Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1)

by Douglas Wickard

  Personally, I enjoy the attention. It gives me a sense of satisfaction knowing they will never catch me. Particularly after this new exhibition.

  Warmth covers my left wrist. A slight stinging sensation. Pinpricks to the skin.

  How could you allow Angie to get away?

  I continue my surveillance. Where is she?

  No mistakes this time...

  My left hand clutches the handle of a ten pound weight inside my coat pocket. My fingers are sweaty from all the excitement. I realize, too late, that I’ve been sharpening the razor blade with my own skin. Blood flows freely over my wrist, around my watch, and drips onto my raincoat.

  Damn!

  I didn’t even feel it. My level of awareness was so intense. Concentrated. I place a napkin, leftover from my morning coffee, over the cut. How deep is it? Do I need stitches? This is all I need. I peel back the napkin. Blood oozes from surrounding tissue. Nothing serious. I’ll live.

  You’ll probably mess up. Just like the last time…

  I can’t afford this kind of carelessness. Not again. Not ever. The gray, calm waters of the Atlantic Ocean soothe my nerves. The expansive shade of the giant oak tree I sit under bathes me. Huge branches bow majestically before me. Leaves rustle, as if they are dancing, flickering in the morning breeze. The sound reminds me of rain. Soft and steady and consistent. An empty sweetheart cup rattles along down the sidewalk. It echoes ominously as I apply more pressure to my cut. Hopefully, the bleeding will stop. If not, what do I do? What hospital should I go to? I pray it lets up on its own.

  Ah… there she is! My prize for waiting so patiently. My reward. She exits the house, slams the screen door and scurries down the few cement steps balancing an armload of books and a backpack. Her pleated skirt is well above her knees. You like parading those legs, don’t you? You bet you do, you little whore! My hands begin perspiring again. I lose awareness of my cut. My attention is now devoted entirely to her. The napkin falls accidentally to the ground. I glance around to make sure nobody’s seen it. I take great pride in my ability to acclimate myself. But I don’t necessarily want to be noticed, either, especially with a bloody napkin. Considering today’s headline, a tissue soaked with blood is something that would get attention.

  No mistakes…

  Particularly after “Angie Baby.”

  I scoop the tissue from off the ground and wipe my nose with it. Everybody gets a nosebleed occasionally. Right?

  The Princess stands on the front steps of her castle waiting for somebody to pick her up. She puts her books down, reaches inside her backpack and pulls out a cigarette. I can’t make out which brand. I can’t believe she smokes! She looks back at the screen door, sits down on one of the steps, lights the cigarette and takes a few deep drags. Not bad for a young girl. How young, I wonder.

  Sun reflects off the water. I shield my eyes. Specks of white light shimmer on the manicured lawn in front of me. A German shepherd hoists his leg at the base of a palm tree, his owner engrossed in his paper. My story. I put my sunglasses on. Like a celebrity. No autographs, please. Everything turns a light shade of pink, including the small triangle of underwear, barely visible from between her legs.

  I have an stigmatism that causes me to wear tinted glasses. I unbutton my raincoat halfway and wipe the perspiration from the back of my neck with the used napkin. The bloody one. It must be getting warmer out. And so early in the season.

  An older woman appears at the door. Her Mother maybe? She screams something at the girl but I can’t understand her. I’m too far away. I mind my own business. The girl flicks her cigarette onto the sidewalk. It swivels and lands and dies.

  Litterbug…

  She gets up and marches back toward the screen door. Once there, she confronts the woman, her young back arched in defiance, her finger pointing accusatorily. This is too interesting. I must hear what is being said. I casually meander in their direction. I grab onto the weight. I would really like to hit the bitch now, if I could. But, of course, I can’t. I must wait. As planned.

  “… you heard me, young lady. You’re grounded!”

  It must be her Mother. She slams the screen door and disappears into the vast blackness of the house. And what a house it is. The wrap-around porch is furnished far better than most people’s living room. Decoratively placed around the whitewashed deck is dark colored wicker furniture. Bright floral cushions accompany the set. Large terracotta pots overflow with flowers. Petunias and geraniums line the porch while healthy green ferns and spider plants hang down intermittently from the second floor balcony. Displayed in honor of the United States is the American flag. It whips loudly in the breeze. Very patriotic. Like a Norman Rockwell painting. The entire package designed and preserved intentionally for the multitude of tour groups that swarm past on a day-to-day basis.

  I hate tour groups. Boring. Perhaps “The Mutilator” will stop some of that nonsense.

  The Princess stands at the door. She pauses for a second, debating her next move. Should she follow her Mother inside or stay as she is? Pubescent rebellion.

  I’ve crossed the street now. I raise my sunglasses and look in her direction. Casually. Oh, she notices me. She smiles politely. I nod my head, tip my oversized ball cap and graciously smile back, like a good tourist.

  Pitching her backpack over her shoulder, she grabs her books and defiantly stomps off the porch. Athletic, isn’t she? She pushes past me. I pause. I try breathing in her fumes. The slight stench of fresh perfume. I can’t make out if it’s her or the aroma from all those fresh flowers planted on the porch. Geraniums maybe? Semi-sweet and earthy. Up the steps, through the mesh screen, her Mother sneaks a worried glance. She watches on as her daughter continues down the street.

  Say goodbye, Mother.

  Say goodbye!

  I follow her unnoticed for a couple of blocks. As practiced, I turn down an alternate street. I know her routine. In approximately three minutes, we will meet up. I check my watch, the second hand nearing noon. I count down the seconds until she turns the corner at Lenwood…

  … Perfect…

  Everything. Even the bleeding has stopped.

  I romanticize, caught up in a fantasy. Her hair is long and over her shoulder, but lighter in color than the last one. Just the way I like it. Each girl offering herself as a sacrifice must have curls. It’s a prerequisite. Always. I also like the way this one parts her hair to the side. A tiny clip holds the bangs in place. It is difficult determining the design of the barrette from this distance, but earlier, when she rushed past me, I faintly remember seeing a plastic butterfly frozen in flight in multiple colors.

  I hurry and turn down Limehouse. I check my watch again. Thirty seconds. I don’t want to miss her. Next, I make a left turn on Tradd Street. Where is she?

  Don’t you dare fuck up this time… remember your wrist…

  Finally!

  I see her. Thank you, you precious Angel. You have not deviated. Not yet. You are asking me for your salvation, aren’t you? Otherwise, you would have turned onto another street. This is an omen. Don’t worry, Princess, I will save you. I promise. With the sunset comes your redemption. Just as we’ve planned for.

  I think ahead. My actions are methodical, calculated, practiced to the second. I will interchange with her on Savage Street. How perfect. I parked the rental car there earlier. I tighten my grip on the weight. Don’t slip.

  Don’t you dare fuck up!

  Adrenaline pumps. This is the best part. One quick blow to the temple at extremely close range. That will do it. My best backhand. That will leave her stunned and confused, enough to push her into the trunk already unlocked, open and waiting. Just like the other two. Totally unsuspecting.

  At precisely the perfect moment, she turns the corner. She begins walking in my direction, smoking another foul cigarette. A fuzzy sensation washes over me, a ripple of curious satisfaction. Almost sexual. This one will be my best yet!

  I imagine the tiny patch of hair hidden between her l
egs, soft and blonde and light to the touch. Like a feather. I conjure up a fantasy of her shaving for the first time, encouraging seduction, imitating the refined qualities of her genteel Mother. A Southern woman of uncommonly good breeding who’s inherited everything she owns by spreading her legs and positioning herself in a supine position. Those tiny, bleached white panties. They should be red. This one is no virgin. She’s used goods. I know that for a fact. I’ve been following this lamb for weeks. Gathering information. Getting her ready for the slaughter. I picked her specifically for that reason. She’s pregnant. With seed. It was vital. For this particular ritual, the chosen had to be with child. So, I picked a real whore, not some phony imitation. I had to make sure. What better way?

  No mistakes…

  In fact, I know her boyfriend. One of them, anyway. This one likes being soiled. I actually watched her. What a sick sight that was.

  One more block…

  She approaches. So unaware. So blindly innocent. I watch as she crosses the street, under the shade of a huge palmetto tree. Sunlight weaves staccato patterns upon her face.

  Half a block…

  I take a speedy glance around. As hoped for, no one is around. Anywhere. Not a living soul. No excuse to mess up this time. Not a chance. I see my rental, excellently positioned across the street. Waiting. And ready. I remember parking here earlier this morning. How lucky I was in finding the perfect parking space. An omen, again, of good things to come. How jittery I was. Nervous. Excited. The prospects before me.

  By habit, she crosses the street. Right by the fire hydrant, directly opposite the front of my car. I step off the curb. My heart is beating wildly. I check in both directions for traffic. Clear. We should intersect approximately… I check my watch… out of habit…

  Shit!

  The bright red slash across my wrist. The cut is open and bleeding…

  Where is the napkin?

  Without thinking, I stash my hand back into the bottom of my pocket. I loosen my grip on the weight and search my coat, sifting through the detritus, all the while watching as she draws closer. Closer. I remain calm. Composed. Careful.

  Timing… timing…

  She passes by me at arm’s length, submerged in her own somber mood. Can I smell her? Should I turn around and come up on her from behind, while she’s unsuspecting? No. Not that way! I like it when they know. I like seeing the stunned expression on their faces. That jolt of terror that comes over them. The confusion in their eyes as they slowly wash away and lose consciousness. She didn’t even smile as she passed by me. She must not have recognized me. Her savior. God. All she did was drop the butt of her cigarette at my feet. How awful. She didn’t even bother to put it out. Thankfully, she didn’t look up.

  I’m frantic.

  Where’s my napkin?

  I turn, just in time to see the Princess’s backpack round the next corner. Out of sight. Out of mind.

  Please forgive me.

  What’s worse, I’ve lost my bloody napkin.

  No mistakes this time… no mistakes!

  I turn around and around in circles. I scan the ground. Feel dizzy. I pick up the cigarette butt and place it in my pocket. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. I must remember to throw it away properly in a trash can. I retrace my steps; I check every crevice, each crack of the sidewalk, the street I recently crossed. Nothing.

  You can’t afford a second mistake, stupid!

  I hate it when plans don’t go as intended. Everything must be perfect. Meticulous.

  I return to the Battery. I follow the same progression of streets, careful not to miss a turn or a crossing. Almost eight thirty when I arrive and still no luck. No napkin. More people have flooded into the park. An explosion of pedestrians. They are enjoying the weather, the sun, the day. I see an orange box kite floating in the sky.

  I hate it.

  Leisurely, I stroll back to the Princess’s house and stand at her front gate. It’s important, not attracting any attention. There, wadded up on the sidewalk is my used napkin, what’s left of it, anyway. Large black crows have gathered. They take turns pecking at the debris as if it might hold a surprise inside.

  “Shoo!” I wave the birds away with my good hand and pick up the loose shreds of the red stained paper. They caw and squawk as they hop away on to the street and take flight, angry and frustrated and annoyed. I deposit the napkin and cigarette butt into a trash receptacle.

  All that remains of my wasted day.

  I’ve lost her.

  But not for long…

  Friday

  10:47 AM

  16

  Jake had a ritual that annoyed the hell out of Janice. And, being that Jake slept with Janice most of the time (for lack of any other available suitors) and assumed the absentee title (for the time being, anyway) he had no hesitation in making his practice irksomely habitual. Just when Janice was diving into some decent REM sleep patterns, Jake would take it upon himself to stand up on the bed, shake vehemently, sit back down on his haunches, place his paw on her shoulder, stretch his long gray neck down to wherever Janice’s face was and lick her. On the lips. “Lesbian Kisses,” she called them. She thought he did it intentionally, knowing it tormented the hell out of her. Weimaraners. Such needy, divine creatures. They required an inordinate amount of time and attention, and Mr. Jake was no exception to the breed. He ran on his own distinct schedule, oblivious that Janice had just taken her sorry ass to bed, comatose from jumping morning hurdles with copy deadlines.

  “All right, already, you silly dog.”

  Jake leaped from the bed and tore ass to the front door, nails clicking on the hardwood floor, paws sliding and barreling around the apartment furniture. It was a wonder Janice had anything of value left. Retrieving his leash from the wall hook, Jake high tailed it back to the bed. Now, how could she be upset? Luckily, Janice was saved by her cell phone going off. Jake would have to wait. On Janice’s schedule, for once, for a change.

  Her voice was scruffy, scratchy from no sleep and damp midnight air. “Hello?” Jake bowed down before her, paws outstretched in her direction. A playful growl emitted from him as he swiveled his head back and forth with his leash. Playtime.

  “You’ve been a busy lady.” Lisette’s voice melted the connection. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

  Janice played dumb. Coy. Calm and mysterious. Character traits that never rested easy with her. “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you seen the front page of the P & C? Your name is on it. Right there! On page one.”

  “To tell you the truth, I’ve been in bed…” She rolled over and consulted the red flashing numbers of her digital clock. “… for exactly… thirty minutes. I was up all night. I’m exhausted.”

  “I won’t keep you then. I just wanted you to know how proud I am of you.”

  “Proud?” Always the teacher. “You at school?” Janice thought about what Lisette said. Proud. Proud. Proud. She said it silently to herself over and over again, with different intonations, flattered and taken aback at the same time.

  “I’m on my lunch break. I was thinking… maybe I could cook for you tonight. Mexican. You into it?”

  Into it? Is she crazy?

  “Si. Of course. Yes. Sounds terrific.” Anything was better than Mickey-D’s. Lisette would be shocked if she were to check out her refrigerator right now. The only thing containing any RFDA nutritional value would be leftover Chinese food. From three nights ago. Gross. Oh, and maybe a Heineken.

  Call waiting beeped. “Hold that thought. I have another call.”

  “Busy, busy,” Lisette said, as Janice pressed ENTER.

  “Yeah?” She reached for some bottled water left by the bedside.

  “Mouth, Louis.”

  Janice couldn’t believe it. Louis was her Siamese twin throughout the evening and on into the early morning hours. Proofreading, copy editing, securing the right photograph for the piece. She gave Louis full credit for helping her meet deadlines, intravenously dripping cof
fee into her veins and feeding her one too many glazed doughnuts. Janice’s favorite.

  “How’s it look? We did it, didn’t we?”

  “Front page, Mouth. Front fucking page. This is big! Real big! The biggest thing to hit Charleston in a long, long time. I need you down here. Like yesterday!”

  “Hold on for one second, okay?” Janice reconnected to Lisette. “Hon?”

  “I’m here…”

  “Gotta go! Leave a message with details for tonight. I can’t wait to catch up.”

  “Got it.”

  Janice longed to have Lisette beside her, kiss her, make passionate love to her, perform a host of savory and erotic acts on her. All that would have to wait. Instead, she rolled out of bed and pressed her ITunes on. Melissa Ethridge blasted through the apartment breaking sound barriers. Poor Jake. He only wanted to pee. “See you, later.”