Serenity Stalked

by Craig A. Hart

  “I’m not asking you to beat the shit out of him. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt anyway.”

  “Now I have to fight him.”

  “Just talk to him, okay?”

  “You realize he’s not likely to take this well. The current love interest of his fantasy woman dropping by to tell him to fuck off…this is the worst idea since Mr. and Mrs. Hitler got frisky.”

  Carly snorted. “Come up with that yourself?”

  “Impressed?”

  “It’s a solid effort. Look, you don’t have to tell him you’re my boyfriend. Say you’re a friend and I want him to stop contacting me. Tell him I’m threatening to print out the text message archives and send them to his wife.”

  “You mean business.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “Carly—”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of fixer? Isn’t this what you do?”

  “My efforts are generally preceded by large sums of cash.”

  “I’m a little broke right now.” Carly lowered her voice and adopted the little rasp he found so appealing. “But if you must be mercenary, I could probably think of some way to cover your fee.”

  “Naughty girl.”

  “Do me this favor and you’ll find out how naughty.”

  3

  That evening, Shelby sat in his vehicle and looked at the Blair house. It was an upscale neighborhood and he felt out of place in his old Jeep. If he hung around too long, someone was likely to call the police and report a suspicious character.

  He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the vehicle door. It buzzed, reminding him to take his keys with him. He did so, even though this was the safest neighborhood Serenity offered. In addition, no one living around here would have any desire to steal the dirty, battered Jeep. It worked well on snowy roads and back trails but wasn’t much to look at. Shelby felt an unfamiliar pang of inferiority. He self-consciously brushed at his coat and wished he’d worn better shoes.

  “You’re being stupid,” he muttered. “What is this? High school?”

  He squared his shoulders and soldiered up the front walk. He pressed the buzzer, then used the knocker to bang three times.

  The door opened and a woman stood there, a baby in one arm.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Hello, ma’am. Is this the Blair house?”

  “Who is asking?”

  “I’m here to see your husband, James Blair.”

  “Jim?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman turned and shouted into the house. “Jim! Someone at the door for you.”

  She gestured for Shelby to enter. He did so and stood awkwardly. Unsure what to do with his hands, he first shoved them into his pockets, then decided it looked antisocial and let them hang loose. That seemed stupid, so he clasped them behind his back.

  A tall man entered, around thirty-five with broad shoulders and All-American good looks. Shelby hated him instantly but reminded himself Carly was no longer involved with the man. Still, Blair looked smug and obnoxious.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes.” Shelby resisted the urge to punch.

  “Well, then?”

  “Perhaps we could speak in private?”

  “I don’t know who you are, mister,” Blair said. “But you’re not stepping a foot more into this house until you tell me what you’re doing here. Speak up or I’ll call the police.”

  “It’s about those text messages.”

  “Text messages?”

  Shelby sighed. This guy wouldn’t know a lifeline if it slithered up his ass.

  “The text messages to Carly.”

  Blair’s face paled, then reddened.

  “Let’s step into my office.”

  Mrs. Blair’s eyes were wide. “Jim? Who’s Carly?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “I want to know now, Jim.”

  “I said later!”

  Blair strode away into the house, leaving Shelby no choice but to follow. He gave Mrs. Blair an apologetic look and moved to catch up with her husband.

  Blair’s office was immaculate and spacious, grounded by a massive wooden desk. Collectibles lined the walls: signed jerseys and footballs, pictures of Blair with famous players. In one glass case, Shelby thought he saw a Super Bowl ring. If you can’t win it, buy it, he thought. Aloud, he said, “This is quite a collection.”

  Blair stood in the middle of the room, his arms folded tightly against his chest. “What about those messages?”

  “You need to stop sending them.”

  “And if I already have?”

  “Only because she changed her number. Once you find out the new one, you’ll be back at it.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? You can’t come into my home and tell me what I can and can’t do. I have a good mind to throw you out of here, old man.”

  Shelby’s move was a blur. He grabbed Blair’s front collar and twisted downward, pulling the taller man’s face level with his own.

  “If you don’t leave Carly alone, I’m going to turn you inside out and fuck you in the ass with your own dick. No calling, no texting, no going to her house or work. If you so much as take a shit within a half mile of her, I will break every fucking bone in your goddamn body.”

  Blair twisted away.

  “Go fuck yourself, old man.”

  Shelby hit him. He knew he shouldn’t, but he did, a slamming shot to the kidneys that doubled Blair over like a penknife.

  “What was that?” Shelby bent low to whisper in the younger man’s ear. “Did you say something?”

  “I said…go…fuck yourself.”

  “You have balls, Blair. And while I’m handing out compliments, take this one too.”

  Shelby brought the heel of his palm up under Blair’s nose. Not enough to break it, but enough to make the man squeal and bleed like a swine at slaughter.

  “You broke my fucking nose!”

  “If I’d wanted to break your nose, the crunch would’ve been heard a mile away. Remember what I said, or this won’t be the last you see of me.”

  Shelby turned and walked from the room. Mrs. Blair stood in the hallway. Her eyes were wide. Shelby jerked his head toward the office.

  “You might want to go help him. And take a towel and some ice.”

  Mrs. Blair took a step forward. “You mentioned text messages. What did you mean? What messages?”

  “You should ask your husband.”

  “I don’t think he would take it well.”

  “I don’t want to get involved.”

  “You seem pretty involved.”

  “Only as a favor for a friend.”

  “Is he having an affair? I need to know.”

  “You should talk to him.”

  Mrs. Blair shifted the baby to her other arm and then reached up to pull open the collar of her sweater, revealing a massive bruise almost covering her left shoulder.

  “This is what he did the last time I made him angry.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Blair. Shits like your husband get my blood boiling. There are resources—”

  “I’m not leaving my husband. He’s a good father. The baby needs him. But I can’t stand not knowing. I can’t stand being kept in the dark. Tell me so I don’t have to make things up.”

  “There’s no affair, Mrs. Blair. Not anymore, anyway.”

  “But Jim wants there to be. Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “It seems so.”

  Mrs. Blair held the baby closer. Then, “Who’s the girl?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You’re protecting her.”

  “I suppose I am, yes.”

  “The little whore.”

  “She broke it off with your husband once she found out he was married. He wouldn’t leave her alone.”

  “This is according to her?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Of course she would lie, then.”

  “She has no reason to
lie.”

  “A woman always has reason to lie. It’s how we’re so accomplished at it.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t.”

  Shelby saw her making the decision in her mind, deciding to stay, deciding to believe whatever Jim would tell her, deciding on a constructed reality that would allow her to continue living her life.

  “I’d like you to go now.” Mrs. Blair stepped aside to let Shelby pass. “I need to see to my husband.”

  4

  Smith relished his role as peeping Tom almost as much as he enjoyed the killing. He never knew what manner of interesting events he might witness. This evening, his targets had received a visitor, a man, who entered the home and, as Smith watched through a study window, sent the husband to the floor with a skillful blow to the kidneys. There was something about the visitor, his posture and manner of holding his fists when he threw the punch, that suggested he had some level of experience in fighting. Perhaps a boxer in college? It wasn’t a street thug performance; this had a professional look to it, a finesse one didn’t witness in the average brawl.

  Not long after, the man came out the front door, got into an old Jeep, and drove away.

  For a moment, the incident left Smith uneasy. This was something not on his schedule. It was an unknowable…but an isolated incident. And the couple was perfect.

  Smith tried to shrug off his apprehension and the act rekindled it. He prided himself on a calculating method, always careful lest the desire for a kill cause an override of obvious warning signs. It troubled him how much he wanted this. If he was going to make a move, he would need to act before things spun out of control. In the back of his mind, a little voice shouted a warning. Was he losing control of his drive to kill? No, he thought. I’m becoming overly cautious.

  There was no such thing as the perfect kill, mostly because Smith didn’t have a specific type. Unlike killers who targeted blonde women or helpless old people or children, Smith relied on something else: a certain unpredictable fancy. Even he could not determine a satisfactory pattern, another factor making the job of the police difficult. The only constants were the knife and the staged break-ins. As long as he didn’t stay in one place too long, his killings were almost impossible to link. As far as Smith knew, his killings had never been successfully labeled the work of a serial killer. In every place he’d lived, he had stayed only until the rumblings and rumors began. And then he left, leaving a trail of cold cases with no solid link. He found a good deal of pleasure in thinking about the frustrated police departments across the country. He’d already decided that once he finished terrorizing the Mitten State, he would head south to begin anew. He’d never been to Florida, but after a long stretch in states dominated by winter, he was ready for sunshine and beaches. Maybe he’d develop a taste for killing women after all; he’d heard there were plenty of bronzed beauties down there. From Florida, he’d go west through Louisiana and Texas. He would see the country on his knife blade. Perhaps not the East Coast. He’d never felt an attraction to that area. In fact, he had no desire to ever go farther east than the western border of Ohio. It was too close to the hill country where he’d started, too rife with bad memories. Even the thought of his upbringing in the hills of southern Ohio and western West Virginia made him feel sick to his stomach. Maine and New Hampshire…he’d kill there in the fall season. Stunning country, according to the travel books he’d read.

  The sun dropped and lights glowed from house windows, including those of his target. It was time to decide. Would it be another night of waiting or was it time to make a move? The burning sensation inside Smith’s chest, the urge, was stronger than it had been in some time. He didn’t wish to rush anything, but he had also learned it was wise to act before the urge became too strong to control.

  Yes, tonight would be the night.

  5

  Smith pulled on gloves and walked around the house, trying each window and door. They were all locked. He hadn’t seen an alarm company sign in the yard or sticker on the window, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a security system. He was sure they didn’t own a dog. He hated dogs. And dogs hated him.

  He tried the final window, a basement pane on the back of the house. It moved and, for a moment, he thought it would slide up, but it was simply loose. He sighed, took off his jacket, wrapped it around his hand, and knocked in the glass.

  He knelt by the side of the house, waiting to see if anyone had heard the window shatter. The grass still sported a dusting of snow from earlier in the day and the dampness seeped through the knees of his dark-wash jeans, chilling him. Nothing stirred.

  Smith lay on his stomach and shimmied through the window, dropping to the basement floor with a muffled thud and crunch of glass. He crouched and listened. Nothing except the hum of a furnace.

  He stood and flicked on his flashlight, over which he had stretched wax paper to diffuse the light and make it less likely to attract attention. There was nothing like a stabbing flashlight beam in a dark house to shout “burglar!” to passersby.

  After taking a cursory glance around the basement and seeing nothing of interest, he located the stairs and headed for them. Stairs were tricky. Creaking stairs could awaken even the soundest sleeper. He put one foot on the far side of a step and the other foot on the other side. Stairs creaked less if you put your feet on the sides of steps, rather than walking up and down the middle like most people did.

  But the stairs creaked anyway, making his upward progress excruciatingly slow. After every step, he paused a full minute and listened. He never ceased to marvel at how long a minute could be, and it was never longer than when standing still in the darkness of someone else’s house. Had they heard a sound? Would they come to investigate? What if someone got up for a drink of water or midnight snack? It had happened before.

  At the top of the stairs, he stopped and listened. His eyes probed the darkness, looking for obstacles: end tables, chairs, folded up rugs, even children’s toys or family pets. He recalled a break-in during which he stumbled over a cat that stupidly refused to move until his large, booted foot kicked it in the side. The resulting yowl woke the entire family. That had been a dirty job. Now he was more careful and paid more attention to where he put his feet.

  Smith shone the flashlight around the room, doing his best to avoid pointing at the windows. The room—a typical family room with a couch, loveseat, two recliners, end tables with accompanying lamps, and a television mounted over a fireplace—was oddly familiar after his nights of watching. To his right was the kitchen, accessible from the main living space. Although he hated the popular open concept home design, it served him well in his work, as it allowed him to see most of a level in single, sweeping glance. The more walls there were, the more chances someone could be waiting for him. Homeowners sometimes tried to go John Wayne when they discovered an intruder. But what they always overlooked was that they were not John Wayne.

  On his right stood a staircase leading to the upper level. He walked across the main room to the stairs and started up. They were carpeted, unlike the basement steps, and he ascended without a sound. He turned off the light and felt his way upward. He wanted to give his eyes time to adjust to the darkness prior to encountering anyone upstairs.

  Smith shoved the flashlight into his belt and pulled out the thick bladed knife, eight inches in length with a crossbar where the hilt ended at the blade. It looked a lot like a Bowie knife, the eponymous fighting blade of Jim Bowie and rumored to have been in action at the Alamo and countless conflicts across Louisiana.

  After every couple of steps, he paused to listen. Nothing.

  Then he heard the rustle of fabric from another room and the sudden onset of a high, tinkling melody. He was no expert in nursery rhymes, but he recognized the tune as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

  He sensed movement in the dark and a shape appeared at the door of the nearest room.

  A woman’s low whisper: “Jim, what are you do
ing up? I checked on the baby and started his music. Go back to bed. Jim?”

  She died with her husband’s name on her lips. The knife sank deep, the point entering below her breastbone and angling upward into her heart. She moaned once, but he muffled the sound with a gloved hand. His own heart beat faster, as it always did at the moment of a kill. His palms moistened and tingled as they might when one looks over the edge of a cliff or tall building. He lowered the woman’s body to the floor and moved toward the nursery.

  Once finished there, he moved across the hall. He leaned around the doorframe and looked inside. A king bed, a dresser with a large mirror, nightstands, lamps, a rug on the floor. The master bedroom.

  The husband lay in the bed, his breathing deep and even.

  Smith gripped his weapon and walked toward the sleeping form.

  He was a few feet away when Jim’s eyes opened. They blinked and squinted, registering first confusion and then fear.

  “Diane?”

  Smith sprang forward, the knife raised. The blade flashed, but Jim moved quicker than a groggy man should. He grabbed Smith’s arm with one hand. Jim was strong, too strong.

  “You fucking shit!” Jim grated out. “I’m going to kill you!”

  Smith didn’t speak. He couldn’t spare the energy. Everything he had was going into this fight. Jim was strong and angry and driven by fear for his family, not knowing it was too late. Smith brought his knee down on Jim’s groin. Jim’s breath escaped in a single massive expulsion and he seemed to shrink. His grip weakened, although still crushingly strong. Smith repeated the maneuver and then drove his free hand, fingers extended, into his opponent’s throat. Jim gagged and gasped for air. Smith yanked his knife hand free and stabbed downward. Once, twice, three times…he stabbed again and again, but Jim kept moving. He lost count of the times the knife blade traveled through the air and into the body. At last Jim lay still.

  It had been another messy one. They were both covered in blood. The bed, the floor, the walls…everything covered in splatter. But he had won. Again.