Get in and get out.
She crossed the room in long steps and halted at the opening in the wall. The floor was intact but had splintered unevenly in front of the opening. Bending over the absent window, she spied the object she was after about two feet below. Kneeling down as close to the opening as she dared, she leaned over and grabbed at the object, eventually pulling it out of its prison and into her grasp. As she’d thought, it was a small tin box maybe eight by eleven inches, about three inches deep, in size. It was a solid reddish color with no words on it. Probably once it had held candy, fancy cookies, or something; the outer wrapper long gone. It seemed to her to be something a young girl would want to save as a keepsake or a hiding place for her trinkets.
Abigail, sitting on the floor facing the missing window, pried the box open and took out what she found inside. Letters. They were clumped together, somehow water had gotten to them in their hiding place tucked into a crack beneath the windowsill, and she had to separate them to see what they said. The words were hard to read because the water had smeared the ink of some of them and the paper had partially disintegrated. So it was a struggle to piece the words together.
As she read the letters, one thing became clear. They seemed to be love letters to the Theiss older sister, Jeanette. Not normal love letters, though. Someone named Bradley had been obsessed with the young girl to the point of madness. The first letter was full of flowery phrases of love and adoration, even though the meanings behind the words were perverse. The man who’d written the love letters hadn’t been courting the girl, he wanted to possess her; keep her to himself. Get rid of all others she might love or might ever love.
The second and third letters increasingly got worse...the sentiments angrier and angrier. Something must have happened between this Bradley guy and Jeanette to change the man’s tone from love to threats.
The last letter Abigail read was the worse one and as Abigail came to the last of it, she didn’t realize she was reading it out loud.
“I didn’t mean to scare you by following you through the woods the other day; watching you at night through your window. I only wanted to be close to you. I want you to come with me and be mine. Don’t turn away from me again, Jeanette, my love. I could have hurt your little sister far more than I did, but I only wanted you to know I was serious. Don’t tell your family about me or go to the police or there will be a severe penalty to pay. You will come to me tonight. I will be waiting outside below your window. Don’t run this time or I will have to punish you. Punish all those you cherish. I will kill your whole family if I have to. You are mine. Remember that.”
It was signed at the end, as the other three letters simply with the name Bradley. Unlike the others, someone, Jeanette perhaps, had written after the signature Bradley...the words: Weaver. I now know Bradley is Bradley Weaver. I know it. I see him in town and he stares at me as if he wants to hurt me. I must tell father. The police must know. I am so scared. Today I saw him in town and he whispered in my ear he was going to kill my family....
The letters gave her more than a cold chill. Lucas had been telling the truth. There had been a stalker. The letters were evidence of it. Then it hit her. These letters could be the proof Lucas Theiss needed to be vindicated. At the least, they might be used to get the man a new trial.
“Who was Bradley Weaver?” she wondered aloud.
“I’m Bradley Weaver, lady,” a voice close behind her whispered. She looked over her shoulder, not sure she’d see a real person or a ghost. It was a man. He wasn’t that tall, about her height, maybe in his sixties, and was dressed in a crimson colored sweatshirt and dark slacks. Hair cut short around a roundish face with glasses. He didn’t look scary in any way. Just a normal older man like so many others. He must have been in the room, in the closet or behind the door, when she’d entered. Hiding. The shadow in the window explained.
“And I want to thank you profusely for finding those damn letters for me. Hmm, the girl must have had a hidey-hole under the windowsill. Ha, I never thought to check around the gaps in the window. And I’ve been searching for those letters for a very long time.”
As frightened as she was, she couldn’t help but retort with sarcasm, “Forty years?”
To her the man’s laugh sounded menacing. “Well, I haven’t been looking all that time. In the beginning, after the...event as I call it...and the first of many I would plan and execute over the years...there was no need, though I did look for weeks afterwards, once the police and reporters left. No luck. I came often in those first few years, whenever I could get away from my other life, and searched for them. Then as time passed I figured as long as the house was unlived in, undisturbed, it didn’t matter if I hadn’t found those letters. The house was empty and shunned. No one came here anymore. Well, not until you started coming by with your friends. Until you began painting the place.
“It was just pure coincidence that, after many years, I had the sudden urge to revisit my first kill, so to speak.” He snickered.
“And it just so happened that was the day you decided to stop by and begin making paintings of the place. I watched you from behind the house. You’re a good artist, too. What a shame. I would have left you alone, but you kept coming back. Bringing your friends. A man, an old woman and a younger one. There’s been a herd of people parading around here. I couldn’t have that. Now, now you’ve found something you shouldn’t have found. You know something you shouldn’t know. It threatens the life I’ve built the last forty years. I can’t let you go now.”
That didn’t sound good. Abigail had slowly come to her feet. The letters in her hands she’d shoved behind her back.
“But first...give me the letters,” he put out his hand in a give-me motion.
“What letters?”
A caustic laugh. “The ones you were just reading aloud. Especially the one that mentions my full name. That Jeanette, she was a clever little thing. Too clever. She was going to go to the police and tell them everything. The letters, she said, were her protection and I couldn’t get her to tell me where she’d stashed them. Even when I shot her sisters, her brother, her parents. Her. I couldn’t take the chance of those letters coming out so I had to kill her, too. I would have lost my job, the family I had at the time, my standing in my community. I couldn’t let that get out then and I can’t let my name and what I did forty years ago get out now. Can I? I mean, it would ruin my life. You see? They’d put me behind bars until I died. Can’t have that.”
She noticed the small caliber handgun in his other hand. Pointing at her.
“You were the one who killed Jeanette and her family, not Lucas? Is that the gun you used to kill them?”
“Why yes. I’ve kept it all these years. My cherished souvenir of the day, you might say. It’s old, but, believe me, it still works perfectly. It’s accurate and deadly, small as it is.”
“Can I ask...why did you kill them?”
A darkness came across his eyes and his expression hardened. Apparently, he didn’t like being reminded of what he’d done. Or questioned. “It was a long, long time ago. I loved her, you know. Jeanette? But she spurned me, said terrible things about me that weren’t true. She made me so angry. She was going to tell everyone. Ruin my reputation and my life. I couldn’t have that.”
He shrugged. “I had to get rid of her. Problem was, she screamed so much it woke the rest of the family and I had to shoot all of them or risk being discovered. I’d never meant to happen what happened...I just kind of lost it, I guess. She got me so mad. I have a really bad temper, you see. I meant to kill that snotty brother of hers, too, get rid of all witnesses, but apparently he didn’t die. But it worked out even better, though, convenient for me, because they pinned the whole mess on him; stopped looking for anyone else. It left me off the hook.”
“It doesn’t bother you that you not only murdered his family but Lucas has been rotting in prison for over forty years for the crimes you did?”
“Either him or me. I’d
rather it be him. He’s lucky to not be dead, if you ask me. Not from any lack of me trying to kill him. He just didn’t die. Now give me the letters!”
The killer had moved towards her and Abigail had inched backwards. She could feel the breeze on her neck and arms. She stuck the letters in the back of her jean’s waistband.
“And after I give them to you?” she had to ask and instantly regretted doing so because of the look the killer gave her.
“Well, I can’t just let you go. You’d blab everything to everyone. They’d know who actually killed the Theiss family and I’d take Lucas’s place in prison. No thanks. I don’t do well in five by eight cells. No television. No laptops. No fancy steak dinners. I like my comforts way too much.” The gun waved at her as Weaver edged her closer to the hole in the wall.
“You’re going to shoot me?”
“Only if you force me to. No,” he took another step in her direction, “I think it would be much better if you had an accident. That way no one would suspect anything and go looking for your killer. You’d be found, without the letters on you of course, on the ground. Dead. And I’d slip away back to my life. No harm done.”
Abigail then experienced real terror. He was going to get the letters from her and stage an accident. He was going to kill her. Oh no, no, no.
That’s when he charged at her and she found herself fighting for her life on the brink of the gaping hole. She grabbed at the gun when he lifted it to hit her and they wrestled over it. She’d guessed what his plan was. Knock her out and throw her out the broken window. Quite a drop, with razor-sharp glass shards, wood pieces and sharp hunks of concrete below, it would no doubt kill her.
Someone was screaming. It was her.
Chapter 11
Stretching and yawning, he leaned against the chair he was sitting in, his eyes on the last few paragraphs he’d written. The words just weren’t coming. He had times like that and when he did he’d take a break, get a cup of coffee and a snack, take a drive somewhere, or go outside to reorganize his thoughts on the back porch. Inhaling the fresh air and surveying the peaceful woods around his yard often cleared his mind and got his creativity going again. Perhaps he should take a break.
His cell rang and Frank clicked it on, put it to his ear. “Frank Lester here.”
“Frank?” It was Glinda.
“Yes? Hi, soon-to-be daughter-in-law. What can I do for you?” He gulped down the last drops of milk from the glass in his hand. It helped the heartburn he’d had all afternoon. Truth was, he hadn’t been feeling so good most of the day. His body and his head ached. Everything just felt a little off.
“It’s more what you can do for Abigail. Is she there? Can I speak to her? It’s important.”
“No, she’s not home right now. Won’t be until seven or so.” He caught the anxiety in her tone. “Is something wrong?”
Glinda only asked, “Where is she? She’s not at that Theiss house, is she?”
“In fact, that is where she is.”
“Oh, no,” Glinda released a groan. “That’s not good.”
“What is it, Glinda?” Frank had shut his laptop and risen from his desk. His eyes went to the study’s window where he could see the afternoon’s light waning. The clock on the wall showed it was a little after six o’clock. It was later than he’d thought. He’d lost track of the time working on his new book. That often happened.
“I was reading the tarot for a client and had a vision, an urgent warning, but not for the client. Abigail was in it. She was in trouble. Life and death trouble. She was crying. Screaming really. I couldn’t see why she was screaming. I couldn’t see where she was, but there was danger. She was in danger. She is in danger. Now!”
“Say no more.” Frank grabbed his wallet and truck keys from the desk. “She’s at that cursed Theiss house. I’m heading over there right now. I’ll let you know what I find.” He got off the phone.
Habit kicked in. All his years as a cop kicked in. When there was trouble, go prepared. After pulling his holstered duty pistol from the top drawer, he clipped it on his belt, left the room and dashed down the steps. Within minutes he was in the truck roaring down the highway, his heart racing faster than the vehicle’s wheels. He was breaking all the speed limits and he didn’t care. Since Glinda’s phone call his whole being was exploding. The fear he felt for his wife’s well-being was almost unbearable, so he violently shoved his foot down on the accelerator.
Abby’s in trouble...Abby’s in danger...hurry...hurry!
As he brought the truck to a tire squealing stop in front of 707 Suncrest his eyes went to the two figures fighting; framed in a cavernous hole that had once been a wall and windows on the top floor of the house. One of the figures was Abby and the other was some man he’d never seen before. Abby was crying, shouting, beating against her assailant as the man was trying to throw her out of the opening to the ground below. She was losing the battle. That was easy to see. Another step in reverse and Abby would plunge through the window’s hole to the earth below.
Frank didn’t have time to wonder what had damaged the house or why a strange man was attempting to kill his wife. All he had time for was to run from the truck, hurdle over the broken porch step, and rush inside. Take the steps to the top floor two at a time and throw himself at the man who was trying to hurt her.
Abby’s body was suspended in the center of the opening, her hands, covered in blood, clawing at the perimeter. One more push and she’d be flying. And falling.
Frank froze in the doorway. “Take your hands off of her! Step back–or I’ll shoot you!” Frank yelled at the attacker, brought his gun from his waist and aimed it at the man. “Let her go!”
The man, his upper body twisting around, glowered at Frank, but didn’t release Abby. Instead, he spun her around, wrapped his arm around her neck; pointed a gun at Frank and fired. The bullet grazed Frank’s face and he felt the sting and the stickiness of the blood as it trickled down his cheek.
And then the man laughed. The laugh was what did it. The laugh enraged Frank.
Frank shot at the man, but because the man was holding Abby so close, and jerked to the side at the last second causing Abby to cry out, Frank’s concentration wavered and he missed.
Abby shrieked, “Frank!”, as she was maneuvered further into the opening.
Frank lunged at the man, gun and all, knocked the gun from the guy’s hand, and dragged him off of Abby. She crumpled to the floor as Frank viciously propelled her attacker towards the hole in the wall. The man was thrown through the opening and, with only one ear-piercing scream, plummeted into space. The heavy thud from below was accompanied with the tinkling of broken glass. Then silence.
Frank bent down and drew Abby into his arms before he looked out into the yard. There was still enough light to see. The man was sprawled near the sidewalk on a cluster of concrete chunks. Face up. He wasn’t moving. His glasses had cracked. Blood was seeping from beneath his body. His gun was on the sidewalk.
“Thank God you got here when you did.” Abigail was clinging to him; shaking. “He was going to kill me.”
“Who was he, Abby?”
“Bradley Weaver. He’s the stalker Lucas Theiss swore existed forty years ago. He’s the man who killed the Theiss family,” she rattled out breathlessly. “He confessed to all of it. I found the letters he’d written to Jeanette, the older Theiss girl, all those years ago. She’d hidden them. He’d been searching for them but had never found them. But I did. They were damning evidence against him because his name was in one of them. So he had to kill me.”
“He was the man.” Frank’s eyes were still looking down at the body on the ground outside. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t survive that fall.” He holstered his gun, brought his cell phone out and keyed in a number. “Hello. I need an ambulance at 707 Suncrest, pronto. We have a man who’s fallen out of a window and–”
That’s when the pain hit his chest like Thor’s hammer. That’s when the world went dark.
Chapter 12
Frank was almost ready to come home from the hospital and Abigail, for the first time in days, felt the tension leave her body. His heart attack had been a shock, to her anyway, but later he’d confessed he’d been having symptoms for months; hadn’t heeded them, hadn’t told his doctor, hadn’t told her. The doctor said Frank had been so lucky. The paramedics had gotten him to the hospital in time and Doctor Wallace, the surgeon on duty, had performed an immediate angioplasty procedure, placing three stents in Frank’s chest to expand the blocked coronary arteries, and saved his life.
After surgery the doctor had told Abigail, “Frank will recover with time and rest. If you can keep him in bed for a while. He was fortunate he only had a mid-level heart attack. All the ingredients were there for a far worse one. But he’s going to have to take better care of himself, Abigail. No more high speed chases after bad guys or fighting and tackling them to the ground anymore. He’s going to have to put all that stuff in his novels and not try to act them out himself. He’s not a young man anymore. We wouldn’t want to lose him before we had to, would we?” The surgeon and Frank knew each other because they’d grown up together. Spookie was indeed a small world.
“Okay. You tell him that. I’m not. Maybe he’ll listen to a doctor. Frank is a stubborn man.”
“A man who undoubtably will have another heart attack in the near future if he doesn’t start acting his age. And if he doesn’t start following my advice. Extreme physical activity can hurt him. Stress is a killer, too, you know, especially for someone with heart problems.”
“I’ll try to keep him out of trouble. At least, no more high speed chases or fist fights. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he behaves. He can live all that through his writing.”
Nothing made any difference as long as she could take Frank home. But she was well aware Frank had saved her life. If he wouldn’t have rescued her, Bradley Weaver would have killed her. Everyone in town knew that, too. Frank was a bonified hero. Again.
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