The Ripper of Blossom Valley
Page 31
Sitting at my kitchen table, nursing a beer, I find myself tracing my fingers around this card Doyle gave me. Not only do they want me to take time off, but he said I should talk to someone if I'm having trouble dealing with Frank's death. I read the name on the card: Dr. Madison Gibson. He said she'd helped some other officers in the past. I’ve bumped into her a few times at the station when she visited with some of the guys, but never said more than a hello to her. Pfft. I fling the card across the table. There's only one woman whose company I want to keep right now. I pick up the phone and dial up Agent Fitch. Maybe I'll spend a couple weeks in Reno.
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Priya
It's been weeks since I've seen him. Why haven’t I come across this jerk and his van again? It's just my luck that once I decide to stop listening to the devil on my shoulder and start giving the angel her due, fate or the universe or whatever laughs at me.
The morning after I was discovered hiding in the bushes by those strange people, I regretted my decision to leave them behind. Not coming away with any valuables was the least of my concerns, and I realized then and there that something bigger was going on. This was my chance to break the endless cycle of thievery that, admittedly, I wasn't very good at. I would discover a different, more respectable way to make a living. But more than that, I resolved to not ever let the Japanese man in the utility uniform ever hurt another woman, not ever again.
But now it's like the trail has gone cold. I wondered if he'd been caught by the police, but when I heard on the news that the Ripper had been killed, there was no mention of an accomplice. And I knew just from the description of him that this wasn't the same man. Now, I wonder if this Paralyzer guy is just keeping a low profile for awhile. Which has made my evenings super boring lately.
Walking through the neighborhood, scanning vehicles for several blocks in every direction, I suddenly stop in my tracks. The van! I frantically race to the street where it’s parked, then look around, into each house on the block. Family, empty, couple sitting on their couch, empty, family--there! He's just gone in the front door, wearing his same uniform, and a woman let him in. I run toward the house, but stop once he incapacitates her. The devil rears his ugly head on my shoulder once more. This time I ignore him.
I grab my taser, test it for good measure, and rush into the house.
About the Author
S.D. Christopher has been a life-long fan of science fiction and fantasy films, television shows, and novels, and grew up in the same hometown as George R.R. Martin. With a degree in radio, television, and minor in journalism, he honed his writing skills for a variety of media, and quickly learned that a career as a DJ is not as glamorous as it used to be. His nearly twenty-year-career as a software tester has helped delight the customers of dozens of popular mobile applications, many of which you've likely used!
S.D. wrote his first two novels in the Uncommon Senses series while commuting on New Jersey Transit trains into New York City. He currently resides in suburban North Carolina with his pastry chef wife, adorable daughter, and wimpy cat, and now enjoys a much shorter commute.
Twitter: @author_sdc
Website: www.sdchristopher.net
e-mail: info@sdchristopher.net