Deadly Night

by Aiden James

  Plastic sheets hung from the ceiling throughout much of the main floor, and only a few furniture pieces were left inside the house—at least from what we could tell. The owners must be planning an extraordinary facelift to the inside, which isn’t completely unusual. In order to keep the historical significance of a house like this, the main structure must be protected, but a lot of freedom exists for modernization. The place would be a dream for most interior decorators, certainly.

  “Well, this is really turning into a one-of-a-kind event tonight,” observed Fiona, snapping pictures while keeping an eye on the EMF detector in her hands. “I’m not sure we’ll catch anything with the house in such disarray. Sometimes remodeling will ‘spook the spooks’ as easily as it can attract activity.”

  “Yeah, that’s true,” I agreed, lifting one large plastic sheet for her to pass through, to reach the hallway after we moved through the barren parlor. This might turn into the quickest investigation we’ve ever had. “So, who were you texting back there?”

  “You already know it was Ed, I’m sure,” she said, eyeing me mischievously. Like I’ve mentioned, my jealous streak both amuses and annoys her. She stepped under the plastic and I followed her. The sheets made the hallway darker than it’d normally be.

  “So, what’s up with him?”

  She sighed before answering, snapping a single shot toward her right into a small alcove.

  “Well, Angie’s right. He’s coming here around nine tonight, after he takes care of some personal business first.”

  “Is he pissed about us being here?”

  I tried to sound nonchalant, collecting a few of my own random photographs.

  “He’s not happy about it,” she said, looking over her shoulder before leading the way into the kitchen. “But, he confirmed that Angie already arranged for everyone to be here, so I think he’s more irritated with her than anyone else.”

  Suddenly a loud thud resounded from below us.

  Did something fall in the cellar? No cries or other noises, so I guess everything’s okay….

  “You think we should go check on Jackie and Justin?”

  Fiona looked as worried as she sounded just then, and I was grateful for the numerous windows in the kitchen. At least we had plenty of light still from the setting sun. Good for another fifteen minutes or so. After that we would need our flashlights, since the only working light fixtures are hooked single bulbs used by the carpenters and painters contracted for the restoration project.

  “Maybe…if we don’t hear anything in a minute or so,” I said.

  “Like we’d hear anything anyway. You don’t remember how thick the walls are in places like this?” She was starting to panic, which often brings out her biting sarcasm. The only time she ain’t such a princess.

  “Okay…I’ll check it out in just a minute,” I assured her. “Tell me what Ed said was so important, the ‘development’ he texted you about on the highway.”

  “All right, but you need to keep it to yourself,” she said, looking around to see if Tom or Tony’s audio recorders had been set up in the kitchen. It didn’t look like it, as no green or red lights were flashing anywhere in the kitchen, other than from a single camera in one corner of the room. Hopefully it was non-audio. She moved closer to me and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Ed said his contacts in New Jersey called him this morning at home. Two bodies were found a week ago near a sewage treatment plant in Trenton, New Jersey. A man and a woman, and both have now been identified.”

  “Who are they?”

  Standard reply, I guess, since the real question is what does this have to do with our current situation in Nashville, Tennessee. The fact two people died elsewhere is sad and terrible news, but doesn’t mean diddly to me personally if it doesn’t tie into our present situation, namely being prey for a guy who likes to take his time torturing his victims. Sorry to say, and it’s amenable if more personal facts are presented about these other victims. It just depended upon what she said next.

  “Vito Travini and Maureen Marrero. They both were shot with the same gun used in the killings here in Nashville.”

  “No shit?”

  I certainly didn’t expect her to say ‘Vito Travini’. Candi’s angry ex, with insatiable vengeance on the brain, and the dude whose Buick was found in Kentucky nearly two weeks ago. I guess he’s not after us after all.

  “Are you going to check on Jackie and Justin, or should I do it?”

  “Yeah, I am,” I assured her again, and turned to head back toward the front entrance, since I didn’t see a door that could lead to a cellar. At least not in the kitchen. Common sense for me would be to backtrack and take the route everyone else did, rather than waste precious time looking for another way to get there. “When did they die, or do the Jersey cops know that yet?”

  “Ed said they’ve been dead for almost three weeks,” she confirmed. Her voice revealed her escalating tension. “Right after Vito was paroled. And the girl…she’s apparently a cousin of Candi’s.”

  “What??”

  That got my attention. I stopped, whirling around to look at her. I’m sure I must’ve looked like she did last night at my gig, with my mouth gaping open in complete surprise. Damn, how the plot instantly thickened from the latest bombshell. This whole affair can now go in a myriad of directions.

  “Why in the hell would anyone in her family want to hang out with that piece of shit—especially after everything we’ve learned about the sick bastard?”

  I knew she couldn’t answer the question any more than I could, but it flew out of my mouth just the same.

  “The mafia experts back east think they were operating together, and that she was holding his laundered fortune for him, keeping it safe until he got out of jail,” she explained. “The New Jersey authorities told Ed that Maureen picked him up from prison. She was the one driving—Oh my God, Jimmy look out!!!”

  Too late. For me, anyway.

  Before I could duck out of harm’s way, something heavy struck the back of my head. Incredible pain radiated toward my face and the world around me turned black.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It’s hard to say which came back to me first…my hearing? Or was it my sight?

  Maybe both came together as a hazy awakening…hearing footsteps and seeing my attacker’s feet. Slender black boots made for some priss of a man. Perhaps a teenager? I’m not sure, but from the steady clicks of the boot heels upon the newly restored yellow poplar floor, the dude seemed like he belonged to some Neo-Nazi group. Like an SS field marshal from yesteryear sucked through a time warp into the present.

  Back and forth, over and over, the owner of the boots traveled from one end of Montebello Manor’s kitchen to the other.

  Blurred at first by a splitting headache that dwarfed all my memories of what a debilitating migraine is like, I soon got a better glimpse of the boots. Quite nice actually. Add some steel chains and a pair of those would fit in great with my stage wardrobe.

  A weird association, I know, but the easiest way for me to deal with being uncomfortable as well as with my growing fear. When I tried to move my arms from my sides, I couldn’t. Just my hands. One-inch thick nylon rope held me fast, and my legs were similarly bound. Sitting in one of the kitchen chairs Fiona admired earlier for the hand carved loops and leaves in a Black Forest motif. Only now, the chiseled designs served to secure the ropes that held me fast.

  Similarly bound, the love of my life sat ten feet away. Thick mascara trails from Fiona’s eyes to her cheeks told me she’d been crying for some time.

  Darkness outside the windows...twilight fading. How long have I been out?

  Disheveled, a red welt alongside her mouth revealed the physical assault she’d suffered since our conversation had been abruptly interrupted. Before or after being rope-strapped to her chair? That didn’t matter. Primal alarm and protective rage ripped through my entire being.

  “I’m going to kick your scrawny ass, you sorry sack of shit!” I hi
ssed, trying to raise my head. It made me want to scream, but the instinctive urge to sacrifice comfort in order to come to my wife’s rescue spurred me on. “Only a pussy attacks a man from behind…and for whatever you’ve done to her, it’s gonna be a helluva lot worse for you now, asshole!”

  Maybe under different circumstances, I would’ve worded my response more carefully. It only took a moment for our assailant to respond.

  Gloved fingers grabbed my chin and thrust my gaze upward. More agony, and the intense ‘white light’ I remembered from the last time I did have a migraine came rushing through.

  I howled in pain…maybe even a bit shrill like a little girl. I don’t remember, just that it hurt like a mother.

  Fiona burst into tears, and I desperately wanted to comfort her…rescue her. Instead I thought my head would snap from my spine.

  Dude’s body doesn’t look like much, but he’s got a grip. Sucker’s real strong!

  A muffled chuckle erupted above me, and I forced my eyes to focus on the guy. Dressed completely in black, his silken body suit glistened under the glow from one of the carpenter’s barren lamps hanging from a dormant brass chandelier. His face lay hidden behind s black mesh mask. The same ninja-looking outfit he wore when he stalked us back at Charlain’s place, right after Candi, Johnny, and Brenda were murdered.

  Ah, Shit!! Double-damn turkey-sucking shit!!!

  The chuckle grew louder and higher pitched, and he walked away…more like strutting like a queen. A real flamer, this one. At least it gave me a moment to scan our current surroundings. More plastic drop sheets hung from the ceiling, and the windows were partially covered up with shipping paper and masking tape. An icy chill traveled along my spine as I recalled how Johnny’s kitchen windows had been similarly covered when Fiona first discovered his corpse, along with Brenda, and Candi.

  He now moved over to Fiona, who cowered, her eyes terrified.

  What’d he do to her while I was out cold??

  Not sure what this guy could’ve done, or would do now, sizing her up with one hand positioned on his hip and the other looked like it’d be most comfortable holding a martini. Come to think of it, dude’s got a female looking ass. I won’t linger too long on that image.... I ain’t a guy to swing both ways, man—just chicks, and devoted to one lady in particular.

  Fiona once told me that when my thoughts get real intense, sometimes other people—even those without second sight or acute intuition—can sense my musings. It must’ve happened right then, as our attacker with a feminine flair suddenly looked over at me again. I could tell this miscreant eyed me curiously, cocking his blank, featureless face in apparent puzzlement.

  Dude’s got lumps on his chest, too…good-sized man-boobs, and with pointy nipples…

  Hey, wait a minute—what in the hell??

  He sauntered over toward me, the chuckle erupting into cackled laughter muffled by the mask.

  Sure as shit sounds like a girl—

  “Well, it took you long enough!” said the voice, removing the mask and revealing a full head of thick blond hair. “Ready for your prize, Cracker Jack?”

  “No frigging way!!”

  Fiona gasped while I shook my head, completely bewildered why Angie stood before us, wearing a black ninja suit. ‘What a mean, sick joke, you thoughtless bitch!’ I berated her silently. Hard to reconcile the image of our limping compadre’ with the limber assassin strutting between us. But the gleaming meat cleaver Angie suddenly produced in her right hand to go along with the 9mm Glock she pulled from her suit took care of any further misunderstandings. If she wasn’t the killer, she did a damned good job of imitating one.

  The injuries to Fiona’s face and my throbbing skull pleaded for me to quit deciding if we were in danger or not and start thinking of a way out—even if our realistic chances were slim to none at best.

  “Too late for that, you stupid jackass!” taunted Angie, as if she could now read my mind, like Fiona. She moved over to me, smiling naughtily. Her large green eyes that normally looked mirthful were now cold, devoid of any emotion other than a slight hint of amusement. “How about a small taste of what’s to come for you in a few minutes?”

  I suppose the question was more rhetorical than direct as she moved over to me. Before I could react she sliced the back of my right hand open with the front edge of the cleaver. An immediate river of blood appeared, flowing downward across my fingers and dripping down to the floor. I uttered a gasp more in surprise than pain, as the razor-sharp edge didn’t register the injury to my brain until the blood-drip began to form a puddle.

  “Why in the hell are you doing this?” My shocked response came out shrill, as I watched the blood flow from my hand in disbelief, fearing where the next geyser would erupt.

  “Why? Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe this will help clear things up for you, Jimmy Boy!”

  She paused to look over her shoulder at Fiona, who sobbed terribly while pleading for her to stop…to take her anger out on her instead of me.

  “Your turn’s coming soon, sister,” Angie warned, and then turned her attention back to me. “But first it’s time to educate your piece of shit husband!”

  Her smile broadened while she dug her fingers just above her forehead, into the edge of her hairline. I watched in horror as her thick blond hair fell from her head and dropped onto the floor, revealing a butch haircut. Butch and fiery red.

  Oh, my God! Here’s the redheaded bastard we’ve been looking for! But he’s a frigging SHE!!

  “How about that, huh?” she giggled. “The big bad serial killer has been under your ignorant noses the entire time!”

  “What did we ever do to you to deserve this?!” Fiona blurted out between sobs. “We took you in as one of our own…we are your friends!!”

  I suddenly remembered my wife saying something last October about Angie’s aura being closed, which made it impossible to read her psychically. But despite that fact, both of us valued her charms enough to overlook what at the time seemed like a slight flaw—especially after she aided Jackie in getting us into several of Nashville’s most exclusive haunts. It’s obviously too late to revoke her membership now, but how I wish to God we could rewind our lives nine months and get a do-over.

  “You befriended someone you thought was like you,” Angie retorted, looking over her shoulder while she absently twirled the meat cleaver tainted with my red corpuscles. “You should’ve been more careful—all of you, you bunch of frigging freaks!”

  She laughed and returned her attention to me.

  “We’re freaks?” I asked incredulously, bringing an instantaneous look of horror from my better half. Fiona probably thought I’d completely lost my mind, and maybe she’s right. It could be the surest way to Angie’s butcher block, unless I somehow befuddled this cocksure psycho. “We’re not the ones pretending to be somebody we’re not. You’re nothing but an empty vessel…a soulless bitch that’ll never come close to any form of lasting happiness!”

  Not sure where that came from, and as soon as it rolled out of my mouth like some Obama campaign rhetoric, I was a dead man. Probably very soon.

  “Soulless??”

  It was her turn to express disbelief.

  I nodded deliberately. Hell, I was about to die anyway, so why cower like some sprite-sized pixie?

  “Maybe if you had my life and not some Pleasantville shit, you’d understand what a moron you are for saying that!” she seethed. Her hand holding the cleaver began to tremble from anger, and she brought it dangerously close to the edge of my nose.

  “Soul-l-l-less-s-s!” I hissed, lifting my head slightly to dare her to cut me.

  Goodbye cruel world…or so I assumed. But she hesitated, stepping back to study me. I may not have long, but something in her plans just got messed up.

  Stay alive. Find a way to keep her thoughts distracted from her plan…

  “Jackie so loved you, Angie…she still does. What’ve you done to her—to all of them?”

  Fiona cried even harder
as I said this, so scared and for the moment terribly fragile. Her guides can make her wise, but unfortunately not much more than that. There’s no super hero magic—not even a way to glamour somebody with some hocus-pocus.

  We’re definitely screwed! Unless…

  “They’re sleeping.”

  “Where?”

  Me again, though she looked at me like she forgot I sat directly in front of her. For the life of me, I can’t recall any hints of the psychosis on display here tonight.

  “Down in the cellar,” she said, her tone absent of any emotion. Ditto for her face. “They’ll sleep forever there.”

  More tears and anguished sobs erupted from my wife, while a terribly hollow feeling washed over me. I’m about to lose those closest to me, and maybe more to come. Maybe two young boys orphaned.

  “But, again, why are you doing this?”

  Now I sounded a little like her, voicing a thought stripped of emotion.

  “Because you know her!”

  No, she didn’t point to Fiona. I believe my wife understood the same thing I did. Candi Starr. Angie’s talking about her now.

  “So we’re all guilty by association?” I asked, knowing Fiona was in no condition to try and out-psyche her. It was all up to me. “And did you know her husband, Vito Travini, back east someplace?”

  She regarded me as if these last words caught her totally off guard. She snickered, nervous.

  “Okay. Not bad, Cracker Jack,” she said. “Not bad at all.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about it?” I suggested, my tone calm, compassionate, trying to remember the recent training I received at the office, new techniques to de-escalate irate customers. “It’s the least you can do for us, since you’re planning to kill us anyway.”

  I couldn’t tell if Fiona had given up yet or not, but she looked over at me after I said this last part. Maybe she’s starting to sense where I’m headed with this....