Hunted: A Suspense Collection

by J. L. Drake

  Miraculously, the food arrived at that moment and the conversation was staunched. A naked salad, devoid of any toppings or concessions, was set in front of Selena. In a strange way, the choice of food matched her personality. Same with Jack’s fat, bloody, greasy steak and bottle of brandy.

  What followed were several agonizing minutes of miscellaneous scrapes and dings from the silverware. Not a word was spoken. Jason ate his crab bit by bit, oddly terrified by the lack of conversation. Jack tore into his meat like a starved Rottweiler, firing Selena a searing glare every few seconds. Apparently he was still miffed at her for getting the riddle correct before him. Jason nearly slapped the man across his face.

  The awkward silence continued. Conversations from throughout the dining room floated through the air, seeming to emphasize the tension between the two Magnums. In the distance, a single violinist began to play a slow tune that would fit in a melodramatic romance film, but not in such a talkative, lively place.

  “I’ve been wondering to myself,” Cheyenne muttered, attempting to get the dialogue back on track, “who would your vice president be?”

  Jason smirked and nodded, pretending to be interested. He was actually smiling at Cheyenne’s quick thinking: if there was one thing that would make Jack happy again, it was talking and bragging about himself.

  Sure enough, Jack pulled out his Kodak-moment grin. “Larry the Cable Guy!” he said and unleashed a howling laugh loud enough to make the violinist jerk.

  “But really now, I’d believe Jason Flynn would make an excellent right hand.” He nonchalantly picked a lump of meat fat from between his teeth and wiped it on the bottom of the table.

  The words landed on Jason’s mind like a bowling ball. He didn’t want to, in a trillion years, have a job as turbulent and head-splitting as vice president of the country. Especially not with Jack Magnum.

  He realized his mouth was open a bit. “Excuse me?”

  Jack looked at him, as casual and obnoxious as ever. He appeared surprised by Jason’s surprise. After all, who wouldn’t want to work side-by-side with President Magnum?

  “Why not, Jason? You’re brave, smart, intelligent, brave…”

  He didn’t even realize he said “brave” twice, and two different synonyms for smart. Jason leaned back, cycling through all the excuses and comments and apologies he could think of. No matter what, Jack would not leave this restaurant thinking that Jason was going to be his vice president.

  Jack pressed forward. “Look at all you’ve done to help Los Angeles be a safer place. So many famous cases! How about that string of serial suicides?”

  “Say that five times fast…” Jason muttered.

  “Or a few years back? All those tourists kidnapped right off the streets?”

  Jason turned to Cheyenne. “Y’know, Richard Gere seemed like such a nice guy. I still can’t believe he did that!”

  They both nodded and shrugged, giggling to each other.

  “C’mon Jason!” The congressman seemed to be growing agitated that the detectives weren’t taking him seriously. His hands were spread desperately, eyebrows pointed. “You’re perfect! Why not, buddy?”

  All pretenses of friendship and charisma disappeared instantly as he snarled the last word. For the first time, he raised his voice in anger. Jason wasn’t completely charmed by him, and that frustrated the great Jack Magnum to no end. Selena cowered slightly and shut her eyes. The man, her husband ‘til death, terrified her.

  Jason stood from his chair, eyes roaring. Jack did the same, but the detective was a few inches taller than the politician.

  Jack cleared his throat, realizing too late he was outmatched. “Jason Flint, I need you to be my running mate. I will not leave until you accept my proposal, and, believe you me, I can wait a long, long time.” He crossed his arms and sniffed as if it made him look more intimidating.

  Jason groaned and stepped past the congressman. He snarled in his ear as he passed: “My name is Flynn, you dipstick.”

  Cheyenne and Jason left the restaurant together as Jack continued to stand in the middle of the room like an idiotic statue.

  They walked beneath the starry night sky, and Cheyenne sighed. “You attract the oddest friends.”

  He chuckled grimly and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “What does that make you?”

  ***

  Jack

  Many hours had passed since Jack had left the Cafe Ler Whatever. The humiliating events kept replaying in his mind over and over again, but he didn’t care. Forget Jason and Cheyenne and Selena. Oh, especially that twig-bodied, obnoxious harpy Selena. He was fine. Jack Magnum was always in tip-top shape, no matter the situation.

  He and the gorgeous woman scurried out of his six-figure Porsche, giggling like high school students sneaking out after curfew. Jack knew perfectly well that his intentions here were entirely inappropriate. It would sink his marriage, but he didn’t give it a second thought. Mostly, it could put a giant dent in his reputation, and, thus, his shot at the White House.

  But, then again, this wasn’t the first time he had had such a scandalous rendezvous, and he hadn’t been caught yet. What was one more fling going to hurt? It would just be one more pound added to a giant elephant—who would notice?

  The woman and he approached the short, run-down motel that would probably appreciate their business. The Just Dropped Inn squatted on a stretch of road leading out of Beverly Hills. No one was around for miles. The city’s skyline could be seen in the distance, iconic and breath-taking against the starry midnight sky. Jack didn’t look at the scenery, though. This bombshell of a woman was more interesting.

  As they stepped into the hollow shell of a motel room, Jack’s mind jumped back to the one moment in his memory that involved him being completely dumbfounded and defeated. Jason Flynn slid past him, hissed in his ear like a snake, and strolled out of that restaurant with his hussy in tow. Detective Jason Flynn…What a joke.

  Jack then sat back down at the dining table, his wife struggling to keep her emotions inside. Whether it was anger, sadness, or whatever, he didn’t know or care. He felt numb, his fingers and jaw trembling as if he was in shock.

  Then, he turned to Selena, messing with his nice, shiny ring again. “Get a cab home. I gotta meet somebody. Congress business. All right?”

  He didn’t know why he bothered lying to her anymore. The truth was he was going to hook up with that beauty he had been watching the entire dinner. She was sitting across the room, flashing him smiles and looks that made every ounce of testosterone in his body stand at attention.

  After the wife gathered herself and slowly shuffled out, he quickly fixed his hair and stood, ready to show off the expensive ring on his right hand. Wealth, power, and charm were his weapons. He couldn’t have gotten over to her table faster.

  “Hello there, sweetheart.”

  Most of their initial conversation was lost in his memory, obscured by lust and excitement. He had been reminded of the old days at Point Loma. Back then, he could pick and choose any woman he wanted. They were all putty in his hands. Then again, that’s how it was nowadays, too, much to Selena’s ignorance.

  “What’s your name, Powderpuff?”

  The woman gazed at him with deeply green eyes that could make any man melt instantly. With the elegance of a dove, she crossed her arms and answered, “Carly. Nice ring you have there.”

  And now, Jack returned to the present. He would rather be there than in the past anyway. Carly sauntered across the motel room’s concrete floor, her high heels cracking in the small space, and he watched her hips sway with rapt attention.

  He knew she was a prostitute, but, again, he didn’t care one bit.

  Jack let loose a gigantic grin. He moseyed over to her, then held up a finger.

  “Hold on, Sunshine. You sure you can keep up with…” He held up both of his index fingers like guns. “The Six-Shooter Magnum?” He flashed what he thought was a charming smirk and slid his fingers into imaginary holste
rs like a cowboy.

  Carly sighed. A look that said “Let’s get this over with” passed through her eyes, but Jack didn’t really care.

  The two kissed deeply and began to stumble around in an odd dance. Jack caressed her hair, and she let him despite her obvious dislike for him.

  Jack pulled out of the kiss and chuckled. Just like old times, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  While he was smiling to himself, Carly turned her head and spat on the ground, thinking he wouldn’t notice. That hurt his ego a bit.

  He started to lean back in, but a deep pressure formed in the base of his throat. A puff of air gurgled out of his stomach, and he nearly swore. What a time for indigestion. That stupid steak at that stupid French place. Then, he reasoned he was paying her, so she would kiss him even if he did have vomit-mouth. The thought made him smile again.

  But the pressure was building. His breathing became blocked, and that’s when he began to worry. He staggered away from the woman, the world becoming blurred and gloomy. He felt very hot, yet his entire body was shivering violently.

  Carly began to panic, too. Something was very, very wrong, but she didn’t have the slightest idea what.

  She backed up, her bright green eyes close to hysteria. The man who had hired her was flopping on the ground, gagging like a fish on dry land. What was she supposed to do?!

  Just then, white foam began to froth over his lips, and Carly lost it. She screamed, a horrible nightmare coming to life right before her eyes.

  Jack tried to yell out, but he only made a strange sound like a choking goose. A rainbow of colors burst out of nowhere, and then, suddenly, nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  ***

  Carly

  Carly gaped at the man sprawled out in front of her, his arms and legs twisted. The room was suddenly silent. Deathly silent, she realized.

  His eyelids were peeled back, letting the two eyeballs stare in different directions: one at the door, one directly at her. Goopy spit dripped off his chin and soaked his suit and tie, which probably cost more than her apartment. The veins on his neck were fat and bulging. And purple. She had never seen a dead person, but she was sure the politician was long gone.

  She nearly fainted, but instead sprinted out of the room. She didn’t bother stealing the car keys—she just ran and ran. She needed to flee from the dead man inside the Just Dropped Inn. And she had been the last person to see him alive.

  Chapter 7

  “Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me. There is more than enough room in my Father’s home. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? When everything is ready, I will come and get you, so that you will always be with me where I am. And you know the way to where I am going.”

  —John 14:1-4

  Jason

  The L.A.P.D. was called to Jack’s corpse early in the morning. Jason was grouchy to be summoned before the sky had even awakened, but became quickly interested after hearing who the victim was: his “old buddy,” who had been alive mere hours before.

  He promptly called Cheyenne, and she gathered a team of forensics and officers to head to Jack’s house.

  Jason met mortician Craig Weston at a withered old motel quaintly named the Just Dropped Inn. The man’s long-tired eyes examined the small room, which contained gnawed-looking tables and chairs, a stained, rickety bed that had probably come from Auschwitz, and beetles. Lots of beetles.

  The tall doctor nodded at Jason as he entered. His wife’s cancer hadn’t improved. It simply continued to eat away at her brain and body. Craig still visited her every single day at exactly 7:15 p.m., taking a dandelion to her on each visit.

  “Hey, Craig,” Jason said softly, as if a louder voice would antagonize the scene of the crime, “thanks for looking after Ted these past days.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it.” The man dismissed Jason’s thanks with a wave of his hand and a kindly smile. “This death was most peculiar,” he said, pacing a circle around where the congressman’s body used to lay. It had been carted off, the stench of decomposing ego still lingering.

  “Really?” Jason had never heard the doc stumped before.

  “But I’m rather proud I figured it out.” He certainly looked proud, his face beaming with the enthusiasm of a kid who just got all A’s on his report card. He began, “Two people entered this room, one left.”

  “The latter was a woman,” Jason pondered to himself, closing his eyes in order to heighten his grip on his surroundings. Smell, feeling, intuition. All just as important as sight.

  He caught something unusual. “There’s a hint of perfume. Sweet, strong. Cheap, not high-caliber, but it does the trick.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at the concrete floor. “Two sets of footprints, like you suggested, Craig. It wasn’t particularly moist last night, so they’re dirt prints, not mud. One set is definitely made by male loafers, and the other…Most likely by high heels, it looks.”

  Craig agreed. “Congressman Magnum and the unknown woman entered this motel room. After examining the body, I can say their intentions weren’t exactly holy, if you catch my drift.”

  Jason did and wasn’t surprised.

  Jack…what a two-timing, egotistical jerk. It was pretty safe to say he would need air conditioning in his afterlife rather than a harp.

  “Judging,” Craig continued, glancing at his notes, “by his, um…” The doc made a gesture down south.

  “His wacky doodle?” Jason offered.

  “Yes. Judging by the blood flow to his…wacky doodle…he and the woman were about to engage in…” He cleared his throat, bulging his eyes out.

  “The Love Locomotive?”

  “Um, regardless of the colloquialisms,” Craig moved on from the subject as quickly as humanly possible, “they were very close to intercourse. Lipstick was smeared all over his mouth. Now, what killed the man was a violent chemical reaction that took place within his stomach and mostly his esophagus. Two compounds—acetic acid and sodium hydrogen carbonate—were somehow mixed together inside his body, and, well, you’ve seen the results.”

  Jason had, and it was not pretty. The congressman’s neck and face was inflated like a balloon, his innards almost completely compacted together.

  Craig continued, pacing, “This is a bit of guesswork, but I’m ninety percent positive the acid was planted on the congressman’s mouth and tongue, and the carbonate was on the woman’s. When they kissed, beginning their…” he sighed and humored Jason, “…Love Locomotive, the compounds mixed and killed Mr. Magnum within the minute.”

  Planted chemicals? How in the world had that happened?

  Then, “Hold on.” Jason thought back. “Lemme see. If they met at and left from the Cafe la Bohme, the compounds could’ve easily been planted in both of their dishes.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. They met at the restaurant? How can you know that?”

  “I can smell it. This room practically reeks of their specialty, bloody-as-Antietam steak, which I remember Jack ordering, and their roast duck, which our mystery woman must’ve had. And I’m pretty sure I smell the super-grip Aussie hair mousse our waiter had on, not to mention that awful bleach they use to scrub the toilets. It’s unmistakable. I’m pretty sure they came here directly from the restaurant.”

  Craig nodded several times and jotted that down.

  Jason continued, “It would also appear that the woman was not into this tryst as much as Jack was.” Craig began to question, but Jason pointed at a lump of dissolved spit on the floor. “Have that sampled and kept in a safe place. We need to identify this woman.”

  Jason took a deep breath and then put himself in the mystery woman’s shoes, smacking on Jack Magnum. He shuddered and immediately pulled himself out of the shoes. Making out with Jack was the last thing he wanted to picture himself doing.

  “She was fed up with this guy, I can imagine. She spit out his saliva, and, along with
it, the fizzing, deadly chemicals. It seems her dislike for Jack saved her life.”

  “Now,” the doctor pushed his thin glasses up his blocky nose and stroked his chin, “was it chance she was spared, a fluke she was spared, or was it part of Abel’s plan?”

  “I wouldn’t doubt this was all planned. Abel’s a crafty little bug. He knows people, how they think, what they’ll do. He wanted the woman to escape alive. That’s why we need to ID this POI, ASAP.” Jason loved using as many acronyms as he could.

  ***

  The Magnum household was frozen in a catatonic standstill and being forced to move forward at the same time. Selena could barely speak two consecutive sentences, but a group of hard-nosed cops kept swarming her, fishing for info that didn’t exist. She hadn’t, after all, witnessed the death, or seen her husband since the evening before. She hadn’t cried yet, either. No signs of sadness. Just shock and perhaps a touch of dejection.

  While Detective Sam Washington was busy “investigating” Jack’s massage chair and foosball table, Jason wandered through the halls, peeking into each room as he looked for some sort of office. He found it, with Cheyenne already filtering through the congressman’s books and papers.

  The office was very chic, very twenty-first century. Jack must’ve liked to keep up with the passing generations. Everything—the ceiling, the floor, the desk, the shelves—was spotless chrome. A flat screen TV hung from the wall, a brazen American flag dangling beside it.

  The two searched the room, finding nothing but tedious political stuff Jack himself most likely didn’t understand. Bills, taxes, rights, freedom, life, liberty, blah, blah, blah.