The shimmering blond sister bam-7

by David Handler

  The shimmering blond sister

  ( Berger and Mitry - 7 )

  David Handler

  The shimmering blond sister

  David Handler

  PROLOGUE

  The Masked Avenger waited until he was absolutely positive she was asleep before he slipped soundlessly out of bed and tiptoed out of the bedroom-a man on a mission. Maybe his most critical mission to date.

  Hell, there was no maybe about it.

  His home lay in darkness. Outside, all was still and silent, even though it wasn’t that late. Dorset was a bedrock New England town. Early to bed, early to rise, makes you healthy, wealthy, and… astonishingly boring. The Masked Avenger let himself out the back door and started across the lawn, his ears straining for a noise, any noise. He heard only the crickets.

  He’d assumed other superhero identities over the years. Two of them. Secret identities that not a single living soul knew about. His first had been the Silent Thief, back when he was six years old. The Silent Thief operated in the quiet of Sunday mornings at dawn. He’d rise in the early light and creep down the upstairs hallway in his pajamas to the closed door of his parents’ bedroom. Six mornings a week they awoke before he did. Sundays they slept in. He’d ease the door open carefully. Listen for their deep, steady breathing. Assured that they were asleep, he’d enter their room. An ocean of carpet lay between the Silent Thief and the chest of drawers next to his father’s side of the bed. Mindful of the creaks in the floorboards, he’d slither his way across the room on his stomach, working his way deep into enemy territory, his heart pounding, mouth dry. It would take the Silent Thief five, sometimes ten, minutes to make it all the way around the bed. Then came the truly dangerous stage of his mission. The part that was absolutely not for the faint of heart. With a deep breath, the Silent Thief would spring to his feet and-standing there in full view of them now-steal the loose change that was scattered atop the dresser with his father’s keys and wallet. Quarters and dimes, the occasional nickel. He didn’t dare open the wallet and go for any bills. His father might notice those missing. Coins he never did. The Silent Thief would soundlessly snatch at least a dollar’s worth with his small, moist fingers, then drop back down to the floor and slither gleefully back to his room-mission accomplished.

  He kept his loot in an old tobacco tin hidden in the back of his closet. After two years of Sundays, he’d amassed a secret fortune of $107.25.

  Until that morning when the Silent Thief was finally exposed-by his mother, much to his humiliation. She lay there that fateful Sunday morning, her breathing deep and steady as usual. Except one eye was wide open, watching him as he slithered along the floor. “What are you doing, sweetheart?” she whispered.

  “I-I was looking for Jocko,” he gasped hoarsely. Their cocker spaniel.

  “Jocko sleeps in the cellar, not in here,” she said reproachfully. Because she knew. Though she never said so.

  He darted out of their room and never, ever dared go in there again. He spent his loot judiciously in the coming months on cheeseburgers, onion rings, and chocolate milk shakes at the fragrant diner near home, where he was forbidden to go because mother insisted that the food they served was unhealthy for a growing person.

  But the Silent Thief was gone-never to return again. Superhero identities? Those were for little kids.

  Until that warm summer night when he reappeared as the Midnight Watcher, a crusader vastly more cunning than the Silent Thief had ever dared to be. He was, after all, a sophisticated man of fifteen now. The Midnight Watcher didn’t merely tiptoe out of his bedroom, he slipped out of the whole house. Waited until his parents had gone to bed. Then leapt out of his own bed and donned his special costume: black jeans, black windbreaker, black Converse Chuck Taylor high tops. He looked very cool in it. His bedroom window opened out onto the roof of the back porch. Out the window he’d go, then down the trellis to the patio, and off into the dark of night.

  It seemed like a quiet neighborhood. Not much going on. But the Midnight Watcher knew better. He knew that a mere one street over from his own resided the beauteous, the incomparable, the one and only Donna Durslag. He knew that Donna’s first-floor bedroom faced her parents’ driveway, its window partially shielded by a large rhododendron. He knew that if he stood there in the Durslags’ driveway, nestled in that rhododendron, he could watch Donna through her open window, completely undetected.

  She was a dark-eyed dream girl with gleaming black hair and giant boobs. A senior at the same high school he went to. Not that she had any idea who he was. Donna was popular. Donna was a cheerleader. Donna dated the quarterback of the football team. Almost always, she’d be talking on her bedside phone when the Midnight Watcher arrived at his post. That was what she did. She talked to her girlfriends on the phone. Her room was very girlie-girl. Her bed was covered with stuffed animals, her walls with posters of insipid bubblegum music stars. Often, she’d be playing their awful music on her stereo. Which meant he couldn’t hear a lot of what she was saying. But he could watch her, inflamed by his passion, as she lay there on her bed in a sleeveless top and shorts, talking and talking. She liked to lie on her tummy with her knees bent and her bare feet up in the air, swinging back and forth, back and forth. The Midnight Watcher was positively hypnotized by the sight of Donna’s naked, succulent, pink toes.

  He saw the rest of her naked only one time. Entirely, deliciously naked. It was a memorable night. It was also the night that marked the Midnight Watcher’s final adventure. A summer heat wave was on. It had been a sweltering 98 degrees that day. The thermometer still hovered near 90 even late at night-and him all costumed from head to toe in black. Donna didn’t have air-conditioning in her room. Just a ceiling fan. It must have been very warm in there. And her parents must have gone to bed early. Because when she came padding into the bedroom that night, fresh from her shower, Donna was stark naked. No T-shirt. No nightie. The Midnight Watcher couldn’t believe his eyes. Donna Durslag was the first girl he’d ever seen naked. He was overwhelmed by the rich abundance of her curves. By the way her full, mouthwatering breasts jiggled as she walked. She came directly over to the window and flung open the curtains. Rested her arms right there on the windowsill. He stood there, inches away from her in the darkness. He didn’t dare swallow or blink or breathe. She was so close he could see the dewy droplets of water on her rosy nipples. And smell her fresh, soapy scent. Donna. Standing there like that, he began to get incredibly excited. His heart pounding. His fifteen-year-old hormones raging out of control. That pulsating anaconda in his jeans so huge, so alive that he feared his entire being would explode in a pulp all over Donna’s window. And so he, well, he did what any healthy, red-blooded American boy would do. Took matters into his own hand.

  Unfortunately, it was at that very moment that the Durslags’ next-door neighbors happened to turn on their porch light-backlighting the Midnight Watcher as he stood there in the rhododendron, one fist gripping his engorged pole. Naturally, Donna saw him. It. And so she, well, she did what any healthy, red-blooded American girl would do. Screamed her head off.

  Her parents came running. Lights went on everywhere. Dogs barked. The Midnight Watcher sprinted away. Or tried to, hobbled as he was by his inflamed condition. So panicked that he ran away from home, then around the block twice. When he finally got home, he shimmied up the trellis and dove into bed with all of his clothes on, sweating and trembling. Praying she hadn’t looked up at his face. Which she hadn’t. He was lucky. Very lucky. But after that, the Midnight Watcher was no more. In fact, he said good-bye to superhero identities forever after that. Renounced them as a childish thing that he’d outgrown. And, frankly, was fortunate to have survived
.

  Until two weekends ago, when the Masked Avenger was born.

  Out of necessity, he felt. To get even. Pay back each and every one of those rich old ladies who’d been looking down on him. He’d tried to shrug off their casual slights. Ignore their whispers. He’d turned the other cheek, been the bigger man. Sure, he had. But a man can only swallow so much. And then he must act. Has to act. Or he’s not a man.

  His costume of choice? A nod to his youth. Black nylon windbreaker, black jeans, black Chuck Taylor high-tops and-here was the new twist-a black wool ski mask. The Masked Avenger was a giver of gifts. His favorite means of announcing himself was the front doorbell. He’d left a dead skunk on Amy Orr’s welcome mat because of that way she had of turning up her nose at him. And that no-good Kathy Fulton, the undertaker’s wife, got a special gift, too. A customized addition to the sign outside of the Fulton Funeral Home. Right underneath the sober words Burials and Cremations, the Masked Avenger had scrawled: And don’t forget our homemade BBQ! But those were special cases. Mostly, the gift that the Masked Avenger delivered in the dark of night was himself. He’d ring the doorbell. Or tap on the kitchen window if he saw a light on in there. When the rich bitch appeared, he’d drop his jeans and wave good evening to her. Then he’d sprint off into the darkness, snickering with unbridled delight. To date, the Masked Avenger had treated seven of the old busybodies to an up-close, personal view of his equipment. To date, not one of them had the slightest idea who he was. Just some guy in a ski mask.

  They were calling him the Dorset Flasher.

  And he was absolutely the biggest story in town. Everyone talking about what a vile, awful monster he was. How his obscene behavior just wasn’t Dorset. He’d definitely gotten the attention of that uppity black resident trooper, who was quoted on Channel 8 news as saying, “We’re dealing with a seriously disturbed individual here.” Seriously disturbed? The Masked Avenger paid her back but good. Took a nice late-night stroll up to her cottage and left her a custom-manufactured door prize.

  The old ladies in town were so worked up that even Bob Paffin, Dorset’s do-nothing first selectman, stuck his big red nose into it. That fool actually appeared on all four local Connecticut news channels to vow that Dorset would be a “safe zone” this upcoming weekend. “If the Flasher dares to strike again he will be very, very sorry,” Paffin boasted.

  The Masked Avenger couldn’t resist such a clumsy dare. Not after it was reported in the local press that Bob and Delia Paffin would be hosting the monthly meeting of the Committee for Good Government tonight at their home on Frederick Lane. This being Dorset, the liquor would be flowing. This being August, many of the Good Government fossils and their wives would be gathered together out on the Paffins’ screened-in back porch.

  It was too good an opportunity for the Masked Avenger to pass up.

  As he slipped silently out the back door into the darkness, he felt emboldened, excited, alive. In truth, the Masked Avenger had never had so much fun in his whole life. He darted across the back lawn and over the neighbor’s low fence. The ski mask felt heavy and hot against his face in the warm, humid night air. But he could take no chances. He crouched there behind a lilac bush, his eyes scanning Dorset Street. A state police cruiser was parked right there in front of the firehouse. Another drove slowly past. A safe zone indeed.

  He crossed the neighboring backyard and tiptoed his way onto Maple Lane, a short dead-end off of Dorset Street that ran into the Lieutenant River after less than three hundred feet. Rut Peck’s house stood there in total darkness. The old postmaster had moved out. A dog started barking from the house behind his. Nan Sidell’s big yellow Labrador retriever. The Masked Avenger waited patiently for the dog to shut up, then started his way soundlessly across Rut’s weedy, overgrown front yard toward the bank of the Lieutenant River. All he had to do was follow the riverbank, and in less than a mile he’d be standing in Bob Paffin’s backyard.

  He was passing behind Rut’s abandoned bunny hutch when he sensed that he was not alone. Someone was on his tail. The Masked Avenger came to an instant halt, breathing as quietly as possible. Hearing nothing now. Possibly his ears had been playing tricks on him. He started up again, creeping through the wild brush. But again, he swore he heard footsteps. Someone was definitely following him. Meanwhile, on Dorset Street, another state police cruiser went easing slowly by.

  He started up again, moving fast across Rut’s side yard. He was nearing the riverbank when he heard a scuffle in the darkness behind him. Maybe thirty feet back. Somebody, a man, let out a groan. And then the Masked Avenger heard a wet, sickening thud. It was, he imagined, the sound that a ten-pound sledgehammer might make as it smashed into a ripe muskmelon. Then he heard footsteps. All sorts of footsteps. Somebody crashing through the brush. Somebody tripping and falling hard. Nan’s dog started barking its head off again.

  The Masked Avenger crouched there, wondering what in the hell was going on. He decided not to find out. Made it to the riverbank and took off, splish-splashing his way north, his chest heaving, the sweat pouring from him. He ran and he ran-until he’d made it all of the way to Beckwith Lane. When he got there, he yanked off the ski mask and shoved it under his windbreaker. Cooled off, caught his breath. Then he sauntered his way up the lane, just another villager out for an evening stroll. When he reached Dorset Street he circled around behind the library and crossed the soccer fields that were adjacent to the high school. Then he made his way back onto Dorset Street way over by Big Branch Road. As he strolled along, he could see the volunteer ambulance van and several cruisers clustered at the intersection with Maple Lane. Neighbors were standing there, gawking and talking. He blended in among them, listening to snatches of conversation.

  “Dead as a doornail…”

  “His whole head smashed in…”

  “Lord, who would do such a…?

  “Oh, I think we know…”

  The Masked Avenger said nothing. Whatever had occurred, he assured himself, had nothing to do with him. He drifted away from the onlookers and slipped back inside his darkened home, allowing himself a sigh of relief. All was quiet. Everything was fine.

  Except it wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine.

  And nothing was ever going to be the same again.

  ONE DAY EARLIER

  CHAPTER 1

  “Remember to breathe! Fill your lungs with breath! Breathe!”

  Okay, okay-Mitch breathed. And shook. And sweated. The damned perspiration was streaming down his face. Or make that up his face, since the pose he was currently holding was a punishing form of torture known as downward facing dog. And the yoga studio at the Dorset Fitness Center was a steamy 92 degrees, same as outside on this Friday afternoon in August. No air-conditioning allowed. Not for a heat-generating Vinyasa class.

  “Now step forward with your right foot into Warrior One,” Kimberly commanded the class, which comprised Mitch and three pear-shaped middle-aged ladies who never got tired or broke a sweat. Next to them, Mitch felt like an overstimulated water buffalo. “Stay strong through your left leg!”

  Mitch complied, wavering there on his mat in Warrior One pose-right knee bent, left leg strong-okay, semistrong-his hips square, core grounded, arms upraised to the sky. The truth? A gentle poof would have blown him right over. This was only his third try at yoga. He’d always had an aversion to things that make you go “Omm.

  …” But there was nothing New Agey about Kimberly’s class. It was a brutal ninety-minute workout-a cross between Simon Says and a Navy Seals fitness certification test. Plus Mitch Berger was not a human pretzel and never had been.

  But Hal, the trainer there whom Mitch lifted with three times a week, had urged him to try yoga to improve his flexibility and core strength. Why not, figured Mitch, a recovering shlub who’d taken off nearly forty pounds of man blubber after Dorset’s resident state trooper had accepted his proposal of marriage and then dumped him in the very same week. Now that he and Des were back together again, he wanted to
keep those pounds off. He ran two miles every day through the Peck’s Point Nature Preserve. Lifted. Disdained all junk food. Most junk food. Actually, he’d thought he was in great shape when he signed up for his first class with Kimberly. He’d also thought yoga would be something gentle and soothing. Way wrong on both counts.

  Right now this sadistic Zen drill instructor was sending them into their eighth nonstop round of sun salutations. Mitch flowed gamely along, every muscle in his body shaking. He felt certain that he was going to die there and then. By the time Kimberly mercifully allowed them to relax into Savasana-or Corpse Pose-it was not an exaggeration. Mitch didn’t just melt into the floor. He was the floor.

  Kimberly owned the Dorset Fitness Center, which occupied a spacious windowed corner of The Works, the old red brick piano works on the banks of the Connecticut River that had been converted into a food hall and shopping arcade. She was in her early thirties and quite desirable, if your taste happened to run to blue-eyed blondes who were lovely, leggy, lithe, limber… were there any other L-words to describe Kimberly? Lissome. She was definitely lissome. And she cared about people. Taught yoga twice a week to the inmates at York Correctional, the women’s prison in Niantic. She also happened to be a Farrell.

  Yes, one of those Farrells.

  Kimberly did have a man in her life. She was engaged to some rich guy up in Cambridge who came to see her every weekend. Or so said Hal the trainer. Hal was a twenty-something jock who’d been recruited out of Dorset High by Boston College to play wide receiver. Hal wasn’t big-no more than five feet eleven-but he told Mitch he’d possessed world-class shifty moves until he blew out his right knee freshman year. He’d dropped out of BC after that. Returned home to Dorset and, near as Mitch could tell, morphed into the village’s preeminent stud muffin. Hal Chapman seemed to have his nightly pick of the college girls, secretaries and divorcees who found their way to the Connecticut shoreline every summer. This despite his truly appalling skullet haircut-a shaved head with a full-tilt mullet in back-and his rather broad snow shovel of a jaw. Hal also wasn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. But he had broad shoulders, slim hips, a complete six-pack of abs and an easy, upbeat personality. The ladies loved him.