Greshmere

by Scott Wittenburg

  He brought the viewfinder of the camcorder to his eye, adjusted the lens and pressed the record button. Megan got into bed and scooted over toward Daniel, removed her tee shirt and kissed him. Her breasts were in full profile as Gary zoomed in as tight as possible on her torso. Jesus, what a fricking beauty!

  Megan remained in position long enough for Gary to get a three-quarter length shot of her awesome body before Daniel reached over and turned out the lamp. His hands now shaking somewhat, Gary switched over to the night vision Astroscope and recorded their lovemaking in its entirety, their bodies moving slowly at first, and then furiously in the eerie green glow.

  After they fell asleep, Gary broke down his equipment, climbed down the tree and headed for the car. Recording Megan screwing her husband was not exactly what he had come all the way to Columbus for, but what the hell? When he got back to Chicago, he would have a good time playing the video back and imagining himself in the geek’s place. That would do for a while, anyway.

  But this mission wasn’t over yet. He had booked a room in the downtown Hyatt Regency for the night to get some shuteye before the next day’s activities.

  He spent the rest of the night drinking at the hotel bar and reviewing the digital stills and video of his night at the Kendalls’. Megan looked fantastic in every shot, whether it was a tight headshot or full body shot. All of this fuss, all of this time and expense had definitely been worth the effort.

  The next morning, he was up at 6:00 a.m. After a shower and continental breakfast, he returned to the Kendalls’. Seeing that both cars were still parked in the driveway, he parked several houses down the street again and waited for something to happen. He was not a patient man by any stretch of the imagination, but he was tenacious to a fault. He wanted to see where she went, who she went with, what she wore and what she did. So far, Megan was little more than a business associate who happened to be categorically beautiful. But what was she really like as a person? If she wasn’t going to give it up to him in conversation, he would just have to use his own devices to get the info he needed.

  At around 9:00 a.m., he saw the husband’s restored classic ’57 Porsche back out of the driveway. The guy had great taste in cars; he would give him that. As they drove past him, he lowered his head and waited about thirty seconds then began tailing them.

  Their first stop was the neighborhood Kroger. He parked and waited until they were finished grocery shopping and then followed them to one of the big suburban shopping malls. Once he was sure they had enough lead, he got out and followed them over to the main entrance.

  They had held hands from the moment they got out of the car and remained hand-in-hand as they walked leisurely through the mall. Occasionally they would face each other and laugh, looking like a pair of happy newlyweds. Other times, Megan would take her hand away from hubby long enough to look at a blouse or a pair of slacks before moving on. It didn’t take long for Gary to realize that Megan was totally in love with her husband and that the feeling was mutual.

  A thought that utterly sickened him.

  Jamison had had plenty of so-called serious relationships in his life but nothing that ever lasted more than a few months. His inability to find somebody who could truly keep him interested was part of the problem. And the ones that seemed interesting enough would disappoint him in other ways. Like not sharing his keen interest in sex, for example. He loved sex and quite frankly could never get enough of it. Doctor Drew would label him as a sex addict for sure. Sexual addiction was a curse in a sense, because he had met very few women who even came close to feeling the same way he felt about sex. Nobody could ever keep up with him.

  The other thing that seemed to turn off some of the women was his obsessive, controlling nature. So he was a control freak—what the hell? You can’t get anywhere in this world unless you take the bull by the horns and see that things get done the way you want them done. It was as simple as that. Gary Jamison didn’t need some Joe Blow telling him how to do this or that. And he sure as hell didn’t need some woman telling him she didn’t want this or that.

  As he continued following the Kendalls through the mall, Gary felt his blood pressure rise and his teeth clench. Here was a woman that was entirely too committed to her husband, period. There was a bond between them that he had rarely seen in his thirty-six years of living. It was like watching some sappy old movie from the forties, seeing them hold hands, laugh and be so incredibly fucking happy.

  He had made this trip to Columbus hoping to glean some useful info about Megan Kendall, and he had succeeded. He had now come up with his final analysis. There was only one way in hell that he could ever hope to have a chance at getting this woman, short of coming right out and abducting her.

  Her husband would have to be taken out of the picture.

  This realization started Gary Jamison’s wheels turning. By the time he returned to Chicago, he had begun to spin his master plan. His Plan B, so to speak.

  While his plan continued developing over the next week or so, he had become so frustrated and pissed at Megan Kendall’s unwillingness to play ball with him that he began letting his guard down. His calls to her at her office left him cold, at times actually making him wonder if she was really worth all of this effort. The final straw had come the day he had all but threatened to have her fired from the company. Just as soon as the words left his mouth, he knew that all of the pussyfooting around had come to a crashing halt.

  It was time to put Plan B into action.

  Immediately after hanging up from her on that Friday morning, he had informed his number two man that he was leaving the office and wouldn’t return until Monday. He hastily booked a flight to Columbus for that afternoon and arrived in the state capital at around two-thirty. With little time to spare, he picked up a rental car at the airport and drove north up I-71. Within a few miles, he located the exit he was looking for and drove another mile or so until he reached Spud’s Super Service Station.

  He pulled into a side lot, parked the rental car, and walked over to an old Ford F150 pickup truck that was parked along the side of the defunct service station. The truck had over 150,000 actual miles on it, was rusted out in several places, and basically was a total piece of crap. But it was big and innocuous-looking—which was the very reason he had purchased the clunker during his last trip to Columbus.

  Jamison pulled out the key from his pocket and hopped into the truck. He turned on the ignition and the motor roared to life. One of his concerns had been the battery when he’d test-driven the thing, but the former owner assured him that the battery was fairly new and guaranteed it for six months. Satisfied, Gary had paid five hundred dollars for the truck, which included indefinite storage at the service station until the place was sold—something that would probably never happen in his lifetime. The price also included the former owner’s silence in the event that anybody ever inquired about the truck. Since the seller didn’t even own a title to it, this had been an easily negotiable checkpoint of the sale.

  Jamison pulled out of the service station and got back on I-71. He already knew the quickest route to Barrington Industries, Daniel Kendall’s place of employment. He also knew that Megan’s husband got off work between three-thirty and four o’clock on Fridays and the exact route he would take to go home. After some intense research, he learned that there was a stretch of road between Kendall’s workplace and his home that was notorious for auto accidents because of the tendency of motorists to drive too fast around its tight curves. Having taken the route himself in his new used truck and carefully evaluating that stretch of road, Jamison knew precisely where he would make his move.

  His big problem now was getting to Barrington Industries in time to locate Kendall’s car so he could begin tailing him.

  After driving eight miles on I-71 he spotted the exit he needed to take. He looked at his watch and saw that it was already three-fifteen. He was going to have to step on it if he was going to have any chance of pulling this off.


  What he did not want to happen was to be forced to abort his plan. It was now or never, he thought, because he doubted that he would attempt this later on. The reason for this was simple: he probably wouldn’t have the guts for it later on. He was planning on doing something he had never thought himself capable of, much less following through with. Granted, he was a control freak and strove to have his way. But up until now, he had known when to draw the line before he did something really crazy.

  And this was definitely really crazy.

  The good news was that his plan was virtually foolproof. If he was able to execute it, no one would be the wiser. At least it seemed that the odds were in his favor. The bottom line was that if something screwed up for one reason or another and he got caught, he was totally fucked.

  That was the part he didn’t really want to spend any more time thinking about.

  Jamison pulled onto the exit and was thrilled to see that it was starting to snow. This would make the whole thing all the more plausible, he thought. What could be better than a notoriously dangerous winding road made even more treacherous by a layer of freshly fallen snow? He perceived this unexpected gift from the sky as a good omen and for the first time since leaving Chicago, felt his confidence level pick up again. Gary Jamison had never failed before, he thought. And this would be no exception.

  He was focused now and feeling quite exhilarated as he ate up the remaining miles to Barrington Industries. He arrived at his destination right at three-thirty and headed directly to the employee parking lot. The place wasn’t very large and he cruised through the rows of cars until he located Daniel Kendall’s little gunmetal gray Porsche parked near the exit. He pulled into a spot several cars down and kept the motor running.

  He played the plan again through his mind. About the only thing that could screw this up would be somebody seeing him at the moment he made the decisive move. The odds were pretty good that nobody would be able to see anything from behind because of the winding road. It was the oncoming traffic he was worried about. But even if somebody witnessed the event, they would have a tough time catching him on a slick winding road going in the opposite direction. And driving an ugly old Ford pickup would make identification very difficult under the circumstances.

  Nope, this should go as smooth as silk.

  The cab of the old truck was finally beginning to heat up as Jamison sat and stared toward the main entrance of the business. Assuming that everything went according to plan, he would take an alternative route back to Spuds, park the truck and get back into the rental car. Even if the authorities suspected foul play, it would probably take weeks if not months for them to locate this old heap. And even if they did, they would have a tough time trying to track down its owner since the truck was untitled and unregistered. To clinch it, he was assured by old man Spud that the license plates on the truck had been stolen from a vehicle up near Cleveland.

  On his way back to return the rental car at the airport, he would give Megan Kendall a call, just to help allay any suspicions. Whether she answered or not was irrelevant—she would know that he had called and there would be a record of it. And the last person she would expect to hear from right after her husband had been killed would be his killer.

  Then it would be back to Chicago and the same old routine until things died down. With the only thing standing in the way between him and his prey gone for good, he would be on the fast track to winning that which he so richly deserved.

  Suddenly he spotted somebody coming out of a side door of the building. Even from this distance he knew it was Daniel Kendall by the black thick-framed glasses that he wore. He waited until Kendall was only a couple of cars down from the Porsche before turning his head and looking in the other direction. He heard the sound of the four-cylinder engine firing up and held his breath in anticipation.

  He continued waiting until Kendall was a quarter mile past the exit before pulling out. The last thing he needed was for the guy to have any suspicions this soon. His plan was to stay back as far as possible until they reached the Interstate, then ease his way through the traffic until he was only a vehicle or two behind him.

  His pulse quickened as he noticed that Kendall was already putting the pedal to the metal—perhaps in his anticipation of getting home to spend a weekend with his lovely wife. Jamison had to floor the Ford before Kendall lost him altogether.

  By the time he reached the Interstate, there were four cars between the Porsche and Jamison. This was good because it would make his tail seem less noticeable. He now had six miles in which to follow Kendall before he took the exit that would lead him to the winding road.

  Perfect.

  When he reached the exit, Jamison figured that Kendall probably hadn’t even noticed the old truck that had been following him since leaving Barrington Industries. And even if he was growing suspicious, there wasn’t much time left for him to give it any thought. The winding road was only another mile east of the exit ramp.

  The traffic was relatively light on the main drag as Kendall pulled onto Stanser Lane. By now, Jamison was only about three car lengths behind him. There was nearly a half-inch of snow on the road as he watched Kendall slow down for the first of three tight turns in the road. The Porsche had excellent traction due to its rear-engine design and easily negotiated the curve at around twenty-five miles per hour. When Jamison reached the same curve, he could feel the truck pitch to the left, forcing him to slow down to about twenty mph to avoid sliding. He had about thirty seconds to accelerate enough to catch up with Kendall before he reached the next curve or this plan was toast.

  He punched the accelerator and went for the gold while the road was straight, frantically racing to catch up with the Porsche before he was smoked. At this point, he didn’t care if Kendall suspected he was following him. All he needed to do right now was get close enough to that curve to negotiate it without wiping out and maintain a close enough proximity to the Porsche.

  He got his break when the Porsche slowed down as it approached the second curve. Either Kendall had been distracted by something or simply felt he should take the curve at a more conservative speed than the last one. These extra few seconds gave Jamison enough time to come within two car lengths of Kendall as he went into the curve. So far, there hadn’t been a single vehicle on Stanser Lane besides the Porsche and the truck. Things were finally starting to shape up.

  Watching his speed, Jamison took the curve as fast as he could while maintaining a three-car length between himself and Kendall. Although the truck seemed as though it was on two wheels around the hairpin turn, Jamison managed to keep it on the road.

  The Porsche was now within striking distance. The moment that he straightened out his wheels, Jamison floored the accelerator and sped up toward the Porsche. He kept it floored until he was right on its ass and then turned the steering wheel to the left without letting off for a moment. He pulled up alongside the Porsche and glanced over at Kendall, who was staring at him with a look of surprise, his mouth agape. Jamison smiled over at the man, then turned the wheel sharply to the right, abruptly forcing Kendall off the road. The berm was only about six feet wide and then there was a sudden drop-off into a deep ravine. Jamison watched as Kendall tried in vain to correct his direction, whipping his wheels to the extreme left. But it was too late. The little car literally flew over the side of the ravine and out of sight. Jamison rolled down his window, slowed down and listened intently.

  At first there was only the sound of wheels tearing through brush. Then suddenly, he heard a dull thud followed by the sound of crumpled metal as the car apparently wrapped itself around a tree somewhere near the bottom of the sixty-foot ravine. He looked in his rear view mirror, hoping to see a burst of flames but was disappointed. You can’t have everything, he thought to himself.

  A moment later, a car appeared in the oncoming lane. Jamison merely accelerated up to a safe speed and continued driving along Stanser Lane for another couple of miles.

  He pulled onto the r
oad he had planned on taking that would allow him to double back and catch the interstate. As he cruised along, he caught himself whistling an old seventies tune but he couldn’t think of its title. He stopped whistling for a moment, thought it over and then smiled. Oh well, maybe the name would come to him later.

  As he headed back to dump off the truck and pick up the rental car, Gary was all but certain that Daniel Kendall was dead. He felt this confident because of two very relevant factors in the accident that had just occurred. One, he already knew from his research that there had been nothing at all standing in the way of Kendall’s Porsche to slow it down as it plummeted down the ravine. This meant that the little car had probably been going at least forty-five miles an hour when it suddenly made contact with one of the several trees at the bottom.

  Then there was factor number two. Kendall was not only driving a car that wasn’t much bigger than an overgrown turd, it was a car with nothing but a couple of layers of sheet metal separating the driver from the tree at the bottom. Yes, those old Porsches were awesome to look at and drive. But when it came to surviving an accident such as this one, the little tin can with the trunk in the front and engine in the rear didn’t stand an ice cube’s chance in hell.

  As it turned out, Daniel Kendall had indeed died at the scene. Gary had followed through with his call to Megan at around the time she would have gotten off work that evening. And of course she hadn’t picked up. Nothing new there.