by Various
"I don't think so, Stewart," Buddy said and took another step closer. His heart was beating normally, almost as if he was at rest, his eyes were fully focused on the man sitting atop Cupid Montgomery, his muscles ready to spring.
The man looked up from his victim and frowned again, as if just now noticing that he was still there. "Wilson, I admit that I have broken my agreement with you but, just now, I have some business to attend to. We shall be able to make amends soon. Now, leave us!" That last had been shouted. "Or do you prefer to watch a master at work, you being a newbie to the profession and all?"
The tip of the wicked blade pressed against the center of Cupid's chest, pressing in just enough to draw some blood, and Wilson steeled himself for action.
Just then the momentary silence of the service corridor was shattered by the loud rumbling of the metal doors rolling up behind the dumpster. It was just the distraction that Wilson Lemay, known to his fellow employees as Buddy Daniels, needed. He leapt at the killer as the man's eyes were turned toward the swiftly rising door, twisted the knife from the hand that held it, and in one fluid motion swept it in a clean arc toward the man's exposed neck situated approximately at his waist height.
Stewart Nellingham's eyes opened wide and he turned to look at his killer with an expression of shock. His blood geysered from the severed arteries in his neck, splattering against the gray walls of the corridor, the green rusted metal of the dumpster and the cream colored flesh of Cupid Montgomery. Nellingham died quickly without a sound to mark the moment of his passing. She screamed again then and scrambled to get out from underneath the corpse that had fallen on top of her.
Lemay threw the knife down as he saw an older man with blood matting one side of his face and a gun in his hand stagger underneath the metal door, bathed in the yellow light of the dim bulbs outside. He slumped beside Cupid to check her for hidden wounds as his mind raced to find the answer to the mystery of the newcomer's injuries. Was there someone else out there? He thought. Someone else with blood on his hands?
"Stop it, right there," the man said and Lemay could see a badge being held shakily in his left hand. "Stand back from the girl, do it now!"
"It's all right," Cupid managed as she allowed Lemay to cover her with the remnants of her dress. "He just saved my life. That…thing…was going to kill me."
"Ms. Montgomery," the man said, still eyeing Lemay. "I am a police officer, are you alright, ma'am?"
"I, I don't know, I think so," she stammered between lips that were now shivering with the cold. "How could I be, I mean, that man tried to kill me…" she sobbed and buried her face in Lemay's chest.
"Who in the hell are you?" the cop asked and Lemay turned toward him with contempt. "And I thought I told you to get away from her."
Lemay could see that the man's injury was probably pretty serious. His eyes had that faraway look in them, sort of like Cupid still did. "I work with her, I heard a scream."
"Get away from her, I won't say it again," the cop said and waved at him with the gun. He was standing about ten feet away now and looked as if he were going to stumble to the ground at any moment.
"That man there," Lemay said and pointed to the still-twitching corpse of Stewart Nellingham. "That's your Cupid Killer. He was trying to kill her."
"What do you know about it?" the cop asked.
"I know that I saved her life, asshole," Lemay said. "Something that your pathetic ass wasn't going to do."
"Fuck you," the cop said and motioned toward him again with the gun. "I said get away from her. Do it now."
Lemay stood and raised his hands in a half-hearted attempt to let the cop know he wasn't going to do anything stupid. When the man took one shaky step forward, Lemay lunged at him and knocked the gun away with ease.
Cupid looked on in confusion and called "Buddy!" over and over while he grappled with the cop. It was over in a matter of seconds but Lemay was utterly aware of just how much time had elapsed since Cupid first screamed. Someone was bound to stumble on to this little scene any second now and it was time to cut his losses.
Wilson Lemay straddled the cop who lay on his stomach, his face being pressed cruelly into the concrete with one hand while Lemay's other hand loosened his belt. "Cupid, you may want to turn away from this," he said as he slipped the belt around the semi-conscious man's throat, and began to pull it tight.
"Buddy, Buddy, what are you doing?" Cupid said in horror as she watched the killer known as the Hangman strangle the life out of the man underneath him. The cop's face and neck slowly turned deep red and then purple as his tongue stuck out in a grotesque mask of death. The older man's eyes managed to catch those of Cupid as they began to bulge out of his skull and, for an instant, she thought that she could see in them a deep remorse. Lemay twisted viciously then and gave the belt strap one final yank. The loud crack of the cop's breaking neck bounced off the walls of the corridor and the man lay limp beneath him.
Cupid began to scramble slowly back down the corridor, toward the rear door of her store, back to her regular old life and the hell away from the insanity of this place. The man she knew as Buddy Daniels wore a sickening expression of lust on his face as he hit the button that closed the door to the outside and began to approach her. He paused once to pick up the knife that had formerly belonged to the Cupid Killer and decided that he just might find another use for the weapon after all.
"Buddy, what's going on?" she pleaded with him as he got closer to her. The belt he had used on the cop hung from his right hand, the buckle scraping eerily along the concrete floor of the corridor with his every step. There were now two corpses sharing the service corridor with her and another man that she thought she knew until just a few moments ago. "What's going on here? Jesus Christ, you killed that cop, you killed that man who was…who was…"
"Yes, Cupid, I killed them both, honey," Lemay said and allowed his gaze to fall where Cupid's breasts had once again been exposed underneath the tattered dress she wore. "You see the man who intended to kill you had been warned quite sternly not to come here, not to cross into my territory. I actually met with him in person to deliver that particular message, could have taken him out then and, looking back on it, probably should have. But he dared to come in here after I told him not to and take a shot at you, Cupid. He dared me to kill him for it. And now he's dead. I saved your life…"
"But the cop, Buddy, why the cop? I don't understand this…" Cupid moaned as more tears streamed down her face.
"Because he was here, Cupie doll, he saw just about everything," Lemay said, enjoying Cupid's useless efforts at escape way too much. "He was in the way. I had to get rid of him. I originally came here just to kill the Cupid Killer, honey. You see, deep down, I pretty much knew he was going to take a stab at you, pardon the pun. But once I was finished killing Cupid over there, I just didn't want to stop. That cop was here and he was in an awful state so, I figured, what the hell. Lucky numbers thirteen and fourteen. Two for the price of one, right?"
"What're you talking about, Buddy?" Cupid barely said it as a whisper as Lemay knelt down beside her, letting the belt drop for a moment next to her right thigh. "You're scaring me, Buddy…"
"Don't be scared now, Cupie doll," Lemay said and, once again, felt the heft of the knife. "I was going to save you for later, for after our little date, but I think I have to do this now. Too bad I won't be able to enjoy that luscious body of yours first, Cupid. I sure do hate how this has turned out. You know, I half thought that he wouldn't choose to attack you tonight, Cupid. I really thought he would take my threats seriously. But I guess he just couldn't control himself. Do you know about that, Cupid? About loss of control? Do you? I wonder sometimes about that, Cupid. I wonder if you know what it's like to lose control. Just totally lose it…"
Cupid Montgomery screamed again then as the knife rose high into the air over her body. For some reason, Lemay thought, I'm going to use the knife this time. Strange, that, for he had used the belt every time before. The very
same belt that now lay on the cold concrete floor beside Cupid Montgomery's nearly naked body. He could see the buckle lying up against Cupid's thigh as his arm arced down, the blade a blur of shiny metal.
He could see the thick red blood of Cupid Montgomery mixing with that of the Cupid Killer and splattering across the worn brown leather of his belt. This experience had changed him, he knew, changed him deeply and profoundly. He was something new now, not just the Hangman Killer anymore.
As Cupid's blood ran thick along the floor, soaking into his black pants and spattering his shirt, he laughed at the results of this night. Laughed at how easy it had been, how it had all turned out. Absently, he wondered in the back of his mind just how long it would be before another possible victim entered the corridor. He couldn't stop now, he was on a roll…
Killing Cupid, he thought with a smile, he just might have to carry on the tradition…
Just then, a door halfway down the corridor opened up and he could hear the sound of trash bags being dragged across the concrete floor. Looking up, he saw the back of an older woman coming through the door not too far away. Wilson Lemay stood and waited for the store's rear door to close itself behind the still unsuspecting woman. Feeling the reassuring weight of the knife in his right hand, still slick with the blood of not one but two victims, he loudly cleared his throat with a smile.
SHAWN P. MADISON
lives in a new house in Suffolk, Virginia, where the grass has grown in nicely and all of the books he has collected through the years now fit. He has written in the genres of action, children's, contemporary, fantasy, horror, humor, mystery, non-fiction and science fiction. He has published more than fifty short stories in over twenty different magazines, both electronic and print, and his first novel, GUARDER LORE, was released by NovelBooks, Inc. (www.novelbooksinc.com) in March of 2002. Shawn and his wife share their house with two old friends; a larger than normal cat and a dog who thinks he's human, and, together, they all hope to make Virginia their permanent home. To learn more about Shawn and his writing, please visit his website at: http://legendarts.com/shawn/ or feel free to contact Shawn via e-mail at: [email protected]
A VALENTINE'S DAY KISS
By Sandy De Luca
A light February rain began to fall as Marcus crossed the border from Connecticut into Rhode Island. The car needed fuel and he needed caffeine. Gazing at the slate gray sky he sighed and hoped the predicted ice and sleet would wait until he reached his destination. Only forty miles to Talbot's Bay where shelter, obscurity and an old friend waited.
He exited at a rest stop where a gas station and two small diners welcomed tired travelers. He filled the tank and then wandered into the diner which boasted The Best Cup of Java in New England. He settled in a corner booth. The walls were decorated with red hearts and paper cupids. He gazed at the menu. The dessert special was cherry cake with pink frosting.
"Available all this week," said a perky red-headed waitress. "Our pastry guy uses whole cherries."
"I'll pass. Just a cup of coffee."
Was it that time of year again? He'd met Daria years ago on February 14th. She'd always be his Valentine. He swore that, even when he left Talbot's Bay so long ago.
The waitress set down a steaming mug. His stomach rumbled when another server rushed by with two steaming plates of turkey and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy.
"You sure I can't get you something else?"
He thought about his destination. "Coffee's fine."
Marcus had been on the road for a day, leaving Jacksonville the previous night and driving at a normal speed limit. He didn't want to risk being pulled over by a cop.
Now he drank his coffee and went over all the details. He'd wiped everything down, making sure he'd left no prints. Nadia struggled when he straddled her. She clawed at him when he cut her with his hunting knife. She pulled his hair and scratched his hands and face. Nadia fought like a wild cat, even when her eyes had been cut out and her face stripped of its flesh. He washed her from head to toe, hoping that all incriminating evidence would be removed. After she died he clipped her nails and put the clippings in a plastic baggy which he later buried in a field off the Jersey Turnpike.
A small red box lined with white tissue lay on the night stand. A card with the words To my Valentine was tucked beneath the box. A heart on a gold chain hung delicately around Nadia's neck. Marcus yanked the chain, breaking it.
In the hotel bathroom he flushed the heart and chain down the toilet. Then he washed his hands with scalding hot water, humming a tune he and Daria used to sing. He heard a soft sigh and haunting laughter. He spun around on his heels. Water and suds dripped onto tile. A girl with coal-black eyes peeked at him from behind the shower curtain. Smoky black wings flapped. She smiled at him, fangs protruded over her lips. He blinked and she was gone.
He'd seen her years before when Bernard tried to conjure the Angele'.
It had to be the Xanax his doctor had prescribed a week ago. He'd been having trouble sleeping, anxiety brought on by his wife's affair. One of the side effects of the drug was hallucinations. He'd taken one too many that day.
He left the hotel room in Florida along with two bodies, that of his best friend and his wife, Nadia. He shot Tom Stanford once in the head. He died quickly. Death wasn't so easy for Nadia.
He heard laughter as he closed the door behind him.
He saw the girl with coal-black eyes again at a filling station in Georgia. She glared at him from the window of an old pickup truck.
He never really loved Nadia-not the way he loved Daria. Family money was his motive for marriage, but the idea of her fucking around with another guy outraged him. He didn't like to share what belonged to him.
He had briefly thought about shooting himself afterwards, of ending it. He hadn't murdered some prostitute or a drifter this time. His wife was the daughter of a prominent Jacksonville businessman and Tom was a major player in one of the largest mob families in the South. They'd slaughter him if they caught him.
He changed his mind about death when he opened Tom's briefcase and found a million dollars tied in neat bundles. So he ran, driving away from the pain and bloodshed, believing Bernard Danser could help him. And he thought about Daria. He always thought about her, through two bad marriages and through countless affairs.
In South Carolina he stopped at a used car lot and traded his 1997 Taurus for a black nondescript 1999 Escort. He paid the dealer in cash. In North Carolina he stopped at a Denny's and switched license plates with a Caddie parked out in the back. He'd do it again before he got to Connecticut.
He called Bernard Danser from Virginia and told him about the dilemma. Danser promised him shelter and a room at the Angele' hotel. Marcus shared secrets with his friend, secrets that went deeper than murder and theft. He knew he could trust him. He'd known it since the day he met the magic man.
***
On a smoky February day, twenty years earlier, the temperature had risen to an unseasonable sixty degrees. He'd played hooky from school, caught the bus from Providence to the bay. He was a fifteen-year-old kid, bored with school. Good grades came easy to him. He didn't need to study, or attend classes regularly. He had skipped several grades and would be graduating within a month.
He never knew his father, and his mother struggled to raise him by working as a seamstress by day and as the local fortuneteller on nights and weekends. People said she was uncanny and her readings always hit the nail right on the head. She told him he was special and that he'd learn the secrets of the universe from a powerful man.
Marcus made extra money by making deliveries for one of Providence's crime bosses. Twice a week he'd walk into a bar on Atwells Avenue. A neat package, wrapped in brown paper, would be waiting for him. He'd stuff it into his denim jacket, catch a bus to Cranston, West Warwick or even to the ritzy section of East Greenwich, hand the goods to some beady-eyed wise guy and then go home to read the books he'd found in his mother's cedar chest; volumes about Aleister Crowle
y, the Salem witches and strange accounts about the history of Talbot's Bay. He became obsessed with the life and disappearance of the artist Rebecca Farrell. Every chance he had he'd go to Talbot's Bay in search of Farrell's prints or small rare sketches which were exhibited in the galleries on the boardwalk.
On February 14th, 1983 he wandered further along than he'd done on previous visits. Brightly lit shops gave way to older deserted buildings and finally there was only the ocean on his left and vacant lots to his right.
He walked a few blocks further and spotted a secluded shop. Crystals dangled over the door. Stained glass windows reflected sunlight. A man stood in the doorway. At first he looked ancient, humped over. But it must have been the sun's reflection creating an illusion, because on second glance the man looked to be no more than thirty-five or forty. He had dark shoulder-length hair. His eyes were filled with wisdom and something else-something that seemed to damn Marcus as he returned the man's engaging smile.
A poster hung on one of the windows: REBECCA FARRELL'S LOST DRAWINGS.
"Wow. Originals?"
The man's eyes twinkled. "Yes, of course. You have an interest in Farrell?"
"Yes."
"An elderly spinster recently passed away and an entire trunk filled with Farrell's work was found in her attic. I purchased quite a few of them at an auction last weekend. Come inside and look if you'd like."
The shop smelled of incense and candle wax.
A lovely blonde girl, around his age, sat cross-legged amidst scattered prints and drawings. She held a framed charcoal of a Goddess. The girl's expression told him that she was in awe of the artwork.
"I'm Bernard Danser. This is Daria. One of my students and also a fan of Rebecca Farrell."
The girl nodded, then returned her gaze to the drawing.
Daria.
That was the beginning.
That afternoon was a turning point in his life. Bernard Danser knew more about Rebecca Farrell and her work than any book he'd ever read.