by Edwin Dasso
“So, Sharon was killed?”
“I never said that, and I still don’t know what happened to her other than the obvious. From what I saw in group, some of those people could be suicidal under the right circumstances. Maybe she just decided to end it all and jumped?”
“So, am I under suspicion of anything?”
“Everybody is under suspicion. Sitting in on group helped a lot. I’ll be back next week.”
6
Friday, August 9th, 7:00 PM
The small brick bungalow with attached garage and chain link fence was perfect for Connie. She lived alone with her white cat she had impulsively named Frosty before she had time to think of more clever names and the name just stuck in her head. The home was located on the west side of Raff Road SW and a wide vacant lot separated it from the house to the south. On the North was Willow Funeral Home.
Connie fixed a large dinner of minute steaks, fried potatoes, pickled beets, and a stiff Grey Goose martini. She read the Canton Repository, scanning the obituaries for familiar names. Seeing none, she read a letter to the editor about the proposed expansion of the Professional Football Hall of Fame to include luxury condominiums and five-star restaurants. The writer thought it all a bit risky as the City of Canton was guaranteeing the construction loans, and taxes were already sky high due to flight to the suburbs and loss of industry. Connie didn’t make much money as a laundromat manager at the Suds & Duds over on West Tusc next to Heggy’s Nut Shop.
“I don’t know, Frosty. Taxes go up much higher we will have to move, or I will have to switch to cheaper cat food. We both know what happened when I tried that before.”
At 8:15 PM she put the paper down and walked unsteadily to the bedroom. She pulled the blinds and pulled off her jeans and Cleveland Browns T-shirt, then she put on an extra-long Browns shirt that served as her nightgown. Five minutes of bathroom ritual and she was ready for bed. She climbed into the queen size mahogany sleigh bed and turned off the light. It was a warm night and she didn’t even bother to get under the covers. She felt a slight shake of the mattress as Frosty joined her for the night.
She dreamed about a handsome gentleman coming into the laundromat and asking her to come with him to see the Browns practicing. She and Chad had ridden to the Berea training complex in his Jaguar convertible and she had felt so free with the wind blowing through her hair.
They were driving north on Front Street heading toward Lou Groza Boulevard and the training camp when the green Jaguar came to a railroad crossing. Instead of going across, Chad stopped the car right on the tracks. He took the transmitter for the keyless ignition out of his gray worsted wool trousers and threw it as hard as he could into the bushes on the other side of the road.
“What are you doing!” Connie screamed. Just then she saw flashing red lights and the barriers came down. “We’re going to get killed. I’ve got to get out of here. Connie pressed the red button to release the shoulder harness, but it wouldn’t come loose. She felt the heavy rumble of the coal train as it approached. When the train came into view, the engineer began blowing the whistle, but the train wasn’t slowing down. She tried to climb out from under the shoulder harness, but it held her tight. The whistle was screaming in her ears. The huge diesel train engine hit the left side of the Jaguar and the car flipped to the right. Connie was upside down then her head crashed into the tracks and the massive engine crushed the car.
She woke up at 3:00 AM but the whistling didn’t stop. Am I still dreaming? “Frosty, are you there?” she called out. The whistling still continued.
“Am I going crazy?” she yelled into the night. She flipped on the nightstand light and the whistle still screamed. “The kitchen. It’s coming from the kitchen!” She rolled off the bed and quickly put on her brown Dearfoams slippers. She ran into the kitchen and there on the electric smooth top range were four pressure cookers, each with steam billowing out of the top. All the burners glowed cherry red.
“My God!” she screamed. She ran into the dining room and headed toward the front door. “Ahhh!” she screamed. Blocking the front door was another pressure cooker on the floor with what looked like steam coming out. “This can’t be real! I must still be dreaming!”
She ran back through the dining room to the back door. Another spouting pressure cooker was blocking that exit.
Connie felt her breath coming in short spurts. Her heart pounded as the adrenaline flooded her body and put her into fight or flight mode. Problem was, she couldn’t flee, and she didn’t know what to fight. Like an out of control pinball ball, she ran from room to room, somehow thinking the result would be different. She grasped her neck as it felt like her windpipe was closing on her. She breathed faster and her heart thudded like a drop forge hammer.
On her third trip to the back door, she tripped on the blue oval rag rug that covered an ugly spot on the hardwood floor. She landed on the rug, but the blow knocked the wind out of her. She tried to get up on her knees, but her arms would not support her. “Help me! Help me!” she cried out. She had so little air that her voice carried at best halfway across the vacant lot on the one side. On the other side, the embalmer was working late at Willow Funeral Home, but he had Cherie Currie’s What do Other People Know blasting on Sirius Channel 21, and he wouldn’t have heard a fire truck go by.
Gradually, Connie’s screams weakened to the point that no sound was coming out at all. Her heart raced and she saw the veins pulsing on her flesh like blue worms. “Frosty,” she called out. “I don’t think I’m dreaming – I think I’m dying.” She felt a pain like a knife plunging into her chest, then she didn’t feel her heart pounding. She listened. Nothing. Her heart had stopped. She tried to breathe, but the pain was too great. Her sight grew dim as the oxygen left her system. She tried to move her fingers, but they would not obey her commands. Soon she didn’t even recognize her fingers. A shadow crossed her field of view and at first, she thought it was Frosty, but it was too big. It was a person. She heard the whistle change sound as the shadow passed. Somebody was carrying one of the pressure cookers from the back door toward the front. She felt the coldness creeping up from her feet. The last thing she saw before she died was her bite plate falling out of her mouth onto the rug. It was covered in red foam.
7
Wednesday, August 14th, 1:00 PM
Five people sat in the circle of seven chairs: Ben, Frank, John, Betty, and Max. Nobody felt like sharing. Since Connie’s death had not been dramatic or public, it got no mention on the news.
“My nephew Jacob works rescue squad,” John said. “Jacob said it was a heart attack, plain and simple.”
“There’s just too much coincidence,” Betty replied. “How do you think I feel? I’m the last woman in the group. The other two are dead. Am I going to be next?”
“I say we don’t meet for a while,” Frank said.
“I’m OK with that,” John added. “Let’s skip August and maybe start back up in September.”
Ben looked over at Max and wondered what the detective was thinking. Max would probably opt to keep coming, especially with the second death. “Max, how do you feel about taking a recess?”
“I think if we take a break because we are scared, then we are just giving in to our fears. I know it all seems too coincidental to be just two unfortunate accidents, But I think that is what they were. Going home and hiding in fear is not going to help any of us. We need to confront our fears.”
“Max, you make a lot of sense,” Betty replied. “Ben, why didn’t you say something like that. You’re the leader, you’re supposed to help us confront our fears.”
“She’s right, Ben,” Frank said. “Don’t tell me you are getting afraid of coming?”
“Me, of course not. I just felt I should go along with the consensus of the group.” Ben tried to draw his head into his polo shirt like a turtle in a shell, but it didn’t work, and he had to look at all the faces in the group. “Let’s just say I feel responsible. Yes, I think the deaths were acci
dents, but nevertheless as leader of the group, I feel responsible. And I would feel terrible if somebody else died, maybe because they kept coming to group.”
“How could coming to group make anybody die?” John asked.
Ben wanted so much to tell the group that a detective had contacted him and indicated there was evidence that at least Sharon had been murdered. But he couldn’t. If he did, Max would have him down in the interrogation room and he would probably confess to Sharon’s murder. He knew that Max wanted the group to keep meeting in order to capture the killer, but why were the group members going along like lambs to the slaughter. Damn you, Max Fetterman.
“You all know about the mask I bought for my wife and the terrible things that happened after I got rid of it. That thing still haunts me. I wonder if it has found me again and is doing these things because of what I did to it?”
“Ben, you’re talking crazy,” Max said. “These things we fear are phobias. They aren’t real.”
“You didn’t see that milkshake machine explode and the place go up in flames in a few seconds.”
“It was probably a natural gas leak,” Frank added. “What ever became of that girl you rescued from Cleo’s. She’s fine, isn’t she?”
“She died exactly one year later in a single car accident on a sharp turn on Sherman Church Road. Hit a tree and flew through the windshield. Police said that it looked like her seatbelt had been cut. I went to the funeral - it was a closed casket.”
“Man, you have a lot of guilt,” John added. “I don’t know about anybody else, but I will be here next week.”
“I should have the most to fear,” Betty said, “but Max is right. I’m not going to get any better hiding from my fears.”
“I’m in,” Frank said. “I may even see about taking the gloves off next week. I’m so damn tired of wearing these things!”
“Well, you already know how I feel,” Max added. “Ben, what say you?”
“You’re all right. I do have a lot of guilt and I feel responsible, but if you want to keep coming, I will. I will continue as group leader as long as you want me to.”
“We don’t want anybody else, do we?” Frank asked. “Come on group. We want Ben.”
The group continued the chant until they all broke up in laughter. It was a laughter born of two weeks of tension, fear, and unknowing.
“Ok, let’s get the chairs put away. Take all the donuts you want. I’ll put the coffee away.”
Max followed Ben and the coffee pot into the kitchen. “I need to talk with you,” Max whispered. “It’s big.”
“Ok, wait until everybody else leaves.” Ben walked back out into the meeting room and said his goodbyes. “See you all next week. And I mean all!”
After the others had left, Ben walked back into the kitchen. He wanted to hear what Max had to say, but at the same time, he was dreading hearing the information. Max must suspect a killer. He better not be thinking it’s me.
“Found some actual evidence, Ben,” Max said as he sipped a cup of lukewarm coffee and Splenda.
“Where?”
“At Connie’s house.”
“But she supposedly had a heart attack. That’s not murder.”
“Suppose something precipitated the heart attack?”
“You mean like poison?” Ben asked.
“Naw, they would detect that. You ever hear of a person dying of fright? Raw fear? The adrenaline builds up in the system until the system can’t take it anymore and the heart stops.”
“So, they found adrenaline in her system? That’s the evidence?”
“They found an elevated level when they examined the body. But I’m the one who found the tangible evidence…”
“What?” Ben asked. “Fingerprints?”
“You know I can’t discuss that, and what I am going to tell you next has to stay between us. If not…”
“I know, you’ll haul my butt to the station. What did you find?”
“I found the lid to a pressure cooker on the front porch. Nobody else thought to even look at it. But after the meeting last week when Connie was talking about pressure cookers, I picked it up with gloves and took it to the lab. Boys down there thought I was crazy, but I asked them to go over it. Guess what they found in the grease on the inside of the lid. Carbon dioxide!”
“I don’t get it,” Ben replied. “What does that mean?”
“I think somebody scared Connie with pressure cookers. Pressure cookers filled with dry ice so that it would look like steam coming out. Maybe put them all over her apartment and then woke her up in the middle of the night. Stove top was cracked. Looked like all the burners had been on high for a while. Probably a real one there – hissing with steam like the one that killed her aunt.”
“So, it’s murder?”
“For Connie’s death - Murder One! Premeditated. Probably Sharon’s was too. Question is why, but I’m getting close to booking somebody.”
8
Thursday, August 15th, 2:37 AM
Ben had gone to bed at 10:00 PM but had lain awake for nearly five hours. He thought about what members of the group had said on Wednesday, about needing to confront one’s fears. Betty seemed the most likely third target, but she didn’t seem afraid. Some flesh and blood person might really be stalking Betty and she wouldn’t have the strength to fight that person off.
Ben felt like a boy afraid of an imaginary monster in the closet. The mask had been real, and yes, wifey had been terrified of it, but there was no concrete proof that it had done anything. It could have all been coincidence.
Ben pulled up the Internet on his mobile and checked for dive shops in the area. He found Ka Puka Wai located in the Meyers Lake Plaza. He thought about what he would ask them, but it seemed so silly that it had to be a pretty outlandish story. I’ll call them in the morning. I have to.
As soon as Ben made the decision, his anxiety vanished, and he fell into a deep sleep. He dreamed he was in group, holding up the mask and telling the other members how silly he was to be afraid of it. He hoped he could keep his self-respect and maybe earn back some of the respect he had lost in the eyes of the group. Things were going fine, and he was eating a chocolate cream filled Dunkin Donut and drinking coffee laced with Stevia and heavy cream. He looked up at a chair that had formerly been empty but was now occupied by a masked figure wearing red silk robes with a huge hood covering the head. Behind the mask, the eyes glowed red.
“So, you were able to conquer me, Ben? Is that what happened?” the masked person said. “I guess I don’t feel very conquered. What exactly did you do to me?” He took off the mask and held it out to Ben.
Ben bent his torso back trying to get away from the mask and he almost pushed his chair over backwards. He stared at the strange and terrible creature and his courage evaporated like water off a red-hot Lodge cast iron 10-inch skillet. He tried to make his mouth move, but he couldn’t make it form words. All that came out was a horrible scream.
The creature put the mask on his chair, then he removed the hood to reveal Frank underneath. Frank had no mask and no gloves, and his mouth turned into an enormous smile and then the face began to laugh. The whole group laughed at Ben. “For a minute there, Ben,” Frank said, “we thought you were cured so we thought we’d test you. You miserable coward, I had the mask on my face, and nothing happened to me.”
Frank stood and as he did, he grew shorter and shorter. Bodily fluids oozed out from under the red gown. “Something is happening to me!” Frank yelled. “I can’t feel my feet or my legs. Something real bad has happened!”
John ran over and pulled up the hem of the gown. “Your body’s all going down there, Frank! I think it’s those flesh-eating bacteria and they are coming for your brain.”
“Help me, you guys,” Frank pleaded. “Don’t let it get to my head!” Frank tried to speak again, but only dissolved lung tissue came out of his mouth. A few seconds later he was nothing but a liquid mess on the floor. The mask toppled off the chair and sat li
ke a triumphant gladiator on top of Frank’s liquified carcass.
“Why the hell did you bring that mask in here, Ben?” John asked. “You wanted to show how brave you were. Now Frank is dead because of it. You don’t think of anybody but yourself. God, I wish it would have taken you instead!”
Ben woke up and saw sunlight streaming through the window. He checked his mobile – 8:30 AM. He took a quick shower, made a three-egg and New Zealand white cheddar cheese omelet, and topped it with some olive tapenade from the restaurant. A cup of French roast from the Keurig loaded with cream and stevia completed the breakfast.
He didn’t want to look like a crackpot when he walked into the dive shop, so he put on some dark olive dress Dockers and combined it with a yellow short-sleeve Egyptian cotton button down shirt. A heavy brown leather belt with silver buckle and matching vintage tassel loafers sans socks finished off the bottom. He needed to make the right impression in order for his story and request to sound believable.
He drove his normal route to Twelfth Street, then he took the back entrance to the shopping center and drove past third-tier retail shops until he came to the dive shop in the north end just south of Value City.
The door was set back 30 feet from the storefront, and he walked past windows filled with scuba equipment and huge murals of past scuba adventures to Mexico and other exotic places. He opened the door and walked to the back of the store. “Hi, are you the owner?”
“I am. Reg Hobart. I own the store and lead the expeditions, but I don’t recognize you. You new to scuba?”
“Uh, yes,” Ben stammered. “I don’t know much about it except what I have seen on TV. It looks exciting.”
“That and more,” Reg replied in a practiced patter. “What are you looking to do underwater?”
