City of Fear

by Larry Enmon

  After almost an hour, she reached up and gave him a deep, wet kiss, her tongue exploring every corner of his mouth. He ran his hand up her sweater and deftly unhooked her bra with two fingers. She broke the embrace and her hungry eyes studied his for a moment before taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom.

  They undressed each other between long kisses. Her breath came in pants as he laid her on the bed.

  “Lie on your stomach,” he whispered.

  Alma rolled over and arched her back, sliding partway up onto her knees.

  Frank eased between her legs.

  A gasp of delight escaped her lips.

  He was gentle. Being better endowed than most men, he moved slowly while massaging her back until she relaxed. When he picked up the pace, her climax came in spasmodic waves.

  On her hands and knees, she cried out in pleasure and leaned back against him, taking him all in. After a minute, her breathing slowed, and she rolled from his embrace. She came back up on her hands and knees, facing him. Tilting her head, she studied him like a cat does a mouse before dinner. Her eyes narrowed, and the intense stare frightened Frank a little. Alma kissed him and said, “Now it’s my turn. Lie on your back.”

  For over an hour Frank experienced sensations he’d never felt. He considered himself a specialist in the art of physical love, but Alma existed in a class all her own. Frank climaxed over and over—a feat he’d not accomplished since youth. He was exhausted; catching his breath, he stroked her breast as she cuddled beside him. He drifted into a shallow, dream-like sleep.

  Frank woke to the sound of running water. He lifted his head and gazed through the bathroom door. The shower turned off and Alma stepped out, drying herself. He pulled himself out of bed and staggered on weakened legs to the bath. She dropped the towel to the floor and nuzzled close, nibbling at his lower lip.

  “Ready for another go?” she teased, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  He gazed in the mirror at her perfect bottom, a small Celtic tattoo inked at the panty line of her back. “You’ve drained me—nothing left.” He moaned.

  Her voice took on a lyrical quality as she whispered, “Good, that’s what I wanted—every drop.”

  Something about the way she said it sounded odd, but with his mind in a fog, he didn’t give it another thought. He patted her behind. “I’ve got to go.”

  She kissed him before saying, “I know.”

  Walking out of the gate into the fresh air, Frank’s mind cleared for the first time that evening. What just happened? He drove home staring at the full moon with all kinds of thoughts, ideas, and questions. It was as if his mind’s email had gone down for a few hours and now the box filled up with delayed messages. Have I been drugged?

  * * *

  Alma slipped on a robe to see Frank out. She paced back to the bedroom, removed the hidden photograph of Clare from her dresser drawer, and returned it to her nightstand. After gazing at it for several seconds, she touched the tip of her finger to her lips and then pressed it on the photo. She prepared what she needed for the ritual and opened her Book of Shadows, refreshing her memory as to the wording. Minutes later with all the lights out, Alma stood behind the half circle of five red candles glowing from the floor, the full moon spilling light through her window. She dropped the robe and sat cross-legged in the half circle. In the pewter saucer she sprinkled sea salt and dried yellow rose petals. Unwrapping the Band-Aid from the tissue, she draped it over the salt and petals. She’d cut away the adhesive parts, leaving only the blood-soaked gauze center.

  Alma sprinkled dried lemon verbena, three drops of lavender oil, and crumbled seven dried jasmine leaves over the gauze. She closed her eyes and spoke in Gaelic, whispering the ancient Druid fertility prayer. She struck the match and laid the flame under the little pile in the saucer. The smoke lazily rose and she leaned over it, washing herself in its magick. She waved it under her arms, over her face, and massaged her breast in the sweet fragrance, repeating the prayer in whispered tones over and over until only the last smoldering whiffs drifted into the air.

  17

  Friday morning Rob and Frank sat in Levern’s restaurant eating breakfast. Rob passed up his workout in favor of joining Frank. Homemade biscuits, saw mill gravy, grits, and an omelet had an appeal the gym couldn’t offer. Rob had to admit, for a doper, Levern served a first rate meal. Frank seemed tired, or maybe just distracted. They waited for Levern and chatted about Leon, the gang banger who got snipped the day before behind the hip-hop club.

  “Blew his head plum off,” Rob said, as Frank started to take a bite.

  Frank grimaced, sat his fork down, and took a sip of coffee instead. “Any info on the shooter?”

  Rob shrugged. “Nope, a rifle, that’s all we know so far. Forensics is still working it.”

  “No one saw or heard anything? Find a shell casing?”

  Rob scooped the last of the omelet into his mouth. “Nothing.” He wiped his lips and gazed over Frank’s shoulder at Levern strolling up. “Sleepy head’s here.”

  “About time. I called him an hour ago,” Frank mumbled.

  Levern pulled a chair out and sat beside Frank. “Sorry it took me so long. Didn’t realize you guys were just around the corner.”

  Levern had droopy eyes—as if he’d had too little sleep or too much coke. He wore a Band-Aid over his tattoo on the back of his hand.

  He smirked at Rob. “What are you looking at?”

  Rob sat back and sipped his coffee. He hated this guy more every time they met. “A doper.” Rob slapped his hand over his mouth. “Oops, did I say that out loud?”

  Levern grinned and nodded. “Yeah, well, we’ve all got a part to play.” He wiped his face with both hands and yawned.

  “What did you hear about Leon?” Frank asked.

  Levern helped himself to their pot of coffee, adding two sugars. “I didn’t hear nothing until this morning. Some asshole called and woke me up.”

  “You talking about me?” Frank asked.

  “Naw, man—some other asshole—guy I know called about three o’clock.”

  “Remember how our last visit was kind of unofficial?” Frank asked.

  Levern’s brow wrinkled. “Yeah.”

  “Well, this one’s officially unofficial.”

  “What you talking about?”

  Frank motioned and Levern edged closer.

  Frank whispered. “There’s a contract on you.”

  Levern jerked back like he’d been slapped. “On me?”

  Rob couldn’t resist grinning. “On you.”

  Levern looked from one to the other in disbelief. A stupid smile broke out. “Naw.”

  Frank said, “Listen, I know what I’m talking about. Can’t tell you how I know, or anything that would do you any good, but take extra precautions. There’s a professional involved.”

  Levern jumped up, knocking over his chair as his voice rose. “What did I do—why me?”

  Every head in the restaurant turned at the commotion.

  “Your number finally came up, Levern,” Rob said letting another smile spread across his lips.

  Frank waited as Levern picked up his chair and reclaimed his seat. “They think you did Ricardo.”

  “They … they. Who’s they?”

  Neither Frank nor Rob answered.

  Levern’s eyes shifted from one to the other. It took him about five seconds to figure it out. “It’s New York, right? Ricardo worked for New York. It’s got to be New York.”

  “Just be careful,” Frank said.

  “Or not,” Rob chimed in. “Shouldn’t have killed Ricardo.”

  Levern yelled, “I didn’t kill him!”

  The hum of conversation from the several dozen diners stopped, and all eyes shifted back to him. Tabor walked toward them. Levern caught the movement and waved him back.

  “At this point it doesn’t matter,” Frank whispered. “The contract’s set.”

  Levern took a couple of deep breaths and nodded like a bob
ble-head doll. “Okay,” he said, “if that’s how it’s going to be.” A dark expression swept over him. “If you hear anything else, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

  Frank and Rob stood and pulled out their wallets. “I’ll let you know,” Frank said.

  “Hey, breakfast is on me,” Levern said.

  “No, thanks,” Rob threw a wad of cash on the table.

  Frank did the same. “Watch yourself.”

  Walking to the car, Frank had a slight limp.

  “What’s wrong?” Rob asked. “Career-ending yoga injury?”

  “Think I pulled a groin muscle.”

  Rob tapped the key fob, and both door locks snapped open. “Like I told you, that type of Eastern meditating crap isn’t what real Americans do.”

  They slid into their seats.

  “I didn’t do it exercising. Had a date last night.”

  Rob loved hearing about Frank’s sexual escapades. Reminded him of his and Carmen’s early marriage years. “Okay, so it’s a career-ending sex injury. Anyone I know?”

  Frank assumed the full slouch position and slid his sunglasses on. “Dr. Hawkins.”

  Rob had already shifted into gear, and the car was easing forward. He slammed on the brakes. “Whoa! You shitting me?”

  Frank stared ahead. “She made us dinner and …”

  Rob leaned closer. “Yeah, go on.”

  Frank rolled his head toward him. “And we had a nice time.”

  Rob decided on a different tactic. “You know if Edna gets wind of this, she’ll have a cow.”

  Frank stared back. “I thought Edna only had cats. Haven’t we already discussed this? Besides, I don’t intend to tell her. And I can’t imagine Dr. Hawkins saying anything. So that just leaves you. You telling her? Want to join our cabal?”

  Rob huffed. “I’d never say anything.”

  But Frank already knew that. He showed one of his rare grins. “I know. Let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  While Rob drove to the station, Frank thought about Alma. Being single for so long gave him perspective. His short marriage was nice while it lasted, but the loss and pain he felt later wasn’t something he ever wanted to experience again. Never wanted another long-lasting relationship that made him emotionally vulnerable or dependent on another. The call girls he dated didn’t want that kind of relationship either. But something about Alma had awoken a feeling in Frank he hadn’t felt in a long time. A good feeling he still remembered from long ago. Wonder why she wasn’t married? …

  They parked in the employee garage and crossed over the third-floor walkway. When they strolled into the Criminal Intelligence Unit, half the cubicles were empty. Lots of CIU guys met Terry for breakfast at the end of the week to catch him up on their investigations—Terry’s way of staying close to the troops. Edna stuck her head out of her door.

  “Talk to Levern?”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “Now I’m even more convinced he had nothing to do with Ricardo.”

  “Then who did it?”

  Frank leaned a hand against her door frame. She smelled good this morning. “Somehow it all goes back to that night. The Voodoo doll and all that other stuff—that’s the key.” He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “But there’s no clear connection.”

  Frank hadn’t had many cases with this many loose ends and no direct links. The tabby bolting from Ricardo’s, herbs and plants at Alma’s, plant-based substance rendering the guards unconscious.…

  “I know you, Frank. You’ll come up with some reasonable explanation. By the way, did the professor at SMU offer any help?”

  Frank hadn’t mentioned Alma or their meeting to Edna. Still too many unanswered questions there. He shrugged. “Not much.”

  She whirled around and strolled toward her desk. “Keep thinking, Frank. It’ll come to you.”

  Frank dropped his coat over the back of his chair and grimaced as he eased into it. The groin pain took his mind back to Alma. A snicker drifted from Rob’s cubicle. He eyed Frank and chuckled again at his discomfort. Frank ignored him. Alma would call or text sooner or later. What would he tell her? He still had a lot of questions about last night.

  He absentmindedly pecked on the computer keyboard and pulled up Google Earth. Typing in Alma’s address, he drummed his fingers, waiting for the image to load. Frank tightened the magnification on the “Cottage by the Lake.” Something caught his eye in the backyard. He scrolled to the garden, and as he zoomed in, his gut tightened. Frank sat up and put his face inches from the screen, staring into the sea of green plants at something he would never have noticed at ground level. The paving stone circle with the sun dial in the middle of the Texas star—was it a Texas star or a pentagram?

  18

  Jesse sat in her hotel room and stared down the barrel of the M-24 sniper rifle. She held a penlight and illuminated the barrel from the breach end—spotless. She laid it aside and dipped an old toothbrush in solvent before giving the bolt a good cleaning. Jesse loved cleaning her weapon. The sweet smell of the solvent, the softness of the cleaning patches, and the feeling of total control. She wiped the bolt with a clean rag and applied a light coat of oil before reinserting it into the rifle. She racked it several times and squeezed the trigger. The snap bounced off the walls. After slipping the rifle back into its cardboard tube and hiding it under the bed, she flopped down in the chair.

  Restless, she peeked through the blinds. No one was in the pool area. She slipped into her one piece, and five minutes later she stretched out on a lounge chair by the pool.

  The bright October sun warmed her. She closed her eyes and her mind drifted back to her first visit to Texas. When she enlisted in the U.S. Air Force at eighteen, she never imagined doing this seven years later.

  On a hot July morning in San Antonio, the bus load of new recruits arrived at Lackland Air Force Base to the screams of the training instructors. Nervous chatter from the young men and women was quickly suppressed by the people in Smokey Bear hats, which they called campaign hats, and everyone was ordered to assemble beside the bus. As the yelling continued, Jesse followed the others to form up in ranks. Her stomach churned with doubt.

  Did I volunteer for this?

  “This is the sorriest looking mob I’ve ever laid eyes on,” one training instructor screamed. Hat low on his forehead, starched uniform, and broad shoulders. Intimidating as hell. Jesse pulled in an uneasy breath as she kept her eyes facing forward and stood at attention.

  This might not have been a good idea after all.

  The eight-and-a-half-week basic military training course challenged them all, but something unexpected happened to Jesse after a couple of weeks. She discovered she enjoyed it. With her tomboy upbringing, she’d done more than just keep up with the physical challenges. She excelled.

  The fourth week they began weapons training. Days of orientations, demonstrations, maintenance and upkeep of the M-16. Finally, they marched to the rifle range for their first day of actual shooting.

  From the tower, the range officer spoke into the mic, her voice booming from the speakers. “Is the firing line clear?” She paused while half a dozen instructors paced behind the shooters on the line, making sure all rifles were pointed down range and no one had a live weapon. Yells of “clear” sounded up and down the firing line as each instructor did a visual examination of the airmen’s weapons. Jesse and twenty-three others stood in the cement encased holes with their M-16s lying on the ground. The hot Texas’ sun had dried the black clay, and it cracked around this glorified sauna. The concrete radiated heat until the air blistered. No wind, only the stench of sweat.

  After what seemed like minutes, the range officer said, “The firing line is clear. Shooters! Pick up your weapons and insert a magazine.”

  The echo of two-dozen twenty-round magazines being slapped in place floated down the line. Jesse licked her lips, that old nervousness slipping back into her stomach.

  “Shooters, charge your weapons!”
<
br />   Jesse hooked her index and middle finger over the charging handle and pulled straight back. She released it and the bolt slammed the bullet into the breach. I should have drunk more water. She wasn’t used to this heat. She glanced, ensuring no one was watching, and slipped the small piece of peppermint under her tongue.

  “Shooters! The line is hot. Watch your targets.”

  Jesse took in a slow breath and licked her parched lips. It’s kinda like a game.

  This first qualification round was to identify shooter deficiencies. Was the airman holding the weapon properly? Were they using their sites correctly? Were they squeezing the trigger and not jerking it? A hundred yards down range, her paper bull’s-eye rested on a large piece of cardboard encased in a metal frame. The training instructors would check the shot patterns and decide how to fix the mistakes. The shooters had been instructed to only fire one shot and wait for the range officer’s order to fire the next. Jesse looked down the barrel and the front site came into sharp focus.

  “Fire,” the range officer said.

  Shots rang out on her left and right. Jesse slowly squeezed off her round and waited.

  It took several seconds for everyone to fire their first shot. This went on until they had expended the twenty rounds in each magazine. The heat was unbearable. Waiting between each round caused the exercise to go on forever.

  “Shooters! Clear your weapons.”

  Jesse kept the rifle pointed down range, and like they’d been taught, pushed the magazine release button. The empty magazine dropped on her boot. She re-cocked the rifle, locked the bolt in place, and checked the breach before moving the selector switch to safe. From over her shoulder an instructor said, “You’re clear,” and tapped the top of her helmet before proceeding to the shooter to her right.

  “Shooters! Ground your weapons and come to attention.”

  Ten minutes later, Jesse’s group rested under the shade of a tin roof shed behind the shooting range while the second group fired. She took long gulps of water. God, she’d never been this hot in her life. Was all of Texas like this?