The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club

by Duncan Whitehead

  Elliott had been awake for thirty minutes. He had already showered and dressed and was on his second cup of coffee. He had a big meeting that morning with some potential backers of his mayoral campaign. The last thing he wanted to do was keep these men waiting. Maybe before I go off for the day, a quick run in the park for Biscuit and Grits will do them good, he thought. They could use the exercise, especially as he didn’t know when he would be home that evening. It seemed the most logical thing to do; at least they could relieve themselves.

  Doug had had another night with little sleep. Even though the sun was up, it was still really early. Bern, he thought, would love an early run on a day like this. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

  Carla had guessed that he would probably be walking early that morning. Call it a hunch, or call it intuition. When she had seen him walking by her window, she had quickly grabbed Walter’s leash, put on her coat, and followed him along the sidewalk.

  Chapter 18

  He took one final draw on his cigarette before flicking the wet butt into the hole he had just dug. It was still dark, the sun not due to rise for another thirty minutes. He checked his watch and confirmed the time. He was still on schedule. He turned suddenly to his left, surprised by the rustling noise he heard in the undergrowth. A gray squirrel peered out from the bushes before rapidly disappearing into the wooded area to the right. Overhead, a woodpecker began to tap against a nearby oak tree. The rat-a-tat, like a hammer, echoed through the densely forested landscape.

  Satisfied that he was still alone, he re-inspected the freshly dug hole. Ideally, it should have been six feet deep, but four, he thought, would do. It was not the first time he had dug a hole like this, but he wondered if this one would be the last. He had begun digging the night before and hoped that no one would discover his half-dug hole and half-empty bag of lime salts, which it now appeared, no one had. Usually he would have poured more lime salts into the bottom to cover the unpleasant smells that would rise from the ground later, but he had decided that the extra bags would be too much to hide. He crouched and leaned over the hole, stretching his arm to full length to pick up his discarded cigarette butt. Unprofessional, he thought. He really knew better than that. He slipped the butt into the packet it had come from, alongside the other nineteen yet unsmoked menthols.

  From his vantage he could see anyone entering or leaving the park. There were three gates, but he had taken the precaution of locking the north and south gates with padlocks, which he would remove and discard once his task was complete. Now the only way to enter the park would be via the east gate, which was the main entrance anyway, and the one he knew would be used that morning.

  The recently prepared hole was ensconced just off the well-trodden path that encircled the park; he couldn’t have asked for a better spot to perform his task. If only they were all this easy. He picked up his shovel and placed it out of sight in the undergrowth. He would need it later to fill the hole back in. Though he had dug holes like this before, they were usually not necessary. But the instructions he had received were very specific, that there should be no trace of his work for at least one week. He hoped that four feet was deep enough. He considered his surroundings and decided it was.

  The park was located in the center of a middle-class neighborhood of approximately three hundred homes. It was protected by a wrought-iron fence and three gates—perfect for his purposes. Signs proclaimed that this was private property, designated solely for the use of those who lived there. At least half the families in the area owned a dog and regularly used the park to exercise them. Not everyone walked his dog in the park. He estimated that only fifty or so people ever ventured where he now stood.

  The Girl Scout hut, an old log cabin-style building that stood in the center of the park, was available for hire for private functions and neighborhood gatherings as well as for residential association meetings. An extensive wooded area, home to an abundance of wildlife, dominated the interior of the park. Trees and shrubbery surrounded the perimeter railings, hiding the interior of the park from anyone traversing nearby streets. A children’s playground in the northeast corner of the park offered wooden swings and forts. These, along with sliding boards and monkey bars, delighted the children of those privileged to play there.

  Dog walkers took advantage of the chipped-wood track that circled the park. The path wove around the trees and crossed ditches and natural moats. The occasional jogger who ventured into the park would sometimes make use of the track but would have to watch for fallen trees and avoid the sprawling roots that sprouted from the earth. He pulled another menthol from its packet and lit it. He sucked in the mint-flavored smoke and exhaled it into the early morning air. It was hard to hold the cigarette in his gloved hand, so he removed the leather pair that he wore. He wore the gloves not because of any coldness, but as necessary to his task.

  The sky was no longer black, but a dark blue, the sun now on the verge of rising. The first birds of the morning began their song, and the temperature was slowly beginning to rise. The unnatural sound of a car engine straining into life could be heard in the distance. Its owner was probably an early morning worker, beginning his day while most were still enjoying their last few minutes of sleep.

  It was going to be another warm day, and air-conditioning systems would be on high throughout the city. He considered removing the dark coat that he wore, but didn’t. It, along with the gloves, was his standard attire when working: an unofficial uniform of his trade. More rustling, this time from the north, made him twist his body and alerted his senses. As before, another squirrel disappeared into the dense wood as the streetlights that illuminated the avenues and streets that ran alongside the park switched off in unison, announcing that daybreak was approaching. Soon bedroom lights would turn on as people rose to prepare themselves for the day ahead.

  He was conscious of the four homes that backed onto the park on the west side, where he waited. He had considered the possibility of being discovered by a dog released into the morning to relieve itself and to stretch its legs, but had decided that the chance of any animal being able to navigate both a garden fence and the iron railings and still see him through the dense trees was minimal. He was a professional, and he had taken no chances. He never did. The previous morning he had stood in the exact same spot where he was now, at the exact same time, and he was confident that neither dog nor man would discover him.

  He placed his gloveless hand into the front lower pocket of his jacket and felt the cold stainless steel held snugly there. One final check was required, one final inspection. The last thing he needed was some equipment malfunction.

  He removed the Beretta M9/92F 9mm semiautomatic pistol from his pocket and ran his hand along the smooth barrel. It was his weapon of choice for up-close hits, and it had never let him down. For jobs such as this, it was ideal. He checked the safety catch and the clip that contained six bullets. He hoped he would only need one—two at the most. He delved into his other pocket, produced his M9-SD silencer, and caressed the long, sleek black cylinder, before attaching it to the barrel of the Beretta. Once again, it was a tool of the trade that had never let him down.

  He had always considered silenced, close-up hits to have a personal touch, and strived for perfection whenever tasked with such a kill. It was important to hit the selected vital organ. The quicker a target fell, the quicker one could leave. The heart or the middle of the forehead were his preferred targets, though a single well-placed shot in the center of a chest or the stomach could also result in instantaneous death without the need of a second shot. He considered more than two shots poor form. What separated the best from the rest, he thought, was the swiftness and accuracy of hits. It was easy to kill, but not so easy to kill smoothly, efficiently, and quickly, leaving behind no clues or trace as to the identity of the killer. The less blood the better, especially in a situation like this, where instructions demanded the disposal of a body and no immediate trac
e of a crime.

  The sun was rising now, and the sky was turning from dark to light. It was going to be another beautiful day in Gordonston, an older but stylish neighborhood where he stood, two miles to the east of downtown Savannah, Georgia, and the Historic District, a five-minute drive at most from the center of the city. He yawned and stubbed out the cigarette before placing it into its pack with the other eighteen and the one smoked butt. He put on his gloves again and slipped the Beretta, with the silencer screwed into the barrel, into his pocket.

  He could hear voices close by and the barking of excited dogs. Two voices bade farewell to a third voice, and the iron gate creaked, opening and then closing as the owner of the one voice entered the park. From where he crouched near to the ground, he could see a dog having its leash removed, then running into the woods. He drew his weapon. His heartbeat didn’t quicken, and his breathing didn’t rise. He fixed his gaze on his intended target and waited as the darkness gave way to daylight.

  A beautiful day indeed in Juliette Low Park, but for one individual, that day would not last long.

  Billy managed to crawl out of bed and find Paddy’s leash. Taking care not to wake his sleeping aunt, he made his way, with Paddy following, to the front door of the small cottage-type house. He fixed the leash to Paddy’s collar and led him into the street.

  Biscuit and Grits were delighted with the early morning exercise. It was not often that they got the chance for a run this early, and with no traffic on the streets, Elliott was happy to let them loose into the road while he struggled to put his shoes on.

  Carla managed to fix Walter onto his leash just as she saw Elliott walk past her window. She was now heading in the direction of the park; maybe they could speak and discuss things before it was too late.

  Billy reached the corner where Edgewood and Kentucky Avenues crossed. Biscuit and Grits ran to greet friend Paddy just before Elliott arrived.

  “Good morning,” said Elliott to the younger man. “You must be Billy, Cindy’s nephew.” Billy looked surprised. Elliott pointed to Paddy. “Paddy, I know him.” Billy understood how the man with gray hair had guessed his identity and nodded.

  “Hi, and you must be Elliott?” Elliott nodded and went to shake the young man’s hand. Billy cursed under his breath. This was all he needed. He hoped that the alderman hadn’t noticed the cigarette he had hurriedly discarded.

  Carla reached the corner of Edgewood and Kentucky Avenues at precisely the same time Elliott did, though she had not expected a crowd, especially at this time in the morning. There was no way she would be able to confront him now. She would have to wait until they were alone. She just hoped that it wasn’t too late. She decided to join the throng on the corner of the street, just yards from the gate of the park, and act as normal as she could.

  Doug wasn’t used to being up this early, and he was surprised at how many of his neighbors were actually walking their dogs that morning. Tom was also surprised to find Elliot and Billy chatting on the corner by the park as he appeared with Shmitty on his leash. It was quite the party. As Kelly was still housebound, he’d decided to take Shmitty for an early run in the park. After all, it wasn’t Shmitty’s fault that Kelly had gotten sick.

  The man watched as the dog ran into the dense wood and the dog’s owner started the walk along the path in a counterclockwise direction. He raised his collar, checked that his weapon was loaded, and then proceeded along the path in a clockwise direction.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  “I think it’s going to be another nice day.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Walking the dog?”

  “Sure am, how about you?”

  “Well, I was, but he has kind of eluded me,” said Doug as he placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. The menthol-flavored smoke filled his mouth and lungs; he paused and then released it into the morning air.

  “Can I help you find him?” offered Tom as the two men walked together in a counterclockwise direction along the track.

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Doug. “You live around here? You look familiar,” he said, taking another draw on his cigarette.

  “I live along Kentucky, but it’s very rare that I come here. My wife usually walks the dog, but she’s ill, covered in a rash. How about you? I’ve seen your face before.”

  Doug blew out a puff of smoke. “I live along Kinzie. I have the baby and the German shepherd, Bern.” Tom nodded. Of course, Veronica’s husband. He should have guessed by the accent.

  “It’s amazing how many people are actually up and around at this time of the morning,” said Tom to his new acquaintance.

  “Yeah, I saw Elliott with his dogs. I think he just went home, though,” replied Doug.

  “There was a crowd earlier on the corner. You know Cindy? She’s our neighbor. Her nephew was there, but he was headed back. I think he was having a sneaky smoke,” laughed Tom.

  “Same here,” said Doug, indicating his cigarette. “My wife has no idea. I am going to stop though.” Both men smiled.

  “Oh, and Carla was there too—do you know her?” asked Tom.

  Doug shook his head. “Not really. Seen her around, though.”

  “Well, she thought Walter—that’s her dog—needed to go, but it was a false alarm.” Tom smiled, as did Doug.

  As the two men walked along the pathway, winding in and out of the trees, Doug recalled a conversation he’d had with his wife a few days earlier.

  “Well, we went grocery shopping for the fish.” Veronica was busy eating and, though listening, was not looking at her husband.

  “And I saw something pretty odd. Well, not odd—more interesting, really. I saw one of those old ladies, the ones that hang out in the park with their dogs.”

  Veronica looked up. “You mean Cindy?” she asked.

  “No. The other one. Not the older one, the young-looking one.”

  “You mean Carla,” confirmed his wife, with her mouth full.

  “Well, you know she’s had a boob job, don’t you?” said Doug.

  “Oh, yeah, I’d heard that. She looks good, I hear,” confirmed Veronica.

  “Well, that’s not it. There was something else,” said Doug. “She was at the checkout, buying cleaning products and stuff. I wasn’t sure what it all was, but there was a lot of it.”

  “So? She can buy cleaning products. She’s over twenty-one,” joked Veronica.

  “No,” said Doug, “that wasn’t it. It was something else, something I bet you didn’t even know.”

  “Which was?”

  “She has a boy-toy,” said Doug. “The firefighter. I saw them together in the store. They were holding hands. Very odd.”

  Veronica frowned. “Rubbish. Tom Hudd? No way.”

  Doug shook his head. “I know what I saw. They didn’t see me, but I swear it. He was all over her.” Veronica looked shocked as she forced another forkful of fish into her mouth.

  “Well, that’s strange. He has a beautiful young wife. I just don’t get it. Are you sure?” asked Veronica.

  “I’m positive,” replied Doug.

  “Well, don’t say anything. That’s how rumors start in Savannah,” smiled his wife.

  “Don’t worry. Who am I going to tell anyway?” answered Doug.

  Veronica agreed and then changed the subject. “Do you think Katie has a small head?”

  “No,” replied Doug, “and neither do you, before you ask again.”

  “When did you last see him? Your dog?” asked Tom as they turned the corner and both he and Doug headed along the west side of the park.

  Doug shrugged. “About ten minutes ago. He just bolted.” Both men called for Bern, but he didn’t return. Doug looked around, raising his gloved hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the morning sun. “I’ll check over there.” He pointed
toward the scout hut. “Could you look over there?” Doug was gesturing toward the far southwest corner of the park, where he had spent the last two nights digging.

  “Sure,” replied Tom.

  Tom headed toward where the Englishman had pointed as Doug headed toward the scout hut. After walking a few yards Doug stopped, turned, and followed behind Tom. Tom was standing just where Doug wanted him. Slowly, Doug approached the bigger man. Tom turned quickly, shocked by Doug’s sudden reappearance.

  “I think you’re out of luck…” began Tom.

  “That makes two of us then,” said Doug as he raised his silenced Berretta and put one bullet straight between Tom’s eyes. Tom was dead before his body crumpled into the already prepared grave. The bullet had passed through his skin and skull and was embedded deep inside his brain. Doug wasted no time. It had all gone exactly according to plan. He retrieved his hidden spade and began filling in the four-foot-deep hole.

  He knew that sooner or later Tom Hudd’s grave would be discovered, but there was no way the death could be linked to him. He was a professional. It took Doug only six minutes to fill the hole. He grabbed the bag of fallen leaves he had collected earlier and covered the mound of earth. Very few people ventured into this area of the park, and if they did, they never left the track. Not that it mattered. He could have left the body lying there unburied, but his instructions had been specific. Dispose of the body so that it wouldn’t be found for at least a week. Those types of instructions usually meant only one thing: there were more contracts to be carried out.

  Doug, now satisfied that the hole was sufficiently filled and hidden, made his way to the two gates he had padlocked shut earlier. He undid the locks and placed them in his coat pocket. He exited through the north gate and made his way along Gordon Avenue until he reached Virginia Avenue. He turned left and reached his home in less than two minutes. No one had seen him enter or leave the park. He inserted his key into the door of his house and entered. Bern raised his head from where he lay and then lowered it, satisfied that it was no intruder, just his master. Doug removed his shoes, gloves, and coat and stuffed them into the laundry room adjacent to his home’s entrance hall. Silently, he tiptoed into his and Veronica’s bedroom. She was still sleeping. He climbed into bed beside her and closed his eyes.