Cold Justice

by Rayven T. Hill

  He pushed her away, and grabbed her arm. The knife hit the floor. She turned, and with her other fist, hit him desperately across the face. She broke free as he raised his arm to protect himself. She ran toward the back door.

  Can’t let her get outside. Have to stop her. Now.

  He dove. Missed. She was out the door.

  He chased after her in a frenzied attempt. He couldn’t let her get away.

  She ran across the back lawn as he pursued frantically.

  She was on the next property behind now, heading up the side of the neighboring house.

  He almost had her, his hand reaching for her, brushing against her back with his fingertips. As she rounded the front corner of the house, he made a desperate leap and caught her by the hair. She stopped short, stumbled and was brought to the ground.

  Kill. Kill. Kill.

  She lay on her back and attempted to scream for help, struggling and clawing feebly at her attacker as he knelt beside her, his hands about her throat, gritting his teeth, growling like an animal, squeezing, squeezing.

  Until her final scream was cut short, and all was still and quiet.

  He dropped her lifeless body, rose to his feet, and then leaned over and grabbed her hands. He dragged her across the grass, back toward the darkness at the edge of the home.

  He had to get her body out of here. Get to safety, before someone came, and saw.

  He heard branches rustling and snapping, coming from the hedge along the side of the property, near the sidewalk. He looked up from the shadows. Someone was watching. Someone he knew, and someone who knew him.

  It was Abigail Macy. One of his patients.

  She stared, open-mouthed, as he looked into her frightened eyes.

  She turned and ran.

  He dropped the body and followed instinctively, like a rabid dog after its prey. He was behind her now, and she glanced over her shoulder. He was close, and getting closer with each step.

  She stumbled the last few feet, crossed the lawn of her house, and then fell onto the brightly lit front steps of her home.

  He stopped suddenly, ducking behind a tree as a car went by. He looked across the street. A light was coming from a house window. He could see someone moving about inside. He looked up at a bright streetlight directly overhead.

  His anger had faded enough now for his head to clear. He had to think logically. He should have waited and planned this a little better. But he had been furious, and now he had to do something about Abigail Macy. He cursed at the way his luck had turned. His bad luck, getting worse.

  He couldn’t chance doing anything about her now. She may have recognized him, and he would have to deal with her later. He had more urgent matters to attend to.

  He moved carefully back down the street, keeping in the shadows as much as possible. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Abigail digging in her handbag for her key, and then disappear inside the house.

  He made it unseen back to the spot where Vera’s body lay beside the house. He hoped the sounds of the struggle hadn’t been heard. He listened for a while. All was quiet. There were no lights in the house beside him. It was well after midnight, and the city was asleep.

  As quietly as possible, he hoisted the body over his shoulder, and then stumbling under the weight, he carried it back to the Blackley house, up the steps, across the deck, and into the kitchen.

  He carried it through the house and dropped it onto the floor by the front door. He looked around. The struggle had made a bit of a mess. He straightened things up, meticulously checking everything. Put the knife back in the kitchen. Straighten up the coffee table. He found a garbage bag in the kitchen. He wiped off the empty wine bottle and the glasses with a dry cloth, and then dumped them into the bag. He found the cork. That went into the bag as well.

  The spilled wine had spread across the floor where the bottle had landed, and had splashed onto the hardwood floor in several areas as Vera had swung it about. He dug under the kitchen sink for something to clean it with. A cloth and some water. He spent some time, making sure he had cleaned it thoroughly. It appeared to be acceptable. It’s a good thing it was white wine. He dumped the cloth into the garbage bag.

  He took a last look around, and then carefully using the dry cloth, he wiped down any areas he may have touched. Don’t want to leave any fingerprints.

  He stopped to think for a moment. One last thing to do.

  There was a door to the garage off the kitchen. He went into the garage and looked around. He saw just what he needed, and smiled grimly, chuckling to himself.

  Using the same cloth, he reached to the wall and removed a hammer, careful not to touch the handle. He hurried back into the kitchen and found a small knife. He went to where the body lay.

  He made a small cut on her wrist, just enough to make it bleed. The heart had stopped pumping, so the blood didn’t flow. He squeezed her wrist and a few drops fell onto the head of the hammer. He smeared it around, and then pulling a hair from her head, he rubbed it into the blood. It stuck.

  He went back to the garage and hung the hammer back up on the wall. Anderson Blackley’s fingerprints would surely be on that hammer. He had covered his tracks.

  Just in case.

  He locked the back door, switched off the lights, and then after first digging out his car keys, he hoisted the body over his shoulder, checked to be sure no one was about, and then carried it quickly to his car. He popped the trunk and dropped Vera’s body inside, snapping it closed quietly.

  Hurrying back to the house, he grabbed the garbage bag full of the items he had collected, locked the door from the inside, closed it, and tested it. It was locked securely. He hurried to his car, tossed the bag in the back seat, and backed out.

  The street was bare. All was quiet. He drove away slowly, finally breathing freely once he had turned onto the next street.

  Now, what to do with the body. Have to think.

  A plan began to form.

  He knew where Blackley worked.

  Winding his way through the city, watching carefully in case any cops were about, he found Magnetic Drive. At the rear of the row of units was a service driveway, used for deliveries, garbage pickup, and employee parking. He saw the back door for Proper Shoes. Beside the door was a massive garbage bin. He looked around and saw no one.

  He backed up to the bin, climbed out, popped the trunk, and removing the cooling body of his former lover, he dumped it into the big green bin. The bag from the back seat was tossed inside as well.

  The truck will pick that up. If the body isn’t seen, then it will be buried in a landfill somewhere. Forever.

  But... if they find it, Blackley will look guilty.

  He jumped in the car, well pleased with his plan as he drove away, heading for home.

  He would sleep well tonight.

  Chapter 22

  Thursday, August 18th, 2:20 PM

  ANNIE HAD SPENT the last hour on the phone, contacting the names on the short list given to her by Anderson Blackley.

  Vera Blackley’s father, who lived locally, hadn’t seen her for some time and was of no help. Her mother had disappeared out of her life many years ago, and her father had no idea where she was now.

  “We’re not very close,” he had said. “She has very little time for her family.”

  She had few friends. None of them had heard from her for several days and didn’t know where she might be. Only one woman, Diane Henderson, had been any help at all. Annie had called her and spoken to her briefly.

  Diane hadn’t been aware Vera Blackley was still missing. Anderson Blackley had called her on Monday, but he gave no indication there was anything to be concerned about. Now, Diane sounded anxious. “I haven’t seen her, or heard from her since last week,” she had said.

  “Do you know where she may have gone? Did she know anyone out of town?” Annie asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Ms. Henderson, would you have any idea if Vera was having an affair?
”

  There was silence on the line for a moment, and then reluctantly, “I think so.”

  “Do you know who she was having an affair with?” Annie asked.

  “No, she didn’t say.”

  Annie hesitated. “Ms. Henderson. We have reason to believe some harm may have come to Vera.”

  Diane caught her breath.

  Annie continued, “And so, it’s important we find anyone that may have seen her, or talked to her lately.”

  “Do... do you think she’s been murdered?”

  “I hope not,” Annie replied, “but we are trying to find out.” Annie hesitated. “What can you tell me about Anderson Blackley?”

  “I have only met him a couple of times. I don’t know much about him. Only what Vera mentioned.”

  “What did she say about him? Is he capable of hurting her? Did she seem afraid of anything, or anyone?”

  “No, she never expressed any concern about him. I know she didn’t care about him, but she never said she felt threatened in any way,” Diane said.

  “Is there anything else you could tell me?” Annie asked.

  “Mrs. Lincoln, Vera is a good friend, and I have known her for a long time. I love her, but to be honest, she’s rather impulsive. Especially when it comes to men. She can fall in and out of love without a moment’s notice. And that’s why I’m not positive whether she is having an affair or not.”

  “But you think it’s possible?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s very possible. More like probable.” She paused. “Oh, I do hope she’s all right. Please let me know if you find her. I am very concerned.”

  “I certainly will. And please, Ms. Henderson, give me a call if there’s anything else you can think of that might help locate her.”

  “Yes, yes, I will.”

  Annie gave her cell and office phone numbers to Diane, and then hung up.

  She sat back and glanced at the list again. She had contacted them all and had nothing new to go on. Only one thing was evident. No one knows where Vera Blackley is, and it seemed as if few people even cared.

  Thursday, August 18th, 4:18 PM

  SAMMY FISHER was homeless.

  Not that it mattered to him. He found life on the streets was a lot better than working for a living. For the last ten of his forty-five years, he had been his own boss, and certainly not a demanding one.

  He preferred life in the suburbs to the inner city. A lot less competition for his daily necessities, few though they were. He never had to scramble for a place in front of a heat register, or a sewer grate, in order to get warm on a cold night. And the food that could be found here, was more to his liking, and far surpassed the meager pickings that were to be found downtown.

  He never had to push one of those grocery carts, slugging around his stuff with him wherever he went. He had his own little place under Richmond River overpass, way up high and tucked back behind the concrete pillars. He had found a little cave, his own nest, as it were, just room for himself and his meager possessions.

  No one, other than himself, knew about the place, and so he never had to fend off any invaders, and except for the occasional rat, and a few insects, he was left alone. The place was so well insulated by the earth around it; it could be heated by a candle on the coldest winter night. And, it was cool in the summer. Once he got used to the musty smell, it was home, sweet home.

  He liked it that way.

  Sammy awoke and stretched, scratching himself in a few places before finally sitting up. That afternoon nap had done him good. He swept back the canvas and peered out.

  Time to find supper.

  He slapped on his baseball cap and crawled from his refuge. The concrete colored canvas swung back into place, perfectly camouflaging the entrance. He scrambled down a few feet on all fours before having enough space to stand.

  He brushed himself off and checked his back pocket. He always carried a couple of plastic grocery bags jammed in there, one for his supper, and an extra one just in case he stumbled across anything he couldn’t live without. That was rare, but you never know.

  He kicked up dust with his tattered runners as he hobbled down the embankment to the river below. It flowed from north of the city, went a few miles south, before finally slamming into the lake. But here, the water was fresh enough. It hadn’t picked up a lot of pollution yet on this part of its journey south, and Sammy found it good enough to drink.

  He slipped his cap off and took his daily bath, consisting of kneeling down and soaking his head. He felt refreshed. He cupped his hands and slurped up a few mouthfuls of water. It was cold, and tasted good. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and then stood and shook his bushy head, like a shaggy dog shaking off water.

  Let’s go.

  He stuck his hat back on the knotted mess and climbed up the embankment, around the side of the overpass, and soon was standing on the sidewalk of a busy city street.

  People pointed and stared at his tattered clothes, his laceless shoes, and his heavily bearded face as he ambled along. A few conspicuously looked the other way as they passed, avoiding his eyes, and holding their breath, in case the man carried something contagious.

  He pretended not to see, and on occasion, he would get even by accidentally bumping into someone who was particularly offended by him. And then he would touch his cap, give a hearty apology, and chuckle to himself as he continued on his way.

  He’d had a part time job as a party clown, many years ago, and had loved it. There wasn’t much call any more for his expertise, but he had learned long ago, little children never seemed to be offended by him. And now, on occasion, he would stop and do a happy dance, entertaining the kids, enjoying their giggles, until their mother sternly steered them away, probably lecturing them about the eminent dangers of homeless strangers.

  He wandered on.

  At the next intersection, he turned down Magnetic Drive, an industrial area. There were a couple of diners here, catering to the local warehousing and shipping industries that littered the street. They depended solely on local customers and did a roaring business during office hours, but usually closed up by five o’clock or so. The area was deserted after that, and there was always an abundance of leftover good stuff to choose from in the bins behind the restaurants. Plenty to satisfy his taste buds, and fill his slightly rounded tummy.

  It was rumbling now.

  Humming to himself, he slipped down an alleyway between two buildings, took a left, and by now, could already smell his supper waiting for him in the big green bin, dead ahead.

  A sign above the bin said ‘Jackie’s Diner, No Dumping’.

  He stepped onto a ledge at the end of the bin, about halfway up. He hoisted himself the rest of the way and peered in. He grinned.

  “Supper is ready. Come and get it.”

  There were enough goodies here to open his own diner. There always was. Well, not always. Not on the weekends. The place was closed then, and Sammy was too particular to eat two-day-old food, especially after the rats and other rodents had browsed through it.

  He was a frequent visitor to this establishment, and knew how everything was packaged. The leftover meat was in small white bags, probably to keep the eventual smell down. Fries, bread rolls and pastries were usually packed neatly in a cardboard box, along with prepackaged sandwiches that had not been purchased. And then the whole lot of tidily packaged leftovers was tossed untidily into the waiting bin.

  It didn’t take him long to find what he needed. He dug a grocery bag from his back pocket. He would take what he wanted for supper, enough for breakfast and lunch tomorrow, and leave the rest to the rodents already skittering around inside the bin.

  He packed his choices carefully inside the bag, tied the top, and dropped from the bin.

  Life is good.

  As usual, he would go down a couple of streets and enjoy his feast in the park. A lovely little place where he could watch the kids and appreciate the afternoon.

  But first, let me see what’s in t
he other bins along here. Haven’t checked them for a while.

  The next unit did commercial printing. There was never anything in there he needed, but if he ever wanted some writing paper in the future, well, he knew where to get it. He passed the bin by.

  Next was a computer parts supplier. Never anything there.

  Next. ‘Proper Shoes’.

  I don’t really need any shoes. They’re for old people anyway. Maybe I’ll come back in forty years or so and see what they have for me.

  Suddenly, an overpowering stench filled his nose. He held his breath and moved away, shaking his head in disgust. Must be a dead cat or something in there.

  Drawn by curiosity, he plugged his nose and climbed up the end of the bin. He heaved himself up carefully, closed one eye, and looked.

  What he saw made him change his mind about eating his supper real soon. His stomach wasn’t up to it now. He dropped to the ground, backed up several feet, and stopped, staring in disbelief, slowly shaking his head.

  The police will want to know about this.

  Chapter 23

  Thursday, August 18th, 5:02 PM

  ANNIE HAD DROPPED over next door to chat with Chrissy for a while. Jake had just brewed a fresh pot of coffee, its pleasant aroma filling his nose as he poured himself a big mug full. He carried it out the back door to the deck, slouched down in a chair, dropped his feet onto another one, and sipped carefully at his steaming drink.

  He watched as Matty and Kyle kicked around a soccer ball on the lawn. Matty was showing Kyle how to do a Hip Fake, a deft little move that always seemed to fool his opponent. They practiced until Kyle had it right.

  Jake was proud of Matty. He seemed to be pretty adept at most sports. He took to it naturally, just like his father. Jake had been mainly into football, though. His size had made him a formidable opponent. He tried to pass his football skills on to Matty, but Matty had taken more to soccer and baseball, and he seemed to be a natural at both.