THE FINAL KILL
I figured when I got to be my age I’d be living on some Caribbean
island with a parrot on my shoulder, sipping rum drinks, and
listening to Calypso songs being played on a steel guitar. Well,
things don’t always work out as planned. My reality is senior
citizen discounts, early bird specials and people listening to what
I have to say like I have a special insight into life’s experiences.
Not being a serious minded guy I take great joy in putting people
on. It was a simple joke that started all of my troubles.
I was sitting on a park bench a few blocks from my apartment in
East Boston, a section of the city marked by crowded together
triple-deckers, numerous bars and the faint smell of gasoline from
the huge oil terminals on the outskirts of the neighborhood. A
summer shower had moistened the seat and I was perched on top of my
copy of the Boston Globe to keep my chinos dry. My attention was on
a pair of young hoodlums skateboarding on the basketball courts when
a tall and lanky, red haired, twenty something kid, dressed in a
cheap, lightweight beige suit approached me. The guy didn’t look
familiar, which made me suspicious right off. Strangers in this area
were unusual. No one came to this park unless they had to.
“You reading that paper?” he asked, pointing under my rump and
smiling in that phony way people do when they’re pretending to have
a good time.
“Yep,” I replied. “I forgot my glasses and this is the only way I
can make out the words.”
His eyes widened, his smile disappeared and then he nodded
respectfully like I’d just given him the secret of life.
I watched him leave the park and walk up the street. I didn’t
know what he wanted, but it seemed unlikely it was my newspaper.
Maybe he planned on mugging me and changed his mind. Once I was
convinced he was gone I continued feeding the pigeons, then went
home to watch a Law and Order rerun. I did like those cop shows.
I wouldn’t have given my wiseass remark (excuse the pun) another
thought if I hadn’t seen the guy later that night leaning against a
wall next to the pizza joint across from my place and staring up at
the window to my third floor apartment.
Now, I’d heard of road rage, but newspaper rage was a new one to
me so I figured the kid must want something else. With the number of
enemies I’d made over the years while involved in my former
occupation, I was interested in what it might be. I hadn’t lived to
be sixty-six by being careless.
I shut off my living room lights, got a pair of binoculars,
pulled up a chair and peered down at him. I felt like Jimmy Stewart
in Rear Window. The guy ogling my apartment was a real piece of
work. He’d walk up a block, come back, and then lean against the
wall gazing up my way like a dog in heat. I watched him for close to
an hour and if it weren’t for the situation I would have spent most
of my time laughing. It was obvious he didn’t know the first thing
about a stake out and I wondered how he’d tailed me from the park
without me spotting him. I gave myself a mental head slap for
letting it happen. Years ago, a mistake like this could have cost me
my life and I wondered who this guy was. I had just made up my mind
to grab my gun and get some answers when he pushed off the wall and
disappeared around the corner.
I gotta admit being stalked was unsettling, but it wasn’t the
type of thing you called the cops for in my neighborhood. They had
better things to do, like digging up parks looking for the bodies of
dead informers. Plus, maybe my past experiences made me paranoid and
I’d never see the guy again.
The next morning he was back. Same spot. Same cheap suit.
I’d just finished my bowl of Fruit Loops and Dean Martin was
singing “That’s Amore” on the record player when I noticed him.
Enough was enough. I grabbed my snub-nosed automatic from under the
mattress, tucked it inside my chinos, slipped on my windbreaker and
zipped it up to hide the weapon. Then I went out the back door,
circled the block and approached my stalker from his blind side. He
never saw me coming.
His mouth formed a perfect oval as I quick-stepped into his line
of vision. Up close he looked like Opie from The Andy Griffith Show.
I came real close to whistling the show’s theme song, but figured
the kid wouldn’t understand the connection. Instead I unzipped my
coat just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the gun and said,
“Hangin’ around in this neighborhood could get a young fella like
you in a lot of trouble. Or are you just looking to borrow my Boston
Globe again?”
He took a step back like he was dealing with a crazy man, an
expression I’d seen many times before.
“You want to explain why you’re tailin’ me?” I asked. “Or would
you rather I shoot you without an explanation?”
He cleared his throat and I noted the peach fuzz of a mustache
under his nose.
I moved a few inches closer to him so I’d be right in his face
and pointed to his upper lip. “I take it you never examined that
mustache in the mirror because if you had you’d never go out in
public with it. It looks like one of those paste on jobs you buy at
a joke store.”
He seemed momentarily confused. I could almost see those cartoon
bubble clouds form over his head as he thought about what to say.
“You are Carman Leduc?” he asked. His voice was high and squeaky
like someone had hold of his nuts. Either that or he was doing an
imitation of Minnie Mouse.
I didn’t answer, but a man crossing the street waved and said,
“How ya doin’, Carman?” So much for keeping secrets.
The kid bounced from foot to foot for a few seconds like he was
doing the Bunny Hop and then hitched his thumb toward a coffee shop
up the street. “Can we go get some breakfast and talk?”
I decided not to tell him I’d already had Fruit Loops. It might
spoil the image I was trying to create. “Right here’s fine.”
He gave me a toothy half smile and extended his hand. “Damien
Wellfleet.”
I left it hanging. “Damien? Like the kid in those Omen movies?” I
narrowed my eyes. “This isn’t a social call, is it? I’m not noted
for patience so get to the point.”
He dropped his hand and stood straighter which made him all of
five-eight. I figured if he took a swing at me he’d probably hit me
in the kneecap.
“Okay,” he said. “You were the best in the business. I need a job
done.”
My face broke into a wide grin. It’d been a long time since
anyone said that to me. “Why didn’t you say so yesterday in the
park? We could have avoided this unpleasantness.”
Wellfleet shrugged. “I’d only seen a picture of you. I needed to
get close enough to make sure you were the right guy.”
“Look, son. I’m old enough to be your grandfather. My wild oats
turned into prunes and All Bran years ago. If you’re really looking
to hire someone you’d best go for a younger man. Besides, I’m
retired.”
“But, you’re the one Francisco Craft wants.”
“My old partner? Hell, I figured he’d be dead by now.”
“Almost. He’s dying of cancer, Mr. Leduc, and in a great deal of
pain. I work for him. He sent me to get you because he felt you’d do
a humane job.”
“You mean finish him off?”
“It’s what he wants.”
“Forget it, kid. Sure twenty years ago Francisco and I were close
and I’m sorry about his sickness, but I haven’t seen him in a long
time and don’t intend to. If he wants someone to kill him, there are
plenty of other people he can get. I’m sure he still has
connections. Tell him I’m not interested.”
“Mr. Craft is gonna be unhappy if I can’t convince you.”
I shrugged. “ It’s official. Life is unfair. Now run along,
Sonny.” I started to walk away.
“He’s prepared to offer five G’s”
I turned back. “Really? Now why would he do that when all he has
to do is take a couple of pills or walk through Boston Common at two
in the morning?”
“Mr. Craft said you might be reluctant and I should tell you
about the manuscript.”
“Manuscript?”
His head bobbed up and down like one of those dogs people put in
their rear car window. “Yeah. During his final days he’s working on
a book. He wants me to see it’s published after his death. Quite a
bit of it concerns things you two did together. When it comes out
it’s going to create a lot of interest. The cops would probably want
to talk to you and some of the information could land you in jail.
On top of that a few of the friends of people you killed might
decide to come after you. Mr. Craft doesn’t want to make things
rough for you and said if you agreed to do this one last job he’ll
make sure every mention of your name is taken out.”
I studied a piece of wax paper blowing across the street. Some of
the hits Craft and I did filtered into my mind. A few important
people disappeared because of us. I refocused on Wellfleet. “Seems
like my old friend is leaving me little choice.”
I went back to my apartment and worked out the details of what
needed to be done. It had been over twenty years since I’d been on a
hit and this sure wasn’t going to be routine. But, I was a veteran
and with the wide variety of jobs I’d been involved in nothing
rattled me. I’d started running numbers in the neighborhood when I
was ten and by the time I graduated high school, I was an enforcer
for a group that controlled most of the drugs and prostitution in
East Boston. The difference between me and most of the goons I
worked with was I had a brain.
At twenty-six I branched out on my own earning a reputation for
being innovative in the way I dealt with problems. At thirty I met
Francisco Craft who had developed quite a name for himself as well.
We hit it off right away (no pun intended) and decided to team up.
For fifteen years we were the best. We did jobs all across the
United States and Europe. We took pride in not serving jail time and
never botching a job, but when my reflexes started to slow I knew it
was time to quit. Oh sure, sometimes I missed the excitement, but
I’d accumulated enough money over the years to live comfortably.
Maybe too comfortably. I didn’t want to give the lifestyle up.
Besides, I’d just become a grandfather for the third time and my
daughter, Betty, was about to move back to Boston to be closer to
her old man. I had a lot of things I needed to make up with her for
and my time was running short.
I did my usual before hit rituals and when I headed out for the
address Damien Wellfleet had given me, I’d taken the necessary
precautions. Thing was, I knew that no matter how carefully you
plan, shit happens.
The house was a split-level ranch on a couple of acres of land in
an affluent community just outside of Boston. Maple and pine trees
surrounded the yard with an abundance of space between neighbors. I
arrived after dark, scouted the area and worked things out in my
mind like I always did. The adrenaline rush I’d gotten years ago
just before doing a job was back. I’d forgotten how much I missed
it.
I pulled off the street into some brush about a half-mile up the
road and zigzagged through the woods around to the back of the
house. My gloved hand gripped a flashlight and its beam bobbed,
weaved and reflected off the trees as I walked. The five G’s were
stuffed in a watering can in the flowerbed and the back door of the
house was unlocked just as I’d requested. It would have been easy to
take the money and split without seeing what this job was all about,
but I couldn’t leave until I knew the truth. Within seconds I was
inside.
The living room smelled of Lysol and was furnished with Persian
rugs, antique tables, velvet chairs and a claw legged couch. Whoever
lived here had spent a bundle. I glanced out the back window. No one
had followed me.
Wellfleet had said Francisco Craft would be in a second floor
bedroom and with the medication he’d taken would be groggy, probably
comatose. I flashed my light at a set of stairs leading up and was
about to ascend when the overhead lights flipped on and Damien
Wellfleet stepped out of a side room pointing a .45 at me. Since I’d
had tougher guys pull a weapon on me and always managed to talk my
way out of it, this didn’t particularly worry me. Of course there
was always the chance the gun could go off accidentally and one of
us could get hurt.
“Throw your piece on the floor,” he said.
“No gun.” I held up the paper bag I was carrying. “Just a bottle
of scotch.”
“You planning on making Craft drink himself to death?”
“Francisco Craft doesn’t live here.”
His eyebrows shot up a notch. “So why’d you come?”
“Curious. I wanted to find out who you were and what you’re up
to.”
“Well your curiosity is about to get you killed.”
“Mind telling me why?”
“Not at all. I want you to know what’s going to cost you your
life. You remember Priscilla Hedron?”
“Sure. I knew her. Rich society woman. Her husband hired someone
to kill her when he found out she was screwing around. He figured
paying for a hit was cheaper than a messy divorce. But that was over
twenty years ago. What’s that got to do with why I’m here?”
“Priscilla was my mother and you were the person my father hired.
I’m going to make you pay for what you did.”
I held up my hands, palms out. “Hold on a second. What makes you
think I was the one who killed your mother?”
“A few guys were willing to finger you. I tracked you down using
my computer. I lost my job recently and I’ve had a lot of time on my
hands. It gets a man to thinking, and lately I haven’t been able to
get my mother’s murderer off my mind.”
“Maybe you should consider therapy. I could recommend a good
shrink.”
“Shooting you is going to do more good for me than any therapist.
It’s time to settle things. I should have done it years ago.”
“What? When you were ten?” My gaze took in the room looking for a
way to distract him so I could grab the gun. “I guess there’s no use
denying I killed your mother. You’re a bright kid, but before you do
something stupid let me propose a deal. You’re good at this stalking
stuff. You staked me out, got me to fall for a story, and lured me
into a trap with no witnesses. Not many guys could do that. You’re a
little rough around the edges, but I couldn’t have done better
myself. Planning for this job made me realize how much I miss the
business. I’m thinking about going back and you’d make a good
partner. I could teach you all I know. I don’t even own a computer
so I bet there are lots of angles we could cover that I never
imagined. We could learn from each other. What do you think? There’s
big money involved here.”
He cocked the hammer of the gun and his eyes remained locked on
mine. Strike one, I thought. Time to move on to white lie number
two. This one never failed.
“You’re Cilla’s son, huh? Guess that makes me your real father.
Like I said I knew your mom. You wouldn’t kill your old man, would
you?”
He studied me for an instant, but the gun never wavered. Maybe I
had miscalculated.
That’s when the back door snapped open and Francisco Craft shot
Damien Wellfleet in the middle of his forehead.
The body slumped to the floor and puddles of blood formed on the
Persian Rug.
“A shame about the rug,” Francisco said. “Any idea what would
take out the blood stains? An expensive Persian like that would look
good on my apartment floor.”
I glared at him. “It took you long enough. This kid could have
killed me.”
Craft pushed his fingers through his shock of gray hair. “You
should have waited. You never did have any patience. My sense of
direction isn’t what it used to be.”
I shook my head. “Jesus, you were only five minutes behind me
when we left your place. You drive like a little old man.”
“I am a little old man.” Craft shoved the gun back into his
underarm holster. “I arrived right after you did, but got lost
wandering around in the woods. Almost went into the wrong house.
Besides, I left my glasses at home. You’re just lucky I didn’t
accidentally shoot you. You use that phony ‘I’m your father’ story
again?”
“It didn’t work like it used to. What is wrong with kids these
days?” I glanced at Damien Wellfleet’s body. “Big mistake him
thinking I didn’t know how to get in touch with you.”
I twisted the top off the scotch bottle and took a swig. Then I
handed it to Francisco. We’d always celebrated our jobs by splitting
a bottle.
He took a swallow then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “We’ve
done a lot of jobs together, haven’t we? It seemed like old times.”
“Yeah, except we’re older and a little slower. Now, instead of
hanging out in bars I spend most of my time in the bathroom.”
Francisco took another sip and a pensive look crossed his face.
“Do you ever think God might punish us for all the lives we took?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think God’s paying attention most of
the time. If he was he’d never allow them to put those Reality shows
on television.”
“Did feel good to be on the job again, didn’t it? I don’t know
why, but something tells me we’re going to team up together again
real soon.”
“Francisco, sometimes you’re a real bright guy and your instincts
were always top notch, but that’s just plain crap.”
Craft tapped his chest. “Don’t underestimate my intuition. I’ve
been known to be right more often than not. How about we do lunch
tomorrow at Durkin Park and talk about it? You picked up the five
thousand so you get the check this time.”
“Like I don’t always? Betty and the grandkids are moving here
next week. I’ll probably spend a lot of time babysitting. Maybe you
can come over and help.” I noted the outline of Francisco’s gun
through his sport jacket. “On second thought, maybe not.”
We finished the bottle, took a leak and were feeling pretty good
about ourselves as we left. Shutting the back door we walked down
the stairs slowly, carefully, two old guys taking care of each other
and excited about the future.
I took the five G’s out of my chinos and was about to give
Francisco his half when two cops with drawn guns stepped around the
side of the house.
“Hold it right there,” one said. “Neighbors saw an old guy
stumbling around in the woods and later heard what sounded like a
shot. That’s a lot of money you’re carrying around. Why don’t we go
back inside and see what you two were up to?”
I shook my head. Francisco’s intuition had been right after all.
We were going to do something together. Unfortunately it would be
jail time.
I’M NOT LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE
I'm not like everybody else.
I don't eat their food, drive their cars, watch their
television shows or follow their stupid rituals. Hell, I don't even
think like everybody else.
So it stands to reason that when I fell in love it wouldn’t be
like everybody else.
I love Linda, and even though we’ve never met, we will spend
the rest of our lives together. That’s one thing I’m certain off.
First, some background. My name is Franklin Pierce Quinlan. I
live in the basement of my mother's five-room house in Kramer's
Notch, Maine. Only child. High school dropout. I.Q. - one hundred
seventy-four. Friends-none. At one time there were only two things I
cared about; music--White Zombie, Van Halen, Black Sabbath-- and my
computer. Now, there are three.
I love Linda.
I haven't left the house since my mother died of the cancer six
weeks ago.
But that hasn’t stopped me from playing practical jokes on her.
I first heard Linda’s voice the day I called the town hall to
ask the street department to cut down the trees in front of my
mother’s house. Linda worked the switchboard.
Her voice was a sweet, raspy sound. The sort nicotine-addicted
blues singers had. Every word properly enunciated and provocative.
It sent a jolt through my body. In my twenty years of life I'd never
heard such a sensuous tone.
It's funny how love begins
Now, I call three or four times a day just to hear her voice
and have her tell me I have the wrong number or to ask her a
question I know she couldn’t possibly answer.
Thing is, I’m jealous of the other people who call and talk to
her.
It's time to do something about it.
The town hall was built in the early 1800’s.
I walked up the wooden steps, between twin white columns and pushed
open the door. The switchboard was up a short hallway on the right.
The woman in front of it had her back to me. Her short, black hair
glistened in the overhead lights.
My heartbeat quickened, as I turned left.
I walked down a corridor and paced the
hallway. A few people walked by me and stared. Maybe this was wrong.
Maybe I wasn't ready. Maybe she’d turn out to be like everybody
else.
A man came out of the assessor's office and
walked into the men's room. I followed and moved into the urinal
next to him.
"I'm in love," I said.
He stared straight ahead. "If my hands were
free I'd punch you in the face."
"It's a woman," I said. "I've never met
her."
"Keep it that way. Hell, I've been married
for fifteen years. I figure, during that time, the wife and I have
had eight good hours. Worst mistake a young fella like you could
make is to get involved with someone you hardly know.”
I nodded. "I understand. My theory is that
the world's become it's own mad scientist lab and we're creating our
own monsters."
The man flushed the toilet and walked to the
sink. He couldn’t seem to get away from me fast enough.
"I need to know if she's like everybody
else," I said. "Do you know Linda?"
The man shook the water from his hands and
his eyes widened. He hitched his thumb toward the switchboard. "Our
Linda?"
I nodded.
"Jesus," he said taking a paper towel.
"Yeah. I know her. She's a little hard to describe. She's . . ."
"Not like everybody else?" I said.
He laughed. "That's Linda, all right. You
sure you never met her?"
I smiled and whistled a Led Zeppelin song as
I left the men’s room.
She turned when I approached the
switchboard. "I'm Linda. How can I help you?"
She stared at me through thick-lensed
glasses. She had a round face, plump body and a nose that was long
and straight. Some might have described her as ugly.
I instantly fell deeper in love.
"I love you," I said.
Her teeth clenched, her mouth twisted into a
grimace and her eyebrows came together in a V. Then she smiled. It
transformed her. Made her look beautiful. "You're him, aren't you?
The one who calls all the time."
I smiled. "My voice is distinctive," I said.
"It’s not like everybody else’s, is it?”
"You calling is actually kind of funny," she
said. "Breaks the monotony of my day, you asking all of those
ridiculous questions."
"I want you to live with me in the basement
of my mother's house."
She tilted her head and looked at me like
she was dealing with a slow child. "I'm old enough to be your
mother."
"My mother's dead."
Then I noticed the wedding ring on her hand.
"You're married?"
"You are really a trip,” she said. “I’ve
been telling Greg, that's my husband, about your calls. He's going
to love it when he hears you actually showed up."
I left the town hall without saying another
word. As I walked down the steps I knew that I'd have to get rid of
Greg.
That night I stole a bicycle and followed
Linda home. She drove her blue Toyota so slowly it was actually
quite easy. It excited me to be so close.
Her house was a small brick-ranch separated
from her neighbors by a cluster of trees. I hid behind a maple in
the vacant lot across the street. I pictured Linda and Greg eating
dinner, talking about me, watching television and doing all of those
predictable, boring things that married couples do.
I was about to change all that.
The sun was setting when a light went on in
a tiny basement window. It stayed on for a couple of minutes then
went out. I walked across the street and crept to the back of the
house.
I pulled a flashlight out of my coat as I
jumped down the three brick steps that led to a wooden basement
door. It was unlocked. Very few people locked their doors in
Kramer’s Notch.
I pushed it open and went inside. My light
flashed on a cast-iron furnace, then a workbench. A foul, acid smell
– strangely familiar – permeated the room.
Footsteps thudded overhead.
I moved closer to the stairs and flashed my
light toward the upstairs door. I climbed up one step. It's creaking
annoyed me. I turned and swept the light across the cellar.
That's when I saw the coffin and heard the
upstairs door open.
I flashed my light up into her face.
She shielded her eyes with her hand and then
pointed toward the coffin. "Greg’s really going to enjoy meeting
you."
I began to laugh - not a chuckle but a deep
belly laugh. I couldn't control it. When it passed I said, "Are you
saying that your husband is inside that coffin?"
She came down the stairs and put her hand on
my shoulder. “We’d been married for eighteen years. When Greg died
last month I couldn’t bear to be separated from him. I don’t expect
you to understand.”
“Oh, but I do,” I said. “Maybe when we’re
through talking to Greg you can come to my house. I’d like you to
meet my mother.”
The End
AN UNFORGIVABLE
MISTAKE
Let me state up front that I'm not an ethical guy. My gambling
buddies consider me a risk taker who plays too many longshots and
always looks out for number one. I consider that a compliment. I
don't start out to be deceitful. It's just that when one of life's
banana peels slips me up, I'm not against taking a few short cuts to
set things straight.
But I'm not a murderer.
So on that drizzly, July Sunday morning when I found my boss's
body slumped over his desk at work, I immediately started playing
the odds.
The side of Justin Crane's face looked like a rare strip steak.
Blood matted his hair and a gooey, red blob had spattered on the
brown rug. His right hand rested on the walnut desk and his stubby
fingers gripped the Smith and Wesson stainless steel .38 Special
that he kept in the office safe. There was no need to feel for a
pulse.
I bent over and touched the red splatter. Dry. Justin had been
dead for hours.
The computer in front of him flashed a message which probably
was meant to be his last. "What I've done to my family is
unforgivable. I'm sorry, Glenda. Take care of Ronnie. I love you
both."
That was it. Four sentences to sum up a man's life. Thing was,
my gut told me it wasn't a suicide. Sure someone had set it up to
look like Justin had taken his own life but I'd had many run ins
with cops and knew how they thought. I'd bet a week's salary the
Boston homicide detectives would be all over this place and before
they were though they'd find what they thought was the truth. I
wasn't about to play those odds
It was unusual for Justin to be at the office on a Sunday
morning. He was a six-day week kind of guy. I knew why I was here. I
needed privacy to siphon more money out of the company accounts. My
rationalization for stealing was that Justin deserved it. No one
should take a con man like me off the streets and try to turn him
into an honest guy. I was one of his societal experiments that
didn't work. But, I admired him for trying. Hell, I liked to bet
longshots, too, and sometimes they came in.
I stared out the window at the surrounding warehouses. My
white, Mustang convertible was the only car in the lot. I knew when
the cops started looking into Justin's death they'd search
everywhere for a motive, especially the business. Who better to pin
the rap on than an embezzling twenty-five year old employee who grew
up on the streets and had a record of petty larceny?
The only way to save myself seemed to be to find Justin's
killer and turn the person over to the cops. The case would be
closed and the police wouldn't snoop around. I was cocky enough to
think I could pull it off, but I needed time and I'd have a better
chance of trapping the killer if they thought Justin's body hadn't
been discovered yet.
I locked the front door, walked out into the parking lot and
stared back at the "Crane's Rental Furniture" sign. I blinked and
was surprised to find a tear rolling down my cheek. I took one final
look at the building and saw it for the first time without Justin
being alive. Nothing looked different, but it was. Oh, it was.
I drove over to the Charles River, smoked a few cigarettes and
watched the gray water swirl in the mist and wind. In the morning,
Laurie, Justin's secretary, would arrive at the office at eight. I'd
let her call the cops. I had until than to catch the killer.
I crushed out a cigarette in the ashtray and thought about
who'd want Justin dead. He'd been like a father to me. My own dad
died when I was twelve and my mother started drinking shortly after
and took little interest in my upbringing. I skipped school and
roamed the streets of Boston making money however I could. Shell
games, Three-Card Monte, shortchanging store clerks. Nothing was
beneath my talents. Justin was an old friend of my dad's and his
taking me into the business four years ago was the type of good dead
he was noted for. I worked first as a salesman and when he realized
how good I was with money he put me in charge of the books. He
trusted me and I didn't want to let him down. But, when I got
interested in the horses and ran into a bad streak I started
skimming from his business accounts. Just a little at first, but the
sum had grown to seven thousand dollars. I intended to pay him back
as soon as my luck changed. I'm a gambler, not a crook.
The one thing I felt sure of was that Justin would never commit
suicide. No one respected life like he did. He'd given money to
numerous charities and was constantly doing volunteer work at
homeless shelters to make a difference in people's lives. He adored
his seventeen-year-old son, live theater, movies and fine
restaurants. He was a perfectionist and expected near-perfection
from his employees and friends. But, he was a fair man and I'd heard
him recite one of his life rules many times. "It's a tough world out
there," he had said. "Anyone can make a mistake and they deserve one
break. If they screw up a second time, hang 'em." He'd given me my
break by taking me off the streets. If he caught me stealing from
the business I knew he'd call the cops. That's why I'd been careful
with the books. But, a thorough examination by the police might turn
up the discrepancies, and even though I like to play long shots,
this was one chance I didn't want to take.
I lit another cigarette. I knew he hadn't killed himself the
instant I read the note. Justin was meticulous in everything he did.
He cared about his image and the legacy he left for his son and
wife. The note didn't fit his lifestyle. At least that's what my gut
told me and, if nothing else, I was a prisoner of my hunches.
I started the Mustang and slipped it into gear. The dashboard
clock indicated it was just after one. I had less than nineteen
hours to find a killer.
Justin Crane's home was in a wealthy Boston neighborhood and
was the mirror image of his life, a lavish and ostentatious fifteen
room colonial. Justin was fifty-four, but when he talked about his
house and son he acted like a guy who'd just hit the trifecta at
Belmont.
He'd been married for twenty-three years, many of them
troubled. From things he'd said at work I knew he and Glenda had
only stayed together for Ronnie's sake. The family's money came from
her late father and allowed Justin, a poor kid from South Boston, to
live in this luxurious style. Recently, the strain had begun to show
and I wondered if their problems could be a motive for murder.
Justin had been spending more time in the past few months with Linda
Carlisle, a woman he'd had a long running affair with. She was on my
short list of suspects, too.
I walked between twin columns onto the porch and rang the bell.
Glenda opened the door.
"Phil," she said. "This is a surprise. If you're looking for
Justin, he's at the office."
Glenda was fiftyish, but in her struggle to look younger she
died her hair red and wore her black jeans and flowery blouse a
little too tight. In her hand was a gobletof clear liquid. It could
have been water, but from her glassy eyes I figured it for Vodka.
"Actually, I came to talk to you. Do you have a few minutes?"
She motioned me into the living room and although I'd visited
the house a few times I was still overwhelmed by the vibrant
oriental rugs, polished hardwood floors and expensive furniture. It
wasn't the kind of place I would live in, but I couldn't imagine
Justin Crane giving it up.
"I'm not sure how to say this." I gave her my best poker face.
"Justin's been acting a little despondent lately. Do you have any
idea what's bothering him?"
She shook her head. "Not really. 'Course I don't see him much
anymore what with the business and his little honey on the side. You
probably see him more than I do."
The front door opened and Ronnie walked in. His brown hair was
wind-blown and his tall, lanky frame was muscular from basketball.
He always reminded me of a young James Dean.
"Hey, Phil," he said.
I gave a quick wave and felt a sense of guilt at deceiving the
two people in front of me. But, what could I do?
"Where've you been, honey?" Glenda said. "You left awful early
this morning."
"Took a run out to the beach. It's always nicer without a lot
of people around."
Ronnie went into the kitchen like he couldn't get away from us
fast enough and I heard the refrigerator door open. I'd known him
since he was a young kid and he'd developed the same temper as his
mother.
"So, what's this all about, Phil?" Glenda said.
"Any idea why Justin went to the office today?"
If she thought my question strange her expression didn't show
it.
"One of his clients had paid him in cash and he felt
uncomfortable leaving the money in the office safe until the bank
opened. He was going to bring it home. Or was that just a story?"
"No. It's true." In my shock at finding Justin's body I had
forgotten a few thousand dollars had been left in the safe. I
wondered if his killer had cleaned it out.
"Phil. What's wrong?"
I smiled. "Oh, you know me, Glenda. I'm just a jumpy young kid
who's too sensitive. It could be I'm reading Justin's moods wrong."
Glenda's face reddened and anger filled her eyes. "Sunday is
the one day he agreed the family should be together. I swear, if I
find out that he's with her, I'll kill the both of them."
Linda Carlisle was a lawyer in a big Boston firm and the two
family she owned in the South End was a symbol of her success.
According to Justin she lived for her work and didn't have time for
a serious relationship. Justin had no intention of leaving Glenda
and whatever they had together seemed to work.
Women passed through my life like the stretch run of the
feature race at Rockingham. At the moment I like to consider myself
unharnessed, but if I ever developed an interest in older women,
Linda Carlisle would be the one. She was intelligent, fiercely
independent and didn't take crap from anyone. Come to think of it we
could be soul mates.
On the sixth ring of her bell the door to the downstairs
apartment opened and an elderly man stepped out.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for Linda. I'm Phil Sampson, a friend of Justin
Crane and I have something I need to talk to her about. It's
important."
"'Fraid you're out of luck. Linda went to Chicago on business
last Thursday. Isn't due home until this evening. When I heard the
noise out here I thought she might be back early."
As I walked back to my car I wasn't ready to eliminate Linda
Carlisle from my list of suspects. Her plane could have arrived this
morning and Justin might have picked her up at the airport.
Something else I needed to check on.
The next two days went by in a haze. The wake, funeral, and
the realization that Justin wouldn't be around to swap stories, took
up all of my time.
His funeral was packed and seeing so many of his friends attend
affected me. There were two things they talked about: How hard it
was to believe he killed himself and the number of people he'd
touched during his life. They agreed that few men tried to benefit
humanity the way he did. I had loved the man, but on the day they
buried him I loved him more. Something inside of me changed that
day, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I wished I could be half
the man Justin was. Problem was, I had no idea how to go about it.
It was at the house, after the funeral, that I learned I was
about to roll snake eyes. Glenda thanked me for being such a loyal
employee and good friend to Justin. Hell, if I weren't such a tough
kid I'd have bawled. "I need time," she said, "to figure out what to
do with the business. Will you ask the staff to keep things going
while I make up my mind?"
"Absolutely."
"The police have asked to do a thorough investigation of
Justin's affairs at work. Of course I granted permission."
I couldn't read the expression in her eyes when she said, "I
guess they have questions."
The next day the two detectives arrived.
They were a real Mutt and Jeff act; one tall and lanky, the
other short and husky. They talked to a couple of salespeople and
then Laurie, Justin's secretary. I couldn't take my eyes off them.
The tall one did most of the talking. He never smiled. His
expression was what my friends called cop-face, a look that said,
"Go ahead. I dare you to lie to me."
When they finally got to me the tall one said, "You mentioned
to Mrs. Crane that her husband appeared despondent. Could you
elaborate?"
I shrugged. Sweat poured down my chest. "It just seemed like
something was bothering him."
"Do you usually talk to Mrs. Crane about these things?"
"No. But, I was concerned. What's this all about?" I could feel
my voice shaking. "Justin committed suicide, didn't he?"
The detective ignored my question. "Where were you on Sunday
morning, Mr. Sampson?"
"I slept late, read the Sunday Globe, and then visited Mrs.
Crane. But you already know that part."
"That it?"
I nodded hopping no one had seen me near the office.
"Fella that lives in Linda Carlisle's apartment building said
you came over looking for her. Why was that?"
"Same reason I talked to Mrs. Crane. I was concerned about
Justin."
"Were you and Mrs. Crane having an affair?"
"Absolutely not."
"You know the combination to the safe and that Mr. Crane kept
his gun there, didn't you?"
"Yes." I held up my hand. "You're not accusing me of anything,
are you?"
"Right now we're gathering information. Mrs. Crane has given us
permission to look at certain business transactions. One of my men
will be around this afternoon. I imagine he'll want to talk to you."
When the cops left I went out back and smoked a cigarette. My
hands shook and my heart double-thumped. There had to be a way to
stop the police from looking at the books, but I was running out of
time.
Then a theory popped into my brain. The thought coalesced in my
mind as if it had always been there, waiting for this precise
instant to surface. Ellsworth had been Justin's secretary for two
years. She was in her mid-thirties and a single mother with two
young girls. Justin had taken her off the streets, same as he did
with me. She was another one of his "good deeds."
She looked up from her computer when I entered her office.
"When do you think Mrs. Crane will make up her mind about the
business? I can't afford to lose this job."
"Hard to say. Some of our clients are upset that we didn't
personally notify them about Justin's death. Could you take a letter
for me?"
I stood behind her as she typed.
"Send it to the Wilkins Company. Dear Dave. Our not notifying
you about Justin's death was unforgivable. Please accept our
apology. That should do it."
I left her office and went into the men's room for a few
minutes. When I came back I said, "I know why you killed Justin."
Her face whitened. "What in the world are you talking about?"
I pointed a finger at her. "You know the combination of the
safe. You came in Sunday to steal the cash and make it look like a
robbery. Justin showed up and you shot him and tried to make it look
like suicide."
"You've been watching too many television shows."
"Look, Laurie. It's hard raising two young girls on the salary
you make here. How old are they now?"
My question seemed to catch her off guard. "Jenny's six and
Samantha's going to be eleven next week."
I nodded. "You and I are both from the streets. I know what
it's like. Justin was like a father to me. I need to know the truth.
What we talk about goes no further. I promise on Justin's grave."
Her body stiffened. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Yes, there is Laurie. I saw you enter the office just before
Justin arrived. Then I heard a shot. I didn't tell the cops because
we're like family. Believe me, the last thing I'd do is get you into
any trouble. But, I need to know you trust me."
She put her head in her hands. "Oh, God. Tell me this isn't
happening."
"You'll feel better if you get it out, Laurie. I'll understand.
After all, we're two of a kind." I grinned like I'd just pulled a
royal flush. "I'd never do anything to hurt you or the girls. You're
like a sister to me."
She took a long breath, lowered her voice, then looked left and
right. "I was only going to take the money so I could buy some
clothes for my girls. God knows, they've suffered enough having a
mother like me. Justin walked in and caught me going through the
safe. He kept saying that he'd given me my one chance and I'd
betrayed him. He was going to have me arrested. What would my girls
do without their mother?" Tears streamed down her face. "I took out
the gun to scare him. Then I panicked and it went off. It was an
accident. I'm so sorry. Believe me, if I could take it back, I
would. He was a good man."
Gotcha, I thought as I walked away.
I went into the outer office, flipped off the recorder I had
strapped to my chest in the men's room and pulled out the tape of
Laurie's confession. In the letter I'd dictated she'd misspelled the
word unforgivable just as it had been misspelled in Justin's suicide
note. An exacting man like him wouldn't have allowed a spelling
mistake in his final message to the world.
I left the building and walked down the back steps. The police
station was a five-minute drive. The tape would convict Laurie. Case
closed. No investigation. Game. Set. Match.
Laurie's face flashed into my mind. What would her two kids do
without their mother? I lit a cigarette and took a few puffs. Then I
tossed the tape into the trashcan. I guess I could bet one more
longshot.
The End
The day I
met Wendy Hopkins for a drink changed my life forever.
The bar at the Ritz Carlton oozed peaceful elegance. I'd lived
in Boston all my life, but had never ventured inside. People bustled
by on the street trying to find relief from the July humidity and
traffic inched past the Public Gardens. But, in the old world
atmosphere of the Ritz bar, the tinkling of ice and the low murmur
of conversation were the only sounds.
I turned away from the window and looked across the table at
Wendy. It had been twelve years since I'd last seen her and when
she'd recognized me on Newbury Street I couldn't believe the change.
My shock was tantamount to finding aluminum siding on the White
House.
She ran her finger along the rim of a crystal glass. "It was
hell, Jim. A part of my life I don't want to talk about. Will you
respect me enough to let it drop?"
I shoveled a handful of pretzels into my mouth and washed it
down with beer. A tuxedoed waiter scurried by carrying a tray of
glasses. My mind flashed back to high school. We'd both been
grotesquely overweight and had to cope with the jeers and ridicule
of classmates. Wendy was the bright one who was decent to people,
animals and plants. She trusted everyone and couldn't understand
their cruelty. The only way we'd gotten through those years was by
hanging on to one another. We were like a single soul dwelling in
two bodies. Granted, they were huge bodies.
After graduation Wendy had studied law at Berkeley, gotten a
job with a big New York firm, married a guy she met in college and
lost a great deal of weight. I went to B.U. and became an
accountant. Four years ago I married Cindy and have gained forty-six
pounds since the wedding. My 5' 8" frame now carried two hundred and
sixty pounds. I'd tried every diet plan, been hypnotized to lose
weight and occasionally attended meetings of Overeaters Anonymous.
Nothing worked.
"You've changed in more ways than one," I said feeling annoyed
by her reticence to talk about her weight loss. "Remember how we
swore we'd help one another. It's not like I'm asking you to commit
a crime. What gives?"
She pushed her fingers through her long red hair. Her eyes were
green and her dark pantsuit looked expensive. I had on the same blue
shirt and narrow black tie I wore three days a week because it was
one of the few things I owned that didn't make me look like a
teapot.
"It's just that I'd rather not relive it," she said quietly.
I touched her hand for an instant. "Okay." I smiled pretending
that I understood. "But, you do look amazing. What'd you lose,
eighty pounds?"
"Ninety-two, actually." She shrugged. "It was just a question
of the right motivation."
"I know. I should be the most motivated guy in the world. When
I married Cindy I promised I'd lose weight, but all I've done is
pack on more pounds. I figured Cindy and I would be together for
life, have kids and buy the proverbial house in the suburbs with the
white picket fence." I hesitated. "I had a physical a few days ago.
The doctor told me he wasn't sure how much longer my heart could
withstand the extra weight. He said I'd be lucky to see forty. But I
keep eating. It's a disease. Cindy wants a trial separation to see
if it wakes me up." I shook my head. "It may be the only thing
that'll save my life."
"I'm so sorry."
I took a sip of beer. "Hey, I'll get by. It's just that no one
takes me seriously. Even at work I'm the fat guy that's always
joking. What is it about me? You did it. Why can't I lose weight?"
Wendy picked up a pretzel, nibbled the end then put it on her
napkin. "I shouldn't have suggested that we come here. It was just
nice to see you and I thought we could get caught up on old times."
The chair groaned as I pushed back. I pictured it toppling over
and me sprawling on the rug like an overripe watermelon unable to
get up. "Look, I'm sorry. You're right. I'm asking for favors just
like I used to in high school. Tell me about your life. Who's the
lucky guy you married?"
She closed her eyes for an instant. "He died a few years ago."
"Oh, God, Wendy. That's horrible. Here I am babbling on about
my problems when you're the one who went through hell."
She took a long breath. "No, Jim. If anyone can understand what
you're going through it should be me. I'm being selfish." She looked
away for a few seconds and when she turned back her look softened
and I knew she had reached a decision. "Maybe it would work for you.
I went to a motivation specialist. Her success rate for overweight
people is ninety-eight percent."
"Jesus. What's her secret?"
"No secret. It's a matter of conditioning. She's expensive and
only takes on clients who will give her a total commitment."
"Do you think she could help me?"
"She's good, but, I must say, her methods are a little
different."
"I'm willing to try anything at this point."
Wendy reached into her purse and pulled out a card. "Samantha
Allston, Motivation Therapist," it said. Under that was a phone
number.
"She doesn't advertise," Wendy said. "I heard about her from a
friend. Her office is only a couple of hours from here, in
Springfield." She touched my hand. "Before you contact her make sure
that this is what you really want."
I tucked the card in my shirt pocket. "It is. I'll call her
tonight."
Wendy stayed silent for a few seconds and I should have
realized by the look in her eyes that something was wrong. Then she
said, "Well, it's settled. Samantha Allston is going to change your
life forever."
Springfield is an old industrial town in the central part of
Massachusetts. As I drove down its bustling main street a sense of
excitement was building. I was certain this was going to be the day
I turned my life around.
Samantha Allston's first available appointment had been six
weeks from the night I called. A good sign, I thought. People must
be lined up for her services.
I followed the directions she gave and located her office in an
old warehouse in a run-down section of the city. A bar and a flower
shop were on the first floor and stenciled on a second floor window
was Samantha's name. Graffiti laced the front wall and the buildings
on each side were boarded up. Across the street was a vacant field
and the whole area could have used a cleaning. It wasn't the kind of
office I expected a successful therapist would occupy. If it hadn't
been for Wendy's recommendation and my determination I would have
gone home.
The stairway leading up smelled of urine. Bottles and old food
wrappers were scattered about. Most of the offices on the second
floor had closed doors and dirt seemed to be caked on every surface.
Up ahead I spotted a brass plate with Samantha Allston's name on it.
I knocked on the glass and when no one responded I pushed it open.
The room had yellow walls and no pictures. A motel-modern desk
and two rusted folding chairs were jammed against the window.
"Hello," I said.
No answer.
Footsteps tapped on the stairway and a few seconds later an
elderly woman with gray hair tied in a bun and horn-rimmed glasses
entered the office. She was tall and slim and had on a dark blue
skirt and flowery blouse. In her hand was a manila folder. "I'm
Samantha Allston. You're Jim Harris and right on time. That's a good
sign."
She sat in one of the folding chairs, adjusted her skirt and
motioned toward the other one. She perched the folder on her lap and
opened it.
"Wendy Hopkins recommended you," I said. "She told me your
success rate is ninety-eight percent. I have to admit that when I
saw this building I was a little shaken. Is this where you meet all
of your clients?"
She continued to study the contents of the folder as if I
hadn't spoken, then pushed her glasses back on her nose and stared
at me. "I am here to solve your problem. Where we meet should be of
little concern."
A coldness in her tone threw me, but that was because I was
expecting a touchy-feely type of person. Maybe abruptness was what I
needed.
She closed the folder and shut her eyes for a moment. "I think
one-fifty will do for you."
I smiled. "One-fifty would be great, but I should tell you I
have a problem resisting food."
She tapped the folder. "You've worked as an accountant for
Rogers and Dinkin for four years. You make thirty-two thousand
dollars. Your wife, Cindy, works as an office temp and last year
made twelve thousand. You both want children, but Cindy is concerned
about your weight and hopes that a trial separation will force you
to slim down."
I could feel my jaw dropping. "How do you know that?"
"My consortium conducts research on all our clients, Mr.
Harris. I charge three hundred dollars for each session and I
guarantee results."
I held up my hand. "You're going a little fast for me. I'd like
to know more about your methods before I commit to anything."
She moved to the desk, opened up a drawer and pulled out a
sheet of paper. "I have no methods. You may eat anything you wish."
She turned the paper toward me. "Will you sign this, please?"
"I'm not signing anything until I know more about what you do.
What do I get for three hundred dollars?"
"Motivation, Mr. Harris. If you're not willing to sign then you
are wasting my time."
I pointed to the paper. "Exactly what am I signing?"
"It's a binding contract stating that you will follow my
instructions implicitly and without question. Furthermore, you agree
not to disclose my methods. Any deviation will mean termination."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're free to leave. But my feeling is that
you won't. You need me to help you. No one else will get the results
that I will."
I glanced at the contract and its two paragraphs were exactly
what she stated. Still, I was reluctant to sign. Samantha Allston's
coldness bothered me and I couldn't understand her need for secrecy.
Wendy Hopkins' image flashed into my mind. She'd followed this
therapist's instructions and been successful. Samantha Allston could
be my last chance.
I picked up a pen and signed.
Samantha slid the contract into the folder and deposited it in
her desk. "Welcome to the program. You will report to me once a week
to be weighed until you attain the goal of one hundred fifty pounds.
From that point on you will check in once a year. You must never go
over your goal weight. We have no special diet or pills for you to
take. There is one simple rule to follow and you must never deviate
from it. Each Saturday when you come to weigh in you must have lost
at least three pounds."
"Is this some type of joke?"
"No joke, Mr. Harris. I assure you of that."
"Losing three pounds every week is impossible. Sure, the first
couple of weeks it may happen, but some weeks I might not lose
anything."
"Do you love your wife?"
"Of course I do, but that's not motivation enough."
"Oh, but it is. Your wife at this moment is at a shopping mall
with her sister. She will be under twenty four-hour surveillance
until you reach one hundred fifty pounds. If there's any week that
you don't lose at least three pounds she will be terminated."
For an instant what she said didn't register. "Terminated? What
do you mean terminated?" I smiled to mask my uneasiness. "Are you
going to kill her?"
"Kill is such a messy term. I prefer to use terminated."
I pointed toward the desk. "That contract I signed. It said
that any deviation from your instructions would mean termination.
Are you going to kill me, too?"
"If it comes to that."
I got up. My heart double-thumped and my finger shook as I
jabbed it at her. "You're crazy. I'm going to the police."
"If you do, your wife will be terminated immediately and you
will be framed. We've already removed things from your house that
would implicate you. As of right now you are under twenty four-hour
surveillance as well. As your therapist I would be forced to divulge
our confidential conversations about your obsession to kill Cindy to
the police. So you see, until you weigh one-fifty you are under my
control. There is no way out."
"Bullshit." I could feel my voice shaking. "What you're asking
is impossible. No one could lose three pounds every week. I don't
want any part of this."
"I'm a business woman, Mr. Harris. I couldn't let you out of
the program even if I wanted to. My associates are unknown to me. I
act as their contact. Your payment is forwarded to the consortium's
PO Box, then I am sent a salary. Weight control is big business and
my bosses have figured out a way to make it very lucrative for them.
They are nasty people who take your commitment very seriously."
"I can't believe this. Look, you tell your associates I'll pay
anything if they stop this right now."
Samantha shook her head. "That would be bad for business. We
have a reputation to live up to. There are no exceptions. We are
very proud of our success ratio. Once you signed the contract you
became one of our clients. There's nothing I can do."
"Suppose I don't show up to be weighed in."
"We're not animals. We can be flexible, but we do not accept
absences without legitimate reasons. My associates will watch you at
all times and, be warned, if they feel your excuse is not adequate I
can not be held responsible for their actions. I would suggest you
report every week."
My mind
was in turmoil as I drove home. A black Lincoln followed, not even
trying to keep their surveillance secret. I gripped the steering
wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. Surely, they couldn't be
serious about killing Cindy.
What had I gotten myself into?
What had I gotten Cindy into?
There had to be some way out of this madness.
Cindy wasn't home when I arrived at our apartment. I rushed in
and peered out the window. The Lincoln was parked up the street. If
I called the cops Cindy would be killed. I needed time to work out a
plan.
I got a trash bag from under the sink, opened the cupboards and
tossed things into the sack. Cookies, cakes, jars of peanut butter,
potato chips, candy bars. Anything that would tempt me was shoved
inside.
I was working on my second bag when Cindy arrived home.
"What are you doing, honey," she said.
I stared at her for a few seconds not sure what to say. We were
both being watched. Could it be possible the house was bugged, too?
The contract I'd signed swore me to secrecy.
Cindy was big-boned, but not fat and with her blonde hair tied
back in a ponytail she looked about eighteen. We'd been through a
lot together and I'd let her down so many times. In that instant I
realized how much I loved her. Losing her would be like having my
heart torn out.
"I'm going to do it this time," I said trying to keep my voice
under control. "I'm going to lose the weight."
She put her arms around me and kissed me lightly on the lips.
"God, this new therapist must be wonderful. Tell me about her."
"Not much to tell. Her secret is motivation. I signed a form
saying I wouldn't divulge her methods, not even to you. So, you'll
just have to watch the results for yourself."
She stood back and stared into my eyes. "Whatever you need I'm
willing to do. Anything. We'll eat fish and chicken. Lots of
vegetables. Whatever it takes." Her eyes misted over. "You have made
me so happy. Today is the start of a big change in our lives."
She had no idea how true her words were.
The
surveillance continued everyday. The black Lincoln followed me
everywhere. Two women in a gray Chevy followed Cindy, but if she was
aware of it, she never mentioned it.
My work suffered. I couldn't concentrate and made mistakes. By
Friday I was a wreck and the people in the office were talking about
me. The boss said if I didn't straighten out I'd be fired.
But, I lost weight.
The first Saturday I dropped eight pounds. The following week
six, and the one after that the required three.
Each time I begged Samantha Allston to let me out of the
program and each time she told me it was impossible.
The fourth week was when the problem set in.
By Thursday I had only lost one pound and even if I ate nothing
until Saturday I knew I probably wouldn't be down the necessary
three. And if some miracle happened and I was, how long would it be
before I didn't meet Samantha Allston's goal?
That afternoon I roamed the streets of Boston, thinking. I
couldn't ask Cindy for help because of my fear the house was bugged.
Even if we went for a walk they might have a way to overhear our
conversation.
When I got home that night Cindy knew that something was wrong.
I whispered in her ear. "Remember when you said that you'd do
anything to help me lose weight?"
She nodded and I handed her a notebook. I had written
everything down including the plan that I hoped would save us.
Cindy sat on the couch, tucked her legs under her and spent the
next half hour reading. I have to give her credit for not panicking.
When she'd finished I saw determination in her eyes and knew
together we'd beat this.
Then she called her sister and they went to the mall.
The next morning the gray Chevy followed Cindy's Toyota to the
manufacturing plant where she'd been temping for the past month.
Thing was, the car was being driven by Cindy's sister, Violet,
dressed to look like Cindy.
Cindy left a few minutes later, climbed over the fence in our
back yard and caught a cab to the airport. When the phone rang two
hours later I knew that she was safely on the plane. I didn't know
where she was headed and I didn't want to know. She'd contact me
when it was safe.
I locked up the house and headed to the police station. The
Lincoln followed me and as I entered the building I noted the driver
talking on a cell phone. My guess was he called Cindy's surveillance
and told them to pick her up. By now Violet had walked out the back
door of the plant where she had parked her own car the previous
night and was safely home.
The officer behind the glass partition looked up as I entered.
"Can I help you?" she said.
I banged on the counter. "I'm going to kill my wife. She's
always making fun of my weight. Today, it finally got to me. My mind
just snapped. She's not safe. You've got to lock me up."
After a
series of psychiatric tests, which I deliberately flunked, the
courts decided I was unstable and a menace to society. A judge
ordered that I be locked up in Ridgeway Acres, a mental hospital,
until doctors decided I was fit to return to a normal life. Being
put away was certainly a legitimate excuse to miss my Saturday weigh
in.
To improve my self-image they put me on a fifteen hundred
calorie a day diet. If I responded well to therapy I could get out
in a little more than a year. By then I should be down to one-fifty.
I had beaten Samantha Allston.
My new therapist's office was large and square. The walls were
white and covered with framed certificates. She was seated facing
the window when I entered and stayed that way for a few seconds.
Then Samantha Allston swiveled to face me.
The End
THE LAST PICTURE SHOW
Early morning
sounds. Seagulls squawking, the slap of water against the pilings, a
lone motorboat puttering away from the dock. Curtis Dawes knew the
area would be deserted. After all, the crime was three days old. The
media had moved on to other things.
He bent low and snapped a picture of the dark stain that he
recognized as old blood. Waste of time, he thought. If he could have
crashed the wake and gotten a picture of the actress in her coffin
that would have made him some money. But, it's not like the old
times. Today, security is everywhere.
His mind flashed back to his younger days. He'd taken his first
picture of James Cagney when he was just a cub reporter for the
Chicago Herald. Seeing the photo credit had hooked him. Since then
he'd made a good living photographing the best of the best whether
they wanted him to or not. Never even had time to take a wife. He
was constantly on the move, trying to find the next great shot.
"Morning," a female voice behind him said.
Curtis turned to see a stylishly dressed woman in her early
twenties, a good forty years younger than he. Her shoulder length
brown hair shimmered in the sunlight. A cheap Minolta hung around
her neck. Her gaze darted to the glistening white outline on the
pavement. For an instant he thought she looked familiar.
"Is that where she was killed?" she said.
Curtis nodded. Another curiosity seeker. "Apparently she came
here to look out over the water and someone followed her. A simple
robbery. She struggled." Curtis shrugged. "Shit happens."
"Pretty isolated place at night."
Curtis glanced behind the woman. "Pretty desolate during the
day, too. Maybe that's why she came here. You know, to be alone."
She nodded. "Actresses need their private space sometimes."
Then she moved past him and looked out over the ocean. Curtis
smelled her perfume, noticed the tightness of her blouse and her
muscular calves. She breathed in deeply. When she turned back she
studied him for an instant.
"I know you. You're Curtis Dawes, the photographer."
Curtis stood straighter. He'd always liked to be recognized,
but it hadn't happened in years. His best days were behind him.
"I bought one of your picture books when I was younger. You
photographed all the stars."
He pointed toward her camera. "You a photographer?"
"No. I dabble a little. Just visiting for a day or two." She
hitched her thumb toward the dot of marshlands in the distance.
"While I'm here though there are a couple of shots I have to get."
She held out her hand. "Samantha Eggers."
They shook. He thought he saw admiration in her eyes or maybe
it was just the morning light.
"How do you do it?" she said.
Curtis sensed a tingle he hadn't felt in a long time. He loved to
talk about his work. "It's all timing, talent and a little luck. You
gotta know where the stars are going to be. And you need to be
prepared."
"Yeah. But how do you know the right place? I'm always looking
for them and I never see one."
"Connections. I used to have people calling me all the time.
Then it's just a question of tailing."
You stalk them?"
"Stalking is a harsh term. Look, these people are celebrities.
Some of them get millions for each movie. Then they yell they want
their privacy. No such thing as far as I'm concerned. Once they make
the decision to become a public commodity they're mine. And anybody
else who wants a piece of them."
"I bet you don't give up no matter what anyone says to you."
"Damn right. I'm like a hunter, Ms. Eggers. Once I make a
decision to pursue my prey, nothing my target might do concerns me.
The picture is my Holy Grail."
"So, who have you done recently?"
A groupie, Curtis thought. Maybe he'd invite her to breakfast. Then
who knows what might happen? "Madonna a while back. I took a picture
of Travolta when his plane had to make an emergency landing a few
months ago."
"Ever take a picture of a corpse?"
Kinky. He could go for this woman.
"A few times." He tried to keep the bragging out of his voice.
"Didn't you get one of Corrine Carter?"
"You know about her? Yeah. That was some picture, but it was a
long time ago. Must be twenty-five years, now. She was an up and
coming starlet who was always in the papers. Married but couldn't
keep her hands off other men."
Samantha remained perfectly still. "Witnesses said a car chased
her. She lost control of the wheel and hit a stonewall. You snapped
her picture just before she died."
Curtis smiled. He'd had to do some fancy lying to stay out of
trouble, but he'd sold that shot for a lot of money. "You do what
you have to do."
Samantha moved closer. "You got that right. She was my mother."
The knife seemed to come out of nowhere and sliced across his
neck. Once, twice, a third time. The last thing Curtis Dawes saw
before he lost consciousness was Samantha Eggers taking his picture.
The End
