Serenity Stalked

by Craig A. Hart

  “No, but why don’t you anyway.” Something else Shelby knew about cops was that it was always better to let them talk first. Otherwise, you ended up filling in the blanks for them.

  “You went to see Blair, had a disagreement, scuffled, left, then came back that night and finished him. I saw you at the scene the next day, probably trying to find out what we knew.”

  “You think I would kill a man, his wife, and his baby? And go back the next day to gloat? Jesus, Wilkes. I knew you disliked me, but this—”

  “You don’t seem to have a problem killing. It wasn’t long ago you were running up quite the body count around here.”

  “If you’re talking about the Ellises, they had it coming.”

  “Still, it shows you’re willing and able to take lives.”

  “Taking out a man who’s trying to kill you is a far cry from stabbing a baby in its crib.”

  “How did you know it was in its crib?”

  “It was on the news, Inspector Lestrade.”

  “You should know you’re a person of interest in the case. Where were you last night?”

  “With a friend until late. Then I came home and went straight to bed.”

  “How late is late?”

  “Maybe midnight.”

  “We think the murders happened later. Can anybody verify your whereabouts after leaving your friend’s?”

  “No. I was alone.”

  “Mind if I search the house?”

  “My house? Of course I mind.”

  “I could get a warrant.”

  “Then do it.”

  “I will. And I hope you know refusing a simple search makes you appear guilty.”

  “I had nothing to do with the murders.”

  Shelby wasn’t worried about Wilkes finding murder evidence in the house, but there were other things the sheriff could use to make Shelby’s life more difficult, including a couple of unregistered weapons and some old, dried-up pot. The two men did not get along, not the least of reasons being Shelby suspected Wilkes of having connections with a drug ring downstate that had tried to move into the area. Shelby had no doubt Wilkes would love to find anything he could use against him.

  “So you won’t mind if I take a look around.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “I’ll be back, Alexander. And I think you’ll wish you’d cooperated.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Wilkes. I’m not some greenhorn you can push around. You start harassing me and I will bring you down.”

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then Wilkes turned away. He stepped off the porch, but stopped and looked back.

  “I mean it, Alexander. This isn’t over.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Shelby said. “Now get the hell off my property.”

  10

  Shelby watched the sheriff’s car drive away before moving back into the house. He shut the door and leaned against it. He should have seen this coming, since the sheriff had seen him talking to Quinn and given how Wilkes’ mind worked. There wasn’t much Wilkes could pin on him, but there was enough to make things annoying.

  It was early, but he needed a beer. He got one from the refrigerator and popped the top. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, drinking his beer and thinking about the Blairs. He wondered if there had been something he might have done. Perhaps if he had been more insistent Mrs. Blair seek help or convinced her to leave with him. Perhaps taken her somewhere, a shelter or in-laws. But this was crazy talk. She wouldn’t have done that, no matter what he said. The only way she would have left the house was if he’d carried her out. And he’d had no right to do so.

  He saw his phone sitting on the counter and thought of Leslie. It reminded him of Helen and his promise to Leslie that he would call his ex-wife. Leslie, pregnant with her first child, was keen for her parents to be on good speaking terms by the time the baby came to term. She was determined to avoid any unnecessary family drama at the hospital. If they couldn’t be cordial, Leslie had threatened to ban them from the delivery. This was Shelby’s first—and probably destined to be his only—grandchild. He wasn’t about to miss the birth.

  Yet something had kept him from dialing Helen’s number. Part of him resented having to be the one to make the gesture. Why didn’t Helen call him? But he had promised Leslie, and time was ticking.

  “Stop being such a pussy,” he said aloud. “Pick up the phone and do it.”

  He walked over and retrieved the phone. He hesitated, dialed the number, hesitated again, then pressed Call. He held the phone to his ear and listened to it ring. Maybe she wouldn’t answer.

  “Hello?”

  Shelby froze.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Helen. It’s me. Shelby.”

  “Shelby? It’s been a long time.”

  “How are you?”

  “Oh, you know. Not getting any younger.”

  The conversation felt like wading through setting concrete. Shelby opened his mouth to ask about the weather but stopped himself. Better to be honest and get it over with.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I called.”

  “A little, yes. Does it have anything to do with our daughter?”

  Our daughter. That was what Helen always used to call Leslie when she was peeved with the girl.

  “It does.”

  “How much do you know?”

  “I know she’s pregnant. And she wants us present and drama-free at the birth.”

  “Think you can manage?”

  Shelby felt the familiar bristle of annoyance. “Of course. And you?”

  “Don’t adopt that tone with me, Shelby.”

  “What is it with you and my tone? You didn’t care what I said, as long as I said it nicely.”

  “Are we fighting already?”

  Shelby stopped and sighed. “Shit. I guess ‘our daughter’ knows us better than we know ourselves.”

  Helen laughed. Shelby found it pleasant.

  “To answer your question,” Helen said, “yes. I can manage it. I wouldn’t ruin Leslie’s day for anything.”

  “Agreed. And you never answered my other question. How are you?”

  “I told you. Older.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “Things are good, Shelby. They’re good.”

  “Why aren’t I convinced?”

  “Because you’re naturally suspicious. I mean, could things be better? Yes. But I’ve been through worse.”

  “When people say they’ve been through worse, it means things are bad.”

  “Things aren’t bad. They’ve been better.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’d rather talk about Leslie.”

  “Have you met the father?”

  “I didn’t know she was even dating.”

  “A one-nighter?”

  “Oh, Shelby.”

  “She’s a big girl, Helen. You and I were supposed to be a one-nighter.”

  “Yes, and look where it got us.”

  “We had good times before everything went bad.”

  “We did, didn’t we?” Helen’s voice turned wistful. “Do you ever miss it? The early days?”

  “Sure. Life seemed perfect and full of promise. We were expecting Leslie, I was a hotshot fighter with an eye on the championship...sure, I miss it.”

  “But it doesn’t do any good to talk about the past, does it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “So this daughter of ours.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s planning to name the baby after you.”

  Shelby’s heart skipped and thudded. “What?”

  “Shelby. That’s what she wants to name the baby.”

  “She knows the sex?”

  “No. She doesn’t want to know before it’s born. But it doesn’t matter; the name Shelby can be used for either sex. In fact, it’s more often a girl’s name.”

  Shelby rolled his eyes. “Don’t I know it. I get strange looks all
the time when I tell people my name. One pimply-faced asshole at the grocery store once accused me of stealing the credit card of a woman named Shelby. I had to educate him.”

  “Educate? That sounds ominous.”

  “He won’t repeat the mistake.”

  “So you’re planning to be at the hospital when the baby arrives?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. We have a way to go yet, but I can’t imagine anything that will keep me from it. Dibs on holding it first.”

  “Not so fast. Grandmas always get first cuddles. First after Mom, anyway.”

  “All right, all right. You win.”

  Helen laughed. “That was easy. You’ve gotten soft in your old age, Bear.”

  The conversation died. Helen’s use of the old nickname took Shelby by surprise. He felt a tickle of emotion in the back of his throat.

  “Sorry,” Helen said at last. “I have no idea where that came from. I haven’t thought of it in years.”

  Shelby cleared his throat but said nothing.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “It’s fine. Look, I have to go. I called because I’d promised Leslie, you know. It sounds like everything will be fine for the delivery.”

  “It was nice to hear your voice, Shelby.”

  “Same here. Bye.”

  Shelby disconnected and tossed the phone back onto the counter.

  “Well…that was weird,” he said.

  11

  As Smith watched news coverage of the killings, he noticed something disturbing. The urge to kill, which normally lay dormant for some time after a job, had never quite abated. And now, days after his latest spree, the urge was gaining strength. He examined everyone he saw as a possible target, although no one had struck his fancy. Acting again during a high-profile period was many times riskier. People were on high alert. Some would decide it was a good time to purchase a firearm. Faulty window locks would be repaired, security subscriptions renewed, burned out lights replaced. Better to strike when citizens were complacent. This was one reason Smith preferred small towns. The population believed nothing truly horrific would occur in their community. The other reason for preferring smaller locales was the impact was so much greater. A killing in Chicago or Detroit or St. Louis might not even make the news. But a dramatic murder in Smalltown, USA? Blockbuster coverage.

  Even so, it was too early for another job. Way too early. And yet the urge to kill plagued him more with every passing day. Two weeks after he murdered the couple and the baby, he was thinking about a new kill during every waking moment. He knew there was nothing he could do to quell its rise. The urge would grow stronger and stronger until it overcame every safeguard he had in place. If he waited too long, it would take over and he would kill the first person unlucky enough to cross his path. Much like the overactive sex drive of a rapist, the urge to kill could take control of Smith, causing him to act in a foolhardy manner.

  He had allowed it to get to that point only once. Once was enough. He had thought he could wait it out. Perhaps he had but to get through the withdrawals and then he’d be free. It wasn’t to be. Blind with the desire to kill, he’d attacked a woman in a public park, his knife almost severing her head, stabbing in and out, in and out, as horrified onlookers stood like so many statues and watched it unfold. Someone called the police and the sound of sirens jolted Smith from his blood-covered frenzy. He fled and somehow evaded capture long enough to put several states between himself and the crime scene.

  Smith never forgot the event. He knew how lucky he’d been. He should have been caught, and he’d spent a long time expecting an authoritative knock on his door. But it hadn’t happened. He began to feel as if he led a charmed life, as if he was doing what he’d always been meant to do: kill.

  Charmed life or no, Smith had no desire to test the limits of fate. He didn’t want to kill in Serenity so soon after the last murder and was beginning to see he wouldn’t be able to wait out the urge, which seemed to double by the day. And that was why he decided to leave town. He would move on and perhaps make it a safe distance before he had to act. He set about making plans to leave, and everything progressed smoothly.

  Until he saw her.

  Perhaps the red scarf caught his attention first; he loved the color red. The young woman walked down Main Street, wearing a puffy jacket against the early spring chill, a red scarf around her throat, a short floral skirt, and those black leggings so popular these days. If he had a daughter, he’d never let her wear them; leggings were not pants. Then again, if he had a daughter, he wouldn’t do a lot of things. Family was something he had long desired. He’d come close to having it, but it had slipped away.

  Smith watched the woman until she turned into the doorway of a local bar. He checked his watch. It seemed early, but then again, Smith was not an expert in such things. A teetotaler, he had little knowledge concerning the habits of drinkers. He’d always heard five o’clock was the accepted time to imbibe. It was nowhere near five. Hours to go.

  Curious, Smith started his car and drove to the bar’s parking lot. He got out and, glancing around once, walked to the front door and went inside.

  The interior of the bar was gloomy after the brightness outside and it took Smith’s eyes a few moments to adjust. He stood there, blinking, trying to make out his surroundings.

  “I’ll be right with you,” a woman’s voice said. “You can have a seat anywhere.”

  Smith nodded and moved forward as his vision improved. The place was nothing special: a row of stools in front of a massive bar, and a section of tables with booths along walls decorated with a random variety of sports and outdoor memorabilia. A Detroit Redwings banner hung from the ceiling. Televisions, their screens dark, were mounted in strategic locations around the room. He spotted a booth in the far corner. It sat in a pool of shadows created by a half wall jutting out from the hallway leading to the bathrooms. He made for the booth and slid onto the seat. Smith grabbed the menu and looked over it. He wasn’t hungry, but the action made him appear normal. Every few seconds, he peered over the top of the menu and looked around for the woman, but he seemed to be the only customer.

  “Sorry about the wait,” a voice said from behind, startling him so much he almost dropped the menu.

  “It’s…no problem,” Smith said.

  He turned and saw the woman in the leggings and floral skirt. She had removed her coat and wore a black, scoop-necked shirt. And he realized she wasn’t a customer at all; she worked here. He cringed as he realized he was on the verge of breaking one of his rules. He had spotted her as a possible victim, which should prevent him from having any personal contact or interactions with her. And now she stood at his table, looking right at him.

  “What can I get for you?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “A drink, then?”

  “Oh, I don’t drink.”

  The woman smiled and Smith realized he was making a fool of himself.

  “You may be in the wrong place if you’re not hungry and you don’t drink.”

  “Do you have salad?”

  “Sure, we can make a salad. We have a house salad, the Caesar is good—”

  “The house salad.”

  “A whole or a half?”

  “Half.”

  “Preferred dressing?”

  “Whatever it comes with.”

  “Ranch?”

  “Ranch is fine.”

  “I’ll get it right out to you. I’ll bring you a water to go with it.” She hesitated. “You drink water, don’t you?”

  There was the smile again, the mocking smile. Smith felt his cheeks warm.

  “Of course.”

  The woman nodded and walked away.

  Smith watched her go, knowing he should get up and walk out, forget ever having seen this woman. He was fascinated, though angered at her glibness. He didn’t appreciate jokes at his expense, but it made the woman more intriguing. She couldn’t know who she was talking to, but the idea of her jokin
g and even mocking him—him—struck Smith as amusing. What would she think if she knew? He doubted there would be any sarcastic remarks then. He envisioned those proud, confident eyes overtaken by fear as the horrifying reality of death passed over her. That was his favorite moment, the moment his victim hovered between life and death. Smith had never experimented with drugs, but he imagined the high he experienced at the moment of a kill to be similar.

  “Here you are, sir.”

  Again she startled him.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  Smith forced a smile. “It looks great.”

  He saw the question in her face. She thought he was nuts, crazy, weird. Well, she would find out soon enough he was none of those things; he was a man with an urge to kill.

  Smith knew he would break the rules. This woman would be his next victim. He had to have her. He needed to stalk her, see her terror, feel the knife slide into her body, and watch her transition from life to death. Yes, she was beautiful, but that wasn’t the reason. Beautiful people tended to die more beautifully, but there was something else about this woman. Something crying out for the attention only Smith could pay her.

  12

  Shelby sat in Wilkes’ office, trying to burn a hole in the sheriff’s forehead with his eyes. Wilkes leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, and looked toward the ceiling.

  “I don’t have all day, Wilkes. If you have questions, ask them. Otherwise, I’m walking out of here.”

  “What’s your hurry? A hot date?”

  “Don’t be chummy with me.”

  “Just being friendly.”

  “We’re not friends. I’ve filled out your damn report. What else do you want?”

  “I only want to talk.”

  “About?”

  “You interest me, Alexander. I understand you grew up in Serenity.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then you moved away.”

  “Couldn’t get out fast enough.”

  “And yet you came back.”

  “A loathing of home is normal for the young.”