* * *
The day earlier, Donna had arrived at the condo while Atwell was out getting a box of cigars. She struck up a conversation with the doorman, asking him for a key to the penthouse elevator. The doorman said, “No way; I’d be fired for that.”
Donna was wearing a low cut dress that day; she knew from long experience that male creatures are created by nature with an overflowing supply of testosterone. Donna had known throughout her life how to use that knowledge to her advantage.
She bent over and touched the doorman’s leg, calling his attention to a hair on his pant’s leg. “Do you know where Mr. Atwell might be?” she asked in a low seductive voice.
In a stuttering response, the doorman revealed to her the location of the cigar store where Atwell had gone and when he expected Atwell to return. eHe apologized profusely that he couldn’t allow Donna in Atwell’s unit.
Donna said, “That’s okay, I’m an old friend who Marv will be delighted to see.”
The doorman said, “Maybe you and I can get together after you visit Mr. Atwell.”
“That would be fine,” Donna said as she positioned herself behind the doorman and out of direct sight from anyone entering the revolving front door.
Fifteen minutes later, when Atwell entered the condo lobby, he didn’t notice Donna whose small frame was concealed completely behind the large doorman. In a second she was next to Atwell, with her gun that she made sure the doorman couldn’t see, pressed firmly against Atwell’s side. She put her lips next to Atwell’s ear and whispered, “If you try for a moment to effect some physic mumbo jumbo on me, I swear I won’t hesitate to kill you.”
The doorman, watching from about fifteen feet away, thought he was witnessing Donna seductively blowing into Atwell’s ear. Atwell’s sure going to get lucky tonight, he thought.
Atwell put his key into the elevator slot as directed, his shaking hand just barely finding the slot. Donna had decided she was going to make Atwell suffer quite a bit before she killed him, but as soon as they exited the elevator into his penthouse, Atwell took off running down the hall. Losing control, he slid on his overly waxed marble floor into his large wooded den. Donna was right behind him, yelling for him to turn around. Atwell panicked and turned to face Donna, concurrently putting his hands up. Donna immediately shot him in the middle of the forehead. Then, hearing a noise down the hall, Donna thought Maureen was there. But the noise was that of the live-in maid who had heard the gun shot.
The maid picked up the heaviest object she could find—a thick Stephen King novel that Atwell had been reading in his bathroom. Atwell had no loyalty to his maid, but she did to him. She didn’t know what had happened to Atwell, but as Donna entered the hallway, the maid threw the book as hard as she could at the intruder.
The book glanced off Donna’s arm causing no damage, but the maid’s action had enraged Donna. “Hell, maybe I would’ve let you live, but now—” The maid ran back in the bathroom; in a second Donna was behind her. The maid faced Donna, putting her hands up. Donna laughed. “This isn’t the animal world, sweetie, where pleading and surrender ends the conflict,” she said, smiling as she fired into the maid’s heart.
She investigated all the remaining rooms in the condo looking for Maureen. Satisfied she was not there, Donna decided to relax while she waited for Maureen to return. Donna took a bowl out of the cupboard, and finding a box of heavily salted pretzels she filled the bowl and sat down. Facing her was a 60-inch three dimensional TV. She turned on a nearby Blue Ray DVD with a recent 3D movie already inserted and entertained herself for the next hour.
She had that damn recurring headache again. That was the only reason she allowed Dr. Anderson to live, to take care of any of any potential physical problems resulting from the operation. She knew if she had to go under the knife again, only Anderson would have the expertise to accomplish it. Other neurosurgeons wouldn’t know what the hell the electronic unit was that was planted in her head. Besides, it was possible they might have even heard about the previous operation and would contact the police.
She went into the bathroom to get an aspirin. As she opened the medicine cabinet, she couldn’t avoid the sight of the maid’s dead eyes staring up at her. Donna said, “What in hell do you want? You’re dead!” She tossed a bath towel over the lifeless head. “That takes care of it; she won’t be staring at me anymore.”
Maureen still hadn’t returned after another hour had passed, and Donna still had some personal business to take care of. She was in San Diego, so why not enjoy myself, she thought. Before she left she decided to leave her calling card, a note boldly written with a red marker pen. She left the note for Fred. She had hoped to leave the note on the dead body of Maureen; but she decided in a compromised situation Atwell would do nicely instead.
As she left the revolving door of the condo building, she sensed a presence nearby. Before she could focus her mind, a car almost ran her over as she was crossing the street. With her mind diverted, she didn’t pick up the mental scent of Maureen who had just passed the condo driving Atwell’s Mercedes.
Maureen had been fortunate because Atwell had given her the keys to his 2012 Mercedes, telling her to go to the grocery store and get a week’s worth of groceries. Maureen initially wasn’t sure why he told her to do that; it was normally a job he assigned to his live in maid. But lately Atwell was giving more and more duties to Maureen—always the least desirable ones. Maureen had once mentioned to Atwell that she didn’t like to drive in the busy downtown area of large cities. Atwell recalled that fact, and out of pure vindictiveness had sent Maureen to a downtown grocery store in the busiest and most violent area of town.
Maureen knew there were several stores nearby which were much easier to get to, but she realized that somehow Atwell would know if she disobeyed his orders and chose to shop in a closer area than he had directed. She couldn’t afford for that to happen.
When Maureen had completed the week’s shopping and returned to Atwell’s condo, she started to turn into the lower garage area. At that moment she saw a woman hurrying out of the condo’s front door. She didn’t think about it immediately, but a second later it hit her—that was Donna Lang! Donna was wearing a dark wig, but Maureen knew instinctively who it was.
Fred had told Maureen about a psychic’s need to have some degree of proximity to their subjects in order for them to effectively read one’s mind. Maureen’s first tendency was to pull into the condo’s garage, park the car and hide there until Donna was gone. As she thought it through, she realized that isolated in the garage she would be trapped with nowhere to escape. She reflected that Donna might pick up her mental scent if she hung around the area.
Instead of driving into the garage, Maureen continued down the street until she reached the intersection of I-5 heading north. She traveled continuously through most of the night, checking her rear view mirror every mile of the way. The heavy traffic was continuous.
When she reached the Oregon line she was exhausted. She left the interstate, spotting the welcoming bright neon sign of a Motel Six. She recalled Tom Bodett’s famous advertising line about his leaving the light on. She desperately needed to enter a motel room already well lit to help cast away her fears of the dark. She convinced the motel manager to accompany her to her room to make sure that Bodett’s spiel about guaranteed room illumination upon arrival was in fact literal.
She had purposely obtained a room on the second floor, strategically centered in the middle of the motel. That would be a good area to spot anyone coming up the stairs, she thought. She opened the curtains slightly; and after thoroughly making sure there were no residual night creatures in the room, she turned the room light off. She pulled a chair next to the large front window and peered through the curtains for the next three hours, watching the continuous stream of north and southbound cars coming and going. She didn’t want to call Fred for fear that somehow her call would be intercepted by Donna. Eventually she fell asleep, exhausted, with her head resting
awkwardly on the cold marble window sill.
The next morning she woke up with a start. She hadn’t wanted to fall asleep but she had been totally drained from her long drive, amplified by the petrifying fear of Donna that had crept into and lodged in her weary bones. During the night her dreams had been replete with thoughts of dark creatures breaking into her hotel room.
Maureen had noctiphobia, an abnormal persistent fear of the night. Maureen had that phobia for as long as she could remember, but its severity grew much worse during an outing she had with her uncle when she was a child. On that day he had taken her to an amusement park in western New York. The park contained several rides, one of which was a tunnel of love. She viewed from a distance the well-lighted happy fiberglass cartoon figures in the front of the tunnel welcoming them in. Maureen’s constant pleadings finally persuaded a reluctant uncle to take her on the ride. She sat on one side of the bright yellow fiberglass boat, her uncle on the other. She laughed at the fully animated life-size cartoon figures as the boat slowly proceeded down the still waters guided by a controlling submerged rail system invisible to the ride’s occupants. Everything was positive for Maureen until the boat turned the corner and she entered into complete darkness.
Suddenly in her undeveloped child’s mind, her uncle had transformed into an ogre whose features were now hidden by the total darkness. Terrified, Maureen dived out of the boat, frantically wading through the colored sea blue water back to the entrance of the ride. Maureen’s new dress was soaked from the encounter.
When her father heard about the incident, he angrily slapped Maureen twice. What she construed as her father’s cruelty seemed to reinforce her already deep fear of the dark. The fear continued unabated throughout her adolescence into adulthood.
She had studied psychology to try to understand her phobia and how to counteract it. Even sensitivity training failed, where she was exposed to total darkness for short periods and then rewarded if she successfully made her way through it. But any success that she had was transitional; soon after her treatment, she invariably reverted back to her acute fear state.
This morning she quickly surveyed the motel’s parking lot; as far as she could, tell Donna wasn’t out there stalking her shadow. Maureen didn’t take time to get breakfast even though an inviting MacDonald’s was just across the street and she could smell bacon and sausages cooking. She returned to I-5, continuing due north heading toward Seattle.
Chapter 34
After Fred left the condo, he “borrowed” some of Atwell’s clothes, much to the disapproval of the investigating condo cops who considered them as possible evidence.
Fred was clearly a fashion victim as he traveled to the San Diego Airport in pants at least two inches too short for him and a shirt whose buttons had already started popping. A large bandage covered his broken nose, completing his unfathomable image.
From the condo’s doorman he had verified the approximate time that Donna had left the condo the day before. When he arrived at the airport, he checked the daily schedule of all flights to Sarasota. He figured that she needed at least an hour to go from the condo to the airport to catch the earliest flight available to her. He thought she had a significant window of time to select from an array of evening and night flights returning to Sarasota; but fortunately, only two airlines left for Sarasota during that day and time period. Each airline had two flights leaving during the evening and night hours. The next flight after that which was available to Donna did not leave until seven the next morning. Fred made an educated guess that Donna would not wait until morning to return to Sarasota.
He went to each airline’s ticket desk, showed his badge and asked for the names and phone numbers of the flight attendants serving each of the evening and night flights. Fortunately, all of them had a permanent address in San Diego and they all had continued the previous day on their flights, directly from Sarasota.
The question was how would Fred describe Donna? He knew she would have used a phony name and most likely a false driver’s license; he was also certain that she had changed her appearance. When he reached the first attendant, he described Donna’s voice and her mannerisms as best as he could recall. He didn’t want to describe her appearance in detail since he had no idea what she looked like except that she was short and petite, two features he had hoped had not been changed even if she had on a disguise. He added to his description of her that she would have most likely been traveling alone.
Although all of the initial airline contacts that he reached were cooperative, they each said they dealt with so many passengers that the vague description he provided was no help.
Finally, on his eighth call he hit pay dirt. The attendant said, “She might have been the person. There was a lady who was getting off the plane, and she whispered in my ear saying that she had to tell me something important. I didn’t know what that was all about, but in this day and age of terrorism we’re taught not to take any chances. In the passenger’s words, she said the lady next to her was a mind reader, because she responded to something she never said out loud but only thought of. At the time, I figured this lady was some kind of a nut, but I clearly recall what the woman seated next to her looked like; she was heavily made up. She had a gray wig on. I can tell cheap imitations from the real thing; but I also thought I saw strands of blonde hair coming out at the back of her wig. I wondered why at the time someone would try to make herself look older than she was. God knows I try to do just the opposite. There’s not enough wrinkle cream on the market to satisfy me.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about the woman?” Fred asked.
“Sure, I now remember her name, it was Janet Stevens. She was quiet during the entire flight; she asked for a couple of Manhattans, but that was about it. She was sitting in the first class section. I guess that’s why I recall her; I didn’t have to cater to that many passengers.”
Great, Fred thought, I now know her alias but I’m not sure where that will get me. He did learn that she was wearing a gray wig. We’ll change our all-points to reflect the changes in her appearance that the attendant told me about, Fred thought, but that most likely won’t help much unless we get a big break and she retains that identity for a period of time. The bad news from the attendant’s message was that Donna was able to read minds again. Fred realized the worst had happened; her powers had been restored. And Fred had run out of time.
Chapter 35
Whenever both Donna and Polish went out, Anderson was securely bound to an embedded cast iron vent pipe about four inches in diameter. The pipe extended from the cement floor in the laundry addition, to just above the highest point in the trailer’s roof. It was well rooted in cement; he couldn’t budge it.
He could often hear the voices of young kids playing somewhere outside in the distance. But since he was gagged, no matter how hard he tried he could only release low inaudible sounds which didn’t travel beyond his trailer.
His hands were handcuffed in the back to a thick metal chain that encircled the vent pipe. His ankles were bound with what he assumed was a piece of the same heavy duty chain. A sturdy padlock secured the two ends, ensuring that he could not get free or even separate his legs. Another chain, also linked together by a padlock, stemmed from his handcuffs to the chain holding his ankles.
He had told his captives that he needed to be able to go to the bathroom when they left him for long periods. Donna said, “Go ahead; piss in your pants, this is not the Ritz, you know.” Since Anderson could only relieve himself in his clothes when the two were gone, he was forced to wait in agony until they returned.
Restricted by his awkward position and lack of movement, he could apply only limited leverage against the constraining pipe. However, as he continued to struggle, he seemed to feel some minimal movement. He wasn’t sure if it was an actual movement or a product of his burgeoning imagination triggered by sheer exhaustion. At that same moment he heard the sound of Donna or Polish closing the front door.
&n
bsp; As was her normal practice, she immediately went to check on Anderson. Seeing that he was still well secured, she released his hands from the vent. The connecting chain was also unlocked so he could now hop uncomfortably around the trailer. She opened the door to the bathroom, pushed him in, pulled down his shorts and underwear and said, “Go to it.”
“This is embarrassing,” he said.
“You’re a medical doctor—get over it; call me when you’re finished and don’t take forever.”
After he was done she re-dressed him, returning him to the living room sofa, where he was required to stay until he was again securely bound in the laundry room where he would spend the night.
That night he heard distant voices from the TV in the living room of the trailer. Then he distinctly recognized the sound of the front door closing. A few seconds later he could barely discern the sound of their car’s motor starting in the driveway.
Both seemed to be TV fanatics and when either was out of the trailer, the first thing the remaining one would do was turn on the TV. This time he recognized only silence in the adjoining room. After ten minutes passed, he was certain that the trailer was unoccupied. With as much force and leverage as he could muster, he feverishly attempted once again to move the vent pipe back and forth. He was hoping that even with minimal movement metal fatigue would finally set in. Then he heard it. The most pleasurable sound in his life, that of the rusty cast iron pipe cracking.
The Monolith Murders Page 15