With Cruel Intent

by Dennis Larsen

  A cable connected the computer to a camera that sat on the desk, his hand danced with the mouse, manipulating the images on the screen. A young man walking with a shapely woman wearing a tight sweater filled the screen. He clicked an icon at the top of the application and the image momentarily vanished only to return with just the face of the young woman visible. Her hair appeared darker than it had under the lighting in the library, but there was no mistaking the ample curves and the smile he’d captured, even from the distance he’d been forced to accept. It excited him almost as much now as it had when he’d so carefully taken the shots from the safety of the van. The mouse moved and again the image changed, this time the monitor filled his eyes with dozens of pictures taken in sequence, cataloging the walk from the library to the point he could no longer see the couple.

  “Little prick,” he cussed out loud, “better not get in my way.”

  He leaned back in the chair taking in the series of pictures, his fingers interlaced and placed behind his head. He let his mind wander; imagining what he could do with the tantalizing librarian that would feed his new found hunger. For so many years he’d found excitement in the preparation for a job and the adrenalin rush that would come with the actual crime, but unbeknown to his employers they had opened a whole new world to him. He couldn’t put his finger on it but there was something euphoric about stalking a target and the ultimate sense of power that came with viewing the pictures and fantasizing about what he could and would do.

  “I need something special for you,” he once again said aloud returning his hand to the mouse and clicking on a close-up shot of Blanche from the waist up. “Yup, you nosey little bimbo, I’ll find something extra special for you, and I won’t even charge them for it.”

  Clicking the printer icon caused the green light on the photo style printer to blink and the sound of the printer coming to life filled the room. A moment later the paper wound its way through the printer and a full sheet dropped in the tray within his reach. Picking it up he turned it over to see the face of Ms. Blanche Delaney staring back at him, hair tossed gently in the breeze, her face framed perfectly over her right shoulder, and just enough of her curves visible to excite him as he viewed his favorite picture.

  It had been genius when he decided to honk the horn at the appropriate moment and the gamble had paid off with this prized possession. With the picture in hand he left the desk and moved to the opening in the bookshelf and stood before the map on the wall. He pinned Blanche’s picture carefully to the side of the map and took a small ribbon of very fine thread, wound it around the head of the pin holding the picture and attached it to another pin stuck in the map precisely at the address of Ms. Carmichael’s Bed and Breakfast. He smiled and enjoyed thinking about how clever he was.

  “This gig is turning out to be more fun than I’d expected,” he thought.

  A third and a fourth image were prominently displayed on the wall as well, both held in place by pins as the others, with thread leading to a location on the map, 412 Big Buck Circle. The first of the images was that of a bungalow set on a lot with large, mature trees shielding the entrance, and a driveway that ran along the side of the house leading to a small garage in the back. The home appeared to be fairly new with no toys strewn across the yard and no signs of a pet. The newly, self-discovered voyeur had studied the pictures carefully.

  Each photo that had been included in the packet, delivered under the cover of night, had bits of information that would be crucial for his success, and he had committed them to memory along with the floor plan and layout of the home. The other picture was that of an attractive middle-aged woman dressed in jeans and t-shirt, with short-cropped brown hair, tinted with streaks of gold. It had been taken while the woman was shopping, without her having a clue that she was under surveillance.

  Her name was Katherine Criddle but she preferred to be called Katie. The 50ish woman had been widowed over ten years ago and lived on her own in the pictured home, and drove a vintage mustang that she had purchased with some of the insurance money that had come her way after the death of her husband. At the time, the car had brought her some degree of solace, but she had been criticized for what some perceived as giving in to her midlife crisis. Katie dated little but worked full time at the local Piggly Wiggly as a cashier and counted her co-workers as her closest friends. She had one grown child that lived in Jacksonville, Florida, and worked as a manager of a restaurant. Her son was married but had no children and did not visit his mother often and generally only on holidays.

  The home in question was at the end of a cul-de-sac and would offer access from the rear over a fence that backed onto a green belt, with no houses within distance to see him either coming or going. The thief reviewed the items he would be taking with him again, checked to make sure the camera had fresh batteries, and that all else was ready for the outing.

  Earlier in the day he had taken a rasping file to the bottom of his athletic shoes to wear away any possible identifying marks that could be used to trace what type of shoe he was wearing. Tomorrow he would be burning everything in a 50-gallon drum at the back of his property for good measure anyway. Knowing that it was going to be a very long night he took one final look at the board and the faces looking back at him. He blew a kiss intended for all three ladies pictured there and left the hiding place, closed the wall unit to secure the room and laid down on the couch for a quick nap before having to head out once it was dark.

  He pulled the van quietly, without trying to draw attention to himself, into a parking spot near the dumpster at the back of Saints and Sinners, a bar located about two miles from the Criddle home. It was the closest place he had scouted that would keep the vehicle under wraps, until he could return after the outing, without it appearing to be out of place. The bar would be open till almost morning and the old van would blend in with the other customer’s cars parked around the area. He arrived at 11:30 p.m. and waited for a biker couple to park their Harley and enter the bar before he exited the van and started the walk to Big Buck Circle.

  He stayed off the main roads and tried his best to look like any other hitchhiker or homeless person getting from point A to point B with a backpack, a bandana around his head and nothing else that would distinguish him from the normal late night crowd. Traffic was light and he worked his way through some fields, in and out of a few dimly lit neighborhoods, until he arrived at the fence dividing the yard of Katie’s home and the green space behind.

  A train track was approximately 100 yards from the home that had not been included in the information provided by the anonymous supplier. He quickly and easily scaled the fence, once on the other side, he could see that the lights in the home appeared to be off with no back porch light, and no street light to brighten the backyard space. Pulling the sleeve up on his black shirt he could see the illuminated dial of his watch, 12:15 a.m., he’d made good time and was earlier than he dared enter the home. The professional burglar felt in the front pocket of his dark jeans and secured the key deposited there.

  It wouldn’t hurt to at least try the lock to be sure that his entry would be unencumbered, so he purposefully took the backpack from around his shoulder and laid it down on the porch. Painstakingly he eased the screen door open just enough to allow access to the locked handle of the wooden inner door. The screen squeaked ever so slightly, just enough to cause him some concern. Reaching into the pack he removed a small can of WD-40 and applied a quick blast to the hinges. The door now glided open without a whisper and he placed the door against his back as he inserted the key into the lock.

  The key fit perfectly and he felt somewhat guilty about entering this way, after all he was a pro and didn’t need the extra help to gain entrance, but the ‘employers’ had insisted that he use the means they provided to leave minimal clues and shake up the public even further. He placed his ear very close to the glass insert in the rear door to confirm no one was still moving about inside before he tried to turn the key. His heart raced as
his adrenalin began to kick in and his senses were heightened to the level of a world-class athlete. No sounds reverberated through the glass and he felt it safe to try the lock. He turned his wrist but the key did not budge.

  “What the hell,” he thought, and he exerted more pressure on the lock without success.

  The key was pulled free of the lock and he inspected it the best he could in the non-existent light. He ran his fingers over the ridges of the key, feeling for burs or irregularities, nothing. Once again the key was inserted into the lock making sure that it hit bottom and he turned, still nothing, and he dared not force the key any more to prevent it from breaking off in the lock.

  Somewhere in his memory he recalled his father complaining about a new house key he’d had cut that wouldn’t work. They had returned to the True Value store and the clerk had instructed them to wiggle the key up and down while turning. Apparently, it was not uncommon for new keys to take a few weeks of use before they wore down slightly and worked more efficiently, especially in older locks.

  It was still too early to try such an experiment with this particular key and he opted to wait until 1:00 a.m. before trying again. He picked up his bag and moved to a shadowed corner of the yard and sat in the dark, waiting for the next few minutes to pass. While waiting, he removed the camera from the bag and tested the image quality by taking a picture of the back of the house. Not bad, but not great either and he dared not use the flash, at least not outside where it could be seen for miles. Instead he changed the setting for shooting night scenes, opened up the aperture and took a picture of the house again with his face smiling into the camera, taking up a third of the image.

  “Good start,” he thought, before returning the camera to the bag.

  At exactly 1:00 a.m. he brought the key back to the lock and gently jiggled it up and down while applying some rotational force. Click! It moved and the sound of the lock giving way brought a sigh of relief to his lips. He very carefully and slowly opened the door, feeling for any obstruction that may bang against the back of the door that he had not anticipated. Nothing. It opened enough for him to slide in, including his bag, leaving his shoes on the porch.

  He wore latex gloves without the powder, a hair net under the bandana wrapped firmly around his head. Black makeup had been smeared over the surface of his face while he had sat in the corner of the yard, not so much to assist while in the house but just in case he needed to make a quick getaway, he’d be harder to see moving outdoors. The first thing he needed to do was secure the location and make sure Katie was in the bedroom asleep.

  He had looked over the pictures and schematic of the interior enough that he felt like he had been there before, but of course he had not. He left the kitchen, turned down a narrow hallway, passed a bathroom and laundry room on his right and a spare bedroom on his left. Katie’s room was directly at the end of the hall. There were no lights on and the door was open about ten inches.

  At the door, he stood holding his breath and listened. He could just make out the rhythmic breathing of someone sleeping so he pushed the door open just enough to poke his head around to get a look at the widow. The room was not entirely dark; an en suite bathroom positioned toward the front of the house had the door slightly ajar and the light on. He didn’t find this unusual, as his parents had done the same thing for years when they’d gotten older, made it so much easier to get to the toilet in the middle of the night without breaking one’s neck.

  He could make out Katherine’s form in the bed. She was lying on her right side, head on a pillow with a sheet covering her, except for her left leg extending from underneath the sheet, lying atop another pillow in the middle of the bed. Her left arm wrapped tightly around the top of the same pillow pulling it close to her chest. The in and out of her breathing was almost hypnotic and helped him relax as he surveyed the room. The foot of the bed faced the door and the lighting from the bathroom would provide better pictures when he was ready.

  He pulled the door closed, not letting the latch catch but having the jam provide enough friction that the door was almost shut, and he returned to the kitchen. On the table he removed the camera from the bag, along with a can of red spray paint and four flat pieces of plastic, which he would soon use to help him move the heavier pieces of furniture. First off he needed something to eat.

  Opening the fridge with his gloved hand, he looked for something that struck his fancy. Orange juice and milk made him think of breakfast so he removed the two items from the refrigerator and sat them on the counter. Carefully opening the cupboards he used his LED penlight to search for a bowl and some cereal. He assumed every home in America surely would have some type of cereal. It didn’t take him long to find everything he was looking for, however, he was not entirely pleased with the brands of cereal that Katie had available, but he settled on the Raisin Bran and poured himself a small bowl, covering the flakes with milk.

  Sitting at the table in the dark he drank his glass of juice and ate the cereal, always listening for any movement from the back bedroom. Nothing came as he polished off the snack but before cleaning up he positioned his Polaroid camera across the table from himself, lined it up so it would take the image from his mouth and down, showing the juice glass in one hand and a spoonful of cereal in the other, as well as capturing the bowl on the table with his torso behind.

  He positioned the penlight in such a way to help illuminate the picture without providing additional clues as to who he was, but wanted to send a message that he could come into any home and do whatever he wanted. The picture turned out exactly as he had hoped, not too much detail but enough to see what he was doing. The Polaroid went back into the backpack and he removed the digital camera.

  The living room was just off the kitchen and at the front of the house. The main entry led here and the room was fairly dark, even with the large bay window curtains open, due to the abundance of trees outside blocking most of the light from the moon and stars. He crossed the room, closed the curtains and found a small table lamp, which he turned on. Not enough light to alert a sleepless neighbor but enough to help him accomplish his task at hand.

  In the room she had two recliners positioned across from a 42” television sitting atop an entertainment center that was full of DVD’s and a sound system. There were two oval end tables, each topped with small lamps, and a telephone atop its’ charger on the stand nearest the kitchen. A coffee table was positioned between the recliners and had a dirty plate and glass resting where she’d left them before going to bed, a small couch sat perfectly between the recliners and behind the coffee table. The piece looked like it didn’t get used much as she still had it covered with plastic.

  The intruder imagined how he might like to rearrange the furniture and once he had the picture in his mind he got to work. He used the small square cuts of plastic to put under the legs of the larger furniture pieces and was able to slide them, with minimal noise, into place. Before long the room looked entirely different but still very well kept and stylish. The dirty dishes were taken to the sink where he washed them, along with the ones he had used, setting them on a dry dishtowel next to the empty sink. Before moving the furniture he had been sure to take a ‘before’ picture, then once everything was where he wanted it he took an ‘after’ photo. He was really having a good time and was thankful that the slumbering Katie was none the wiser.

  The nighttime interior decorator had almost forgotten about the spray paint, but seeing it sitting on the kitchen table reminded him that he had a few more things to get done. Taking the paint in hand he stepped from the kitchen into the hallway and was about to enter the living room when he saw a light suddenly appear under the door at the end of the hallway.

  His heart jumped into his throat and he froze, unable to move or breathe. Slowly, he backed up retracing his steps until he had reached the kitchen table. Rummaging around in the pack he found what he was looking for, and removed the can of pepper spray he’d picked up in a hunting store a few months ago w
hen he’d been traveling through Kentucky. Seems they use it there for defense against black bears but he suspected it would be just as effective against middle-aged women in nightgowns as well.

  One side of him was screaming to get the hell out of there and the other was pushing him beyond limits he’d never known. How could he leave yet, still didn’t have any pictures of what really interested him personally. The work he’d been paid to do was pretty much taken care of but he wanted it all. At any moment he expected her to open the door and come walking down the hallway, but it didn’t happen. Patiently he listened as he inched his way down the hallway to the point that he was standing just outside her door again, this time with the pepper spray in one hand and his camera in the other. If she was going to get a face full of this stuff he wanted to document it for later review.

  Intently he listened and then he heard some movement coming from inside the room. He tried to imagine what was happening on the other side of the door, he strained for clarity. The sound of her moving about on the bed was followed by the box springs squeaking as he pictured her sitting on the edge of the bed getting ready to stand.

  “What’s she doing in there?” he thought. “Does she know something is wrong? Do I bust through the door and pepper spray her into oblivion or simply wait?”

  He chose the latter, inched as close to the door as he dared, closed his eyes and focused on the auditory signals coming from the bedroom. Time stood still as he listened and waited. Another sound, this time the opening and closing of a drawer in rapid succession, followed by an unmistakable quick ‘CHKKK CHKKK’, metal sliding smoothly against metal in a finely engineered mechanism.

  THUMP thump, THUMP thump, THUMP thump, his heart hammered against his chest wall making it almost impossible to hear as the sound echoed in his ears. His blood pressure rising, and with it the swishing sound of blood in his own head. Footsteps! Yes footsteps, he was sure of it! Getting louder, moving toward the door, then stopping. Had she heard him or noted the door to her bedroom was now closed? He was overcome with fear but the adrenalin blasting through his arteries kept him rooted in place, finger on the button of the pepper spray.