trinity because of the three petals."
"Weird, huh?"
"Yeah. You take care and get well. We're short-handed here. By the way, you did one hell of a job on that case. Congrats. A special commendation has been requested and approved. See you soon."
"Thanks, Cap. I'm as anxious as you to get back."
Mack hung up, looked down at her cereal and then at Truman. Belly full--one satisfied cat--cleaning his whiskers. The hell with this. I'm off for a real breakfast.
Fourteen days had passed since she'd smelled death. Maybe this case had cured her. Only time would tell. Or the next homicide.
About the Author
I served in the Air Force in Viet Nam and the Philippines before working as a manager for a Fortune 500 company for twenty-five years. When they no longer needed me I owned a shoe repair and sales shop for eleven years, until that business succumbed to the economy.
When I 'retired' in 2002 my wife told me I should write a novel. Didn't know if I could, so my only goal as an author was to finish a novel. I've been writing since I could hold a pencil. For most of my 74 years I wrote short stories, having a few published in magazines before they went the way of the dinosaurs. I am blessed to have a publisher who wanted to publish it. I've since had three more published and now Uncial has agreed to publish two of my short stories. I'm jumping for joy, and hoping I don't fall and be unable to get up.
I've been married to my soul mate for almost 50 years and have a writing assistant toy poodle who allows me to live in her house.
A true joy is having someone tell me they couldn't put down something I'd written until they'd finished. Unless my words are read they just sit astride the page. My goal is to intrigue and entertain my readers.
* * * *
Uncial Press brings you extraordinary fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Put a world of reading in your pocket.
www.uncialpress.com
Table of Contents
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Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
About the Author