Arlene didn’t need to look back at her house to know the devastation she’d caused. The dining room wall had been removed from floor to ceiling as neatly as if a remodeling crew had taken it down. While Arlene was upset, she wasn’t the type to sit and cry after such a life-threatening encounter. Having been there before, she was experienced—and tough enough to know the score and take care of herself. Evidence of that fact was now lying in a bloody heap in the backyard.
Satisfied that Stone wasn’t going anywhere and most likely dead, she tottered to the sink, washed the blood off her hands, then took her time drying them. Once done, she picked up the phone to call in the police, intending to claim an intruder had broken in and tried to rob her. But as she dialed, she glanced at the spot where her dining room wall had been, then dropped the phone.
The body she expected to see there was gone. The yard was empty.
Stunned beyond belief, Arlene stared slack-jawed, wondering what could have become of the dead man in her backyard. Gingerly stepping through the hole and over the pile of rubble, she searched for him. Still too weak to chase him down, it was a half-hearted pursuit. Since the property wasn’t fenced, Stone had no barriers to go over other than a short hedge. He simply wasn’t there anymore, and she had no idea which direction he might have fled.
Arlene sat on the pile of rubble that was the back of her house, holding her head in her hands while replaying the chain of events. Why hadn’t she realized an intruder had been in the house? A man Stone’s size should be impossible to hide. She blamed herself for not being more alert and allowing herself to be so easily ambushed.
Now I know why my keys were missing this morning, she realized. There is no mystery. Now it seems evident that somehow, someway, Stone got ahold of them and let himself in. It had to have happened this morning because I would have missed the keys soon enough. What if he still has them? I need to change the locks! But wait—why bother? Changing the locks isn’t going to keep him out if he really wants in.
More thoughts rattled around in Arlene’s mind. What about going somewhere more secure? But where? That’s running. I am not going to run from him. I have made a life here, have a good job, and had important work to do. Still, I need to do something. What about getting a guard dog? I have heard of people getting trained police dogs for personal security. I can defend myself well enough, but what I really need is an alarm—a dog alarm! A dog alarm would be just the ticket.
By this time, neighbors began trickling from their homes, drawn by the sound of what they assumed must have been a nearby explosion. Arlene heard police sirens wailing in the distance. Clutches of looky-loos stood in the street, staring at the house with the massive hole in its side.
Mrs. Alice Devlin from next door broke from the crowd to check on her. The little woman was a housewife with a fastidious demeanor, a busybody by nature who fancied being referred to as “Mrs. Devlin” rather than by her first name. Arlene was sure it was to prevent anyone from ever forgetting her husband, Mark Devlin, was a city prosecutor. Well-known as a gossip, Alice kept close tabs on the neighbors. If you wanted to know what was going on in the community, you asked Mrs. Devlin.
“Are you alright, dear?” she asked kindly enough, kneeling and taking Arlene’s hands in hers.
“I’m alright, thank you, Mrs. Devlin,” answered Arlene, then slowly came to her feet as a demonstration of her lack of injury and competence.
“Tell me what happened!” Mrs. Devlin inquired, her voice tactically sincere. But Arlene knew what she actually meant. As usual, Alice was foraging for gossip fodder.
“Must have been a gas leak, but I’m fine,” Arlene said brightly, emphasizing the lie with a friendly nod. “Thank you for checking on me.” Unwilling to get into an extended conversation with Alice about it. The latter was said with unmistakable finality. No one had to tell her that the less she said, the less her words would be embellished by Mrs. Devlin when she repeated them.
“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Devlin, her voice heavy with insincerity.
“The police are coming; I have to go now,” Arlene said, excusing herself, waving an arm in the direction of the front yard. “I need to talk to them. See you later!” she called as she whirled away.
“A gas leak that blew out one of your walls but none of the windows—and didn’t start a fire? That seems pretty odd to me!” the little woman said, her eyes narrowing, then added, “and by the way, who was that man I saw leaving your house?”
That question stopped Arlene in her tracks. Spinning around to face the frigid fault finder, she knew she had to get this right; whatever she said was sure to be reported to the police, then throughout the neighborhood.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the man I saw leaving your house right after the explosion. You know, dear—the very large man dressed in black.” Since Mrs. Alice Devlin believed she had Arlene on the ropes, she allowed the false sincerity in her voice to show through. But it didn’t work.
Arlene’s first inclination was to give the meddling gossip a piece of her mind. But then a better idea struck her. Why not put Alice to work doing what she did best—acting as the neighborhood watchdog she really was. Alice Devlin could be relentless when given the slightest hint of authority. She seemed to crave it. Putting her in charge of neighborhood watch might be exactly what she needed. With Alice in charge, there was no way Stone could get to her without Alice catching him in the act and reporting it.
“Well, I haven’t had any visitors today,” Arlene lied, knowing the truth must be concealed. “If you saw a man in the neighborhood, he must have been a burglar. But if you see that big man in black again, call me immediately. You have my phone number, right?”
Arlene turned and hurried out to the street without waiting for an answer, which was now crowded with gawkers. Momentarily a black-and-white city police car rounded the corner, parting the crowd as it neared the house.
Arlene’s encounter with the police was relatively short and uneventful. Since the officers didn’t see evidence of a crime and no criminal complaint from her, they had little interest other than marveling at the destruction. The cops poked around for a few minutes, took Mrs. Devlin’s expert eyewitness account of events, then left.
When things settled down, Arlene began calling contractors to repair the wall. The first few didn’t answer the phone but had messaging services. She left messages, and a few minutes later, received a return call from a man identifying himself as Mister Morgan Beal with Beal Construction. Once she explained the extent of damage to her house, Morgan agreed to drop what he was doing. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he promised, much to Arlene’s relief.
As promised, Beal arrived within a few minutes and went immediately to work. He assured Arlene he could have the mess out of the house and a temporary wall built with studs and tar paper the same day. Working together, they had the house cleaned up and sealed before sundown. Arrangements were made for Morgan to return to restore the damage entirely within a week. Morgan left with Arlene feeling thankful to him for being so kind; she felt she had made a new friend.
The next morning, that prickly sensation Arlene sensed the day before had left her entirely. She felt more secure knowing Stone was unlikely to resurface again anytime soon, believing he must have been seriously injured; at a minimum, he had lost an eye.
By the time she realized Stone might have been hospitalized, it was late in the day. Scolding herself for not thinking of that possibility sooner, she made a few calls. However, neither of the city’s two hospitals claimed to have admitted anyone by the name of Stone.
Hanging up the phone, Arlene closed her eyes for a moment, fingers rubbing frantically at the back of her neck. Being assaulted in my own home is not something I am not about to take lightly, she thought.Stone’s attack was personal, and I need to be prepared to take the offensive. It’s better to be the hunter than the hunted. I want revenge and am determined to get it one way or another. This is
not a matter of if there is going to be a fight—but when.
Stone’s goal was to kill me and steal my ring, but two can play that game. I am going to get him! What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. If he doesn’t understand that concept, maybe I should explain it to him the hard way.
Hatred for Stone, mixed with a healthy dose of resolve, flared up in Arlene, exploding to life like a wildfire in a windstorm. She was determined to get even if it took a hundred years, reasoning that killing him would be doing everyone a favor. Then she would have her just rights—and his ring for herself. With two rings on her hand, her power would be multiplied ten-fold. Then no one would dare to cross her ever again. However, as yet, she had not realized that old nemesis, selfish greed for more power, had once again raised its ugly head.
Arlene understood Stone would be keeping an eye on her, literally seeking to get even with her for the loss of his eye. She guessed correctly that being beaten by a woman had him out of his mind with rage. Rage often blinded people causing them to charge headlong into obvious danger, regardless of the consequences. Well, now he was half-blind, wasn’t he?
She was certain that he would be back for round two as soon as he was healthy enough. Arlene imagined Stone charging at her like a raging bull, and when he did she would make sure his downfall would be fast to follow. She would see to that and make certain he didn’t get up again.
Arlene anticipated being followed everywhere she went. She expected Stone would be seeking patterns in her movements, looking for places to set her up for an ambush. When he broke into her house and throttled her in the kitchen he demonstrated his preference for such tactics. Two could play that game, but she believed he wasn’t smart enough to realize that. She would turn that tactic right back at him. Arlene decided to set a trap for Stone, then stand back and watch him hang himself.
___________________________ Stone’s recovery from his altercation with Arlene was confined to the eight-unit Cherry Motel on East Colorado Street in nearby Glendale. With the “C” on the neon roof sign burned out, the moniker appropriately identified itself to the world as the ‘herry Motel.’ Amenities included rooms for rent by the hour, an empty swimming pool half-filled with debris, and threadbare furnishings.
Going to the hospital was an option, but Stone wisely chose to avoid police involvement. While hiding in one of Arlene’s neighbor’s garage, he had seen the crowd gathering in the street, so he stayed low and rested. The black-and-white cop car arrived, then left, but Stone stayed hidden until well after dark. When all was clear, he staggered two blocks to where he had parked his car in an elementary school parking lot. Then driving like a drunk, he happened on to the herry Motel and parked.
Stone stumbled out of the night and burst into the office like a towering apparition. Jerry, the startled night attendant, catapulted from his chair like he was on a hot seat. With the big man’s clothes caked with dried blood and a dirty tee-shirt tied around his head covering one eye, he looked like death warmed over. As Jerry opened his mouth to speak, the ghoulish man held a thick finger to his lips and shook his head.
“Uh-uh,” grunted the tough-looking character. Jerry understood this as a clear warning: this customer had no interest in small talk. Then with shaking hands, Stone took his time laying out five one-hundred-dollar bills on the countertop. Awestruck, Jerry gaped at the big bills, silently anticipating instructions. The seventeen-year-old high school drop-out working for seventy-five cents an hour correctly judged the pile of cash as a get out of jail card—and his ticket out of the herry Motel.
“Give me a room, shut up, and those are yours. Give me a week without a fuss along with three meals a day and a bottle of scotch, and you’ll have five more—got it?” The barked orders left no room for discussion, and Jerry saw no need to question them. With that said, Stone reached out expectantly for a key, which Jerry instantly deposited into the big man’s bloodstained hand.
“Yes, sir!” obliged Jerry. “You will be in number eight, sir. It’s furthest from the road and the quietest unit we have. My name is Jerry; dial zero if you need anything more.”
As Stone turned toward the door, he added, “Extra towels, a carton of Lucky Strikes, and a bottle of scotch. Hop to it, Jerry.” Jerry beat Stone to the door, held it open for him, then dashed away into the night.
After a long shower, Stone stood in front of the narrow mirror, leaning on the sink assessing his injuries. His swollen head was the size of a basketball. The eye was too painful to touch, but he could still feel the eyeball moving below the lid. Hope remained that sight would return once the swelling went down. Blood continued weeping from a variety of nasty gashes and scrapes on his head, face, and shoulders, but none of them seemed to need stitches. Dark blue welts and bright red scuffs covered his body from head to foot. Remarkably, no bones appeared to be broken, which seemed to be the only good news of the day.
Anxious to kill the throbbing pain, Stone lay naked on the bed smoking and chugging scotch from the bottle like a thirsty Bedouin. While he was in the bathroom, Jerry had left him a carton of smokes, a bottle of scotch, and a burger and fries, but the food remained untouched as Stone focused on the bottle. Once the bottle was empty he didn’t move again until long after the sun was up.
Timid knocks at the door, followed by a woman’s soft call from outside, awakened Stone with a start. “I have breakfast for you, sir.” At first, he was furious for being disturbed, then remembered that Jerry, as agreed, had arranged for food to be brought to him during the day.
“Leave it outside. I’ll get it later,” Stone grumbled, which he immediately regretted. Speaking produced pounding in his skull, to the degree that he saw multi-colored spots floating about the room like balloons released at a fair.
Stone cradled his aching head in agony. What seemed like a moment later, the soft knock returned to the door once again. This time the woman’s voice reported, “I have lunch for you, sir.” However, this time Stone remained silent in self-defense.
He hadn’t eaten or drank anything other than the scotch in more than twenty-four hours. Now he was dehydrated and hungry. Plus, his bladder felt like it was about to burst, so he knew he had to get up, take care of business and get some food and water into his body.
Gingerly rolling onto his side, Stone pushed himself up little by little into the sitting position at the edge of the bed. Stiff and sore, it was several minutes before he summoned the strength and resolve to stand. Once he was upright, he discovered the hard way that everything hurt, right down to the soles of his feet. Taking baby steps to the bathroom, he relieved himself, then downed several glasses of water in rapid succession, his head pounding with every movement.
Rejecting the blood-caked pile of ruined clothes on the floor where he had dropped them, he continued naked as he staggered back to the bed, then ate the stale burger and fries leftover from last night’s food drop. He made quick work of that, then still unclothed, opened the door and snatched the brown paper bag from the window ledge. Whoever had left it there had made a peanut butter and banana sandwich and included a couple of chocolate chip cookies, which he inhaled. It was good, but he wondered if Jerry was aware men twice his size needed more than a peanut butter and banana sandwich and a couple of cookies for lunch. He would have complained, but that would hurt more than it was worth.
That afternoon Stone slept lightly, moaning in pain until more knocks at the door woke him from his dreams. This time he heard Jerry’s voice at the door murmur, “I have the things you asked for, sir. I’ll leave them by the door.”
Rousing himself from slumber, Stone rubbed his head. Starting to like that boy, he thought.Seems to know what side his bread is buttered on. Follows orders without question and never says anything more than he needs to. Eager to get ahead, too. I like that.
The next morning, Stone woke feeling stronger. Clear-headed enough to assess his situation, he began going through his things—which weren’t much. His body was an accumulation of injuries and stab
bing pains, but other than the eye, none severe enough to be worried about, which he guessed might require medical attention. He was healing alright, which he saw in the mirror. But he needed time, a few more days perhaps, and some clothes. Then he could head for home.
His clothes were ruined, but Stone trusted he could send Jerry out for new ones. There was no doubt in his mind the boy would jump at the chance to make more money, and he still had a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills, enough to keep him afloat for a month or more if necessary.
But when he noticed his big gold watch was smashed Stone flew into a rage. He leaped from the bed, forgetting all about the pain, which produced sharp cramps and pangs in his back and shoulders. “Awwww,” he growled irritably, then hobbled about the tiny room, swearing and gesticulating like a sailor who’d slammed his thumb in a watertight door.
Laid up as he was, Stone had not thought much about Arlene Dunne in the last forty-eight hours, but with this outrage, the woman was on his mind full-time front and center. From that point forward, he thought of little else. Forget the ring, what about the watch! His foggy mind thundered. Seething with anger, Stone craved having his hands around Arlene’s neck, slowly choking the life out of the woman that busted his favorite watch—the Elgin!
That afternoon Stone laid on the bed dozing lightly, dreaming of how he would make Arlene Dunne pay for what she had done to him. He would make her sorry— real sorry, sorry the hard way. The thing to do would be to disable her somehow, then get that ring without killing her. After that, he would give her time to stew about it for a while. And when the time was right, explain it to her, taking his sweet time about it too. It would be beautiful.
When he heard Jerry’s voice at the door that evening, Stone called him in. “I need some new clothes, Jerry. Go get me some underwear, pants, and a shirt. Black, if possible. I wear 38x38-inch pants and a three-X shirt. You got enough money left for that?”
The Rings of Hesaurun Page 26