15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  “Yes to what exactly?” Lionel asked. He was sitting on the corner of the desk the operator worked from.

  “They gave us three pinpoints as to where the vehicle has been and where it is now.”

  Amy’s face lit up. She was trying not to seem too keen, but this was an entirely different set of circumstances. They had a possible hit on their suspect, and that could only mean good news. But, judging by the sour look on the operator’s face, it wasn’t all good news.

  “What? What’s with the face?”

  “Do you want the good news or the really, really, really, really bad news?” he asked.

  That was when Amy’s face dropped and her keenness dissipated into what could be construed as trapped wind by the expression she wore on her face.

  “I’ve never heard somebody use the word ‘really’ four times,” Amy said. “It must be bad news.”

  “Well, it depends on how you look at it. Firstly though, we have two pieces of good news. One; we know of two locations where the 4x4 has traveled in the past day.”

  “That’s great,” Lionel said, trying to reassure Amy with a smile. But she was far from able to muster as much as a slight twitch, let alone a full-blown smile.

  “One of them is a clearing in a forest near Ramsgate. The vehicle was parked there for eight minutes. And then it did a U-turn and traveled to a hotel, where it was parked for eight hours. It then left and made its way to Ramsgate Ferry Port. It was there for a grand total of ten minutes before it boarded what we assume to be a ferry, unless it was able to drive into the sea and turn into some sort of submarine.”

  “So the bad news is?” Amy asked, looking at the operator.

  “The bad news is, the 4x4 is currently three-quarters of the way to Spain. It will hit Santander within the hour. And then she’s gone.”

  “But what about the tracker? We can still use it to pinpoint her location, and the local police could sweep in and save the day.”

  “The Spanish police don’t tend to do too many favors for us. Especially since most of our fugitives jump to the Costa Del Sol. Let’s just say, they don’t hold us in the highest of regard. Even if we managed to ring them and tell them that they have a murderous witch of a woman about to enter their land, they’d probably tell us to fuck ourselves,” the operator said.

  “Man, that’s news to me. So what are we supposed to do? Admit defeat and let this bitch walk?” Amy asked.

  “Nope. We go after her the only way we know how,” Lionel said.

  “No,” the operator said “We don’t go after her. We entrap her. We mount a case, and then we swoop in.”

  “But we don’t have a case. We have nothing. Nothing but bodies. I don’t know how much actual police work you’ve done in your life….” Amy said to the operator.

  He interrupted her and said, “Name’s Steve. Feel free to call me Stevo.”

  “Whatever, Steve. Just don’t go telling us how to do our job!”

  “I’m not. I’m just saying that maybe we have more than we think. Maybe we have the mother lode.”

  “Like what? What do we have?” Lionel asked.

  “Think about it. The vehicle was parked in a forest just outside Ramsgate. It was there for eight minutes. What do you think a woman like that was doing in a forest?”

  “Catching butterflies and ripping their wings off. Seems about right for a bitch like that,” Amy offered.

  “No. She was either hiding something or getting something,” the operator said.

  Amy pondered that assumption for a second or two, and grinned at the operator. “You know what, Steve? You may be right. I say we go down to the forest and see what she was up to.”

  Lionel nodded. Steve the operator smiled. And before they knew it, they would bust the case wide open.

  Twenty-Seven Minutes Later:

  Amy Francis pulled up to a row of trees. She’d been driving with Lionel for nearly fifteen minutes. They had left London in a helicopter and were taken to a spot where the Met had a car waiting for them. It was nice that the Met were finally playing ball with the both of them. As Amy pulled in and turned the engine off, she imagined the sort of commendations the both of them would be getting. If anything, the Met were trying to cover their tracks. They didn’t want the public knowing that they could have prevented all this from happening. Hence why Amy was suspecting some sort of commendation.

  “At least we’re here,” Amy said, sighing loudly and resting her head on the headrest.

  Lionel patted her on the shoulder and said, “Looks like we have company.”

  They could see three CSIs in white lab coats and protective masks making their way to the car. Looking around, Amy could see that they had turned up in their own van. The Metropolitan police insignia was tattooed on the side of their vehicle. She saw that one of the approaching CSI men was holding a clear bag in his hand. It had something shiny and metallic in it. At first Amy couldn’t make out what it was, but suddenly she recognized the distinct shape.

  “YES!” she screamed rather loudly. She began pulling on the steering wheel, shaking it violently. Her partner looked on in awe. He was shocked to see her reaction. But then his vision locked on to the oncoming CSI and what one of them was holding.

  “Fuck!” he yelled, joining in on all the hysteria. The three approaching CSI figures were smiling under their protective masks. One of them slid the mask off to show his grin. They reached the car, and Amy rolled down the window. It creaked and squealed as it rubbed against the metal body of the vehicle. She couldn’t get the window down fast enough. The anticipation was killing her. But finally the window came down, and she got an up-close and personal look at what the lead CSI man had in his hands.

  “I present to you one murder weapon, with four usable prints,” the man said.

  “One step closer to Spain,” Lionel said, leaning into the driver’s seat and planting a big sloppy kiss on Amy’s cheek.

  “Well done, Amy!” he said. “I always knew you were right.”

  She smiled and said, “When have I ever been wrong!”

  They laughed a little. The CSI guy nodded his head and said, “We’ll be taking this bad boy off for testing. Expect some sort of result within the hour.”

  Amy and Lionel watched as the three men walked off toward their van. The doors slid open and then shut. The engine roared to life, and they sped off.

  “Within the hour,” Lionel said.

  “Within the hour, the bitch is mine,” Amy retorted.

  She turned the engine on and followed the speeding van out of the forest enclosure. Amy caught one last look at the row of trees behind them. She then focused on the woodland road. They were off to the local laboratory. They’d have the results soon.

  “Within the hour!” Lionel said, sounding as if he couldn’t hold in his excitement. They were that much closer to casting their net. And when they did, they’d catch their girl.

  Fifty-Two

  Seventeen Minutes Later:

  Demi Reynolds was watching the coast of Spain come into focus. The ferry’s PA speakers crackled into life, and the captain notified the passengers that they were only ten minutes off from hitting the coast and disembarking. Demi hung on to the guardrail of the ferry. She was on portside. She watched as the waves battered against the ship’s stern. She smiled as the seagulls in the sky circled the boat. She sighed as the smell of the air changed from the familiar to the unknown. Demi hadn’t traveled much, but she did in fact pick up a few things on her voyage to freedom. She realized that every town and every city had a distinct smell, and that England’s air smelled different from Spain’s air. She came to that realization only seconds prior to the captain making his announcement over the PA system. She wondered if anybody else in the world had noticed such things. If somebody had gotten off a plane and realized that the air smelled different. It was still air. It did the same thing. But for some reason, during the ferry trip, Demi had noticed a change in its texture. A change in the way it hit her nostrils.
She smiled to herself as she pondered the validity of her observations on air and whether a scientist would debunk her theory.

  Her thoughts meandered into nothingness as she stared at the coast of Spain and the city of Santander approaching on the horizon. She smiled at the sight of European architecture rising from the rocks. The night sky acting as a safety blanket over the buildings. The indoor lights melting into the cold. Demi had always wanted to travel, and now she was doing so. Sure, it was under circumstances she would much rather be different, but she was traveling nonetheless.

  Demi had told herself that she would forget the whole ordeal back home. Spain was a new chapter. It was a new beginning. A life of pleasure. No pain. No sorrow. And, above all, no killing.

  She was adamant about that. So much so that since she’d stepped onto the ferry, she managed to push all her memories of England to the back of her mind. She was no longer scared. She wasn’t thinking of Donny the Hat anymore. She was trying to block out the image of Hamish dying from a gut shot. But something was making her think of England again. Something was messing with her perfectly formulated plan to push all thoughts of England to one side. She snapped herself out of her daydream and stared at the dark blue sea beneath her. The sky above her was blue as well. Dark blue. Not one cloud in the sky. All twinkling stars. That’s another thing that she noticed about England. It always had a blanket of clouds. And when it didn’t, it usually meant that the country was experiencing some sort of “record heat wave” that wouldn’t even touch the sides in Spain or Portugal, let alone anywhere else.

  “A new life,” she said under her breath, attempting to push the memories of England away once again. But something was making her feel uneasy. As if she had forgotten something. And then it clicked, and the penny dropped.

  “The gun,” she said, immediately checking her person for the cold metal piece. She patted herself down, careful not to draw too much attention. The deck was quiet. Most of the passengers were at the small bar above. She continued to quietly pat herself down and realized she wasn’t carrying her gun.

  “The car,” she said, quickly strolling toward her vehicle. She made a left and walked past a few dozen cars that were parked in a row. Hers was on the end. She was one of the last people to get on the ferry. She passed an old couple looking at the waves, much like she’d been doing seconds before. After a brisk minute walk, she reached the 4x4. She opened the driver’s door and got in. She searched the interior like a woman possessed. Demi didn’t let up. She turned every inch of the inside of that car. She checked the glove compartment. The foot well. The dash. The compartment on the driver’s door. The passenger’s door. The floor. Under the mats. Between the gaps in the seats. Under the seats. Every possible location. She was breathless as she got out of the car and made her way to the back. She opened the boot and saw it was completely empty. There was no use checking it. There was nothing to turn inside out.

  She slammed the boot shut and cursed. A man walking by her looked concerned but didn’t dare ask if she was okay. He cowered away and got into his own car, which was a few rows down from hers.

  “Fuck!” she shouted. Luckily, no one was close enough to give a damn. She kicked the body work of the Land Rover. She made a dent. She kicked it again. And again.

  But then she stopped. Something popped into her head. A flashback. She was bending down. Uncovering dirt. A piece of plywood. And then a bag. A bag full of money, passports, and documents. Her eyes widened as she remembered standing up. And then she heard a thud. She closed her eyes and replayed the image over and over again. Every time she replayed the image of herself getting back up, after fishing the see-through bag out of the ground, she heard that thud.

  “I dropped it!” she said, opening her eyes.

  The sound of the ferry blowing its horn startled her back to reality. Santander’s port came into shot. They were pulling in. A bell sounded. People began to rush back to their cars.

  She had arrived in Spain.

  Back In England:

  Amy and Lionel were standing in a room. The walls were bright white. The place smelled of disinfectant. They were standing behind a seated man who was staring at a screen. Amy and Lionel had been staring at the screen for a good twenty minutes. Amy herself hadn’t blinked, or at least that’s what it felt like.

  “This may take a while,” the man seated at the computer said, to no answer. He was just about to suggest that they get a coffee when a buzzer went off. The screen flickered, and “searching” changed into “match found.”

  “We got you now, you bitch,” Amy said as a picture of Demi Reynolds loaded, along with her personal information.

  “You can run…but I’ll get you. I’ll get you good,” Amy said under her breath.

  TO BE CONTINUED

  A VERY MACHETE CHRISTMAS

  A Frank McKenzie Seasonal Short

  Luis Samways

  One

  It was the night before Christmas, and I was sitting down, watching the Celtics take on the Lakers. We were up 87 to 72. It was the third quarter, and Lakers point guard Kobe Bryant was about to hit a Hail Mary. I sat on my couch, eating Doritos and sipping on Mountain Dew. My staple diet of chips and soda was causing me gas. I could feel a belch coming on, but I held it in. I immediately regretted it. My insides began to rumble as I held my breath, watching the ball fly from mid-court toward the rim. The buzzer sounded, and the ball bounced off the wood. I flew up off my chair and began to whoop like a drunk student watching college football. I would have high-fived somebody, but I was alone.

  It wasn’t unusual for me to be by myself. Especially at Christmas. Come to think of it, it wasn’t unusual for me to be alone all the time. Day or night. I was a loner. The only time I mingled with anyone was when I was looking down at a dead body at the scene of a crime. That was my life. Dead people and loneliness.

  Sure, I had friends, but I kept them outside these walls. These walls belonged to me. They were my domain and my privacy. It was where I could be who I wanted to be without anybody saying different.

  You see, they judge me out there. They look and stare. Wonder when I’ll finally be taken away in a straitjacket. Or worse, the meat wagon. But I say nay to those naysayers. I’m here for the long haul, no matter what my extracurricular activities might be.

  I sat back down on my sofa and felt the tension between my shoulder blades loosen a tad. I sighed and waited for the game to come back on. In the meantime, I decided to take a little Christmas hit on my pipe. I wasn’t an addict by any means, but the holidays seemed to bring out the worst in people, and I’m afraid it doesn’t affect me exclusively. To be honest, I was waiting for a call. It came every time this year. Around nine o’clock. Somebody would make a mistake. A mistake that would cost them their life. Maybe they messed with the wrong guy. Called somebody a racial slur. Maybe it happened in a McDonalds. Maybe in a liquor store. Somebody would get impatient. Didn’t like the service. Would take out his pistol and leave a suggestion note right in between the guy’s eyes. Or maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t happen at all, and I could enjoy my Christmas.

  But, sure enough, as the game was about to start once again, I got that call. But this time it was different. This time I remembered something. Something important.

  He was back.

  ***

  “Nice to see that you made it in one piece,” I heard somebody say as I got out of my car. My shoes hit the pavement underneath me with a squelch. The sound of nothingness in the air clung to the raised hairs on the back of my neck. I slammed the door shut and turned on my heels. I was met by a look of disbelief on my partner’s face.

  “Holy shit, Frank! You’re fucking high?” he screeched. I looked around at our surroundings. I had pulled into an abandoned industrial property. I was parked on a curb, and Santiago was looming over me as he stood on a raised platform that belonged to a truck loading bay. He was pissed, but I could tell that he was shaken up, too. As if something had made him go white. And I was pretty su
re that it wasn’t the fact that I had turned up to a murder with glassy eyes.

  “I don’t see what the big problem is,” I said, stepping over the curb onto the path. I walked around a railing and stood on the same raised platform that Santiago was standing on. He was still holding onto the railings as if he was about to fall. He looked a little unsteady and green around the gills. The metal surface the platform was made out of creaked under our weight. It made a weird sound, like the bowels of a ship at sea.

  “You don’t see what the big problem is?” he asked, repeating my sentence while putting a lot of emphasis on the word “problem,” as if he was trying to point something out to me.

  “It’s Christmas Eve, Santiago. Lighten up.”

  He looked at me and shook his head. “That’s what you’ve been doing too much of,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Lighting up. I mean, every day I see you, you seem stoned. You’ve got to get a hold of your shit before you lose it.”

  “Way to twist my words, San,” I said, looking at the big bay door behind him. It was half open, and I could see some light glistening through the shadows.

  “I take it that our body is in there?” I asked.

  He nodded and turned around. I could still make out his disappointment, even though his back was to me. It was as if I could see through his long wavy hair that hung just above his collar, and through his skull. I could tell that he was still making a face, so I playfully slapped him in the back of the head. He scrunched his shoulders on impact, and then they relaxed. He then mumbled something under his breath. I couldn’t quite hear it, but I assumed it was something about me being a no-good weed-smoking asshat.

  “Just chill out, all right?” I said, walking up beside him. This time I could see his face, and he wasn’t happy as he craned his neck toward me and frowned.

  “What we got in there?” I asked, trying to change the subject rather quickly.