The May Day Murders Sequel

by Scott Wittenburg

  “It’s magnificent. How’s the view from the inside?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Inside Sam’s living room, Maisy peered out through the bay window. “I can’t imagine waking up to this every morning. It’s like being on top of the world.”

  “And you wouldn’t believe what a steal this place was. That’s the real kicker.”

  “I’m envious—that’s all I can say.”

  “Would you like something to drink before I show you around?”

  “I’d love some water, thanks.”

  Sam went into the kitchen and fixed a couple of ice waters and handed one to Maisy.

  “As you can see, the kitchen is a bit dated. Once I get squared away the first thing I’m going to do is replace the Formica counters with granite. That alone will be a huge improvement. Probably go ahead and install a new sink and give the walls a fresh coat of paint.”

  “This is a pretty good sized kitchen for a house this old.”

  “Yeah, it’s not bad. I’m not much of a cook so it’s plenty big enough for me.”

  “So show me the rest,” Maisy suggested.

  “Right this way.”

  As Sam gave Maisy the guided tour, he was again in awe of how easy it was to carry on a conversation with her. This was the first time since Ann’s death that he’d spent more than a couple of minutes with a woman in this sort of situation and he was surprised how at ease he felt. He felt guilty as well—almost like he was forsaking the memory of his beloved wife. He was not used to this sort of thing.

  They had returned to the living room and Maisy plopped down on the sofa, nodding toward the fireplace.

  “Does that work?”

  “I don’t know, to tell you the truth.”

  “I love fireplaces. I almost hate when summer comes I enjoy mine so much.”

  “Why don’t I see if I can get this thing fired up?” Sam suggested.

  “That would be nice.”

  Sam kneeled down on the hearth and examined the grating. He had assumed it was a wood burning fireplace but realized upon closer inspection that the logs were fake. It was an old natural gas model. He poked his head in to see if the grating was open but it was closed. He took hold of the lever, slid it to the right and the damper easily swung open.

  Sam and Ann’s former house had a fireplace similar to this one and he knew it had no pilot light. He took a match out from a box lying on the hearth, struck it and tossed it in under the logs. He slowly turned the floor mounted gas valve until the fireplace suddenly came to life in a blast of flame.

  “Works like a charm.” He grinned over at Maisy.

  “Lovely.”

  Sam stood up, glanced over at the woman sitting on his sofa staring at the flames and suddenly felt awkward. He hadn’t expected her to stay any longer than it took to show her the house. But she had made no effort to leave and now appeared to be quite content simply hanging out.

  “Would you like me to freshen up your water?”

  She shook her head. “No thanks. Do you have anything a little stronger? I know this sounds crazy but sitting in front of this fire makes it seem like we should be sharing a bottle of wine or something.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any wine, but could I interest you in a beer instead?”

  “Beer would be fine,” she replied encouragingly.

  “Coming right up.”

  Sam’s head was spinning as he took out a pair of Rolling Rocks from the fridge. Is this really happening? He popped off the tops, returned to the living room and handed Maisy a beer.

  “Thanks.”

  Sam sat down on the sofa, carefully gauging the mean distance between Maisy and the other end of the sofa. She was sitting near the center, as if inviting him to sit down beside her. Since he didn’t want to seem aggressive or presumptuous he’d taken the safe route, swearing at himself for overthinking the situation. Something he often tended to do.

  Maisy seemed to sense his inner turmoil. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you seeing anybody, Sam?”

  “No,” he replied flatly.

  “I don’t mean to put you on the spot and I’m sorry if I did. Sometimes I talk too much.”

  “I don’t feel put on the spot at all—I think it was a perfectly legit question.”

  “I’m so glad you said that. I just started thinking about how your wife just passed last year and how insensitive it was of me to ask such a stupid question. I’m truly sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize, Maisy. By the way, you have an unusual name—what’s it short for?”

  “Margaret. It’s Scottish.”

  “I see. Are your parents Scottish?

  “My mother is. Her parents lived in Edinburgh before moving here.”

  “Your folks live in Smithtown?”

  “Not anymore. They moved down to Florida a few years ago.”

  “My parents live down there, too. Not sure how much longer though since my father’s health is slipping. Mom’s going to need some help if he gets much worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sam took a slug of Rock and gazed into the fire, feeling mellow in spite of everything. It was surreal sitting here like this with a beautiful stranger in front of a cozy fire.

  He suddenly felt her hand on his leg and looked over at Maisy. She was smiling sweetly, her blue eyes revealing a generous hint of desire. Sam scooted closer, his eyes locked in on her lush, full lips. She pulled him toward her. They kissed. Her kiss was like a breath of spring air, her lips soft and warm, her scent sweet and intoxicating. Moments later she pulled away and unzipped her jogging top. With his heart hammering in his chest, Sam merely sat there and stared in silence as she removed her sports bra, exposing her full, firm breasts.

  Sam felt her soft skin as he held her tight. They kissed again and Sam soon felt her hands pulling up on his sweatshirt. They removed their remaining clothes in a heated fit of passion. They sprawled out on the floor rug before the fireplace and commenced a passionate exploration of one another with their eyes and hands. Before long they began to make wild, crazy love, unable to hold back any longer. Sam was absolutely delirious, lost in Maisy’s responsive body. As they made love, everything that had been weighing heavy on his mind—Ann’s passing, Stanley Jenkins’ escape, the stolen trike, his future as a widower—disappeared into oblivion, replaced by the utter thrill and joy of the present moment.

  It was a slice of heaven.

  Chapter 7

  Stanley had put over a hundred miles between himself and the state of Ohio before he felt safe enough to pull over for a pit stop. He exited off the interstate, pulled into the first gas station he saw and parked several spaces over from the convenient mart. There was just enough ambient light for him to see the contents of the bag he’d taken out of the trunk. He fished around in it until he found the nylon travel bag, unzipped it, pulled out the contents and placed it on the car’s console.

  He studied the Visa Card that Ted Stillman had procured for him. It was issued by a major bank in Great Britain to Trent Mason. The card was backed up by the remaining balance of Stanley’s funds, which he estimated was close to eighty grand. That should be sufficient to maintain his new life for a while.

  Making sure there was no one close by, he adjusted the rear view mirror until he could see himself and hastily slipped the dirty blond wig over his head. After a couple of adjustments, he meticulously arranged the parting with a hair brush so that it looked more natural. The wig was high quality and not only changed his hair color but shaved about ten years off his prison-life appearance. The hair was styled in a contemporary cut that would get lost in a crowd.

  He picked up a fake moustache, removed the paper backing strip and deftly pressed it in place above his upper lip. Stanley smiled as he put the finishing touches on his disguise, confident that he looked sufficiently unlike Stanley Jenkins, aka Jerry Rankin, escaped prison convict.

  St
anley studied the road map and saw that the nearest town of any size was ten miles east. He backed the car out, pulled away from the gas station and merged back on to the interstate. A news radio station was playing and so far he hadn’t heard a word about any prison escapes in Ohio. He wondered how long it would take before his escape became public knowledge, knowing that the prison officials would be doing their damnedest to keep it under wraps as long as they possibly could. Nothing made a prison look worse than the escape of a convicted murderer.

  He passed signs for three different motels located at the exit that would take him to Murfeesville, Pennsylvania. That would be perfect. He pulled off and took a right, casing out the Days Inn and Budget Motel as he drove past them. He continued along the road until he entered the Murfeesville city limits. The town was small but big enough to provide all he needed. Stanley chose a side street and looked for a good place to pull over. When he spotted a parking lot near a tiny strip mall he pulled in and parked. There were only a few other cars in the lot and not a soul in sight.

  He removed the neat pile of clothes from the bag and put it aside. He took off his jacket and shoes, managed to slip out of the prison jumpsuit and pulled on a pair of khaki slacks. He put on a navy sweatshirt, unlaced the brand new Nike running shoes and slipped into them. After gathering up his prison clothes he stuffed them into the trash bag, tied it into a knot and opened the car door. He walked over to an alley running behind the strip mall and tossed the bag into a dumpster, returned to the car and headed back toward the highway.

  After pulling into the Days Inn, Stanley opened the bag containing the cash and took out a couple hundred dollars. He stuffed it into his pocket and double checked his disguise before entering the motel office.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, I’d like a room.”

  “Okay, how long will you be staying?”

  “Just tonight.”

  “Very well.”

  While she prepared his stay, Stanley found it difficult to hide his elation at being a free man again. To be able to stand here and check into a motel with a big bed and his own bathroom was nearly overwhelming. He watched as the woman pecked at the computer keyboard, noting how much smaller her PC looked compared to the computers he recalled from seven years ago.

  “Name please?”

  “James Waller,” he replied.

  “Address?”

  2351 Camden Road, Los Angeles.”

  “Zip?”

  “91436.”

  “Phone?”

  Stanley rattled of the first numbers that came to mind preceded by two-one-three.

  “And how will you be paying, sir?”

  “Cash.”

  She looked at him oddly and said, “Very well, but you’ll need to pay in advance.”

  “No problem—how much?”

  “$59.67.”

  Stanley handed her three twenties, recalling the way she’d looked at him at the mention of paying in cash. He could have used the Visa card instead but figured that paying with a foreign credit card would look even more suspicious than using cash.

  She gave him his change and a key card. “You’re in room forty-seven—just pull around to the far side of the motel and it’s about halfway to the end.”

  “Thank you,” Stanley replied.

  When he entered his room and looked around, Stanley smiled. He had upgraded considerably from his former digs. A queen-sized bed with two fat pillows, a huge flat-screen TV and his very own private bath. Oh, how he’d missed all of this!

  He sat down on the side of the bed, picked up the remote and turned on the tube. He surfed the channels until he found one that was playing an old episode of Matlock. The last time he’d watched this show had been while he was living in Columbus, stalking and eventually dating Ann Middleton.

  The beginning of his own undoing.

  He wondered how the femme fatale was doing now that she was back with her ex-husband. They were all probably one big happy family again. The thought of Ann and Sam living while he was confined to a stinking eight-by-ten-foot cell in a dingy, worn down prison for the past eight years made his blood boil. What he wouldn’t give to see the bitch now and make her pay for the way she’d jammed him up that night at his country retreat.

  First things first, he thought.

  His stomach growled. He could eat a horse right now. After this call, he’d get some chow and a six-pack of beer. Maybe see if there were any porn stations on the tube.

  He pulled out the burner, booted it up and punched in a phone number. If Bernstein didn’t answer, he wouldn’t leave a message but keep trying. After four rings somebody picked up.

  “Yeah.”

  “Max, how’s it going?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Stanley, Max. Stanley Jenkins.”

  “I’ll be fucked—what the hell have you been up to?”

  “Not much. I need your services again.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “A motel in PA. Don’t worry, I’m on a clean phone.”

  “You’d better be. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Stanley, but I’ve gotten out of the business. Hung it up a long time ago.”

  Stanley felt his heart sink. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  “I shit you not. Things got way too scary—feds sniffing around me all the time like bloodhounds. I had to get out before I got busted.”

  “I can’t be hearing this, Max! I really need your help!”

  “Sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  “Listen, Max. I don’t have time to fuck around. I’m on the lam. I need to get out of the country ASAP or my ass is grass. All I need’s a passport—that’s it! I’ll pay you twice what I paid you before—hell, make it three times! Please just do it this one time for an old friend and you’ll never hear from my ass again. What do you say?”

  “Can’t do it. I don’t even have my connections anymore—or the equipment. I got totally out, I’m telling you—lock, stock and barrel. I couldn’t help you out if you offered me a million bucks.”

  “Fuck. Okay, so do you know anybody else who could do it?”

  “Not off hand. I could do some asking around—but it’ll cost you.”

  “You’re not serious—you’d charge me just to find somebody else?”

  “Times are tough, Stanley, in case you haven’t heard.”

  “Alright, I don’t have any choice. But I need somebody fast, Max. Like yesterday. Line me up with something by tomorrow and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Can’t promise anything on this short notice, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Max, you have to come through with this! I’m counting on you.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up is all I’m saying.”

  “I’m driving to the city tomorrow morning. I’ll give you a call when I get in town. If you get me lined up, I’ll give you two grand. That’s more than a fair price for a few hours of your time, Max.”

  “I’ll not argue the price. But you can’t get blood out of a turnip—things are very tight right now. I’ll see what I can do, though.”

  “Do it, Max. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  As he disconnected Stanley was literally trembling. He had put all his chips into Max Bernstein coming through for him and it had just gone to shit. He must be losing his touch. Eight years of incarceration had made him rusty.

  There was nothing that angered him more than relying on others to get things done. Like the prison break, he still had to count on mindless assholes to help him get where he needed to be. Max Bernstein was a pussy, that was obvious. Now he would have to trust some total unknown of questionable integrity to come through with a counterfeit passport. That would trump his odds of getting caught substantially. Not good.

  Stanley stared at the phone, cocked back his arm and started to heave the thing at the motel wall before suddenly stopping himself. He had to keep his cool—this was no time to lose control.<
br />
  The thought of getting that six-pack suddenly seemed like an excellent idea. He took a deep breath, grabbed some cash and left the room.

  Chapter 8

  On his way to work Tuesday morning, Sam was totally lost in thought. He was still reeling from his chance meeting with Maisy Fleming the day before and all that had ensued. He recalled how they had sat around naked on the floor in front of the fireplace following their spontaneous sexual encounter, drinking beer and talking as if they’d known each other for years. They’d chatted for over an hour, mostly about their children and how messed up Smithtown, and for that matter the entire world, was. Everything seemed to flow so naturally that Sam had felt surprisingly at ease throughout the conversation. He had even at one point asked Maisy if he’d known her in a former life. She had simply laughed and replied, “Possibly.”

  As Maisy was getting ready to leave, Sam had offered to drive her home but she refused, insisting that she get her “two hours in” for the day. He had jotted down her phone number and promised to call her soon. Maisy had seemed delighted that he’d taken the initiative and gave him a long, lingering kiss before breaking into a jog down his driveway.

  It had all seemed like a dream. Everything had moved so fast and unexpectedly that Sam hadn’t fully registered what had occurred until after Maisy left his house. He had simply sat on the sofa with his beer, staring into the fire, asking himself, What in the hell just happened?

  His mind had switched to overdrive, trying to put it all into some rational perspective. All he could do was imagine the odds of having a chance encounter with a beautiful woman up here on his mountain and literally moments later having sex with her. With a woman who was intelligent, easy to talk to and able to make him forget how screwed up his life was.

  Maybe his luck was changing.

  It looked to be another brisk November day with the threat of snow still in the air. At the thought of the city’s first snowfall he realized what a bitch it would be getting down his long, steep driveway covered in the white stuff. Even with his four-wheel drive there would be a good chance of losing it along the narrow road. He’d either have to get up super early to salt and shovel or get used to parking at the foot of the driveway whenever it looked like snow.