What kind of a sick maniac is this? Cynthia wondered.
“I think you may have the wrong cabin,” said Greg. But he recognized him as the guy in the pickup who had tried to run them into the 18-wheeler.
“No, I’m in the right cabin. Cabin 17. Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman’s cabin. Your good friend, Buford Bellowin, sends me with greetings—and a bullet.”
Greg had put the electronic tracker on a minivan at a gas station. Why wasn’t the killer far away, chasing that minivan?
“How did you find us?” Greg asked.
“I just followed the yellow brick road. Or, actually your big red convertible. A lot of people remembered seeing it. And you didn’t honestly think you could lose me, did you? Okay—enough small talk. Cynthia, I want you to move the two chairs over here between the beds.”
Cynthia got out of the bed, pulled one of the chairs away from the table, and carried it to the area between the beds.
“Make it face the nightstand,” John X said.
She turned it around, as he instructed. Then she picked up the other chair, and moved it. John X told her to put its back against the other chair. The old wooden chairs took up most of the space between the beds.
“Now, sit down in the front chair.”
She obeyed.
“Good. Now, Greg, you sit down in the other chair.”
Greg got out of bed, and sat in the chair.
John X reached down for his bag, while keeping the gun aimed at Cynthia. He placed the bag on Cynthia’s bed, pulled out two rolls of duct tape, and sat them on the bed near Cynthia.
“Take one of the rolls of tape, and go around to Greg. Now, tape his left leg to the leg of the chair. Then do the same with his right leg. Go around each one about twenty times.”
When she had finished, he said, “Now tape each forearm and hand to the arm of the chairs. About twenty times around. Make it tight.”
“Good. Now, wrap tape around Greg’s chest and your chair back. Go around about forty times.”
By the time Cynthia had finished, her heart was racing. He made her sit down and tape her own legs and left arm. Then he taped her right arm and hand to the arm of the chair. Finally, he ran tape around Greg and Cynthia, pulling her tight against the back of her chair.
Neither one of them could move in any direction—except maybe to tip themselves over to the side. But their position between the beds wouldn’t even allow that. They were sitting ducks. He could shoot them, stab them, or set the place on fire. They were completely helpless.
“Why are you doing this?” cried Cynthia. “You don’t have to kill us.”
“Oh, yes I do, pretty lady. When I take a job, I complete it. Every time. No excuses.”
“So, Buford hired you to kill us?” said Greg.
“That’s correct. I don’t normally give out my employer’s name. But in this case, it really doesn’t matter. You’ll be dead in ten minutes.”
“But it doesn’t make any sense! We didn’t do anything to him! Did he tell you why he wants us dead?”
“No. And I never ask. I don’t care, as long as I get paid. Now, I want the two of you to shut up. Or I will duct tape your mouths.”
Who cares? thought Cynthia. You’re about to kill us anyway. But she tried to think of a way to talk him out of it.
John X had dreamed of this dramatic moment. He began to pace in front of them as he spoke. “I’m sure you both saw the movie Dirty Harry. Well, this is a .44 Magnum—the most powerful handgun in the world. Well, that’s not really true. There are some that are more powerful. But this is the one Harry Callahan used. And that’s what makes it special.
“It’s a small cannon, really. And here’s what I’m going to do with it. You’ll love this—it’s something I cooked up especially for you two lovers.”
Cynthia forgot she was not supposed to speak. “We’re not lovers!”
And now, we never will be, thought Greg.
“Shut up! I will tape your face if I have to!” He took a deep breath and regained his cool. “I thought it would be romantic if I could bring the two lover’s hearts together in some magical way. So, here’s what I’m going to do: I will fire a single shot at close range that will go right through the center of Cynthia’s heart.”
Cynthia started crying softly.
Greg tried with all his might to free himself from the tape. But even the overwhelming rage he was feeling could not turn him into a superhero.
“Then the bullet will pass through her back, through both chairs, and into Greg’s back. Then it will go through Greg’s heart, and fly out of his chest, through the wall, into the woods. So, you see, the two hearts shall become one. It’s almost like a wedding. Too bad we don’t have any candles.”
**********
The man in the black Camry had followed from afar, all the way to Cabin 17. Now he was positioned in the woods, thirty yards from the window. He could see Greg and Cynthia taped back to back in their chairs through the scope on his rifle. John X was taunting them.
He watched as the young hit man pointed the huge revolver at Cynthia’s chest, and circled her heart with the end of the barrel, as he laughed, and she cried. Greg appeared to be shouting. Then he saw John X step back a few feet, aim the gun with both hands, and bend his knees, to give his shot just the right trajectory.
The man held the rifle perfectly still, as he squeezed the trigger. The suppressor muffled most of the sound. When he saw John X go down, he smiled with satisfaction.
Now he would go in, and finish the job.
38 - SELF-DESTRUCTION
As Marty Crumb walked toward Cabin 17, warm rifle in hand, every vein in his body tingled. He was addicted to taking lives. He had tried weed, cocaine, ecstasy, LSD—you name it. But there was no greater high than the power he felt when he killed a human being. For those few moments—he was God.
Marty wished that Buford’s foolish, young hit man had been alive long enough to know who was killing him. John X had shot Marty at the Holiday Inn, as the elevator doors were closing. He had hit the intended target—the center of Marty’s chest. But why hadn’t John X checked to make sure Marty was dead? Had the boy never heard of a bulletproof vest? The kid was just too cocky. Too sloppy.
Marty had changed while in prison. He had found God. He had learned to pray. And he had made a promise to God that he would never again commit murder. But then Buford Bellowin came into the picture. He pulled some strings to get Marty an early parole. And Marty had been appreciative until he learned he was not really free.
He would be Buford’s slave. And it might involve some killing. And if Marty refused, then Buford would make a call to his buddy on the parole board, and Marty would face a trumped-up parole violation. Then he would go back to prison, facing the prospect of being locked up for the rest of his life.
Marty’s assignment had been to do ‘whatever it takes’ to assure that Kantrell Jamison was acquitted. Marty figured Kantrell was actually guilty. But he had no idea why Buford cared about the boy’s fate. And he didn’t want to know. He just wanted to pay his debt to Buford, and be free. He had hoped he could do the job without having to break his vow to God.
But then, there was the problem with the witness for the prosecution—Arabeth Albertson. The defense attorney had suggested her eyesight was poor, and therefore her testimony was invalid. But after she had passed a court-mandated eye exam, Marty was worried she would destroy the defendant’s chances. He saw no other solution—he had to kill her before she got back on the witness stand.
So, he used her beloved cat to lure her out into the darkness of the night. Then he tripped her as she walked down the stairs. He finished her off by smashing her head into the pavement. Marty had felt sick at first, then exhilarated.
Then there was the problem with Troy Blockerman. He’d been single-handedly pushing the jury toward a guilty verdict. After slashing Troy’s throat, Marty was back—in full murder mode. Just like the old days. It was like giving up cigarettes f
or a month, as a three-pack-a-day smoker, and then taking a deep draw on ten cigarettes all at once. No—even better than that. It made him feel alive like nothing else in the world. How had he survived all those years in prison without this feeling?
One of the first things he’d done when he had arrived in Coreyville was to put a bug in Dorothy Spokane’s house. Buford had warned him that she might be a problem. So, when she called the D.A.’s office, Marty knew he had to act immediately. It had been so easy for him to pull the trigger and blow her away.
But then Buford had surprised Marty when he told him his debt was paid. Marty knew better. He knew Buford had not been happy with his work, and was hiring someone else to finish the job.
He also knew Buford would want Marty taken out first. And Marty felt he deserved it. Not because he had let Buford down. He deserved to die because he had broken his promise to God. Several times. He could have tried to blame it on Buford. But that would have just been an excuse. Marty had made the conscious decision to work for Buford. Maybe God had been testing him. If so, he had failed miserably.
So, he just accepted the fact that he was about to die. He put on his only suit and tie, and started to go out for dinner. Then he had a thought. He could wear a bulletproof vest under his clothes. Then, if he somehow lived through whatever the new killer had for him, he would take it as a sign that God had forgiven him. And that he had been given another chance to redeem himself.
It had seemed like a fair deal to make with God. After all, the vest provided only limited protection. He could have still been killed with a bullet to the head, or an explosion, or any number of other ways.
He had seen John X hiding behind the plant, pointing the gun at him. The bullet went straight toward his heart. It had knocked the breath out of him, as it hurled him to the back wall of the elevator. Then the doors had closed, and the elevator had gone to the second floor.
After taking a minute to catch his breath, he had walked out of the elevator, into his room, and had been amazed that the hit man had not checked to make sure he was dead.
So, apparently God was giving him another chance. But he felt that the Lord would want him to put an end to Buford’s activities first. After that, Marty could live his life for God’s glory, and kill no more.
First order of business: stop the new killer. Since jury deliberations were currently on hold, Marty had guessed correctly that John X would report back to Buford before killing anyone else. Marty had been watching for John X to enter Buford’s parking garage, when he saw something unexpected—Greg Tenorly’s Bonneville. And it appeared that Greg and Cynthia Blockerman were both in the car.
Then he had located the car in the parking garage, and watched from a distance. He had seen John X attaching the tracking device to the Bonneville. So, he knew Buford’s new killer would be following them. Marty could have killed John X in the parking garage, or at numerous other times throughout the day.
But that might have allowed Greg and Cynthia to get away. Were they part of the problem? Should he kill them too? There would never be a better opportunity to do it. He had his Bowie knife with him. So, he could do it quietly, and not even disturb the other campers. They would sit helplessly, unable to move, as he slit their throats.
Marty turned the doorknob and slowly pushed the door open with his rifle. John X was sprawled across the floor on his back. His head was at the foot of Cynthia’s bed, near the left corner. His feet were under the edge of the table.
Marty took a good look at the punk who had tried to kill him. The top of his head was bleeding. Marty had split his scalp, but not his skull. He wasn’t dead, but he was out cold.
The Dirty Harry weapon was on the floor, in the bathroom doorway. If John X came to, and went for the gun, Marty could easily take care of him with a rifle shot to the back. By the time the punk reached the revolver, it would be covered with his own guts.
Marty looked at Cynthia. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks were wet with tears.
Cynthia said, “Thank you for saving us.”
I’m no savior—I’m just another killer, Marty thought. But he would stop killing soon.
John X had regained consciousness right after Marty had entered the cabin. But he had played dead, and hoped he could fool Marty. But how had Marty survived? he wondered. He knew his shot had been perfect. He even saw Marty fall back when he was hit. Then, he knew the answer. No! Not a bulletproof vest! Marty must have somehow known he was coming.
John X didn’t know where the .44 Magnum had landed. But he knew if he made any sudden movement, Marty would not hesitate to shoot him with the rifle. Then he remembered. His little semi-automatic pistol was in his pocket, as always.
He would slowly move his hand into his pocket. Fortunately, his right side was away from Marty. He opened his eyes ever so slightly. Marty was studying Cynthia’s face. He carefully slipped his right hand into his pocket, and put his fingers around the gun. His trigger finger was ready. Then he turned the gun, inside his pocket, toward Marty, and in rapid succession, released the safety and fired three times.
Marty turned with the rifle and pointed it at John X, who was screaming in pain, and holding his crotch. His pistol was now in the corner of the room, away from his reach. It had flown out of his pocket when he yanked out his hand. His cream-colored slacks were quickly turning red under his hands and on his left pant leg. The three bullets had ripped through his genitals, as well as major arteries in his leg. Greg and Cynthia turned their heads to see what had happened, and then quickly looked away.
Marty walked over to John X, and popped him in the temple with the butt of the rifle. The boy was not dead—but he would bleed to death before waking up. Marty considered it an act of mercy. And it made him feel better that he had not killed him. The fool had killed himself.
Marty knew the gunshots would draw attention from neighboring cabins. It wouldn’t be long before somebody decided to come check out Cabin 17. So, he needed to go.
But what should he do with Greg and Cynthia? They looked scared to death. They also looked innocent and harmless.
Marty had not broken his new pact with God. And he would not do so tonight. He turned and walked out of the cabin.
39 - BLOODY CONFRONTATION
John X was unconscious on the cabin floor. A red, liquid triangle had formed between his legs from his crotch to his knees.
Greg and Cynthia struggled to break free from the duct tape that bound them to their chairs and each other.
“Ouch. That hurts,” Greg said.
“What?”
“I’m getting my left arm out, but the tape is pulling off all the hair.”
“Men can be such little girls.”
“What do you mean?”
“Try getting a bikini wax.”
“No, thanks. Hey—if somebody put wax down there, I’d have to go sit in a hot tub until it melted off.”
“Greg, what if he wakes up?”
“Hopefully, by the time he wakes up he’ll already be dead.”
“What if he’s not?”
“Then we’re in trouble. There—I got it. Now, for the right arm.”
“Greg, I think I saw his head move.”
“I’m going as fast as I can. Left leg done.”
“He is moving!”
“Right leg done. Now, my chest.”
John X opened his eyes, and looked directly at Cynthia. He tried to get up, but then he remembered how he had blown off his manhood, and that he was bleeding to death. “I’m going to hell tonight. But I’m not going alone!”
He turned his head to the left, and saw the semi-automatic pistol a few feet away, in the corner. He began to use his arms to drag himself toward the pistol.
“Greg, he’s going for the gun!”
Greg pulled the last piece of tape off his chest, hopped on Cynthia’s bed, rolled to the other side, and jumped to his feet.
John X grabbed the pistol, and pointed it at Greg.
Greg dove for the ba
throom doorway.
John X fired, and barely missed him.
Greg’s legs felt numb from the tape cutting off his circulation. He saw the .44 Magnum on the bathroom floor, and picked it up.
The size and weight of the weapon was stunning. Greg didn’t own a gun. He had never even fired one. But he would tonight. He cocked it using both thumbs.
“You’re pretty smart, Greg—hiding in there where I can’t see you. So, while I’m waiting for you to come out, I’ll just shoot a few holes in your girlfriend’s face.”
Without thinking, Greg screamed, “No!” and ran out of the bathroom, holding the revolver with both hands. He would be a hero or a corpse. Maybe both. But he would not let any harm come to Cynthia.
No sooner than he had taken the first step, his rubbery legs gave way, and he began to fall. There was no time to aim. He squeezed the trigger. The recoil was ferocious. He fought with all his might to keep the gun barrel from coming down on his forehead like a baseball bat.
At the exact same moment, John X fired at Greg. A slow motion replay would have shown the two bullets passing each other in midair. Greg’s body slammed to the floor, up against the side of Cynthia’s bed.
The huge bullet from Greg’s weapon flew like a heat-seeking missile into the mouth of the killer, breaking off front teeth, and exploding out the back of his skull. He would not wake up again.
“Greg? Greg, are you okay?”
**********
Everything was hazy. Greg didn’t know whether he was dead or just dreaming.
Cynthia knelt beside him. “Are you okay, Baby?”
“I think so,” he heard himself say. Did she just call me Baby?
“I was so worried about you.” Cynthia leaned over to kiss him.
What is she doing? he thought. She’s going to kiss me. Oh—this is fantastic. I must be dreaming. It couldn’t feel this good when you’re dead. He wanted her lips on his forever. If this was a dream, he would gladly dream the rest of his life away.
Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set Page 15
