The Uninvited

by F. P. Dorchak

  He fell into explosive sobbing.

  There were shouts down the Interstate, along the wreckage, and they were coming his way. Scrambling to his knees Mr. Hugo Boss Suit looked to the thrashed and lifeless body of the man he’d just murdered, and the carnage on the Interstate before him.

  No, this wasn’t happening.

  An image crossed his mind. There had been a woman... there had been something about a woman...

  Several scraped-up and dirtied hands grappled him, and Mr. Hugo Boss Suit found himself lifted bodily from the shoulder of the Interstate. All their cursing and yelling fell on deaf ears. Mr. Hugo Boss Suit looked to them dumbly as he was angrily jostled about.

  It didn’t matter.

  None of it did.

  He had to put an end to it. Couldn’t let it happen again. Mr. Hugo Boss Suit jerked rearward, freeing himself from the tangle of angry citizens, slamming them into each other, then made a run for it. The mob pursued, but wouldn’t get to him in time.

  And what was time, Mr. Hugo Boss Suit wondered?

  Did anything really matter? No jail time for him—at least not in the conventional sense. Whatever waited for him, he would gladly meet, but on his own terms. He was more than willing to meet his Maker.

  And with that, Mr. Hugo Boss Suit never looked back as he launched himself up and over the I-75 guardrail and into the cool Florida-morning air of Exit 191, arms and legs windmilling.

  Just before he hit U.S. 41, some thirty feet below, he wondered, would this be what it felt like to slam into the grill of an on-coming eighteen wheeler?

  Chapter Seven

  1

  Harry Gordon dumped his briefcase onto his second-floor Florida Circuit Court of Sarasota desk, glanced at the messages Libby Pointner, Administrator, had left, and made for his morning ritual of coffee and Danish. Returning to his desk, he plopped into his chair and immediately dropped his face into his hands.

  Was it still there?

  Yes... always drifting in and out of the cluttered babble of his mind... it was always there... that grainy mind-itch he’d been living with for ten years. No one’d been able to tell him what it was—no doctors in white jackets, no diviners, no psychics—no one.

  Stress.

  The usual diagnosis, Xanax or Prozac the prescribed treatment. The affliction had just popped into his head out of the blue, one day... the sound of an ocean, its breakers hitting a beach—sometimes faint and infrequent, sometimes loud and all-consuming. The thought was he’d had tinnitus, but he soon discovered that wasn’t exactly the case. As the years progressed, so had his symptoms. But they’d always been manageable... until three weeks ago. Every night, the same or similar dream... and such anger. Intensity.

  A sandbox—in the middle of his bedroom?

  Ants?

  And every time he had that dream, it was like the first time... like it’d never happened before, and he had to act out the entire dream in exactly the same sequence. It was like mentally he knew he was doing it over and over, but physically (in the dream, anyway) he had to plod mindlessly along, unable to stop the madness. Could people really control their dreams? He hadn’t been able to. Not once.

  Harry sipped his coffee. His gaze fell upon an ornamental urn positioned upon a black-lacquered pedestal across the room from him by the door. It stood before a framed reproduction of the 13th century Moko shurai ekotoba scrolls he’d purchased several years ago, about an attack on a Japanese island. He took another sip. That almost made everything better—the coffee. He took a bite of Danish. Power breakfasts for power hitters. Sugar and caffeine—was there any better way to start one’s day? No, your Honor, there ain’t. Comfort food in an uncomfortable world.

  Harry’s intercom buzzed.

  “Mr. Stansfield’s here. Five minutes. In the conference room.”

  “Thanks—”

  “And Mr. Banner just arrived.”

  “Show him in.”

  Private Investigator Moses Banner, big, badass, and black, in his fifties, filled the doorway. He stayed just inside the door, chewing on a toothpick.

  “Morning.”

  Banner nodded, staying put.

  “Take it you heard?”

  Banner again nodded. “S’pose you want me to nose around.”

  “I would.”

  Banner nodded. Harry looked down to his desk; when he looked back up, Banner was gone. Harry grabbed his paperwork and left for his morning meeting.

  2

  Moses Banner surveyed the Safe Harbor retirement community from across Tamiami Trail Boulevard, also known as U.S. Highway 41, as he flicked yet another toothpick out the beautifully restored ‘67 Camaro’s window. There was no way Sunset Harbor’s finest was going to be able to keep an eye on every square inch of crime scene real estate, even with all the county and state support.

  Banner slowly maneuvered the Camaro around the back of the empty office park and shut it off. He exited the car and made his way back around to the front of the deserted building, then just kept walking. He crossed Tamiami Trail and headed into the palm trees, Saw palmetto, and myrtle bushes of the undeveloped lot that bordered the retirement community. A low, stucco wall was hidden on the other side of the bushes. Fisher was more than likely more concerned over the one-and-only entrance in and out of the place—not a great way to plan a development in this P.I.’s not-so-humble opinion—and had the rest of his already-stretched-thin force keeping the evidence as sterile as possible. There were a lot of homes to cover. He’d lost a friend in there, and the thought of him being murdered by a roving band of cowards really pissed him off. He’d hoped Garrett’s place was still untouched, which was out on the back edge of the park, along yet another undeveloped expanse of field.

  Banner ducked into the lazily-breeze-tossed Coconut palms and Saw palmetto, hunching along the vegetation-lined wall. Overhead, hawks and kestrels circled. He squeezed in between the brush and wall, flattening himself against the stucco structure, collecting scratches and a small wall-rash along the way. Senses heightened, he shot down the length of the barricade about a hundred feet before stopping. Bird and insect life chirped and buzzed busily about him in the rising humidity. He peeked over the wall. He saw he was along a length of open and as-yet undeveloped lot on the inside of the retirement community. Grapefruit and tangelo trees dotted the backyards of the completed homes. Still no cops.

  Banner continued until he reached a stretch of homes another fifty feet down, and again stopped. Flushing out an egret that had been standing near-motionless in an eerily deserted backyard, Banner hid behind a Pepper tree. He again slowly poked his head over the wall. Using the Pepper tree’s branches to shield his face, he continued scanning the area.

  Everyone of these residents had been killed—except for that one couple, and those who’d been lucky enough to have been visitors. It was highly implausible that all the friends and relatives could have been in on the murders—but was it any more impossible than the scenario that currently existed? Were humans getting more fucked up with each generation? Wars and terrorism were bad enough, but this was so much more... seemed so much more... personal. One on one. Hand-to-hand. These people had lived their lives for their kids, their companies, and had made their meager fortunes. They’d no-doubt wanted to do what they wanted for a change in their waning years—no kids nor corporations to any more dictate their lives. Tennis, poker, and restaurants. Good friends. That’s all Garrett Stiller wanted, a retired homicide detective from New York City. How had he managed to get surprised? Taken out?

  What a goddamned waste.

  The coast clear, Banner hefted his muscular six-foot-four frame up and over the wall and disappeared between the homes.

  3

  Kacey Miller awoke reluctantly. Having been up all night listening to her scanner, interviewing the Hockers, and punching out that article after her emotionally horrifying in-her-face adventure—her breaking and entering—had worn her out. She wished the Hockers well, and hoped they’d indeed le
ft this town for Tampa and their son. What a horrendous thing to have happen to you in the first place, but to single out a entire community? A retirement community?

  Kacey swung out of bed and entered her combination living-room and kitchenette. She pulled out a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator, took a sip, and took it with her to her door. Outside, on her doorstep, was her issue of the Gazette.

  Hers.

  This was it—the shining moment for which she’d been working. She was actually shaking. Her byline—not someone else’s—hers. She quickly opened the door and snatched it from the AstroTurfed landing. Ducking back inside, she plopped down onto the couch, spilling juice, and opened the paper.

  She’d never thought about it before, but not only was it her byline, not only was it front page news, but it was headline news. Big, bold type on the front page. Top center. She looked to the byline.

  Kacey Miller.

  Good God, that’s what it said, all right. It really did. Kacey Fucking Miller.

  She closed her eyes, allowing the emotion to well up inside. She’d just wished it had been under far-less-horrific circumstances. But that’s the trade. Bad news made for good news, the worse the better.

  Entire Retirement Community Slaughtered, it read. “Sometime after one this morning....”

  Giddy, Kacey put down the paper and looked to her hands. Trembling, she was still trembling. Everyone in town was reading her words this morning—her words—not just those who made it to page three, lower inside gutter, but everyone who just picked up, or even cast a glance toward it would see it. Front page headline news!

  She again picked up her paper and mentally compared each word in the story with each word she’d written. With minor edits, it was all there. Every disturbingly gruesome detail. Her article scared her, so she could only imagine what affect it would have upon the community... the senior citizenry.

  Kacey took the article with her into the kitchen, took out a pair of scissors, and snipped it out. She tacked it up on the cork board beside her laptop, stood back and stared at it. Yes, she’d come a long way from...

  Sheila.

  Kacey sat at her table, buried her head into crossed arms, and let out a huge sigh, as she leaned forward and stretched.

  Sheila.

  There had been one huge mistake.

  Why couldn’t she shake her? And could she really call her a mistake? Running away from her family—that had been a mistake—but could what had happened with Sheila be termed one? Sheila had been understanding, supportive, and, well... loving. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? Sheila’d also been needy herself... understandable, given her situation. They both had been. There was no real right or wrong assigned to them... things had just been... what they were...

  * * *

  How Kacey had ended up in a hotel room on her way to her flight that was to have taken her away from her family she couldn’t recall, but she had been a wee-bit tipsy from all the alcohol from that bar, and probably, no doubt, from all the guilt screaming around inside her head like a steroid-sucking wasp. But she now found herself sitting on the edge of a bed, hand to her head and tears wet on her face. As if a breeze had begun to blow apart her fog, she anxiously realized she wasn’t alone. The sound of running water filtered in through her mental fog—a bathroom?—and there was also a shadow that moved about in there...

  Think hard... where was she... had Mark found her? Dragged her here? Where was Emily? Were they on vacation? Good God, why couldn’t she remember anything—and why was the room spinning?

  “I hope this helps a little,” the woman said, who exited the bathroom holding a glass of water, aspirin, and a towel draped over an arm. She stood before her suddenly, in a business suit and skirt, her jacket removed, which, Kacey observed, lay at the end of the bed.

  “This should help loosen up that headache.”

  Kacey looked up to her in a mixture of pain and relief. Oh, yeah, she did have a headache, but there was also something far worse breaking her apart like a creaking and groaning, fracturing ice floe.

  A heartache...

  The woman sat on the bed beside her, holding out the glass of water and aspirin, placing the damp towel on a pantyhosed thigh. Kacey noticed (with surprising clarity) how the bed gently gave way to this other woman’s slight weight, and how this, in turn, caused her to lean into this woman... how her perfume—a light, clean musky scent—was incredibly and unnervingly intoxicating... and, most surprisingly of all, how she swore she felt the woman’s radiation of body heat into her side.

  This was wrong... all wrong...

  Kacey placed her hands on the bed to steady herself when another bout of headache mercilessly pounded at a different part of her head. Groaning, Kacey brought a hand back to her throbbing noggin.

  “I guess I really do need these.”

  Sheila smiled. “Of course you do; you’ve been through a lot.”

  Sheila placed an open hand before Kacey, two aspirin nestled comfortably in her upraised, rosy, palm. Kacey took the aspirin and water and again swore she felt her—what was her name? Sheila?—body heat radiate from her hot-water-warmed palms. Finishing her water and aspirin, she handed Sheila the empty glass. She’d meant to ask how they’d found their way up here—but, oops, hey, wouldya look at the time? Gotta go!—when Sheila suddenly wrapped the warm towel around her head. As if incontinent, Kacey melted and collapsed back onto the bed.

  “Better?” Sheila asked, gently assisting her head to the pillow.

  “Yeeesss....”

  “Just relax, honey. Take a load off. You’ve been through a lot,” Sheila said, smoothing out Kacey’s hair and wiping away tears. “Believe me, I’ve been there. You just have to work through the pain... the emotion. It takes time... you can’t rush it.”

  Kacey said nothing. She closed her eyes like she had a choice. That helped a great deal from all the spinning, but didn’t help with the inner turmoil. She now remembered what had brought her here, what they’d been talking about.

  Family. Her family.

  Her husband and daughter back in Delaware. And why? Because he loved changing diapers? Was that it? Because he loved being married?

  A whole new emotional torrent overtook Kacey, but Sheila was right there, wiping away her tears as she cried and heaved and wailed.

  “It’s okay... it’s okay... let it all out,” Sheila coached, gently stroking her face and hair with the back of her hand. Sheila tenderly brought Kacey up to her shoulder, cradling her.

  “What am I doing?” Kacey exploded, leaving the shoulder. “How could I leave my family?”

  “You left for a reason, didn’t you?”

  “I left because I was bored! Scared! Those aren’t reasons!”

  “Of course they are,” Sheila said, gently bringing Kacey back to her shoulder, “why would a beautiful, intelligent woman like yourself just up and leave her family? You had to be bored and scared for a reason.”

  Kacey continued to disintegrate into Sheila’s shoulder, ashamed that she was intentionally inhaling deeply of her scent—was that Dolce and Gabbana?—all while Sheila continued to stroke her hair and shoulders, soothing her with soft, comforting, whispers...

  “You said you’d lost interest in your marriage... that Mark had become boring. Was no longer fun and exciting....”

  This time as Sheila stroked her hair and cheeks, she looked to her, wiping away the tears and tracing a finger to Kacey’s lips—which she quickly withdrew.

  “Am I missing something?” Sheila whispered. “It’s not easy doing what you did. It takes guts... lots of guts. Resolve. Most people stay in unhappy marriages, unhappy lives... don’t have the wherewithal to do anything about it. You did. That says a lot about you. I wasn’t as strong as you... not at first.”

  Sheila looked off into the distance.

  “I wasn’t sure, like you, that I needed to leave,” Sheila continued. “I knew there were... differences... but still loved my husband. It wasn’t until he
found us that events took on their own momentum.”

  Kacey looked up to Sheila with her tear-streaked face. “I guess we’re both really messed up, aren’t we?”

  Sheila smiled wistfully. “Guess we are.”

  Sheila again wiped away Kacey’s tears. Wiped away the wetness at the corners of her mouth.

  “You know, you really do look familiar.”

  Kacey allowed a tiny, choked, chuckle.

  “That’s better,” Sheila said, smiling.

  Kacey was suddenly quite uncomfortable leaning against Sheila’s warm, very warm, breathing, alive—very alive—body. Attempting to resituate, she pulled away from Sheila and straightened herself out.

  “Let me get you some Kleenex.”

  Sheila returned to the bathroom and Kacey found herself watching her, in her smartly outfitted business skirt and blouse. Found herself noticing what a great figure she had. Found herself—

  Shakily, Kacey swung out of bed and to her feet, smoothing out her own attire and wiping her sniffling face.

  “Here,” Sheila said, suddenly again before her, “use this.” She handed her the tissue. Kacey blew her nose.

  “Thank you.”

  “Better?”

  Kacey nodded. “I’m still a bit woozy, but I really should be going—”

  “You think that’s such a good idea? I mean with what you’ve had at the bar and all?”

  Kacey shot a look to the clock, moving just a little too fast for her condition, and wobbled unsteadily.

  “Damn, I missed my—”

  Sheila reached out and grabbed Kacey, cradling her close to her, their faces inches apart.

  “Well, there you go. Now, what are you going to do?”

  Kacey again felt very warm.

  4

  Banner carefully worked his way around the retirement center’s homes, Ti plants, and palm trees. He kept an eye on the investigation teams that also worked their way through the complex. Feeling a sudden pin-prick of fire at his lower shin, he jerked. He looked down to see he stood on a fire-ant mound. Several other fiery pin pricks followed, and he quickly swatted and stomped at them, cursing and backing away from the mound. Lifting up his pants legs, he made sure he’d gotten them all, brushed both his shins and pants, and returned to business.