Judicious Murder

by Val Bruech

  My attacker propelled us deeper. I’d drown if I didn’t do something. I willed my body to go limp and crossed my arms in front of my chest as if I had lost consciousness. The tentacles that encircled my upper body loosened, and my arms had a window of movement. I drove both elbows backward with what I hoped was the force of an erupting volcano. I struck flesh and bone with a satisfying whack, and the restraints on my limbs dissolved. I leapt off the bottom of the pool, angling away from the human octopus, and kicked for the surface in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy. I broke through like a torpedo and gulped in oxygen through every pore. It hadn’t yet reached my brain when a forearm locked around my throat and I was whiplashed back underwater. He swam with one arm and towed me with the other so my face was bobbing in and out of the water. I tried to inhale but took in mostly water. Dozens of wet hands slapped my face. He was headed for the side where he could get enough purchase to keep me under. If I could dig all ten nails into the arm choking my neck deep enough to draw blood, I might jerk free, but it would be temporary: he was much stronger than I and extremely determined. I angled my head to keep as much water as possible out of my mouth, filled my lungs with air and forced myself underneath him. I brought my knees up close to my chest and drove my feet into his groin with all the strength I had left. Immediately the arm around my neck vanished and I was unleashed. I broke the surface and stroked helter-skelter for the side of the pool like a crazed sailfish. I grabbed the edge and hoisted myself up, but my legs dangled for an instant. An iron cable wrapped around my waist and I was flung backward like a rag doll. When I struck the water it was like hitting concrete: pain detonated in every part of my brain. Fingers like talons closed around my throat and I was helpless against them. Semiconscious, I stared into my attacker’s eyes and saw my own terror-stricken face in his reflective goggles. Then everything disappeared.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I was buried in a thick glacier, encased in a tomb of black ice.

  Something pulverized my chest. Bile gushed from my mouth. I tried to breathe but my lungs wouldn’t expand. Again, a huge weight crushed me.

  “Stop!” I shouted, but only a hoarse whimper emerged. Something terrifying had occurred. I reached for the memory but couldn’t grab it. The pressure eased.

  “Susan, say something.”

  I struggled to a sitting position. Kind hands cradled me, other hands whacked me between the shoulder blades. Liquid spilled down my chin.

  Two shapeless blobs evolved into gray spheres. Long spiral curls were attached to one of them. The hair, I knew that hair.

  “Casey?” I croaked weakly.

  “Yup, me and Frankie.” His worried face broke into a smile. The other sphere morphed into the aforementioned, wearing an anxious grin.

  I struggled to form words. “What happened?”

  “You are the latest recipient of the Casey Aubury mouth-to-mouth resuscitation…uh…effort,” he responded.

  “What d’ya think about brain damage?” Frankie asked.

  “No more than she started with,” Casey answered confidently.

  Without warning, short bits of a terrifying event leaped into my consciousness. Hands around my throat, legs around my middle, my brain siphoned down a black hole. A wave of nausea started in my stomach and rose up in my throat. I started to retch and they held me vertical while my insides erupted.

  “Think we should get a doc to check her out?” Frankie asked.

  “Shower,” I chattered. “Hot shower. Be fine”

  They exchanged glances.

  “I’ll get towels and clean up,” Casey said. “You okay here, Frankie?”

  “Ten-four.” He wrapped his big arms around me and, like a grandfather with a baby, held me close and rocked gently back and forth. When Casey returned, they draped me in layers of warm towels and I rose shakily to my feet, leaning on them for support. An unpleasant thought struck.

  “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

  Frankie’s jovial expression turned grim.

  “Yeah, he’s gone. Ran out that door.” He pointed to the emergency exit that led directly into the alley behind the Y.

  I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I expelled it. “Good.”

  We staggered in the direction of the women’s locker room like three drunken sailors, their arms around my shoulders.

  “Which one of your two hunks saved my life?”

  “He did,” they answered in unison.

  Casey blushed, while Frankie looked pleased.

  “There’s only so many decent lawyers,” the senior citizen shrugged. “We gotta keep the good ones.”

  When my core temperature approached that of a cooked turkey, I wobbled out of the shower. I had to focus on what this attack meant, but the part of me that needed to think was still waterlogged.

  The welts around my neck stuck out like tree roots. Good thing I had a turtleneck.

  A two-man reception committee waited as I walked with studied coordination to the front desk.

  “I don’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

  Frankie was dazzling in a red and white vertical striped shirt with blue stars on his left shoulder, an American flag on steroids.

  “Do I hug you or salute you?”

  Casey’s replacement had arrived, so the three of us climbed into Frankie’s antique red Cadillac and drove to Zina’s, a Greek restaurant that offers breakfast 24/7, plus lunch and dinner at the appropriate times. After some discussion, Frankie and Casey requested a large clam, shrimp, and Canadian bacon pizza. The waitress never blinked.

  “So tell me how you saved my life.”

  They exchanged embarrassed glances.

  “I forgot my beach ball,” Frankie began. “I figured it’d only be you in the pool, so I grabbed a towel and came out. You were jumping out of the water like you’d just seen a ghost. Then this guy swoops up behind you, grabs you and slams you back into the pool. I thought it was a friend of yours and you were just playing around, but then he pounced on you—I mean he was puttin’ on the big hurt. That’s when I knew something was wrong. I yelled as loud as I could and ran like hell for the pool.”

  Elbows on the table, Frankie peered at me over pudgy hands. “My towel came off.”

  I burst out laughing at the idea of Frankie charging my assailant in the altogether.

  “He rolled off you and swam like hell for the other side, then he ran out the emergency exit. I made like a lifeguard and fetched ya. I got you up on the deck and yelled as loud as I could for Casey. I don’t know how to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,” he concluded sheepishly.

  Casey took up the story.

  “I heard Frankie scream and beat it for the pool. You were lookin’ a little blue, so I got busy.” He nodded approvingly. “You came around pretty quick.”

  My scotch was delivered. Bliss.

  “I can’t for the life of me figure how the hell the guy got in. And I have no idea why he attacked you, but I think there’s a lot you haven’t told us. Yet.”

  The last word was spiked with expectation.

  “Frankie, could you recognize the guy again? What did he look like?” I slurred my words like I had had three drinks instead of one small sip.

  Frankie thought a moment. “Silver cap and fancy goggles — the kind that reflect back and you can’t see in. As soon as I figured out what was going on, I was more worried about you than him.”

  “So this guy magically appears in the pool with a swim suit and goggles, then takes off in 50 degree weather, soaking wet, down an alley?”

  We gazed at each other, hoping someone could explain such bizarre behavior.

  Our plates clattered to the table.

  “Maybe the guy left his street clothes.” I said brightly.

  “There’s so many nooks and crannies in that old building: if he knew where to hide ’em we’d never find them.” Frankie shook his head.

  The building was a certified antique. There had been so many make-overs and rehabs in its long
history that I doubted anyone knew all the secrets of the three story labyrinth.

  “Susan, who was it? I think you got a real good idea. This doesn’t just happen out of the blue.”

  “Anyone in the rest of the club?”

  “There was a bunch of guys in the weight room. Couple people might have been shooting baskets.” Casey rubbed his chin. “They were all regulars.”

  The pancakes and bacon renewed my spirits. Their pizza disappeared so fast I wondered if they threw it on the floor.

  “Susan, I gotta report this. It’s the rule. And my boss Terry will have to turn it over to the cops. I should actually call him at home now.” He shook his head.

  “Can we skip the report this once?” I asked.

  Casey shook his head sadly. “It’s my job if Terry finds out.”

  I couldn’t be the cause of Casey’s unemployment after his heroics on my behalf.

  “Right, okay.” I massaged my eyes. “But it’s late. Can we let it go till tomorrow? I can’t deal with cops tonight.”

  Frankie crossed his arms across his massive chest. “Only if you get a friend to stay with you,” he said firmly.

  “Good idea.” I was cooperative. “I’ll make a phone call.”

  My cell phone was in my car, but there was a pay phone near the restrooms. I went through the motions of depositing coins, dialing and talking to someone in case my friends were peeking, but I never put money in.

  “Kelly’ll be over as soon as the kids are asleep,” I nodded reassuringly when I returned to the table. “Makes me feel better.”

  “Me too,” Frankie said, in a relieved voice. “Now that we got you squared away, I gotta scram. The old lady’s gonna have a fit.”

  I paid the tab, and we dropped Casey back at the Y. I got in my own car. Frankie insisted on following me home. I pulled into the garage, then came out to tell him I was dog tired and really wanted to go to bed after the evening’s ordeal. He wanted to wait till Kelly came, but I offered to call his wife to tell her he’d be quite late. Apparently the idea of his spouse hearing that from a woman a few decades younger changed his mind and he decided to go home.

  It was ten o’clock, and most of the houses on the street were dark. No cars had followed us. I walked into the house, thinking I should be ashamed of myself about the deceptions I had worked on my two friends.

  Fur wove her way between my ankles and caressed my legs with her tail. I washed her bowl, humming “Stayin’ Alive” from Saturday Night Fever. She meowed hungrily, and I gave her the full meal deal. What would have become of her if Frankie hadn’t forgotten his beach ball?

  I retrieved Sam’s Righetti file, the one from his locked cabinet at home, and pored over it once again. I thought about Ellen’s wasted years in the pen and wondered about her children’s lives. I ran my fingers gingerly over the welts on my throat. Time to fight back.

  I pulled on black running tights and a matching turtleneck, shoved matches, a small but powerful Maglight, gloves, my phone and a pocketknife into an old fanny pack. I called the office and left a detailed message on my own answering machine regarding the attempted drowning, and my plan for the rest of the night. Then I left a note on Monica’s voice mail telling her that if I didn’t show up in the morning she should play back the message I had left on my own answering machine. Fur was busy cleaning herself after her repast, but I took a few minutes to scratch her ears. It was 11:30. Perfect.

  I went in the garage and sat in the Acura’s driver’s seat. My whole body was tingling. For a moment I thought it might be a delayed reaction from the events in the pool, but then I figured it out. It was the thrill of anticipated revenge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Eric Benton lived in an exclusive subdivision in a recently annexed part of town. The phone book divulged his home address, but his phone number was not listed. That was okay: I wasn’t going to call first. I Googled the address and printed the directions. His street, Sunset, branched off the main road of the development and appeared to dead-end after a few blocks.

  If I had to admit to a secret desire at this moment it was that Al or his minions were indeed shadowing me. But no pinpoints of light followed at a discreet distance, no black-and-whites cruised vigilantly. I was flying solo.

  The sky was thickly overcast, stars and moon nowhere to be seen. I parked on the subdivision’s main thoroughfare a hundred yards from Sunset. The streets in this upscale neighborhood were bare because the vehicles that lived here were comfortably tucked into three-and four-car garages.

  Eleven-fifty. Too late even for walking a dog. I hunkered down in the driver’s seat, eyes seeking the slightest movement, ears attuned to the tiniest rustle. After ten minutes of empty streets and gusting winds, the time was right.

  On the theory that boldness would draw less suspicion than slinking from bush to bush, I strode brazenly up the sidewalk and turned onto Sunset. Dazzlingly bright streetlights theoretically kept the neighborhood safe from people like me. Numbered mailboxes at curbside made the postman’s job, and mine, easy. The twenty or thirty residences on this street were set on such huge lots and so far apart from each other, you’d have to drive to chat with your neighbor.

  Benton’s place was two stories high and about as wide as a football field. It loomed beyond a long, half-oval-shaped driveway that divided a lawn you could practice tee shots on. I skirted across the property to avoid the illumination of the obnoxious streetlights and arrived at the opposite end of the structure, which had to be the attached garage because three separate bay doors faced the street. 12:05 a.m.

  This side was pitch black. I took out my flashlight and played it on the wall, hoping for some kind of entry. Sure enough, there was an extra-wide service door, probably made for lawn-tending equipment. I opened my fanny pack and pulled on knit gloves. My right hand reached out and gently grasped the doorknob, while my heart wildly attempted to break out of my rib cage. A gentle nudge to the knob, to no avail. A harder twist, but the knob refused to move. I wasn’t felled by electric current; no siren whooped. I forced myself to breathe in, hold, and exhale.

  I sidled over to a small window, raised my head, and peered into inky blackness. I aimed the flashlight inside, cupping my hands around it so the reflection couldn’t be spotted by a roving insomniac.

  The yellow sports car was in the near bay. Next to it, in the middle section, my light picked up the distinctive hood ornament of a Lincoln. I couldn’t make out the contents of the third slot.

  I wasn’t in the mood to admire his car collection. I snapped the flash off and crept to the front corner of the building, scanned the street carefully, and scooted past the three bay doors, hugging the dark bulk of the garage. A second service door appeared near the junction of the garage and the house. I huddled into its frame. It occurred to me, belatedly, that my plan was illegal, immoral, and somewhat inconsistent with my ethics. Dangerous too. But the rules change when someone tries to subtract forty years from your life expectancy.

  I encored my actions from the first door with a heart that was still thudding like a boom box. This time the knob turned easily, and the door swung open. A tiny voice whispered that this was too easy, but the welts on my throat still stung and the memory of what he did in the pool made turning back impossible. I ducked inside, pulled the door closed and willed myself to absolute stillness. Welcome to the world of felons.

  I played the beam around the interior to get my bearings. Some people live in houses smaller than this garage. I picked my way to an aisle that ran the entire width of the structure behind the vehicles. At the far end three bicycles hung upside down from hooks on the ceiling: a Raleigh road machine, a Fisher mountain bike with about 25 gears, and an antique Schwinn. A top-of-the-line Trek leaned against the wall, probably four grand new and built for pure speed. I test rode one once, my shoes securely fastened to the pedals like a professional racer’s. It was like being on the starship Enterprise when it hit warp speed and disappeared into a tiny dot on the screen. T
wo shelves jutted out from the rear wall. The top one at eye height held bike paraphernalia: tools, oil cans, inner tubes, see-through plastic boxes containing nuts and bolts. The lower shelf was knee-high, more like a workbench. He could run a repair shop out of this place.

  I bent down for a closer examination of the Lincoln. A “click” severed the silence and the garage was lit up like a stage. My bowels froze.

  “Officer, my silent burglar alarm alerted me. When I turned on the lights, someone came at me. I shot instinctively. I had no idea it was a woman. Imagine my surprise when I saw it was Ms. Marshfield, the lawyer. What could she possibly be doing in my garage?”

  I turned back toward the door. Benton’s neatly-creased trousers and crisp white shirt belied the .357 which was aimed squarely between my shoulders and knees. Anywhere he hit me, the rest of my short life would be quite miserable.

  “Come here, my dear.”

  The blue eyes that were bemused and polite at the funeral parlor were flat and hard.

  I shuffled ruefully in his direction. “You unlocked the door.”

  He regarded me like I had just requested anesthesia for a paper cut.

  “STOP, right there,” he commanded as I got within five feet of him.

  I took one more step. His left hand, the one that wasn’t holding the gun, shot out like a striking python and grabbed my right wrist. Using that arm as a fulcrum, he spun me quickly so my back was flush against him.

  “You won’t talk yourself out of this one, Miss Nosy Lawyer,” he growled into my ear. A flood of sweat blossomed on my forehead. He jerked my arm a notch higher and my shoulder caught fire. I fought to hold on to consciousness.

  “You’re going to tell me what you know and who else knows it. If you cooperate, your death will be quick—in the blink of an eye. If you don’t, you will experience pain beyond anything you thought possible.” He shoved me roughly onto the bench. “Then,” he bent toward me and licked his lips, “you’ll die.”