Kill Her Twice

by G A Pickstock

  Chapter 32

  Colm and Emily stepped out into the cool night air. The temperature had dropped a bit from the night before. It seemed like an age had passed since last evening. Both of them felt much older and the sense of satisfaction that the mystery of Kallita’s purse was solved left them drained. The session with Mark had lasted for hours. Between lawyers and paperwork and the legal wrangling between questions, they finally emerged with Mark’s confession all typed up and verified with video and audio to back it all up. He would go away for quite a while and now it was up to the Crown to determine if anyone else should be charged. It wasn’t likely but there would be more investigations.

  Everything else had come together. Kallita’s 911 tapes outlined everything; combined with what they had heard themselves, she would go down for killing Dan and Frieda. Kallita was on a spree to kill anyone and everyone who she thought might have had something to do with attacking her. She was alive, but would spend the rest of her life in prison. Roy’s and Mike’s testimony would put her away for attempted murder and the Crown figured that even without the body she would go down for killing Alan.

  Questions remained. Where was Alan’s body? The search party had scoured the whole area with no luck. There were wolves and coyotes in the area but Colm could not believe that wolves had taken him. Had he survived and if so, why hide the fact? What could he have to gain by disappearing? They would continue to search. After all, Kallita had survived twenty-five years, when everyone thought she was dead. Was Alan destined to suffer the same fate?

  It was late and they were both tired. Neither had seen daylight in over twenty hours. Colm held the door as Emily climbed into the front seat of the Mini. He marvelled that she could still look so good after what they had endured. He closed her door and as he slid into his seat and started the engine, he asked.

  “Are you hungry? Do you want to get something to eat?”

  Emily yawned, shaking her head.

  “Let’s just go home.”

  * * *

  Open twenty-four hours, Tod's Coffee Corner would draw the late crowd almost every night. When the local bars emptied out around 2:00 AM, the downtown coffee shop was usually busy. The young attendants scrambled around serving the half-drunk crowd that demanded everything now, and changing their minds two seconds later. No one noticed when a homeless man walked in and sat at a table by the window without ordering anything. The staff shrugged it off as another old drunk with nowhere to go, and no idea how to get there.

  As the restaurant crowd thinned out, a young female server approach the old gent and asked, “Is there something I can get you sir, you look lost to me. Are you OK?”

  The man looked up at the young brunette.

  “I have a granddaughter about your age. Did you know that?”

  “No sir.”

  The girl took a step back unsure where this might lead. He looked a lot older than her dad. His clothes were grass stained and muddy. The man seemed disoriented and slurred his speech. She thought he was drunk, but could not smell any alcohol; rather, he stunk of manure.

  “Let me get you a coffee on the house.” There was no way this guy had any money, not judging by his clothes. He smelled and looked like he hadn’t had a bath in months.

  “No, no thank you. I would like a glass of water, and would you have a small box, say about six inches long, and some tape?”

  “Let me see about the box, I’ll bring you some water in a second.” She scurried off to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she reappeared with a small doughnut box and a roll of scotch tape.

  “Give me a minute, I’ll be right back with your water.” When she returned the man was gone. The only evidence of his presence was a muddy shoe print under the table.

  Chapter 33

  Mary Taylor stared out the coffee shop window at the traffic streaming its way through Clarksville’s downtown core. She hadn't touched the coffee, now cold from neglect. Life seemed pointless now that Mark was locked up. What was she supposed to do with that? How could she be expected to carry on? Kallita had done it again. She had swooped in like the whirlwind she was, and twisted everyone’s life inside out. And now, she was alone. But Kallita was safe, warm, and recovering in hospital.

  Mary looked down at the package sitting beside her cup. Did she dare to pick it up? The voice had told her to sit at this table and to look under the top for a gift. A gift. Really?

  The package was there, under the tabletop. She hadn’t checked, but she had an idea what it contained. If she accepted the gift, then her commitment would be complete. Can I do it? Do I dare to think it?

  Her husband locked up on charges of attempted murder; his cousin dead at the hands of that insane bitch; Frieda dead and not yet buried as no one had come forth to claim her; Alan missing and presumed dead, but who knew? And Gord and Audri, lucky to be alive; if not been for bullshit luck and the right timing, Gord would be dead now. And still, Kallita thrives.

  Even in prison, she would survive. At her age, a double murder conviction should add up to two life sentences. That would be enough, but Canadian law is lenient, and those sentences would run concurrently, making her eligible for parole in seven years. Seven years, for a lifetime of suffering. Seven years for snuffing out two lives. This woman deserved more than that. A judge could give her life without parole, but her lawyer would argue diminished capacity. She was crazy, of that, there was no doubt. In any other country she might get the death penalty, but not here, not in this land of tolerance.

  Mary fingered the package, prodding it and pushing it back and forth. It wasn’t heavy. It would hide in her purse. Raising her mug to her lips, she drew in a deep gulp of the vile cold brew. Revolting shit, just like my life. She spit it back into the mug, snatched the package from the table, and walked out of the restaurant. In that moment, she made her decision.

  * * *

  Rookie Constable Harold Papineau ran his fingers underneath his collar. His uniform irritated his neck. The only relief he found was from applying liberal amounts of cortisone cream his doctor had prescribed for him. Rubbing it into the rash on his neck soothed the itch but did little else to cure the problem. His shift would be over soon, and he’d be able to go home and shed his irritating tunic.

  An electronic ding sounded at the opposite end of the corridor, and he watched as a nurse exited the elevator and walked toward him. She held a chart in one hand and a silver tray with a linen cloth folded in three, in the other. She approached the constable and smiled.

  “Good evening, constable. I trust you have had an uneventful day.”

  “Quiet as a church in here. I really don’t know what all the fuss is about. She’s handcuffed to the bed, but she doesn’t look all that dangerous to me. Anyway, I just do as I’m told. What can I do for you?” Harold peered at the chart, pulling at his collar at the same time. The itch was getting worse.

  “I have an order here from the lab. Doctor Alwani wants a full workup done on her. I have to take some blood.” She turned the chart for the constable to see better and flipped open the linen cloth to reveal a bundle of test tubes and a syringe wrapped with a short piece of rubber tubing. He paid little attention to the document as he scratched at the offending rash.

  “It’s kind of late for that. Isn’t it?

  “Yes, I’m late. The truth is, I was on break, and I lost track of the time. Please, don’t tell anyone. I’m already in trouble with the lab for being late.” She smiled, hoping the policeman would see it her way. “I won’t be too long. I promise. Five—ten minutes no more.”

  “Alright then, be quick though, I go off shift here shortly, and I’d like you finished before my replacement arrives. I really shouldn’t let you in after 9:00 PM, and it’s 9:20 now.” He pushed the door to Kallita’s room open.

  It was like stepping into a dream. The darkened corners of the room framed the image before her. She stared into an abyss, filled with monitors and wires and surgical tubing snaking this way and that. Kallita slept, illu
minated by the soft glow of the indirect light above her bed. Oblivious to the paraphernalia around her. Her left arm and shoulder were encased in a plaster cast supported with an aluminum rod attached to a brace secured to the bed. A virtual prison of medieval design, her right hand, manacled to the bedframe. Mary marvelled that she could sleep so peacefully.

  An IV connected to a saline drip dangled above the bed. Could it be this easy? Mary looked at the catheter hub taped to Kallita’s arm. She unwrapped the cloth holding the test tubes and withdrew a syringe from the bundle wrapped by the rubber tubing. With deft precision, she inserted the needle into the hub and administered the lethal dose.

  Within seconds, Kallita’s eyes flashed open. Mary stood over her, wanting her to see who it was. She stared down at the bruised and battered face of the most hated woman in Clarksville, smiling as she watched. Kallita’s eyes conveyed what was happening. It was perfect. She couldn’t even scream. In a low, calm voice, Mary talked to her one-time nemesis.

  “You had it all. The life, the husband, kids, money, a good career, everything, but it wasn’t enough for you, was it? You needed to make people suffer. You made our lives a living hell. You should have stayed gone because this time, you’re not coming back!”

  Chapter 34

  July 2016

  Kallita Prewitt’s second death had a more lasting effect. She’d been alive when the ambulance took her away. Not that he cared. For the second time in his life, he was glad to be rid of her. When she finally woke up dead, he felt nothing. He should have felt relief, but Kallita Prewitt had taken one last jab of the knife. She had reached back through the barrier of death and saddled him with her burial. Roy Prewitt was Kallita’s next-of-kin, and so, it was for his children he gave their mother a proper place of rest. Still, he would never return to this place. For him, this place didn’t exist.

  The searing heat of the July sun baked the ground around the gravesite. Beads of sweat trickled down Roy’s armpits, soaking through his shirt and into the silky, nylon liner of his dark blue suit jacket. He’d put on a few pounds, and the sleeves felt tight under his arms. He considered foregoing the formality of wearing the ill-fitting suit, but his daughter had insisted. There was no way he was buying a new one, not for this, and not for a woman he despised. The old suit would have to do, and now with the heat melting everyone, his discomfort showed as he shuffled about, eager to be gone from this place.

  She was an irritation, a stiff neck, an arthritic ache, constant and unending, and when Kallita died the first time, he waited two more days before reporting her missing. The pain had ceased, and the realization that those close to him had been right all along became clear. She’d cuckolded him. His parents and brothers had tried to warn him. Even Kallita’s ex-husband had tried, but Roy wouldn’t listen. His devotion to her defied logic. Everyone believed she was dead. Local gossip held Roy had done away with her. But there was no evidence of foul play. He had breathed a sigh of relief when the police dropped the search for her.

  It took years for Roy to rebuild his life. A life that didn’t include the mean-spirited and hateful woman he once loved. Yet, the case remained open, languishing in limbo for almost a quarter-century. Kallita would have stayed dead had it not been for Emily James. Because of her persistence, Kallita Prewitt once again forced her way into the minds of Clarksville’s residents. A name long forgotten was on the tongues of more than a few.

  The funeral director spewed out a few words of solace, which made Roy smile. The old fool did not understand what kind of woman she’d been. Had he known, had he any knowledge of her history, he’d have done like everyone else, and stayed away. Roy wanted to stay away, but he had his family to consider.

  Listening to the funeral director drone on, Roy couldn’t suppress a grin as he recalled the deflated look on the poor man’s face when he chose the plain pine box for his wife. The man tried his best to sell Roy a top of the line casket. A solid oak resting place with champagne crêpe interior, double secure locking mechanism and solid brass handles, all guaranteed to last through the next millennium and all for a paltry five thousand dollars. And on top of it, he would receive bonus air miles. And didn’t the mother of his children deserve the absolute best for her final bed of rest? Roy almost laughed in his face. There would be none of that. No wake for mourners to pay their respects, not that any would attend, no lengthy funeral service to honour the deceased, and no procession of funeral cars parading through town on the way to the cemetery.

  “No, thank you,” he’d said. Then the director’s raised eyebrows when asked about a casket for Roy’s dear departed Roger.

  Roger was an old dog, and in any other circumstance, Roy would have buried his old friend at the back of the yard where he loved to run. Roger had sacrificed his life to alert him to the danger of the deranged woman now lying dead at his feet. How could he disrespect that kind of loyalty? He wanted something better for Roger, something more lasting. Roger deserved the best, and he would have it. He chose a high-end infant’s casket for his best friend, spending three times the amount he had on Kallita’s box. And yes, Roger would rest in the space he loved to run. Oh, and Mr. Funeral Director, please don’t forget the air miles.

  Putting a period to the end of what had been a life sentence, the simple wooden box descended into the earth as the family watched. Roy eyed the graveyard crew, standing a respectful distance away, all the while checking their watches. They, too, were eager to vacate this place. No doubt, there was a game on somewhere and a cooler full of cold beer waiting for them.

  * * *

  Not everyone had missed the ceremony. Two hundred meters away, a lone figure stood at the edge of a grove of poplar trees, waiting for the funeral cars to pull away. When the taillights vanished, the figure strolled toward the grave, stopping to sit on a granite bench in the shade of a large mausoleum. The figure waited and watched the work crew as they filled the gaping hole in the ground. They laid fresh sod over the grave, and a crewman lifted a small black stone and placed it at the head. He patted the turf around the marker, then the crew gathered their tools and drove away. Moments later, the mysterious figure stood over the grave and read the inscription.

  Kallita Prewitt

  1960 – 2016

  To the casual observer, he was a man paying his respects to the departed. But there was no respect in this man’s heart. He was reverent, and thanking God for deliverance from the evil buried beneath him, he gazed upon the stone and the ground around it. The dirt had turned from a black loam to a pale grey, in the unrelenting heat of the July sun.

  With only the sun and grass to hear him, he said, “This grass needs watering, or it will surely dry up and die. Well, I can’t allow that to happen now, can I?” He raised his face and marvelled at the clear blue sky and smiled as he unzipped his trousers.

  About the Author

  With thirty years in the corporate world as a security consultant and locksmith, and as a former outdoor columnist for a local newspaper, G. A. Pickstock had many opportunities to work with law enforcement; fuelling his fascination for mysteries. Since retiring in 2013 he has turned his talents to the world of fiction and has written many short stories and novels. He is the author of two novels in the River’s Edge Mysteries series. The second in the series, Edge of Death, is due for release in the summer of 2020, and book three will debut in the late fall of the same year.

  Thank You

  Thank you for reading Kill Her Twice. If you enjoyed the book, I would appreciate it if you would consider leaving a review. I can’t stress how helpful this is in helping other readers decide if they should invest their time. Reviews from readers like you are the best recommendation a book can have. Without reviews, an author’s books are virtually invisible on the retail sites. It also lets me know what you liked. You can leave a review by visiting the book’s page. I would greatly appreciate it. It only takes a couple of seconds.

  * * *

  Thank you for buying Kill Her Twice. I like to build a
relationship with my readers. It is one of the best things about writing. I occasionally send out a newsletter with details on new releases and subscriber only special offers. For instance, with each new release of a book, you will be alerted to it at a subscriber only discounted rate.

  Edge of Death

  Murder — For Principle or Profit

  By

  G. A. Pickstock

  Chapter 1

  Between the heartbeat of peace and panic, Shinkwinn waited. The disused railway bridge had sat for decades, stretching across the highway in defiance of time. Iron guardrails that once protected traffic from errant objects falling to the roadway below had made reaching the hide easy. It had taken five minutes to slither into position, and now, with the heat of Indian summer radiating through the Ghillie suit, the sniper’s concealment was complete.

  Three hundred metres east, a blind bend in the highway would offer the first glimpse of Shinkwinn’s quarry. The rifle, the latest version of the Airforce Texan Big Bore air gun, rested on its bipod. The experimental projectile, not yet loaded, had proven effective when tested and promised complete satisfaction. Time was an ally now, and that time would be short.

  * * *

  October was Harry Dalton’s favourite month. It was a time of change. The humid, sweltering heat of summer gave way to the crisp nights and warm days of autumn. The trees gave up their greenery painting the forests with a rainbow of colour, giving Mother Nature her final coat of glory, before the defrocking of the cruel Ontario winter.

  Harry especially loved his new Caddy. He’d paid cash for the Cadillac. It felt good to finally be able to do that. For most of his sixty-eight years, R. Harrison Dalton had lived by the golden rule: The man with the gold makes the rules. Consequently, when the dealership called him with the offer to return his eighty-thousand-dollar cheque and finance the vehicle at zero interest, he quickly responded that they should cash the cheque and shove their payment plan up their ass.