by Amarie Avant
But this past week, we’ve chatted almost non-stop. I miss running with him, exerting every inch of my body alongside him.
Today, I look forward to getting the entire day underway—running away from Bernard, mid-morning debriefings with Tamara and my ‘On Demand’ team, and then settling down with Lincoln over the phone.
Lincoln has traveled to places Hosea and I hadn’t even considered adding to our bucket list; he’s highly cultured and refined. Yet there’s something nagging me, as I sit on the chaise in my living room. The television is on low, because once our conversation ends, I will be alone again. Lincoln perceives my feelings and asks, “Siobhan, what are you thinking?”
In my world, I’ve grown accustomed to shrugging off a person’s interest whether it’s genuine or simple chit chat. Lincoln has a way of pulling the truth from me, without much work.
“Okay, for starters, what do you do aside from investing in fluff?” I joke, using the word he chose for the expensive art he has at home. I pause; my query is something easily determined by a search. Yet, Lincoln Zager is no client of mine, and the incentive is from getting to know him as opposed to his impression of how much I’ve been able to conjure online or via other means. “How do you have the pull to assign a government official to keep me safe? Not just some darn contract security guard who’s burnt out at the police department, but a government official?”
“Bernard simply wanted to impress you. He's ex-Homeland Security. The old chap works for me now. So for the tenacity part? All right, that’s easy. Have you heard of Smith and Wesson?”
“The gun maker? Sure I have.”
“My family had a similar start as Horace Smith and Daniel Wesson. My great-great-great grandfather apprenticed with Horace. While they made an impeccable team, us Zagers are a very controlling, solitary sort of people.”
“Your family assembles guns?”
“Yes, assembling and manufacturing is just the beginning. Zager is one of the largest manufacturers of firepower, guns, and armory. And it just doesn’t stop with manufacturing items. We invest in research to deal with terrorist strategies.”
“So you’re kinda like superhero, super genius, Stark without the cool beard?”
“Bollocks. I shaved the beard.”
My body is screaming to laugh. “That's quite all right,” is all I can muster from the feeling department.
“If I told you I had a shiny red suit constructed of some astronomical material that physics has determined impossible to fly, yet it succeeded, would you favor me over that wanker Stark?”
“Hell yeah. I don’t like my heroes in tight-ass costumes.”
“Lovely! Siobhan, if you prefer your heroes in three-piece suits, then you are in luck.”
“Been a while since I’ve had a dose of luck, but I thought you were English not Irish.” I laugh harder though my joke is corny as hell. “Sorry, your witty retorts rubbed off on me.”
“Blast it! Comic relief is good for you.” The amusement in his voice caves to something dark, lustrous, and almost lethal in ways that make my panties blossom with honey. “Thursday cannot come soon enough.”
“What do you…” I take a second to gulp, reminiscing on the heated way I touched my body over him. “What do you have in mind for me, Lincoln?”
“In three days, you shall see, Miss Lowe. You have acknowledged that women strive for the look on a man’s face when he is in love. Well, I enjoy the bliss during an activity of surprise. And I have the means to surprise you, Miss Lowe.”
Chapter Six
The Stalker
(San Antonio, Texas)
Siobhan’s athletic-curvy body molded against mine. The delicious taste of her pouty mouth still lingers on my lips, and I almost close my eyes. I almost revel in her internal need for me. Yet, there are two reasons in which I am incapable of celebrating, neither more profound than the other.
One being my Siobhan has been in a sedated state while I touch her. I have always preferred my girls more aware—but, they ended up dead so there was that. Not a single one of them has lasted this long unaware of my presence. The lovely Miss Lowe is beginning to curve the norm.
Secondly, murder must dictate the course of my cognizance, and not the love we share for each other.
I stand in the pantry of a home where I’ve just learned every secret. The pantry has always been one of my preferred preview spots. It has all of the amenities of a good closet: observation and the ability to hear. The door is frosted with the whimsical typography “PANTRY” and a doodle of a bread basket. The door is also cracked just a fraction of an inch, providing a side profile view of Regina Godwin’s husband, Everett.
I ended up in the pantry after jimmying the kitchen door lock which leads to their backyard. Regina has been reading a book, in her chair. Everett came downstairs and commandeered the remote, approximately two hours ago.
In the den, Everett sits on a La-Z-Boy, beer in his hands, watching sports commentators. Regina sits on the La-Z-Boy parallel to her husband’s and just out of my sight. Their children, five-year-old Junior, and their precious four-year-old daughter, Connie, are sleeping over at their cousin’s house. Soon, I suspect that Regina or her husband will decide to call it a night, leaving the other to their prized television since they don’t have one in their bedroom.
“Football, basketball, baseball…” Regina drones on. “Do we have to watch ‘em talk about how everything played out too?” she argues.
“It’s almost off, Reggie, damn. You’re reading a book anyway.”
“Because you hog the television every night, and don’t damn me,” she grumbles.
About ten minutes later, a grunt accompanies the hefty man arising to his feet. He is dressed in a navy-blue robe that pulls tight against his belly. “Here’s the remote. One day you’re gonna come home and there’ll be some hot action going on in the bedroom. There’ll be a brand, spanking new television on the wall where your abstract canvas hangs.”
“Oh hush,” she chuckles. A fraction of a second later, the sound of sports commentators fades.
“Unless you want to give me some action tonight.” Everett’s voice sounds further, and heavy footsteps indicate that he’s slowly meandering up the stairs.
“Let me finish this last chapter,” Regina calls out.
I turn the knob of the pantry door. It silently opens. I hope for Everett’s sake that the man waits upstairs for his wife. Why didn’t I just simply rig the brakes of Regina’s car or attack her out and about? Because I felt the urge to speak with her, to listen to any morsel of the past regarding herself and Siobhan.
Her chubby legs are together and folded as she leans to one side in her chair. A blanket draped the lower portion of Regina’s body. She wore a colorful pajama top, her index finger gliding across the screen of her reading device.
I sink down onto Everett’s chair.
“I’m at the good part, hon. I’ll be upstairs in a few more minutes,” Regina mumbles, not glancing in my direction.
“Actually, you don’t have much time,” I speak up.
She is mid-swipe.
Regina’s index finger shakes as the tablet slips from her lap and wedges into the side of the overly-cushioned chair.
“If a woman’s fingers begin to shake, her pupils dilate, and she gulps repeatedly,” My old therapist’s words twine within my psyche, “Then she is afraid of you. Sometimes the common cursors, such as ‘stop’ or ‘no’ might be too hard for them to say. Their throat is constricted for example. So let’s delve into these other methods of reading people…”
I notice the visual cues of fear radiating from Regina’s body, and almost smile. It had been a delight to learn my capabilities.
“If you value the life of your husband, and hope to have him care for your children, then you’ll do as I request.” My monotonous voice drones into one ear and out of the other.
Regina opens her mouth.
I click back the hammer, pointing the gun in her direction.
A gloved finger goes to my lips. Internally, I focus on Siobhan’s pleas for help during Samuel’s car accident. How she needed me. She still needs me, and Regina wants to fuck up what we have going. Siobhan becomes my motivation as I inquire, “Would you like Connie and Everett Junior to be parentless?”
The dam breaks. A river of tears flood her cheeks.
“Why so quiet now? You’re such a very chatty woman, aren’t you, Regina?” I ask, placing the gun back into my lap, trigger finger at the ready.
“Wha-what do you want from me?” Her lips tremble.
I lay my head back. “Whoa, this is a very nice chair. I see why you and your husband enjoy sitting together arguing. You read your books. He enjoys his sports.”
“What do you want from me?” Regina repeats, with much more vigor.
“Shhhh.” I hold up my opposite hand, though noting that Regina’s eyes are still on my trigger finger, and how it snuggly fit against the gun. “Let’s start with Siobhan. Tell me about a time when you two were children. Tell me of your happiest time including her. Tell me about her.”
“Why? Have you hurt her?” She rubs a hand over tears that mingle with snot down her chin.
“No. The instant I laid eyes on Siobhan, we connected. I was so convicted about her distress the day I met her that I can't live without her. She needed me with a fierce passion. I’ve given Siobhan as much of me as possible. Unfortunately, I'm incapable of truly living with her.”
Confusion permeates the dread in Regina’s gaze. She doesn't understand. She doesn't need to understand why I am unable to fully have Siobhan.
“The thing is.” I bite the skin along my knuckle in thought. Should I tell Regina? She must die, and this is such a lonely sport. “I need you to tell me the fondest memory that you have of being a child—include Siobhan in that memory. Tell me about Siobhan.”
“Please… please...please...” Her eyes close.
“No pleading. Whining honestly places me into a bad headspace. It hurts like hell that I have to punish you for your behavior. You are, after all, Siobhan’s second best friend.” I wait. She makes no move to speak. My eyelid twitches. “I already advised that you don’t have much time, Regina. Wouldn’t you like to stop the clock for a spell?”
“Please.” She shakes her head. “God, I don’t understand! What do—”
“Regina?” Everett calls.
We both look toward the stairs. From our position, the bottom of the landing is in our view.
I shake my head. “What a shame, Regina. If Everett makes one step down these stairs, you, my friend, have co-signed your children to venture into the world without the strong shoulder of their father, and the kind word of their mother. Hell, that’s how I came about. Guess I turned out all right!”
“Regina, who are you talking to?” Charcoal gray house shoes amble across the railing, and toward the opening of the stairs.
“Don’t come downstairs!” Regina shouts. “Call nine—”
I cut in, “Not too loud, Regina. You’ll attract attention from the neighbors, and for your sake, I must advise against it.”
A bullet blazes through Everett’s shin. The subsequent folding of his limbs causes him to fall to his knees before tumbling down the stairs.
“Everett?” she shouts as another slug pierces the right side of his chest. Regina runs toward her husband. Her hands grip the railing and she sinks onto the floor. I’m usually a man of few words, especially during my pastime of observing the one I loved. Yet, I improvise since Regina has a penchant for running her motherfucking mouth. “Did you … did you kill—”
“I assure you, Mrs. Godwin, that bullet was not intended to murder him.” My freckled face is devoid of emotion, which my old therapist always cautioned against. “All you had to do was tell me more about your younger years with Siobhan.”
Blood coats her hands. She presses them into her husband’s chest.
“Now your time is out. Everett’s is too. So get the fuck up!” I snap, while she tells her husband words of encouragement. “C’mon, Regina, you’re heftier than you used to be!” I peered through her high school yearbooks today. I reached for a mass of thick curls and allow my fingers to twist around the coils of her hair, all the way down to the roots. And then I tug, hard.
“Ahhhhhh,” Regina screams.
I pause, the back of my gun-clad hand slams against her cheek. Not enough to grant her a momentary mercy, yet enough for her to understand the error of her ways.
In an instant, an absolute silence meets my ears.
“Stand.”
She does, eyes holding the same hopelessness that Siobhan’s had during our first encounter. But Regina doesn’t look half as beautiful as Siobhan Lowe does while in despair. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. Snot and blood from her nose mingle with tears and dribbles down her chin.
“Since you refused to listen to me, Regina, I’ll let you lead. This is your time to shine.” I nudge Regina toward the kitchen. “You’re such a fucking dictator. Telling Siobhan to do this, telling your husband to do that! Did you not threaten your husband’s life earlier when you cooked dinner?”
She stops walking.
I prod my gun in her direction. “The children had just left with your brother, Ramsey, and their cousins. You’d cooked dinner and told Everett that you wanted to use your dining room set. Eat off the china. Drink from the crystal glasses Siobhan bought for your birthday. Did you not threaten your husband’s life, Regina? You threatened to kill him if he turned on the television at dinner time.”
A wale breaks through Regina’s body. “Please! Please leave us alone.”
I glance back toward the staircase. Everett’s blood is beginning to pool around him. The shallow rise and fall of his stomach indicates that he has yet to give up. “But I had no intentions of harming your husband, Regina. You brought this upon yourself.”
“Go to hell!” Regina shouts. “Crazy fucking bastard!”
“How unfortunate for you, that big mouth of yours has come back to bite you in the ass.” My hand engulfs her cheeks. “Although I am averse to everyone saying I'm crazy, you are right about one thing, Mrs. Godwin, I am a bastard. You know what else you’re right about? You are in my hell.” I chuckle almost tingling. “Now, you must murder your husband.”
“You’re crazy!” she scream so loud that spittle flies into my face.
I rub a gloved hand over it. The listless glare I give her implies she hasn’t been the first to declare such a statement to me. She starts to back away.
“Oh no.” I yank her arm, pulling her closer to me. “You promised to murder him.”
She shakes her head no, straining against my hold.
“Yes, Regina. Yes. And look at me.” I once again snatch the soft, chubbiness of Regina’s cheeks, squeezing so hard her lips pucker. “Listen to me clearly.”
I take no offense, understanding the antics of a caged animal due to very elaborate therapy sessions. Voice soothing, I issue a directive. “Listen to me, Regina, the less mercy you have on Everett the more I have on you. Do you comprehend?”
Her eyes gaze at me languidly as I reach for the wood block on the counter, the tip of my index finger skimming over the various types of knifes, stopping on one. Not the largest in the block. The serrated edge always makes for a nasty bit of fun. Besides, I don’t need to torture myself by listening to Regina’s stories about Siobhan and how they’d become friends.
All you had to do was tell me about Siobhan! “Now, do your worst.” I hand Regina the knife and nudge her toward her husband.
Chapter Seven
Siobhan
(San Diego Airport)
During yesterday’s session, Dr. Beck inquired why I chose a new place to start over after leaving Los Angeles. Why move further away from friends and family? He asked about why I chose not to return to San Antonio. Now, his questions roam through my psyche as the airport monitor in Lindbergh Field continues to change. I’m seated at the outer limits of the airport sports
bar twirling the wine stem of a glass of Cheval Blanc.
My peacoat is draped over the railing that separates the bar from the terminals across the way. The ceiling monitor cater-corner from me indicates that there’s a flight to SAT—San Antonio— leaving out in thirty minutes and my return flight to San Francisco, which is a little over an hour south of Willow Bluff, is blaring “last call for boarding.” I had traveled business class, and should have provided my return ticket to the boarding station almost a half hour ago.
I down the rest of the drink, thinking back to my session with Dr. Beck. Was he able to see right through me? Willow Bluff is not comparable to any old town for starting over. It is the crème de la crème. A place I am unable to afford, at least not for any lengthy stretch of time. I’d always feared I’d slip up and tell Dr. Beck everything. Our sessions are confidential, but he’d think I’m crazy for the thoughts roaming through my head.
I invested in three, .357 Magnums, strategically located around my house. Aside from the picture on the gate, I only have instincts to tell me that the stalker has been in my home. I don't have proof. Hell, I wish he wouldn't be such a coward.
Regina was right, I need to come home.
I can catch the next available plane to San Antonio. Contact a realtor, sell my home at Willow Bluff and take a chance that the stalker won’t follow me there. The arms laws in Texas are better. But my family is no stranger to tragedy. And I refuse to bring them anymore grief.
At this notion, I reach over and pick up the second glass of wine. The bartender had assumed I ordered one for a friend.
I down the drink in one long gulp.
“I can’t return home to stay. My parents are heartbroken over Samuel’s death, and Mr. Murrell blames me for Hosea.” I take a deep breath. I glance at the remnants of wine in my glass. The bottom of it is stained red, but there’s not a single drop left to drink.