Number Seventy-Five

by Ashley Fontainne

  PRAISE FOR

  “NUMBER SEVENTY-FIVE”

  With an attention to detail, and a slowly building sense of dread and horror, Ashley Fontainne’s “Number Seventy-Five” will have you racing through her story of online connection, and just how bad things can go on a date. This is a tale with its Hitchcockian twists dealing with greed and murder, I dare you to stop reading.

  ~ Matthew Costello, author of “Vacation” and “Home” ~

  Ashley Fontainne proves with “Number Seventy-Five” that she’s a talent to watch.

  ~ Raymond Benson, author of The Black Stiletto series ~

  I absolutely love this woman’s style and plots. Have to read anything and everything she writes. Awesome talent! Nobody does “evil bitches” better. Oh, the twists and turns she takes us on...

  ~ Janelle Taylor, NY Times bestselling

  author of “Necessary Evil”~

  Stephen King owns the horror genre, and John Grisham owns legal thrillers, but Ashley Fontainne has created her own genre that is just as intense, The Evil Bitches Thriller. Fontainne is back again with a neck snapping, jaw dropping thriller you will not be able to put down. “Number Seventy-Five” had me at the first page and dragged me mercilessly along. I was unable to put it down. I had to put everything on hold to finish it in one reading and to be honest I was disappointed it was not much longer. No one captures the evil twisted mentality of a female sociopath better than Fontainne. Her characters are believable, real, and evil beyond belief.

  ~ Zach Fortier, author of “Curbchek” and “Street Creds”

  THE SMELL OF decaying earth filled my nostrils with a toxic stench, coaxing me slowly out of the darkness. Confusion poked at every corner of my mind like sharp talons and nearly made me gasp from their burning grip. My body woke up next and sent its own signals of torment speeding through my neurons up to my fuzzy brain. Every inch of me throbbed with white, searing pain. My ears joined the sensory overload fray and sent a signal of grating, metallic scraping sounds that came from behind me. The odd familiarity of the noise tried to take center stage in my thoughts but failed miserably. The struggle against numerous others clamored over it with ease.

  The heavy fog of confusion was instantaneously burned away by the jolt of adrenaline that flushed out my system from its prior fugue state. My aching body reacted by stiffening, my mind controlled now by ingrained gut instincts which forced me to remain frozen in place like hidden prey. Memories burst forth in sharp succession and showered me with the last images of consciousness I could conjure up. My mind clamored to put the broken pieces together.

  LIKE A GIDDY schoolgirl, I primped and preened in front of the unforgiving mirror. I changed ensembles ten times before I settled on the ideal outfit which consisted of a pair of dark blue jeans, a white T-shirt and my brown riding boots. A bland choice but the one I was most comfortable in, which was really all that mattered. The pile of discarded clothes on my bed almost made me forget that I was in my forties. When I slid the mid-calf boots on, I laughed at myself since it was damn near summertime, but they were the only thing in my closet that had a heel and looked somewhat dressy.

  The words of my best friend, Shawna, hung over me while I applied a minimal amount of makeup and finished fluffing my dishwater-blonde hair. Shawna had made me promise to call her when I made it home afterward and dish to her eager ears all the juicy details of the upcoming evening. My nervous laughter had tittered across the phone lines when she teased me about my timid excursion into the dating world. After all, three long years of playing the role of a bitter single woman was enough, she had said.

  I made a quick phone call to secure dinner reservations at the eloquent yet affordable Chancery Court, which was over thirty miles from my hometown in Bainsville. It was a quaint, southern restaurant frequented by cops, which conveyed a safe haven…a neutral meeting ground. It also put my worried friend at ease since I would be surrounded by a sea of blue.

  I winced when I noticed more gray hairs and wished I would have had time to hit the beauty parlor. My once vibrant locks desperately needed an update. Getting older sucked; that was for sure. Oh well, it was too late now. I would just have to be satisfied with what God gave me, and so would my date.

  I pecked out a text message on my cellphone screen to Shawna that read “escape,” ready to send if I needed the cavalry to come rescue me should anything go awry during the date. That was Shawna’s last instruction to me before I had disconnected our call earlier after I told her that I would never make it to dinner if she didn’t hush. That girl was always planning ahead for everything and all unseen scenarios.

  After one last perfunctory glimpse in the mirror I was off, full of anxious jitters. I was about to meet for the very first time the man I had been conversing with online for several weeks. While I drove to the restaurant, Shawna’s heavy, Tennessee lilt began replaying in my head. Like a broken record, it repeated over and over: “Safety first, Mandy. Your momma didn’t raise no fool anymore than mine did. A true woman is prepared for anything, especially a southern one, ’cause we know the woods is full of varmints.”

  “Damn straight, girl. That’s why my gun’s sittin’ inside my purse. You know I’m a good shot and not afraid to take aim if necessary,” I had replied.

  Shawna had laughed and told me I was being overly cautious, but I told her in this day and age, a single woman couldn’t be too careful. Especially one like me that only stood five foot two…equalizers were a necessity in the violent world we lived in. It seemed like I couldn’t turn on the news without a report about a missing woman and I had no desire to ever be in that category.

  A sketchy smile at the memory crossed my face, thankful that I had taken all the necessary precautions. Jacob did not have my home address, my personal telephone number, or the name of my employer. We were meeting in a public place on my terms, not his. I let my friends and family know where we planned on dining and promised to call them all once I was on my way home.

  Shawna even insisted the location of our first meeting be at the Chancery Court since her brother Samuel and his other cop buddies hung out there all the time. Even though Sam was on vacation, Shawna promised that she would contact him and make sure the place was crawling with gun-toting guards--each one ready, willing and able to watch my back if something seemed amiss. Such was the connection between cops and nurses.

  I had been thankful that Samuel was out of town and wouldn’t be one of the eyes watching me while on a date. Not only would I have been embarrassed for my childhood friend to know I was meeting someone that I met online, but it would have been awkward with him there since he still had feelings for me. What started out as puppy love for his older sister’s closest companion segued over to something much deeper as Samuel became an adult. When he would bring a person in to the ER for a breathalyzer or to follow up on an accident, he followed me around like a shadow.

  The seventeen years I had worked at the emergency room at Bainsville Mercy General garnered lasting friendships with local law enforcement. A few, including Samuel, got too friendly after my divorce, but once put in their place after some choice words were plucked out of my southern girl repertoire, they backed off. It was my love for the idle banter and deep camaraderie that kept me from resigning my position and moving to another venue. Working alongside my ex, the renowned Dr. Scott Russell, was like having a tooth constantly extracted. The pain was damned near unbearable, but my friends helped me through it.

  Both nurses and cops worked the same grueling shifts and witnessed up front and personal the dark deeds that humans inflicted upon each other. Oftentimes, the disturbed laughter and pranks pulled seemed to be the only release valve that could be found to keep from going stark-raving mad. Ea
ch group was exposed to senseless violence every day. The bonds were for life, and I felt an invisible safety net around me, so I let my thoughts leave the preparation stage and float over to the meeting.

  The anticipation of seeing if the constant communication the last six weeks with Jacob online might lead somewhere hit me next. At the same time, I feared that it could be worth pursuing and that it might not. My palms poured gallons of sweat as I gripped the wheel with ferocious intensity.

  What if all of our conversations were a drummed up farce? What if I walked in and didn’t recognize him? What if he took one look at me and ran out the door? Oh God, why did I ever let Shawna talk me into joining a freaking dating site?

  I parked at the front entrance and willed my hands to stop shaking, wiping the dampness away on my jeans. All these crazy thoughts, self-doubt, and worry I had already played over a hundred times in my head before I ever agreed to our meeting. The pros and cons were weighed, and in the end, sheer curiosity won out. Determined to not let my normally jaded behavior win, I checked my reflection one last time in the rearview mirror and reached for my purse. The .22 was bulky and made an obvious bulge, so I decided not to scare the pants off my poor date and slid it inside my boot before stepping out into the night.

  Hot, damp air greeted me as I exited, and I groaned in protest. I prayed my hair would stay in place and not become an enormous frizz ball before I made it through the front doors. I took a deep breath, grasped the door handle, and stepped inside.

  Relief washed over me when Jacob rose from his seat in the waiting area. The face in front of me was different from his online profile…he was even more handsome in person. Thank God! His light-blonde hair hung just below his collar in soft waves. His dark-brown eyes were deeply set and huge and framed by black eyelashes. He was tall and well built, about six foot one. It was obvious he wasn’t a natural blonde, which I found rather funny. I hadn’t met very many men over the years who colored their hair, except for a few who washed the grays away. Seeing one who was a bottle blonde was rather comical and I had to force myself not to stare.

  The first hurdle was cleared. At least he wasn’t some disgusting troll, nor did he run when he realized that I looked exactly like my online photo. Guess I was still a looker at forty-one, at least according to Shawna.

  We shared pleasant conversation over a delicious meal for the next two hours, the flirting kept at a minimal level as we eased through first date blunders. Our conversation huddled around easy topics of discussion: the weather, the Titans’ chances for the next Super Bowl, the sweet yet messy ribs in front of us. Jacob’s laugh was easy and light, his comments polite and not filled with underlying sexual innuendoes, which was a welcome change from my other interactions with men.

  We each excused ourselves once during the date to retreat to the bathroom. When I took my turn, I used the time to send a quick text to Shawna and asked if she would please contact Sam and ask him to call the deputy dogs off. The place was packed with familiar faces and I felt like a fish in a bowl while Jacob and I ate. When it was Jacob’s turn to use the facilities, while I sipped the cool iced tea, I wondered if he was texting someone too since he was gone longer than I had been.

  When the evening drew to a close and Jacob asked if I wanted to go walk around town, I saw a hint of sadness when my response to his question was in the negative. Like the gentlemen I had come to know online, he walked me to my car and our evening ended with an awkward yet tender brush of his heated lips against my cool ones. The bland kiss was followed by hushed promises from him in my ear to meet again. With a disinterested glance, I watched him saunter back to his truck.

  The cool leather seat of my car embraced my warm body, and I settled in for the drive home, filled with a rush of emotions that battled for control. Could I, should I, let my life be controlled by my lonely heart? That game had already been played and I lost my ass right along with my heart. Scott and I had been high school sweethearts and married the summer after graduation. I went to nursing school first; then supported us financially while he went to med school. Unable to bear children, our lives centered around our home, our friends, and various charities. Apparently that wasn’t enough for Scott because he discovered a new hobby in our fifteenth year of marital bliss…bed hopping.

  After two years of painful counseling and shattered promises to remain faithful, I had had enough. I had been devastated, my spirit crushed. It took two years after our divorce for me to stop mentally castrating every male who came within ten feet of me and another one for my verbal assaults to end. My nasty attitude was quickly given a nickname by one cop after a thorough dressing down, and it spread like wildfire in a parched forest…“Maneater Mandy.”

  I didn’t want to be a bitter woman any longer. I wanted to find someone to share my life with. A man who treated me as a partner, a best friend, a confidante… to walk through life holding hands and facing all the ups and down together as a united front. I wanted someone to sit on the porch with and admire the simple beauty of a sunrise or sunset in quiet awe. What my heart ached for was a gentle lover and a friend that tears and smiles could be shown to without fear of reprieve for being overly emotional.

  While driving, I came to the conclusion that I could release my tight grip around my heart to love again…just not with Jacob Wilson. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the exact reason, but the small poke in my gut told me he wasn’t the one. Funny how online chemistry can be so deceptive because there were no real sparks flying between the two of us. I had been like a kid at the fireworks stand—all excited about the rocket purchased in hopes of seeing a vivid explosion of colors, but deflated when it fizzled out as a dud.

  I called Shawna and my mother and told them I was on my way home. Shawna seemed shocked that I called her so early, a hint of disappointment in her voice at the date being over so soon. She begged me to divulge all the gossip, but I told her I would spill it when I returned home. The stretch of road I was on was about to turn curvy, and I wanted to maintain all my focus on the highway. Irritated, she told me I’d better before she hung up without another word.

  I smiled at my first wade into the choppy waters of the dating world, unscathed and no worse for the wear. Even though this “love connection” wouldn’t happen, it did give me hope that eventually it could with someone else. Lost in thought, I was brought back to reality by a loud bang. The steering wheel jerked in my hands and I almost lost control of the car. I eased it over to the side of the darkened blacktop and climbed out.

  The examination, done in bitter distaste as I stepped out onto the empty road, proved my theory…a blown right tire. Great! Just dandy! It was a perfect end to a not-so-perfect evening. Shawna would appreciate the irony since she knew one thing I had always feared was being stuck on a dark road with a flat.

  When I started back to the driver’s door to retrieve my cell to call AAA, I almost called Shawna and asked her to send out a distress signal to the cops who had been spying on me all night long. Before I could dial, headlights shimmered in the distance--a welcome salvation for a stranded motorist.

  A familiar vehicle approached and stopped, and the voice I didn’t plan on hearing again anytime soon spoke as he stepped out of his truck.

  “Well, hey Mandy. Fancy meeting you way out here. Looks like you need some help,” Jacob said.

  That’s when I noticed the tire iron in his hand and that he wasn’t heading for my blown tire.

  He was heading straight toward me.

  THE THUNDERCLAP OF rushing blood in my ears momentarily made me forget the jackhammering in my skull. Panic welled up inside of me, dangerously close to being expelled from my body in the form of an ear splitting scream. My blood coursed through me, but all I felt was the chill of fear. The old adage I had read in so many books and scoffed at throughout the years I unfortunately now knew was true. Fear froze the flowing crimson. Terror turned my veins into a conductor of the slushy red liquid.

  The memories from earlier that had da
nced a disjointed waltz through my foggy head came together in one looming picture. What was created was a terrifying portrait of my deadly predicament. The realization that my body was painfully twisted in a heap atop the damp, hard ground made the scream lurk at the edges of my parched mouth. But what caused the fear to skitter up my aching spine was that I finally recognized the sounds coming from behind me.

  The clanking of a shovel ripping through the earth intermingled with the light groans of labor from the digger. Someone was digging a grave, and I was overwhelmed with the terror that it was for my body.

  No longer did I concern myself with how I came to be face down in reeking dirt. Built-in survival instincts overrode everything else. Driven by sheer terror and the will to survive, I felt the lights in all interior rooms in my mind flick off, and only one bulb remained. The brilliant glow pulled me inside its formidable walls.

  Escape.

  Live.

  Freedom.

  I dared not open my eyes to survey my surroundings. First, I needed to assess the pain that ripped through me with each breath. A cracked rib, perhaps two, but no punctured lung, judging by the absence of the telltale gurgles I had heard so many patients suffer over the years. I forced my training to take over and continued my assessment, starting with my head. I isolated the intense pain to my right side, which centered round my eye socket and cheekbone area. Whether produced from a direct hit or concussion impact from the hard ground did not matter.

  My right arm was pinned beneath my body and when I forced a slight wiggle from my fingers, the stab of pain let me know that several were broken. My mental examination continued to my pelvis. Relief brushed over me only briefly when I noticed no pain emanated from there. Ending with my legs, the ember-hot pain in my right knee was a sure sign the kneecap was either broken or dislodged. Lastly, the dull throb from my left ankle was difficult to determine, although it felt like it rested on top of a sharp rock.