Smiling and nodding, he thought how ironic it was that women never mentioned their age until they were too old for anyone to care. Then for some unknown reason, they felt a burning desire to share it with everyone.
“What was your name again?” the old lady was asking.
“Ethan Rafferty.”
The old woman instantly scowled, squinting at him through her wire-rimmed glasses. “I thought you were in prison,” she stated matter-of-factly.
Ethan didn’t know how to react. “I was,” he said slowly. Then he with a puzzled frown he asked, “Do I know you?”
“No, but I know you,” Mrs. Kershaw snapped. “You murdered that little girl over on Hawthorne Street years ago, and you’re supposed to be in prison.” The elderly woman wasn’t condescending or confrontational and she didn’t seem the least bit afraid. She simply stated the facts, as she believed them.
“I was in prison,” Ethan repeated. “I served my time and they let me out a few months ago.” He wanted desperately to tell her he hadn’t been the one to kill Natasha Wyman, that he wasn’t guilty, but what was the use? If the court hadn’t believed him, why would this scraggly old lady think he was telling the truth? He looked at her inquisitively. “How did you know who I am?”
“I told you, I’ve lived here all my life, and I do read the papers,” she said huffily, as if that explained everything.
“But that was sixteen years ago!”
“Has it been that long?” Mrs. Kershaw asked. “Well yes, I guess it must have been since you’re standing here.” Suddenly, she gave him a suspicious glance. “You didn’t escape did you?”
Ethan laughed and shook his head. “No ma’am, I didn’t escape.” This old lady was sort of funny.
Mrs. Kershaw sized him up for several seconds, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether to believe him or not. Abruptly then, she shifted gears. “Well, I’m not one to hold a grudge. If you served your time, then you’re okay in my book. But,” she paused and gave him that sideways look again. “I’m warning you, I keep an eye on things around here. Anything going on in this neighborhood, you can bet I know about it. I’ll be watching you.”
Ethan couldn’t help but think that if she were so observant why hadn’t she seen the man who’d tried to kill him a few nights ago? He didn’t linger on the question, as she continued.
“If I see you acting strangely, I’ll telephone the police.”
The way she said it was rather comical, but the fact that she said it in the first place was disturbing. Stinging from her remarks, Ethan could feel the same old anger and resentment coursing through his veins, just like when he’d first arrived at Granite Hills. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that he’d been humiliated in his hometown, gone to prison and undeservedly been castigated by society. He still had to endure the stigma of an ex-con and suffer the berating of grandma here; although he was clearheaded enough to realize the old lady standing in his doorway wasn’t at fault. He couldn’t take out his frustration on the feeble woman just because she had an exceptionally good memory.
“You don’t have anything to worry about, Mrs. Kershaw,” he assured her realizing how stupid the self-proclamation of valor was. If he really was the murderer she thought him to be, could such a claim be taken seriously? Did a criminal ever insist their potential victim was in actual danger?
A few more minutes of light-hearted conversation, and Mrs. Kershaw told him she really needed to be getting back home. “I’ve got a million things to do, and not one of them is being done while I’m standing here talking with you.”
“Would you like some help back to your place?” Ethan offered trying to be polite. The lady was ninety-five!
Mrs. Kershaw was already walking away, but suddenly she stopped, turning halfway around with an indignant glare. Letting him know she was appalled by the suggestion she snapped, “No, do I look like a helpless cripple to you?”
Ethan meekly shook his head. “No ma’am,” he declared. It was the truth. He had to admit she got around pretty well.
Continuing a few more steps, the aged lady stopped again, looking back once more. This time the scowl was gone, replaced by a kinder expression on her face. In a congenial tone she said, “Thank you for the offer. My mother would say I need to be mindful of my manners.”
“Your mother?” Ethan exclaimed. “She’s still living?”
“Oh heavens no. She’s been dead for years.” Mrs. Kershaw shook her head with a bit of disgust. Then she was gone.
Disappearing back into his house, Ethan closed the door chuckling to himself. She was hilarious. A typical cantankerous and very independent old lady. Then the smile faded. Mrs. Kershaw’s visit had made it plain the need to come up with something extraordinarily devious and spectacularly cruel for Mariana Clark. If his neighbor’s reaction was what he had to look forward to receiving, an indication of what he could expect for the rest of his life, then the conniving little D.A. hadn’t yet begun to pay.
But regrettably, whatever it was he came up with, would have to wait for a while, thanks to his lunacy of sending half the town’s plumbers and electricians to her house. He didn’t want any interruptions—or possible witnesses.
Sorting through the scattered mess of papers on the table, Ethan found the list of appointments he’d made. The last one was scheduled for Saturday, one week away.
The one positive aspect of that was he should be able to come up with some strategy by then. Still, he wished now he hadn’t been quite so enthusiastic in his approach. Of course, he could always call to cancel them, but that would probably take longer than it had to schedule them in the first place, which would serve only to further aggravate him. And knowing the incompetent nature of businesses these days, four or five of them would probably show up anyway and likely at the most inopportune time. No, his time would be better spent designing and preparing a new line of attack while he waited.
Numerous possibilities crossed his mind. Each was summarily dismissed. Nothing he could come up with would have the desired devastating effect on Mariana. He even considered burning her house to the ground, but instantly, he rejected that idea. She probably had millions of dollars worth of insurance, fire, flood, and everything else for which they sold a policy. Destroying her home would only be a temporary inconvenience. In the end, his actions would flood her bank account with more than her fair share of zeroes. He wasn’t about to help her retire early!
Inspiration is sometimes slow in its arrival, but given enough time, if a person is patient, it usually does show up. And when the ideas start to flow, it can be difficult to keep up. As soon as he awoke the next morning, Ethan’s mind was racing, his brain firing rapidly on all synapses, forming a brilliant strategy. Brilliant to him anyway, the actual outcome remained to be seen. The plan wasn’t complicated, but it would take time to think it over and contemplate the details. Time however, wasn’t a problem, he had a whole week!
He was going to need a gun, that was a given, and thanks to his dearly departed recent attacker, he had one. He laughed. Mariana was about to get the scare of her life. Maybe, just maybe, she’d learn a lesson, but he doubted it. Arrogant, self-serving people who’ve managed to get their hands on a little power never seem to learn anything. But, with any luck, she could have a heart attack! That would work! The only major problem he faced was how to keep her from phoning the police while he executed his new scheme. And there was still nearly a week to wait until the last of the appointments he’d made were out of the way. Now that he had a plan, the wait would be doubly annoying.
Then another thought occurred to him, why not use the hoard of contractors he’d scheduled to his advantage? They were stopping at Mariana’s house on a daily basis and by now she was, no doubt, quite used to them knocking. He would be just another one—the last one.
He’d been a contractor and knew how to play the role. With the right clothes and a few simple accessories, a clipboard and pen, he could easily pull it off. Mariana would be caught off guard,
giving him all the edge he needed. By the time she figured it out, it’d be too late. Then, he could finally force a confession out of her.
Coerced confessions or disclosures under duress may not be admissible in court, but he wasn’t so particular. For him, any admission of guilt would do.
From the get-go, he’d sworn he would have no personal encounters, no contact with the woman. Everything was to be done in a disconnected manner, from a distance. But, things had changed. Now, he was looking forward to the face-to-face meeting.
Anxious to get the preparations underway, he made a quick trip to the mall. His list was short; a work shirt, boots, a clipboard and a couple of tools to hang on his belt, just for that authentic look. Finished in less than an hour, he left the shopping center, and stopped at what had become his new favorite cafe, The Onion Patch. Seated at the corner table, he ordered his usual dinner.
“Don’t you ever eat at home?” the waitress asked.
Laughing, Ethan shook his head. “Not for quite a while now.” Not since going to prison, he thought, which had indeed been quite a long while. More than six months had passed now since the day he made the ride in the white transport van from Granite Hills to Fulton, and he had yet to cook a single meal. He hadn’t even bought groceries. The necessary chore of eating was much more easily accomplished if the actual work was left to someone else. All the shopping, the chopping, cutting, cooking, and of course, the cleaning, were so time consuming.
Some would snidely suggest this attitude was a sign of laziness, but Ethan chose to think of it as being more productive. More important tasks waited and he couldn’t be wasting time on such frivolous matters. That’s what money was invented for, to pay someone else to do the work.
Of course, there was the distinct possibility of running out of money, which always threatened to rear its ugly head. Gloomily, he knew his free ride would soon come to an end.
As his food arrived, Ethan was again mulling over the details of his new plan. If he could squeeze a confession out of Mariana, coerced or not, he’d be happy. And he could gladly forget about her. Just put the whole thing behind him, for good! Get a job, earn a modest living and live out the rest of his days in contentment. Maybe with Lacy by his side. He hadn’t seen her for months now but he still was hung up on her, something in her eyes, or her smile. Whatever it was, he couldn’t keep her out of his mind.
His fantasy of a life of ease all seemed like a lofty ambition, a valiant goal, and one that sounded vaguely familiar. A life he’d dreamed of and had tried to acquire once before, long ago, in what now seemed like a distant world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mariana had stayed in town at a no-name motel, not even calling her friend. On Friday morning, she reported to work as if nothing were wrong. Though she couldn’t avoid the talk of Arimante’s arrest, she limited her involvement as much as possible, remaining in her private office. Resisting the urge to make a hasty departure and hightail it to Jessi’s house, she determinedly remained firmly ensconced behind her desk.
As the morning progressed, she half expected the FBI, or agents from any other of the various federal law enforcement departments, to come calling at any moment. By mid-afternoon though, the anxiety had started to fade, Frankie had now been in custody for a day and a half, giving him ample time to spill his guts, if he were so inclined. As far as she knew, he hadn’t. Maybe he knew she’d had nothing to do with his arrest after all. Not usually the superstitious type, she crossed her fingers anyway, just for luck.
Staying at the office until well past her usual time, the D.A. tried to concentrate on her upcoming case, but her mind kept drifting back to the current problems, namely a quickly decaying body in her shed, and as always, Ethan. With Frankie Arimante out of the picture, Ethan was still free to conduct whatever mayhem he came up with to antagonize her. On the other hand, Frankie being in jail removed one of the major compelling arguments in favor of confessing her misdeeds and offering her resignation. She made a mental note to call Jessi later that night.
Long after everyone else had gone home, Mariana turned out the lights, locked the door and wearily walked to her car, still wrestling with herself over what to do. Taking time to fill her Corvette with high-octane gasoline and then do some long-overdue grocery shopping, she didn’t reach home well until after eight o’clock. Again, as every day lately, she found several notes taped to the door.
“More junk,” she said through clinched teeth. She was growing tired of this. Two weeks now she’d spent turning away dozens of the middle-aged, overweight guys, explaining she hadn’t called, hadn’t set up any “consultations,” and didn’t want, or need, any plumbing, electrical, or carpentry work done. She’d never realized that many businesses were in Cedar Springs.
Without bothering to check the shed, knowing the body would still be there and not wanting to see or smell it, Mariana wearily pushed through the door and then tossed the notes into the trash. Ethan was a lunatic. A dangerous and twisted, evil lunatic. At one time, she allowed, he’d been an innocent victim, but now he was decidedly guilty—a full-fledged criminal. Indisputable proof that he was a murderer was currently creating a horrible odor in her shed. The man belonged behind bars!
She cringed, knowing he was probably relaxing somewhere, laughing at her inability and her unwillingness to get to him. While that assessment may be true as far as the law was concerned, and though her attempt at hiring a hit man had failed, she still planned to do something about him. Just what, she wasn’t exactly sure. But continuing to sit idly by while he slowly drove her crazy, or eventually killed her, wasn’t an option.
She hadn’t thought Ethan was capable of actually harming her, and she hadn’t perceived herself to be in any real danger until the day she’d peered into the shed. That had been her defining moment. The moment of truth.
Eating a supper of soup and a tossed salad, her mind turned a bit more evil. So, the deal with Frankie hadn’t quite panned out, she smiled deviously, that didn’t mean she was left out in the cold. Slamming her fork down roughly, she said, “I’ll just kill him myself.”
Shocked by her sudden uncharacteristic outburst, she frowned. She’d threatened to do that before, but never had acted on it. Sort of like her continual threats concerning the neighbor’s cat, which still prowled through her yard day and night. This time though, the words came out so adamantly, so forcibly, that it almost scared her. She was equally surprised that she hadn’t immediately dismissed the possibility. Was she ready to go down that road? So far, she’d managed to hold on to some piece of her sanity. Or had she? Jumping at every sound, seeing things in the shadows, unable to sleep, frequently feeling scared, alone and vulnerable in her own home; none of these were exactly a shining example of a sane person. And constantly looking over her shoulder and tensing up every time the phone rang didn’t really say much for her mental health either.
“Doesn’t sound like sound-minded person to me,” she said aloud. “And here I am talking to myself again. And considering murder!” She shrugged and then rationalizing her way out of the guilt, continued talking to herself. “I can’t go on like this. It’s me or him. And him definitely sounds better than me.”
The self-preservation instinct inherent in humans is just as strong as with any other species. Maybe more so, though the trait isn’t usually revealed until a person faces a dire and severe situation. When it does surface, most people have a stronger character of ethics governing their behavior, which prevents them from acting immorally or illegally.
For Mariana, it wasn’t a matter of ethics—she had none. With her, the question was one thing only, the likelihood of getting away with it. That’s what presented her unique dilemma.
Being a prosecuting attorney, she was reasonably sure she could avoid the usual pitfalls and problem areas; the common mistakes made by the average criminal. That wouldn’t be too difficult. Instinctively, she also knew certain things are virtually impossible to hide. There is no perfect crime. Every nefari
ous act leaves a trail behind with many traces of evidence—DNA, fingerprints, and a litany of other clues. Through careful observation, cunning skill and a meticulous attention to detail, investigators were quite capable and remarkably proficient at re-creating crime scenes and solving unexplained events. Usually, it took only one key piece of information to unravel a mystery. Still, with a little forethought, Mariana believed she could drastically reduce the odds of being caught.
Then, recalling a lecture by one of her law school professors, Mr. Thomlin, she winced. He’d said the reason there is no perfect crime was simple. First of all, the perpetrator cannot physically be in more than one place at any given time. So, already they have an alibi problem. Secondly, by definition, a crime will disrupt the normal flow and natural order of things. For instance, a murder victim doesn’t continue to go to work, attend school, stop at their favorite coffee shop or do any of the literally hundreds of other things which make up their daily routine. Humans are creatures of habit and therein lies the next problem. Regardless of how stupid or ignorant we may think the average person to be, eventually, someone will notice when another person is missing.
The same goes for a kidnapped child. The concept is present in every crime. With a robbery, the property is no longer where it is supposed to be, and so on. The details are different but the pattern is the same. Sometimes the clues are rather obvious, other times the evidence must be carefully scrutinized, examined and interpreted, but always something will be out of sync. The very fact that a crime has been committed dictates there will be evidence.
Professor Thomlin had then offered a caveat to his previous statements. “The exception to the rule would be someone like, say a vagrant; a bum. Someone who wanders aimlessly from town to town. A person with no home, no family, no friends, no job and no schedule to keep. In effect, one who has no purpose in life and no structure, a person who has no impact whatsoever on society, or their surroundings. Such a person is unlikely to be missed. However,” the professor stressed, “this is merely one small facet of an investigation because, even then there would still be the difficult problem of physical evidence, such as blood, DNA, disposal of the body and possible witnesses to any of the activity.
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