Traces

by Paul Jr. Logan

  TRACES

  APPEARANCES ARE DECEPTIVE

  Paul JR. Logan

  TRACES

  Copyright © 2021 by PAUL JR. LOGAN

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em- bodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organiza- tions, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact :

  Book and Cover design by Ploae

  ISBN:

  First Edition: February 2021

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 | 2020 2021 2022

  CONTENTS

  * Prologue *

  1

  2

  3

  Part 1

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Prologue

  1

  Why does my head hurt so much?

  The room is covered by semidarkness, something is burning in the corner…can't see what. His hands are touching something soft, he is sitting on the bed.

  What is he doing here? Where is he?

  There is darkness behind the window, it's dark everywhere, it's nighttime. He brings his hand to head to ease the pain somehow. He has to do something, it remains only to figure out what.

  Now he will sit for a while and he may understand. Just for a while.

  The girl is lying on the bed - her nightgown is torn at the top. Her breasts are exposed. She is chained with handcuffs to the bed handles. This is Amber and it's her home.

  The girl is dead - she must be dead, because this is a nightmare, and in nightmares, there is always a corpse on the bed.

  But if this is a dream, why does his head hurt so much?

  He stands up slowly because his legs are slightly trembling, leans over the girl and falls on her.

  Her body is already cold, eyes widely open, mouth blocked in a grimace, her front tooth was knocked out. It's ridiculous, but it ruins her appearance. Amber's face is butchered, but this is not what he wanted to understand. What does he need to understand?

  Yes, he wanted to do something. He pushed the bed with his hands resting on it and slowly raised his body. Amber lies directly under him, it looks like he is going to possess her body again.

  They made love the entire evening. He had a flashback, the memory flashed through his brain like a light bulb in a cramped storeroom. He hugged her waist, unbuttoned her dress, kissed her lips. But back then she didn't have these bruises...

  Who had done it?

  Who had beaten Amber?

  He stood up slowly on his feet, and a small spark of confidence spread through him, confidence in his innocence. Who did this to Amber? If he figures it out, everything will go back to the way it was. And the headache will fade away...

  The bottle. How didn't he immediately remember the bottle? Amber brought it, she put it on the table, they drank ... He shouldn't drink. The doctor says so, so does Craig and he is right, he won't lie. Craig won't lie. But he drank - just a little, and he needs to drink some more. Just a little, just to get rid of this disturbing headache.

  The bottle is still on the table. Almost full. It's strange. It seemed to him that he drank almost all of it. He steps on something, he wiggles forward and grabs the table.

  There is a bottle on the floor. The second one.

  He reaches out and takes the one that is on the table and takes a sip.

  He doesn't feel anything. The window is opened and the fresh sea air is cooling down his face. He takes another sip.

  Amber!

  Amber is dead. She was beaten, her teeth were knocked out, she died.

  A cold and calm thought appears in his head. He killed her. They arrived at the cabin late at night, after Craig's party. He was celebrating something. Then they got in, Amber turned off the light, he hugged her. Then the bottle appeared, they drank and loved each other, loved passionately and frantically, then he passed out.

  Damn it.

  His hands are shaking violently - why did they suddenly started trembling? Or, maybe he noticed just now? He lifts the bottle again, brings it to the mouth. Takes a sip. It's better this way, much better.

  Damn it!

  After all, Amber liked it. It turned her on when he lightly slapped her on the face during sex. She would start to sigh in that special way and ask him to hit her again.

  And he killed her.

  He sinks down on the bed - his legs are already obeying, but he needs to sit down and call someone. His fingers dial the number by themselves, the phone cools down the ear. Come on, Craig, come on ... Head still hurts.

  A beep, the second, third. Craig's loud, cheerful voice bursts into the brain, and head explodes with a wild pain. He takes the phone away from his ear, and then carefully lifts it up again.

  - Is anyone there? Guys, if you want to have some fun ...

  Craig isn't angry. He can't get mad at people, even if they are silent on the phone.

  Now he has to make up a phrase. What should he say? He opens his mouth - and

  suddenly someone's voice can be heard very close to him. It's his voice, only very hoarse ...

  - Amber is dead, Craig. Amber is dead.

  - Rowan? Craig's voice sounds just as cheerful. Is that you?

  - Craig ... Amber. She is dead. I killed her, Craig.

  - What are you talking about, buddy? Did you have a lot of fun last night? What are you guys doing?

  Headache gets worse and worse.

  - Craig. I killed Amber.

  Craig's voice sounds just as cheerful and happy, but at the same time it becomes concentrated and confident.

  - Have you been drinking again, Rowan?

  - I don't remember...

  Of course he remembers drinking. Craig's voice is no longer cheerful, he asked in a curt voice:

  -Are you sure she's dead, Rowan?

  -She’s very cold, Craig. She doesn't breathe, and her eyes are open, Craig, what do I do?

  - Don't do anything, Rowan. I will be right there. Don't freak out, don't fuss. Don't do anything, just sit on the bed and wait for me. Okay?

  - Thanks, Craig...

  There are ringing beeps on the phone. Craig is going to come over and tell him what to do.

  Everything will be fine now. It will be over soon.

  He reaches for the bottle and takes another sip. It will be over soon.

  It will be all right soon.

  2

  The faint moonlight was reflected on the dark fender of the car, Craig Ruell turned off the engine. He was about thirty - thirty-five years old, and his suit was just enough so that those looking at him would never have an idea about his tailor's fees. Each of us knows a couple of these Craig Ruell’s, good open-minded fellows of whom we know absolutely nothing.

  As he opened the door, the singing of cicadas came to his ears. Amber’s bungalow was located a little away from the main road, very close to the seashore. She loved the sea - all her life long. She also loved privacy - that is why Ruell chose th
is sweet little house for her.

  She also loved money.

  Craig Ruell pulled the gloves out of the glove compartment and slowly put them on, then got out of the car and headed towards the house. His feet stepped confidently on the narrow strip of concrete.

  Two more men followed him out of the car. They walked swiftly, almost noiselessly, and in every movement one could feel the confidence of men who knew exactly what to do, and who were sure that this is what they were doing.

  A small shiny key appeared in Ruell's hands and gently dug into the depth of the castle. The house was almost entirely plunged into darkness, only in the further room a light was burning. Ruell knew it was the bedroom. He opened the door, and they entered.

  - Rowan! Rowan are you there? He called softly.

  There was a noise in the back of the house, and they headed there.

  Rowan Vaughn was still sitting on the bed with his head in his hands.

  The half-empty bottle was on the table in front of him.

  - Rowan, can you hear me? Ruell walked over to him knelt and looked into his eyes. An unpleasant smell of alcohol hit his nose.

  - She is dead, Craig, Rowan murmured. Dead.

  One of Ruell's companions leaned over the girl removed his glove and gently took her pulse.

  - Been dead for hours, Craig, he said.

  - Calm down, Rowan. Ruell shook Vaughn gently and lifted him. You must tell me everything. How did it happen?

  Vaughn shook his head and immediately regretted it.

  - We left you at about eleven o'clock, you remember, he muttered.

  - Amber wanted to come back here...

  Ruell continued to kneel in front of him, looking into his eyes.

  - Have you been drinking, Rowan? He asked insistently.

  A wheeze escaped from Vaughn's throat.

  - Damn it, Rowan, you have had two bottles, he said sharply.

  - Don't you know that you are not allowed?

  - Amber brought a bottle ... Vaughn's voice sounded lost. Just a couple of glasses ... I thought it would not hurt me.

  - You thought. Have you forgotten what happened to you last time, when you trashed my gallery? On the other hand, the time before that, when you broke the gardener's arm? Rowan, you are not supposed to touch alcohol. Damn what have you done?

  Ruell stood up and walked towards the window. The two men who came with him were no longer in the room. They went around the house, methodically wiping with rags all things that might still have Rowan Vaughn's fresh fingerprints on them.

  - Help me, Craig, Vaughn whispered.

  Ruell turned to him and smiled encouragingly.

  - Of course. We are friends. Get up and let us go to the car. You are not allowed to stay here.

  He helped Vaughn to get on his feet. A pungent smell of alcohol hit his face again.

  Pathetic fool, Ruell thought. Pathetic fool.

  He led Vaughn to the car, being careful not to step on the lawn spread out on both sides of the concrete path. Then he returned into the house and picked up the bottles from the floor - an empty one and half-filled one.

  - We cleaned up everything, Craig, one of his companions loomed in the doorway.

  - The house is clean.

  - Did the girls wipe the car?

  - Yes, Craig.

  - All right, Morgan, Ruell nodded. Go to the car.

  He stood looking at Amber for several seconds. She wasn't a bad girl in so many ways, he thought. Nevertheless, everyone has their own purpose and destiny.

  On his way out, he left the door open.

  Rowan Vaughn managed to doze off in the backseat of the car, but Ruell shook him again.

  - Listen to me carefully, Rowan, he said. Moreover, remember. You are in a lot of trouble, but I am going to help you, because you are my friend. Are you listening to me?

  Vaughn nodded, gasping in pain.

  - We will go to my place now, Ruell continued. Let us go, Morgan, there is nothing left to wait for. Rowan, you spent that night at my place, do you understand? I'm the only one that saw you and Amber leave together. Luckily for you, you were driving her car. Yours is still in front of my house. She left on her own, and she was meeting someone at her bungalow, and this guy killed her. Do you understand me? You have been all this time in my guest bedroom.

  Rowan nodded. The anxiety left him, and his throbbing brain began to sense a feeling of safety and sweet tiredness. Somewhere deep he was certain that the trouble was not over yet, that it was still ahead, but for now, he can sleep ... Yes, a little, a little bit of sleep...

  3

  The bright sun played with reflections on the wide window glass. Vaughn opened his

  eyes.

  He was lying on a large, comfortable bed in someone else's pajamas. It appeared to him to be strange, and as he looked around he realized that the room where he wake up was also not familiar.

  Ah yes, Craig’s house ...

  With this memory, came back everything else. Amber lying on the same spacious bed, the terrible headache, the fear and confusion.

  He had committed murder.

  Was he really capable of such a thing? Or at the time when the alcohol fumes impregnate his brain, he becomes a completely different person who can do what the real Rowan Vaughn would never do.

  But he is the one who will be accused of murder.

  The body must have been found by now. The woman who used to come to Amber to clean up, showed up at the bungalow early in the morning and did most of her work while the girl was sleeping. She didn't like to watch the fast Puerto Rican fuss around the house.

  So the body has already been found.

  If he were asked now whether he felt guilt towards Amber’s death or fear of punishment, he wouldn't be able to answer. Both of these feelings, like many others mingled in his soul, forming a cocktail of insane panic and confusion. He didn't remember what had happened, he didn't know how to explain it to himself, and had no idea what to do next.

  Rowan Vaughn stood up and took a few steps. His head was no longer aching, as it did the night before - before falling asleep, he drank some powders that Craig brought him. The pain was replaced by a ringing void and an abyssal panic.

  The door opened and Craig entered the room. His face was serious, and on his right hand he was carrying a tray.

  - Hi, Rowan, he said anxiously. How are you feeling?

  - Not bad, Vaughn's voice was colorless. What is it?

  - The pill. You look terrible, but there's nothing you can do about it. Have a drink, sit down and listen.

  Vaughn obeyed.

  If Ruell managed to get some sleep during the night, then only for a couple of hours, however, he looked as fresh and alert as ever. An hour ago he sniffed a little of the potion- he rarely did it, and almost no one knew about it.

  - Get ready and don't panic, Rowan, Ruell said. The police officers are downstairs. They found her.

  - Do they know?

  - About you? Don't be a fool, Rowan. They don't know anything. There is no way for them to know. They'll just ask you a few questions as a formality and nothing more. Take a shower, get dressed and get out. They will wait. Just don't freak out. You got it?

  Vaughn nodded. While he pulled off his pajamas and made his way to the bathroom, Ruell said:

  - Listen to me carefully and remember. First. The inspector already told me that Amber is dead. The cleaning lady found her this morning. I told you that. Can you hear me? You don't have to act surprised or anything. You already know everything. But remember: he hasn't told me how she was killed yet. You don't know that she was beaten to death. Be careful not to fall for this. Generally, the more you keep your mouth shut, the better, answer the question directly and don't bring anything on top of it.

  Cold water hit Vaughn's face, Craig's voice muffled from the next room. Amber's body was just as cold as when he touched her. Amber...

  - Second thing. You spent the whole night in this house. I'm the only one who saw you leaving, a
nd I'm not going to say that. You went upstairs and spent the night in the guest room. You don't know what happened to Amber. Third thing. Don't deny that you had a connection. Too many people know that. If the policeman asks if Amber had other boyfriends, you don't know that, but you can't deny the possibility.

  After the shower, Vaughn felt better. When he entered the room, dressed in Ruell's light beige robe, on the chair in front of the bed already hung the ironed shirt and trousers.

  - Take your time, Craig warned again.

  They walked down the hall together, Ruell walking slightly behind. A look of moderate sorrow could be seen on his face.

  A tall, already visibly balding man in civilian clothes with a long nose and a broad smile obviously inappropriate when reporting the death of a loved one's death, greeted Vaughn vigorously, introducing himself as Inspector Herrmann, and sat down uninvited in the chair in front of him. Ruell remained standing with his arms folded across his chest.

  - Did your friend inform you about Amber Davis's death yet? Inquired the policeman.

  Vaughn nodded.

  - You were in a close relationship, weren't you? the inspector twirled with his hands in the air and broke into a greasy smile. He gave the impression that he was talking to an elderly friend about the group sex that they' d recently seen through the neighbor's window.

  - We slept together, Vaughn replied dully.

  - Did you love her?

  Vaughn shrugged.

  - You mustn't behave like that, Inspector, Ruell mildly admonished the policeman, It is a great grief for all of us.

  - Yes, yes, of course, the policeman agreed jovially. And that's why I'm sure you all want the bastard who killed this sweet girl, to be caught, and will gladly help me. Will you?

  Sweet girl ... If he had ever met Amber when she was alive he would have called her nothing else than a whore.

  - It was a truly brutal murder, the inspector almost threw his hands up in the air, and immediately a smile wriggled again between his teeth.

  - She was beaten for a long time until she died. Who knows maybe he didn't intend to kill her, just wanted to have some fun. You and I don't understand the psychology of such scumbags like that, do we?