You Only Die Twice

by Christopher Smith

  She failed.

  But the gun was a game changer. The gun would kill him. She was ending this now.

  “You are so dead,” she said to him.

  He rubbed his neck and started to come more into focus. “No, I’m not.”

  “The hell you’re not.” She pressed lightly on the trigger and placed the laser beam in the center of his forehead, where it trembled. He cocked his head at her, smiled that horrible smile she destroyed with a well-thrown rock, and held out his hands on either side of him. Right now, with his body sheeted in the light of the fiery forest, he looked like a burning cross.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Shoot me. Send me to heaven. He’ll just resurrect me. And then I’ll come for you again. I’ll make it worse for you. I’ll filet you. I’ll strap you down to a table, take a knife, and I’ll eat you alive.”

  She pulled the trigger.

  Nothing.

  Horrified, she pulled it again. And again.

  Click, click, click.

  The magazine was empty.

  Click, click, click.

  It had been empty all the time. He spent his last few bullets in the woods. He must have known that. Of course, he knew that.

  Their eyes met.

  A blue light flashed across his face and he glanced past her, his arms lowering at his sides. She wanted to look behind her, but she didn’t. The blue light kept flashing and it was getting brighter. She could hear the sound of an engine. A siren. Finally, the police were coming their way. Someone had spotted them.

  It was over.

  Only it wasn’t.

  He lunged at her, threw his full weight on her body, and she felt a bone in her damaged leg snap as she fell back. Her back struck the road, then her head, which caused her to skate deep into the long gray road that led to sleep. She heard someone shout. She heard someone say, “Freeze!” And then she started to spin into a familiar darkness.

  She’d been here before.

  I’m dying.

  The thought was not calming or reassuring―it was a jolt. The idea repelled her. How could this be happening again?

  But it was happening. She knew this feeling of weightlessness. She remembered this unwanted slight against her life. She took a breath, but not her last. Not yet. Not yet.

  Not yet.

  Before she fully left her body, she opened her eyes, looked up at the rage on his flashing blue-and-orange face, saw that triumph had returned to his eyes, and with whatever part of her still had the strength to move, her hands reflexively darted up, she turned her thumbs into spears, and she buried them deep into his eyes until she could feel them collapse, squish and then mash under the sheer pressure of her own rage.

  EPILOGUE

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  JANUARY

  Patty Jennings stood in her cramped kitchen among rows of boxes, all of which were packed and piled high for her move to Portland, where she finally had decided to live and start a new life for herself.

  That move started today, in about fifteen minutes, when the moving company was set to show up and haul her out of here.

  She was finished with Bangor. It was time to put it and its people and their uninformed ideas about who she was or who she wasn’t behind her. She was through with being the town joke. In Portland, she knew no one and no one knew her, with the exception of her new employer, for whom she couldn’t wait to see again because it was James Coleman’s brother. Like James, he also was a lawyer, he had a successful practice in Portland, and because of James―and more than a little help from his wife, Barbara―she now was William Coleman’s executive assistant.

  Not bad for the faux town tramp, she thought.

  It was snowing outside, the house had the chill that came not from a lack of heat, but from a lack of personal items to give it warmth, and Cheryl’s cat, Blanche, sat on top of one of the boxes, looking as bored and as non-plussed as usual. Nothing rattled her. Not even this move. Patty loved her for it.

  Blanche was a rock.

  Patty took her in four months ago, right after the incident that still haunted her, and as fall waned into winter, she increasingly thought of Blanche as her own cat. Which was good since they now were stuck with each other, for better or worse.

  “Through thick and thin, right, Blanche?”

  The cat closed its eyes as if in disinterest, but Patty could hear her purring four feet away.

  This was only the third apartment she’d ever had and as she walked around it now with her arms folded around her waist, she recalled the few good times she had here, usually a movie and pizza spent with Cheryl on a Saturday night, and other memories she’d rather forget.

  Leaving one’s home was akin to leaving a part of oneself behind. There was an ache that came with it―a finality that wasn’t unlike a death. For the most part, with the exception of her time with Cheryl, Patty Jennings’ life had been lonely. Unhappiness found her early in life, decided it rather liked her and thought it was best to keep her that way. Obviously, she had enjoyed a few good times in her life, but strolling from room to room now, where she had lived for the better part of six years, it was remarkable to her that nothing remarkable had ever happened to her here, with the exception of the rape that changed everything.

  Even she was surprised that she’d stayed here as long as she had after the assault, but given all that had happened, she wasn’t mentally prepared for a move.

  Knowing how difficult things were for her, four months ago Barbara Coleman ordered a cleaning service to clean the apartment at once. She took Patty to Macy’s at the mall and together, they chose new bedding, new towels, new curtains, new clothes―and threw out the old. Barbara said she and James were looking for a new living room and bedroom set, and insisted on giving her theirs, even though Patty could tell when they arrived that they were no more than a few months old.

  Barbara’s effort appeared to be twofold―change the apartment enough to make it look newish to Patty, and also to try to get rid of any trace of him and what he did to her here. While on one level Barbara managed to achieve her goals, what Patty would never tell her because she loved Barbara is that after what he had done to her and especially to Cheryl, would forever make this place reek with the memory of him.

  Outside, she heard the sound of a van pulling up alongside the curb in front of the front door. She had the downstairs apartment, so at least the move would be easier given the amount of snow that was falling. Before the movers got out of the truck, she went into the kitchen for her cell and called.

  Cheryl Dunning answered on the second ring. “Are they there?”

  “Just got here.”

  “You ready for this?”

  “Are you joking? Let’s get the hell out of here,” Patty said. “Let’s get to Portland, move into our new apartment, go out to dinner tomorrow night to celebrate, and start over. I’m excited. You?”

  “You have no idea,” Cheryl said. “Wish I could help, but my leg is still crap. Give Blanche a kiss for me. Tell her I miss her terribly. I’ll see you and the movers in a few.”

  * * *

  In her apartment at the back end of the Colemans’ house, Cheryl Dunning leaned on her walking stick as she and Barbara Coleman surveyed the apartment, with its piles of packed boxes taking up most of the kitchen and much of the living room. It seemed remote and chilly to Cheryl, who had lived here for years and who had come to love it as much as she loved the Colemans.

  The absence of Blanche, cared for by Patty since the two operations on Cheryl’s leg, only amplified the chill.

  “A few days ago, I had a cleaning service come and give me an estimate on cleaning the apartment for me,” Cheryl said. “I can’t do it myself. I apologize for that. But since I knew you’d never allow it, I paid them before they left. They’ll be here at noon today. I graduated with the woman who owns the company. We were friends once. She’ll do a great job for you and James―I’m sure of it.”

  “You know we planned to take care of that, Cheryl. You
need the extra money. It’s not an issue for us.”

  Cheryl smiled at the older woman with the motherly face. She had joined her father and her grandfather in caring for her over the past four months. She put her free hand on Barbara’s shoulder, and the two hugged. “I’ll miss you so much,” Cheryl said. “You’ve been so good to me. Many haven’t.”

  “Oh, don’t make me cry. You know I’m a soft touch.”

  They parted and Barbara held a hand to Cheryl’s cheek, which she leaned into. Their eyes were bright, likely because this really was the end of a difficult four months, which began when she died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, only to be brought back to life by the doctors there.

  There was a knock at the door. Cheryl raised her eyebrows at Barbara and went to answer it. It was her father and grandfather, here for their farewells. Both were tall, strapping men. Her father was fifty-four, brown hair, rugged face, eyes the color of the sky on a foggy day. Her grandfather almost was his mirror image, with a few differences that came from age―his hair was white and he didn’t stand quite as straight as he used to these days. But he was strong as hell―she knew that.

  “You sure you want to do this?” her grandfather asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Because you don’t need to,” her father said.

  “Actually, I do. It will be a relief to put this behind me and start fresh somewhere else. And I’ll only be two hours south. Don’t forget that. I could have moved to Boston. Patty and I considered it for a moment.” She nudged his arm. “You know, if you still got it in you, we could play ball between Bangor and Portland.”

  But her father wasn’t in a light mood. He looked grim and troubled, but nodded at Barbara Coleman nevertheless. “Then I guess we owe Mrs. Coleman our thanks for helping to get Patty a job in Maine.”

  “All I did was offer enthusiastic support,” Barbara said.

  The men thanked her.

  “Where are you off to?” Cheryl said. “You’re all padded up. Ice fishing?”

  “That time of year,” her father said. “But we wanted to come by first and give you a little something.”

  “A hug and a kiss?”

  “Something else, but those will come. So long as you ask nicely.”

  “You’re so full of it.”

  “I found something in the garage,” he said. “Couldn’t believe it when I saw it. I wanted to keep it myself, which means that you should have it. It’s like I’ve always told you. For the right person, the one who understands, you always give what you want yourself.”

  “Mom also used to say that.”

  “She did. She was a good woman.”

  “The best.”

  “No better.”

  “So, what is it?”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the baseball they used to toss back and forth on their front lawn when she was a kid. She recognized it immediately and brought her fist to her mouth. “I haven’t seen that in years.”

  He handed it to her. “We had a lot of fun with it, didn’t we, kid?”

  She started to tear up. “I’ll miss you both so much,” she said, hugging them. “Even if I will be calling you every night, I’ll miss you both. You have no idea how much. Thank you for teaching me everything I know. You saved my life in those woods.”

  “No, Cheryl, honey,” her grandfather said. “You saved your own life. Don’t you forget that. That was you in those woods. Alone. That was you fighting him. Alone. You think about that and never forget it. It wasn’t your father or me. You survived because you stood up against that son of a bitch and fought him. You survived because that’s who you are. You’re a survivor. You’ve made the whole family proud, especially us. Mostly us.”

  He looked at Barbara. “Sorry for my language, ma’am.”

  “No need to apologize. He was a son of a bitch,” Barbara said. “And I don’t mind saying that I’m glad that officer shot him dead after what he did to Cheryl and all of the other young women they’ve linked him and his friend to. He deserved to die. I hope he rots in hell.”

  * * *

  When everyone left, including Barbara, who said she would return with James when the movers arrived, Cheryl found one of the sturdier boxes and sat down on it.

  She was tired. This whole ordeal had taken its toll. Her dreams were bad. Her days weren’t much better. But she was moving on. She was getting out of here. And that was a gift because after what she’d been through over the past four months, she needed to start anew.

  In the months following what happened to her in the woods, she’d had two operations on her leg, one to set the femur she broke when he fell on top of her, and another to remove the bullet from her thigh. Months of therapy helped her to get to the point where she was now. She was able to walk with the use of her walking stick and soon, within the next two months or so, she was told she wouldn’t need it at all. She’d be able to walk normally again.

  But she wasn’t sure what normal was anymore.

  For a woman who already had died twice in her young life, right now, for Cheryl Dunning, she felt uneasy about her future. Given all she’d been through, she felt she had every right to feel that, as much as she didn’t want to, but there it was.

  The scars of her past had settled in and they continued to sink in, not unlike acid, burning straight through her. When she was with Barbara or James, her father or her grandfather, or even with Patty, with whom she’d eventually come clean, she tried to mask those scars with a brightness she didn’t feel. It was despair that she felt. It was fear of the unknown that she felt. It was the idea that if this could happen to her twice, why could’t it happen again? Of course, it could. Probably would. But when?

  She decided not to tell anyone her concerns or the state of her mental health, which was so poor, she knew at some point soon, she needed to see a therapist.

  But she didn’t see the point in worrying her family and her friends more than they already were worried for her. All they wanted was the best for her. She knew that and she felt it, so she went forward with an upbeat attitude in an effort to make them feel better. Would she snap out of how she really felt? She didn’t know. Probably not. Maybe so. At the very least, while Mark Rand and Kenneth Berkowitz had succeeded in taking her life, it was only for a moment, which means they failed to fully succeed on each count, didn’t they?

  And that was something, wasn’t it?

  Cheryl Dunning stood and went to the kitchen window. Snow was falling. No sign of the movers. She looked down the street she loved and committed it to memory. With her walking stick in one hand and the baseball in the other, she walked through her apartment and felt the walls closing in to the point that she wished that she was with Blanche, who, in her quiet way, knew how to comfort her.

  # # #

  Thanks for reading “You Only Die Twice.” I hope you enjoyed it.

  What follows is a small taste of the best-selling thrillers “A Rush to Violence” and “From Manhattan with Revenge,” each of which is a stand-alone book, but also part of the “Fifth Avenue” series (“Fifth Avenue,” “Running of the Bulls,” “From Manhattan with Love,” “From Manhattan with Revenge” and “A Rush to Violence”). All books have hit the overall Top 100 on Amazon Kindle, with the book “Fifth Avenue” itself thriving there and on the UK list for seven consecutive months before it dropped off each list. It has since returned to each list several times.

  “A Rush to Violence” will be followed by “A Rush to Murder” and “A Rush to Vengeance.” It was published in June 2012, and already has sold more than 300,000 copies.

  “From Manhattan with Revenge,” published at the end of August 2012, has sold more than 125,000 copies in four months. It is a stand-alone book, as all of my books are (with the exception of “The Bullied Series”), though you might benefit from reading “From Manhattan with Love” first if interested.

  A RUSH TO VIOLENCE

  The Fifth Avenue Series

  By Christ
opher Smith

  BOOK ONE

  PROLOGUE

  May

  New York City

  The dog, a Great Dane who ultimately and unfairly would be blamed for Kenneth Miller’s brutal and untimely death, sat at the end of Miller’s desk with a leash in its mouth and an unapologetic well of anticipation in its eyes.

  It was noon and time for their daily walk. The dog stomped its paw down on the gleaming parquet floor and made a whimpering sound.

  Miller looked away from his journal. “Two seconds,” he said. “You can see I’m writing.”

  The dog nuzzled Kenneth Miller’s arm with his nose and Miller, the 76-year-old tycoon who made his fortune by skillfully taking his family’s old money and turning it over and over in the market with the sort of financial finesse that makes new money, put down his pen and looked at the dog, whose eyes were lifted to his. “I suppose you want to go out,” he said.

  The dog, Blue, made a sound that sounded like a happy growl.

  “And I suppose you want me to go with you?”

  Again the paw, this time striking the floor impatiently.

  Miller ran his hand over the dog’s smooth, bluish-gray coat and removed the leash from its mouth. “You know,” he said, “with the exception of Camille and Emma, you’re the only one in my life who knows how to have your way with me. The others would kill to possess that quality. They’d want it bottled and preserved for future use.”

  He folded the piece of paper, put the paper in an envelope, wrote Camille’s name on the envelope and carried it over to his wall safe. He put it inside and entered the private code that would seal it there. Then, he strapped the leash to the dog’s collar and leaned down toward his ear. “But they’ll never have it. Not like you. You’re special, aren’t you, boy? You love me for me.”