by Saul, Jonas
Twisted Fate
by
Jonas Saul
PUBLISHED BY:
Imagine Press Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-927404-39-3
Twisted Fate
Copyright © 2014 by Jonas Saul
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Jonas Saul Titles
The Sarah Roberts Series
1. Dark Visions
2. The Warning
3. The Crypt
4. The Hostage (*Featuring Drake Bellamy from The Threat)
5. The Victim (*Featuring Aaron Stevens from The Specter)
6. The Enigma
7. The Vigilante (*Featuring Aaron Stevens from The Specter)
8. The Rogue (*Featuring Darwin and Rosina Kostas from The Mafia Trilogy)
9. Killing Sarah
10. The Antagonist
11. The Redeemed
12. The Haunted
13. The Unlucky
14. The Abandoned
15. The Cartel
16. Losing Sarah
17. The Pact (Coming Soon)
The Jake Wood Series
1. The Snake
The Mafia Trilogy (Starring Darwin and Rosina Kostas)
1. The Kill
2. The Blade
3. The Scythe
Standalone Novels
1. The Threat (Starring Drake Bellamy)
2. The Specter (Starring Aaron Stevens)
3. A Murder in Time (Starring Marcus Johnson)
Short Stories
1. The Burning
2. The Numbers Game
3. Trapped
4. Twisted Fate (Tales of Horror)
Compilations
1. Sarah Roberts Series Vol. 1-3
2. Sarah Roberts Series Vol. 4-6
3. Sarah Roberts Series Vol. 7-9
4. Sarah Roberts Series Vol. 10-12
5. Sarah Roberts Series Vol. 13-15
6. The Mafia Trilogy
7. The Jonas Saul Thriller Trilogy (The Threat, The Specter, A Murder in Time)
Beginning
Hatred
The Elements
Vengeance
The Reaper
The Ruse
The Witching Hour
Bound
The Painting
No Trespassing
Blood Money
Don’t Shoot
About the Author
Hatred
Walter Smathen stared out the car window at the decrepit house and tried to calm his shaking hands. A rush of anger washed over him the minute his driver stopped in front of the rusted iron gate encircling the property.
He sat in the backseat of his Crown Victoria. His driver waited for instructions while Walter examined the abandoned house. It had to be over one hundred years old. He traced the foliage along the broken bricks. Two stories high, four columns, stood proud in the front, supporting what was once a regal home, lost to tragedy more than twenty years ago. As Walter understood it, a business deal had gone awry. The Realtor said something about a mother and her two children being bludgeoned to death.
Walter had researched the house and read old news articles about the tragedy that night. The husband was still alive somewhere, but he’d lost his ability to function shortly after the murders and was committed to an institution. The murderer, an ex-business partner of the husband’s, was never found. Some rumors say he’s buried in the house. When Walter had asked how the husband escaped arrest, he was told the man used to be a police officer and on the night of the murders, he was on duty with his partner. The alibi was solid.
A week ago, under the guise of full disclosure, Walter had asked his agent if there was anything else he knew.
“The house has sat empty since that night. I Googled what I could and asked around before showing you the place. Your plan to demolish this house and use the land to expand the mall’s parking lot is the best thing that’s come along for this area in a long time.”
“I appreciate your attention to detail.”
He’d rushed the closing and nailed a date a week later for the keys.
As rain slid down the window, Walter looked across the overgrown lawn at the old broken-down house. He tightened his grip on the door handle.
Why am I feeling such anger?
He hadn’t felt such internal fury in so long it seemed foreign to him.
A car’s horn broke his reverie as the agent’s Buick pulled up.
Walter’s driver reached to open his door.
“Wait,” Walter said, placing a hand on the back of the front seat. “It’s okay. Stay in the car. I’ll go in alone.”
The driver eased back in his seat and nodded, catching Walter’s eyes in the mirror.
Walter opened his door and crouched under an umbrella his Realtor held out just as he got to Walter’s side. Together, they walked through the rusted gate and up to the front porch where they found shelter between the columns.
“You have everything?” Walter asked.
“Yes, it’s all here.” Mike tapped an envelope held under his arm.
“Good. I want to take a look around first.”
“I should caution you. I don’t know how good the floors are, but the stairs broke down ten years ago. Walter, this house is in bad shape.”
“I’m aware and will be careful. You can wait in the foyer. The demolition manager and a few of his men should be here anytime now. Make sure he gets those papers.”
The front door resisted opening. He shoved it with his shoulder enough to force his way in. With the door open, a new sense of fear and anger tensed his stomach.
The soft light that fought its way through the curtained windows gave the house a haunted feel. But Walter didn’t believe in such trivial things as haunted houses. He knew he was the only person in this house, alive or dead.
A wide staircase, broken and crumbled, led upstairs from the center of the foyer. There was just enough light to see open doors on the second floor.
He started for the large sitting room on the right, testing each step as it wasn’t something he could take back once committed to. The last homeowners attempted to create the image of a century home. Just inside the alcove, antique furniture sat in disarray, covered haphazardly by white blankets now turned brown, long lost to decay.
His chest tightened and wheezed as he inhaled. His attention being on the furnishings, he didn’t notice the symptoms at first. He coughed and backed out of the room, careful to step where he’d made a path in the dust. He squeezed out the front door, sucked in a lung full of air and coughed.
“You okay?” Mike asked.
Walter bobbed his head up and down. He put his hands on his knees and bent over, trying to get his breathing back under control.
“What happened in there?”
“Nothing. Too much dust. Wasn’t … paying attention.”
“Maybe we should wait out here for the demo guys.”
Walter shook his head. “I want another look around.”
“Suit yourself. Do you want an oxygen tank?”
Walter stood to his full height, cleared his throat and frowned at Mike.
“Just kidding.”
He turned back to the door and pushed his way in. This time he moved to the left of the foyer. Floorboards, withered by age and termites, cracked where he stepped. He stayed close to the wall and leaned into it for support.
Another room, larger that the foyer, opened before him with more pieces of furniture strewn about. Better light came through the large front windows.
Feelings of anger rose within him again. Viole
nce thickened the air he breathed. He could taste it, touch it. As if the murders from two decades ago left tension in the air like a current of seething rage. He clenched his fists and leaned hard against the frame of the door.
Then his breath caught in his throat.
Before he could run from the house, a lone couch nestled in a corner near the back of the room caught his attention. Something about it drew his eyes.
He breathed deep, releasing the pent-up air trapped in his lungs.
The four legs of the couch were arched in a claw-like grip as if it held the floor in a solid embrace. The seat cushion appeared to be newer than the couch.
That’s the one I want.
He’d have it delivered to his home office.
What is wrong with the air in this house?
He ran for the porch and panted as if he’d run a mile.
The rain had subsided. Walter checked his watch and decided to head home before his wife’s next round of medications.
“Mike, tell the demo guys to remove the couch in the back corner of the room on the left. It’s the only one without a furniture cover on it. I want it delivered to my home office later today. There’s a cash bonus in it for them. Then instruct them to destroy the rest of this property on schedule.”
He stepped off the porch and hurried through the wet grass to his car.
It took at least five miles of asphalt between Walter and the house before he began to feel better. His breathing resumed its normal rhythm and he didn’t feel as angry as he had earlier. He couldn’t figure out what had angered him so much—he’d just been pissed off.
At sixty-two-years old and as close to financially free as he would ever be, anger was a mistress he rarely coupled with. There was no use for it. Lawyers handled all the shit that bothered him.
His wife had gotten sicker recently. She moped around the house and talked about dying, stuck in a poor me phase.
His son locked himself in his room when he should be out looking for a job. Lawyers didn’t fix those kinds of problems, unless he wanted to get a divorce.
Sure she’s dying, but can’t she do it with more dignity? People die every day.
Diabetes, in its final stages, is one hell of a gross disease. Walter had a private nurse for his wife, but the nurse had recently walked out. The new nurse didn’t start until the weekend. With this only being Wednesday, Walter would have to act as nurse. Normally he wouldn’t have minded caring for his wife, but not today.
“Where are you?” his wife shouted from somewhere in the house.
Two nights ago, she couldn’t stay awake. Last night, she was an insomniac. Joan accelerated her symptoms because she skipped her insulin shots and ate the chocolate bars their son Alex snuck in to her. No matter how many times Walter warned him—not to mention the two diabetic comas his mother had experienced—Alex remained loyal to his mother.
Joan was nauseous and had vomited at least once a day this past week. She seemed to be confused about so many things.
He opened her bedroom door and stopped to watch her. How could he be thinking such inhumane thoughts? This was his wife, his Joan. She needed him. Yesterday, he sat and read to her. His patience had been limitless. But today, patience seemed distant, far away.
He placed the insulin needle on the tray beside her bed. She looked at him, smiled, and breathed out a long breath in an exaggerated sigh. Rancid was the best word to describe the air quality exhaled from her dying body.
“What took you so long?” Joan asked. “I’ve been waiting all day. The sheets need cleaning. I threw up over there and I haven’t eaten since this morning. Walter, get me some food. I’m sorry for my tone, but I’m used to the nurse being here. We do things a certain way.”
“Joan, you know where I’ve been. I’ll get you something to eat, but you’re going to have to watch how you’re talking to me.”
Her eyes probed him. “What’s wrong with how I talk?”
To avoid a fight, he started for the door.
“I asked you a question,” Joan shouted after him.
Walter turned back to her. “We do not talk to each other this way. You’re confused. Take your needle and I’ll be back with your lunch.” He stepped into the hallway and slammed the door on her protests.
Halfway to the kitchen, his cell phone rang. He ran for his office and snapped it up.
“Hello.”
“Walter? Oh man, this is bad.”
“Mike? Is that you?”
“Yeah. The demolition guys and I are still at the house and …”
“Do I hear a siren in the background?”
“Yes. Police and ambulance are here.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Give me a sec. Let me go where it’ll be a little quieter.”
Mike breathed into the phone as he moved further from the sirens. “There, can you hear me better?”
“Much. Now, tell me what happened.”
“The demolition guys showed up just after you left. I walked them into the foyer and I showed them the couch you wanted. One of the guys walked over to it and sat down. I told him how risky that was as the floor may not support him. He laughed at me and lay out on the couch.”
“Mike, what has this got to do with emergency services?”
“I’m getting there.”
“Get there faster,” Walter said. He’d only left his wife’s room minutes ago, and her screams now reached his office.
“I told the guys to hurry up and get the couch moved so we could get on with the demolition specs. For some reason unknown to me, they looked seriously pissed off, especially the guy who had sat on the couch. They picked up the sofa and carried it outside to the front porch. Then the guy who had sat on the sofa ran back into the house. Let me tell you, he was mad about something. His co-worker yelled after him. We stepped into the foyer, but he was gone.”
“Are you taking your time on purpose? Are you going to tell me why the cops are there?” Walter’s patience had ebbed.
Joan banged something on the floor and shouted. Walter wondered how high her blood pressure was now. He almost shouted back to her but tightened his jaw to avoid hurling abusive slurs her way.
The nurse said to watch for diabetic acidosis. The last stages.
“The guy had climbed upstairs somehow. Then he fell. A piece of the old banister impaled him. He’s dead, Walter, he’s dead.”
His nerves rattled, it took Walter ten minutes to prepare the sandwiches for his wife. He took them to her, doing his best to tune her out on the way up the stairs. The insulin needle lie on the nightstand table, unused. He knocked it off the table. It hit the floor and skidded under the closet door.
“What did you do that for?” Joan asked.
“You will eat your lunch in peace. Then you will sleep. If I hear another word out of you, I will call the hospital and have you taken away. Understood?”
With a subtle tip of her head, Joan nodded her understanding. He knew the threat of the hospital would shut her up.
“Good.”
He stormed out of the bedroom. His cell rang as he entered his office. By the time he got to the phone, he cursed himself for being so abrupt with her. Some days were better than others but, for some reason, today was his worst.
He snatched up the phone. “Hello.”
“This is John Mackay. I’m with the Chicago Police Department. Are you the new owner of this house out here on Michigan near 55th?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I was wondering if we could meet up so I could have a word with you.”
Walter sat at his large banker’s desk in his home office and tapped his pen. The demolition team had left the old house after their colleague’s body had been taken away. They’d carried the couch into his office a half hour ago and collected the cash bonus.
He stared across the room at the couch that a dead man had sat on. It didn’t match his office. He’d have to change a few things around so it would fit. Its shape didn’t appe
ar to be anything like a traditional sofa, so he’d looked it up online. It was a kind of chaise lounge with the back piece only on one side. The sitting area was long and designed for a person to extend their legs. A soft floral pattern covered the antique, which was something Walter would normally have detested, but this couch held meaning for him. He had no idea why, but it felt sentimental.
When the doorbell rang, he dropped the pen he’d been tapping.
“Fuck!” he smacked his desk and got up.