by Ian Worrall
“Won’t be long now,” she taunts him waving the knife. “You’re going to die.”
“What do I have to do for you to let me live?”
“Too late for that.”
“I won’t go out without a fight,” he yells when he rushes at her again.
She sticks the knife into his throat. Putting his arm in a hammer lock, she pins him down onto the floor as he takes his last breath. She then twists his head breaking his neck, ensuring his death.
Melissa watches her every step as she avoids walking in the blood. She finds his washroom and removes her dress, checking herself in the mirror for any wounds. There are a few bruises and a cut on her forehead where she hit the wall and floor.
What should I do? Stick him in the trunk of his car and leave him somewhere? Maybe the priest was right, or maybe he was wrong. Still have so many women to avenge. There really is no way out.
She sits down on the side of the bathtub. What a ride it’s been, a ride that will eventually end. The priest is wrong. She was put on this planet by God himself to be his hammer, or lightning strike to all the men who have abused women. That’s what she’ll say to them if she ever gets arrested, plead insanity at the trial. Every man who beat his wife can now live in fear, poetic justice if there ever was.
She gets dressed in her cargo pants, shirt, hiking boots, and black ball cap. She stuffs her dress and heels in the go bag and pulls out her cleaning kit.
Back in the kitchen, she finds the spot on the wall where her head hit and the blood marks of her being dragged. With some sanitation wipes she cleans up her blood; while standing on her toes, she steps over his.
Melissa taps him on the head. “Having some pleasant dreams?”
With the cleanup of her blood done, she washes the dishes wearing rubber gloves. Once done, she puts the dishes back in the cupboards.
Now to make this look like a robbery gone bad. After finding a window in the basement that would be out of view of the neighbors, she searches through the house for any valuables. In the bedroom, she finds his wallet sitting on the dresser along with several high-priced watches—a Rolex, an Omega, and a Tag Heurer. Danil will love those. She takes out one thousand in cash and throws the credit cards all over the floor, stuffs the cash in her pocket and the watches in her bag. She then pulls the sheets off the bed and tips up the mattress. There are still people who are naive enough to hide money there. Apparently not him, but got to put on a show.
In the living room, she finds his iPod Touch connected to a Bose Waveform music player. Always wanted one of these, but I’ll never order off the TV. His CD library has over two thousand discs, but no one buys CDs anymore. Will need another bag if she takes them, but they can be pawned easy enough. She finds his gym bag and stuffs the CDs in. Take out a window to further the robbery look.
Back at the basement window, she pulls out a suction cup and a glass cutting tool. Cutting out enough glass to fit a person through she then smashes the glass on the floor of the basement.
This part of the staging of the scene now complete, she returns to the stereo and turns off the music stuffing the iPod and the stereo into the bag.
On a hook in the kitchen, she finds the car keys to a Porsche Cayenne SUV parked in the garage. Thank goodness for automatic door openers and tinted windows. She puts the bags in the front seat. There are those who make the job much easier. Such a shame to let such a beautiful Porsche go to waste, but it will serve a more useful purpose now.
Leaving the garage, she makes her way back to the body of Mike Blauer. He must weigh about two-hundred pounds. She flexes her arms like a bodybuilder does a biceps pose. Danil, you have your moments, like how he forced her to engage in a strength-training system that does not bulk her up. His little lady ain’t no ninety-pound weakling. She’s strong as an ox at ninety pounds.
She crouches down and grabs Mike under his shoulders. Standing him up to his feet, she feels lucky rigor hasn’t set in yet as she squats down under him. He falls over her shoulder as she stands up carrying him back towards the garage.
Laying him down in the back of the SUV, she needs one more thing—a blanket or tarp to cover him just in case she’s pulled over by the police and they shine a light into the back of the vehicle. The blanket on the bed will be the best thing. She leaves the vehicle and two minutes later she returns with the blanket and lays it down on top of him.
She’ll leave the vehicle somewhere, then take a cab or bus to get the bike. She’ll ship the stuff back home. On Mike’s iPhone, she opens Google maps. A busy shopping mall would be the best place, or anything that has a parking garage. Maybe it will get stolen. Danil’s contacts here can ship anything left behind. First time in years I will feel and enjoy the wind in my hair.
Reading up on the Harley she’s about to buy, she wonders if it will have sufficient cargo space to store her guns. If not, her go bag will have to become a back pack.
Finding a mall close to a bus route to get to the seller of her motorcycle, she heads back to the garage. Once inside the SUV, she marks where the seat is to make it seem that someone Mike Blauer’s height was driving it. She then adjusts the seat to fit her height and drives off to her next destination. With the tinted windows, no one working out in their yards can see that it isn’t Mike driving.
About fifty minutes later, she is back at her motel room. The SUV is parked outside her window next to the Beetle. She starts sorting through her stuff, packing a bag that will fit in a motorcycle cargo container.
Would it be better to just trash the stuff I can’t bring? Shipping it back adds another dimension to the mission that could throw a potential snag in things. But some of it was gifts from Danil and he’ll be pissed if I lose them.
Opening her laptop, she tries to start a chat session on their private message board. It’s another software development she had made. Only she and Danil have it. Seeing he’s not online, she sends a message informing him that her mission is over, the location of the car, and where her stuff is to get someone here to pick it up. She ends with, “I know how much you love to see me in that little red dress.”
She closes her laptop and packs the gun and computer in her go bag along with three days’ worth of clothes. The rest of her stuff is put in the suitcases and into the Beetle.
Taking her go bag with her, she drives the SUV away. The time on the clock reads six forty p.m. The whole thing took less than five hours. She dials the number for the bike listing and they agree to meet in an hour.
The mall she chooses, 108 North State Street, is fifteen minutes away as estimated on Google Maps. The location of the bike is a thirty-minute bus ride.
* * *
In the police break room, the three detectives and the former FBI agent are devouring a pizza. There are three two-liter bottles of soda; each is almost empty. Torres slams his cup on the table causing ice to fly out.
“I can’t believe a member of my team is suspected of being involved with the Russian mafia. I vetted most of them myself.”
“We never truly know what goes on in people’s lives outside of work,” Mitchell says.
“No, we don’t. But I’ve got about ten people under me. We go through them all?”
“And you, too,” Mitchell says.
Torres steps up from his chair shaking the soda bottles and plates. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’s nothing personal. You know it has to be done,” Mitchell says.
“Sorry,” he says sitting back down. “It’s just that it’s hard to imagine that any of my people could be in on this.”
“I know, man.”
* * *
Pulling into the parking lot of the shopping center, Melissa activates the CCTV blocker app. She selects a parking spot in the furthest corner of the lot. Parking the SUV and getting out, she sets her bags on the ground, resets the driver’s seat to its mark, and with a tissue wipes the mark off the seat track. Leaving the keys on the dashboard, she walks away.
She gets to
the bus stop just as the bus pulls up to the curb. Pulling her ball cap down over her eyes and looking down to the floor, she deposits her bus fare and takes a seat at the back of the bus. Thirty minutes later, she’s walking up to the door of the bike seller.
Ringing the doorbell, Melissa starts rubbing her hands together while raising her heels up and down. She’s like a child about to open Christmas presents. The door opens and a bald man in his fifties is standing there.
“I’m here for the bike.”
The man steps aside and with a sweeping gesture motions for Melissa to step inside. As she sits down on the living room couch, the man smirks as he pulls over a chair and sits down two feet away from her.
“You really think a little woman like you can handle a bike like this?”
As she pulls out the cash for the bike, she smirks back at him, “You don’t really want to find out what I can do. I’ve got the cash, exactly what you’re asking for. Now where’s the bike?”
“In the garage. Follow me.”
Melissa follows six feet behind him to the garage. She has her right hand in the cargo pocket of her pants. Never trust a man. I’ve learned that the hard way. Entering the garage, she sees what is to be her new bike.
“There it is, Miss.”
“It’s a beautiful bike. Why are you selling?”
“It was my son’s. He committed suicide last year.”
Melissa closes her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she says as she touches his arm in a supportive gesture.
“Thanks.”
Melissa sits on the bike and takes the keys from the man who then presses the button opening the garage door. She starts the bike and closes her eyes as she tilts her head back then whispers, “Oh yeah, my new baby,” to the sound of the purring engine, then turns the bike off. “It’s a deal. Got the documents to sign?”
He pulls the bill of sale and change of ownership documents out of the cargo hold of the bike. She prints and signs the name Mary Celeste and shows him the ID of the same name.
She hands him the money for the bike and takes both sets of keys.
Chapter 43
I n the police breakroom, the detectives along with Zach are cleaning the mess they made from their meal.
“So, next week around Wednesday or Thursday at my office,” Torres says.
“Yeah,” Mitchell says.
“Got a list tonight?” Jackie asks.
Torres shakes his head. “Late. And two of us have spouses we need to get home to. You’ll get your list on Monday.”
Torres walks away lips turned up, baring his teeth like a dog.
“What’s his problem?” Jackie asks.
“One of his people has turned to the dark side. He considers it a personal failure.”
Jackie looks at Zach who notices the look she gave him.
“Got something to say to me?” he asks.
“No.”
“I’m a failure. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
“Guys,” Mitchell says, “we’re on the same side here.”
“You think I don’t see the looks you people give me?” Zach asks defensively. “The failed, loser, former Fed. That’s what I am. That’s what you all think. This case almost killed me. It ruined my marriage, haven’t seen my kids in eight years. I’m getting this guy if it kills me.”
Slamming the door behind him, he leaves the room almost in tears looking down at the floor.
“Do you guess what his problem is?” Mitchell asks.
Jackie runs her tongue up and down the side of her mouth half smiling, half frowning and looking down. “Of course. We should all be a little more helpful to him.”
“We’re doing the best we can. He’s a little sensitive to his failure ten years ago. Wouldn’t you be?”
“Yeah, I would.” Jackie says.
“So, take the night and watch some TV or catch a movie. Tomorrow we wipe the slate clean and get on this. If we catch the vigilante, we can probably get The Drowner. Or hopefully if we get The Drowner first it might get us the vigilante and maybe knock a hole in the Russian Mafia.”
* * *
With the sun dipping below the horizon at a small boating marina, Quincey tosses his mooring line to the dock man who ties it to the post on the side of the dock. He picks his bags up, jumps on the dock, and hands the dock man a fifty-dollar bill.
“Treat the missus to a night out.”
“In this town, where’s there to go that we don’t already go to?”
“Fair enough,” Quincey says.
The quaint seaside community of Revoun, a cottage town, is small enough to avoid the big city crime because most don’t know it exists. When the interstate highway system was built, it bypassed the village. It is small enough not to even be on a map. For the most part, the only outsiders are the rich people who own cottages for weekend getaways.
Fishing is a way of life and the people of the community are libertarians at heart—suspicious of government interference in people’s lives and not trusting of law enforcement activity. This can make it an ideal place for someone who is connected to engage in their activities—once they become friends with people in the community, which, despite a small town’s natural mistrust of outsiders, is not all that hard to accomplish. In an area with high unemployment, big tippers make friends easily.
Quincey turns back to the dock man. “One or more of my cousins will be coming by to use the cottage next week.”
Quincey turns away once again as he heads up the dock to his home for the next two days and nights. The cottages all have their own dock and a waterfront walkway that connects to the village supermarket and tavern.
As he enters the cottage, he turns on his second mobile phone and takes a beer out of the refrigerator. He sits down on the couch as he waits for the phone to boot up. Taking a sip of his beer, he thinks again about how he got into this mess.
Why did I ever break protocol? Never accept any gifts, no matter how small from organized crime. Because of one coffee, that’s how it started. Missing the kid’s soccer game to pick up and drop off stuff for vermin like Burlomov. Three years and maybe I can take early retirement.
With the phone booted up, he texts a message that reads, “The information will be in the safe in Revoun.” He puts the phone down anticipating a long wait. The reply comes twenty seconds later. The message reads, “Great. Your money’s in there. The new combo is 23-42-17.” Quincey turns off the phone and downs the beer.
At least I got the money fast. Might as well enjoy the weekend. From the refrigerator, he pulls out four more beers. Sleep this off tomorrow. He downs all four beers within six minutes; he still has the touch of a twenty-year-old. Maybe drink myself to death to get out of it. An accidental alcohol poisoning and the department life insurance will still pay out, unlike eating a bullet. The kids will be set for college, and no one will know what I’ve done. Freedom coming soon.
Finishing the beers, he goes to the fridge again. They were good enough to stock it with a full twenty-four pack of beer and premium steaks to take home to the family. Too bad they won’t get to eat them. He pulls out six more beers and starts searching through the cupboards, finding a bottle of vodka. So predictable of these Russians to have vodka, never really had a taste for it. He grabs a large glass out of the cupboard and fills it.
Carrying the beer and vodka back to the couch, he sits down and turns on the TV. Out here there’s no cable TV, only a satellite dish can get you the shows you want. He flips to the baseball game between the Miami Marlins and New York Mets. It’s tied in the bottom of the third inning. He drinks two beers inside of three minutes and then downs the glass of vodka.
* * *
With the sun setting on the horizon, Melissa stops on the side of the road and removes her helmet purchased an hour earlier.
She takes in a long, slow breath and stretches out her arms. Tonight, enjoy the sunset and tomorrow morning enjoy the sunrise it’s been so long since either was enjoyed. How wonderf
ul it is to take in such a sight. Make a run for it now? No, things aren’t set up yet and he’d find me. And the mission is not yet over, and it never will be.
Putting her helmet back on, she starts her bike again and checks the GPS on her phone. Twenty-seven miles to the next gas station. Just enough gas to get her there. After that, find a place to bed down for the night.
A perfect gift idea for Danil when I return would be a glow in the dark condom. He’d probably like to slide it home in the dark. With no cars coming in either direction, she continues her journey.
Thirty minutes later, she pulls into the gas station and fills up her bike. Across the street, there’s a small church and beside it there’s a motel with a restaurant. Perfect timing. Got my place to stay and eat tonight. At the counter, she pays cash.
Driving over to the motel, she walks to the front desk and registers under the name of Mary Celeste. She parks her bike outside her room. Inside she turns on the TV to the news channel to see if there is any news on Mike Blauer. Nothing.
One hour later, she finds herself sitting and praying in the pews at the back of the church. Several people are sitting in various locations, lost souls trying to find their way back to the light. Is that what I am? Melissa asks in silent prayer. Trying to find my way back to the light? What God would make monsters like The Drowner or Danil? Am I any better? Like the other priest said, killing is wrong. While it might be true, if God will make men who harm women, he bloody well better make a woman who will strike back. That’s the world you created, my Lord. Are you happy?
The confessional opens and a woman who appears to be about sixty exits. She makes her way to the altar, kneels and starts her Hail Mary prayers.
Melissa makes her way to the open door as she does her surveillance. Paranoid? No one would know anything about her here. But careful never killed anyone, and it’s what’s kept her under the radar all these years. She closes the door to the confessional and sits down. Within seconds, the priest’s side opens.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“How long has it been since your last confession?” the priest asks.