“Babies never solve problems, Leslie. They create them. I suggest you celebrate this for what it is and not what you hope it will accomplish.”
“Don’t be such a dour old curmudgeon.”
“I’m only trying to save you disappointment.”
“You can be so depressing, Dad.”
Shelby huffed but changed the subject. “What’s on your agenda for the evening?”
“I’m going to start reading aloud to the baby.”
“Reading to the baby? It’s still inside you.”
“Studies show reading aloud to a baby in utero can build a strong foundation for language development.”
“Studies also show I’m naturally suspicious of what studies show. But in this case, I’m all for it.” Shelby had no interest in fighting with Leslie. He knew he was old fashioned in a lot of ways but was open-minded enough to realize times had changed a lot in his sixty years. He feigned a loud yawn. “Well, I wanted to check in and let you know I called your mother. Sorry it took me so long.”
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome, honey. Take care of yourself and the baby. Read to it in French. Maybe it’ll come out bilingual.”
Pleased with the joke, Shelby hung up before Leslie could mount a comeback.
He had put the phone on the arm of the chair when it rang. Carly’s name appeared on the screen. Shelby answered, still feeling jolly.
“Tell me this is a booty call.”
“Fuck that.” Carly’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “I think there’s someone in my house.”
Shelby’s cheery mood evaporated and his blood chilled. He felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. His hand tightened on the phone.
“Get out. Get out of the house now.”
“I’m not in the house. How stupid do you think I am?”
“Where are you?”
“In my car, sitting on the street. I left my shift at the Barn Door early with a blazing headache. As I was slowing down to pull into my drive, I saw a flicker of light in the house, like someone had shone a flashlight for a split second. I kept the car moving and drove past. Then I killed the headlights and rolled to a stop.”
“And your car doors are locked?”
“Obviously. I haven’t seen anyone exit the house yet, so they’re either still in there, went out the back, or I’m seeing things.”
“Have you called the sheriff’s department?”
“No. And I don’t intend to, unless we find someone who needs throwing in the clink.”
“Don’t move. I’ll be right over.”
18
Smith knew the woman’s schedule would keep her at work until late into the night, and so he had no qualms about going to her home once darkness fell. It was an older house and had seen little updating, which made it easier to spring a window lock and slip inside. He held his flashlight with one hand and held the other over the light so as to control the beam. He slipped from room to room, testing the floor for creaking boards and learning which hinges squeaked. He came to what he thought must be her bedroom and shone his light inside. He saw a dresser and moved toward it. In the top drawer were neatly folded and arranged underwear sets. He removed a bra and laid it out on the bed. Then the matching panties. He lay next to them and clicked off the flashlight. His heart pounded. In his imagination, she lay next to him, warm and alive. He touched her, and she responded, not by pulling away but by reaching for him in the darkness. His mind screamed at him, telling him how dangerous his actions were. It was true: he had never taken such a personal, romantic interest in a victim before. His success had rested on the cold, calculating nature of the killings. The lack of agenda and impersonal method had prevented law enforcement from tracing him or even connecting the dots as he moved across the country. And now he was throwing it all away. For a woman. It was stupid, and he knew it. But something inside didn’t care. He reflected that perhaps this was how every man felt in the throes of temptation. He struggled to bring his mind back under control, but the image of the woman appeared before him every time. He had felt attraction for people in past, but nothing like this. Nothing like the rushing lust drawing him to this woman like a magnet. He felt powerless to stop it. Almost. He could if he tried, if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. This feeling, this exciting new feeling, was something unexpected and special. Yes, it was lust, but it was more. This was directly tied to this woman. It had to be her.
Was this what people called love? The thought hit him like a train and almost derailed his nerve. He wanted to run from the house, maybe kill someone tonight. Perhaps acting would purge him of this absurd obsession. He steadied himself, took a breath, lay still. And what if it was love? His was a barren existence, in terms of emotion. Strong emotions were rare. Anger, joy, fear…he knew them all, but they seemed muted and far away. Love. He had long thought himself incapable of feeling anything of the sort. Instead of resisting such a development, perhaps he should embrace it.
This rare journey into his own head moved him in a way he had not expected. He lay on the bed next to the bra and panties, his eyes closed, and remembered things he’d long tried to forget.
He was a boy again, living in a broken down trailer in the backwoods of West Virginia. He woke up hungry, as usual, and crawled out of his little bed, hoping to find his mother cooking breakfast like other mothers did. She wasn’t. Instead, she lay sprawled naked on the couch, snoring loudly, her large breasts—still crusted with deposits from the men who crawled home after her—heaving up and down as she breathed. He had once—and only once—made the mistake of waking her from one of these slumbers.
“Ma? I’m hungry.” He’d shaken her and she’d awakened, her bloodshot eyes blinking against the light.
“What?” she’d shrieked, her wide-open mouth spewing hot, alcoholic fumes over him. Her hand slapped him across the face. “You hungry? You think I got time to fuck around in the kitchen? You little shit, I worked a double at the saloon last night and worked after too. If you hungry, get on in the kitchen and find something your own damn self. I’m goin back to bed and if you so much as make a peep, I’ll half kill you!”
He hadn’t ever woken her again, not even the time she slept for two days straight. He’d finally called the sheriff and found out she’d died of an overdose.
From there it was one foster home after another until he could be on his own, which couldn’t have happened fast enough for Smith. The first foster home was with an old couple who owned a farm outside of Charleston. There were acres of land, and the state thought it would be the perfect thing for a young, troubled boy. And it might have been, had the old man not had a thing for young, troubled boys. Two years of regular molestation soured Smith on country charms and he told the man’s wife, who put him back in the hands of the state. The second home was as neglectful as the first was abusive. The couple accepted state money but funneled little of it to the care of their young charge. Smith lived there for three years and couldn’t remember a single kind word, even when words were exchanged, which was rare. They expected Smith to be seen and not heard, and the rule was taken to an extreme and strictly enforced. The woman worked during the day as a teacher, and so Smith spent most weekdays with the husband, who owned a butcher shop. Smith became intimately familiar with the smell of blood and flesh. As soon as possible, the husband put Smith to work in the shop, showing him how to butcher meat and handle the tools of the trade.
“If you’re going to live with us, you’re going to pay your way,” the man would say as he demonstrated the correct way to quarter a bovine carcass. “I’ll show ya how and then you can work on your own. I won’t pay ya, but at least you’ll know you ain’t bein a damn drag on the family.”
Smith took to the work and found he enjoyed it. He became skilled with the sharp instruments and soon could produce better work than the husband. The better he became, the harsher the husband’s treatment of him. At first, Smith didn’t understand what was happening, but he
then realized the husband was jealous of his proficiency. To smooth things over, Smith began to make intentional mistakes and slow down his work. It was too late. The couple accused him of theft and claimed he’d threatened their lives. The authorities sent Smith to a state home where he stayed until of legal age.
Smith lay on the woman’s bed and realized his eyes were burning. Dry, but burning. He hadn’t cried since before Ma died. He cursed and rolled to a sitting position on the bed. This was ridiculous. He hadn’t come here to revisit his childhood. What was it about this woman? He resented the effect she had on him, yet found her irresistible. He stood up and turned on the flashlight. At the same time, he thought he caught the brief flash of headlights, like a car turning a corner. He froze. It was probably someone driving past, but a warning bell clanged in his head, “Get out get out get out.” He tried to silence it. The woman was at work and would be for hours. He grabbed the underwear from the bed and shoved it into his pocket. It wasn’t meant as a souvenir, but he couldn’t risk the time needed to replace it. He moved to the living room, almost forgetting to kill the flashlight. He clicked it off and then edged to the front window. A quick glance showed only an empty street, but a second look confirmed his fears. A car sat parked under a large oak tree just past the driveway. As he watched, the car lights dimmed and then went out altogether.
Someone was sitting in their car. Was it her? Had she seen something? The flicker of his light? It was time to leave.
19
Shelby broke his own record for getting to Carly’s house, which was damn impressive to begin with, considering the time had been set in the early days of his relationship with the younger woman, back when he couldn’t believe his good fortune and was determined to make the most of it while it lasted.
He saw Carly’s vehicle sitting dark and almost invisible under the spreading branches of a giant oak tree beyond her property line. Shelby turned off his headlights, drifted past, and parked a few car lengths down the street. He reached up and flipped the switch to ensure no interior light would come on when he opened the door. Then he got out and hurried to Carly’s vehicle, all the while keeping an eye on the house. Carly rolled down her window as he approached.
“Any more signs of an intruder?”
“None. I’m feeling a little silly.”
“Don’t. Better to be safe than sorry. I’ll check it out. If it’s nothing, we can have a good laugh. If there’s an intruder, I get to punch someone.”
“Maybe we should call the sheriff after all.”
“That’s all we need,” Shelby said. “Sit tight.”
“Fuck that. I’m going along.”
“I think it would be better if—”
“I know you like to pretend you’re the Lone Ranger or some shit, but it’s safer with two people. And it’s my house.”
“Fine, but stay behind me.”
“Because you’re the big strong man?”
“Yes. Also I’m carrying my sidearm and I don’t want to shoot you by mistake.”
“Ah, well in that case…”
They walked toward the house, slowly and steadily, watching the windows for movement or light, and keeping their ears tuned to any foreign noises. Shelby heard and saw nothing, but as they approached the front door, he pulled the pistol from its shoulder holster and squeezed the grip. It felt good—hard, cold, and lethal.
Shelby’s hand closed on the doorknob, but Carly nudged him.
“It’s locked. Here’s the key.”
Shelby gripped the key ring, careful to avoid any telltale jingling. He inserted the key and turned. It stuck and he had to give it an extra effort before it opened. He pushed the door and it swung ajar with a low creak.
“Sorry,” Carly muttered. “I’ve been meaning to fix that.”
Shelby stood still and listened. Nothing. He moved inside and tested the floor. As he recalled, there was a spot that groaned whenever stepped on. He found the place and navigated around it. He held the pistol out in front, searching every dark corner over the gun’s front sight.
The living room was empty, as was the kitchen. Shelby started down the hall, but Carly gripped his arm.
“Did you hear something?”
Shelby listened. He hadn’t heard anything but realized Carly’s younger ears might have picked up something he missed.
“What was it?”
Carly shook her head, her face a mask of concentration. “I’m not sure. Might have been nothing. A rustle, maybe. Or something scraping.”
Shelby gripped the pistol and felt a trickle of cold sweat run down the middle of his back.
They moved into the hall, stopping to check each room as they went. Shelby even opened the linen closet but found nothing except neatly folded sheets and towels.
“Looks like your bedroom is the only one left,” Shelby whispered. “I’d still feel better if you went back out to the car. If anyone’s here, this is where they’ll be.”
“Hell, no.”
Shelby pushed on the door to Carly’s bedroom. It was dark, like all the other rooms, but a light from the street illuminated the window—and someone stood silhouetted against the glow.
“Fuck!” Shelby threw Carly to one side, flipped on the light, and dropped to one knee, all in one fluid motion. He pointed his pistol into the room and heard himself shouting, “Get your fucking hands up, you piece of shit, or I’ll blow off your goddamn head!”
Blood roared in his ears and his vision swam for a moment at the sudden spike in blood pressure. Then he realized several things at once: the knee supporting his weight was killing him, Carly was lying on the hallway floor and holding her stomach in a paroxysm of laughter, and he was pointing a gun and shouting profanities at a department store mannequin wearing a matching set of sequined bra and panties.
“You almost shot Betty Grable!” Carly sputtered through gales of raucous laughter.
Shelby shoved the pistol back into its holster.
“Fuck your mannequin. I think I’m having a heart attack.”
Carly’s laughter redoubled. “I…I can’t believe you did this again!”
“I’m not fucking kidding! I think my heart is exploding. Jesus!”
Carly made an admirable effort to control herself. She pushed herself to a sitting position and leaned against the wall.
“Oh my god! Your face!” She subsided into a coughing fit, then managed, “But you look pretty sexy in a shooting stance. Even if you were pointing a gun at a mannequin clad in nothing save a set of skimpy underwear.” She drew a deep breath and heaved a heavy sigh. “Oh, Christ, I needed a good laugh.”
“Glad I could oblige,” Shelby growled. “You know, if you wanted to get rid of me, all you had to do was say so, not hatch an elaborate plot to bump off the old guy.”
“Poor baby.” Carly reached up and gave his crotch a playful squeeze. “I’ll make it up to you. But, seriously, I did see something.”
“Once my heart returns to my chest, I’ll check the perimeter of the house to make sure there aren’t any signs of forced entry.”
“Thank you, Shel. I’m sorry I laughed. I—” Carly snorted, breaking off her apology.
“Don’t even bother,” Shelby said. “I know you loved every second.” He turned back to the mannequin. “You named it Betty Grable?”
“Of course I did. Didn’t you see those legs?”
Shelby took a look. “Those are fancy gams, all right. Nice bra too.”
“My first project.”
“You made this?”
“I did.”
“Did you know they’re sheer?”
“I did. I’ve tried them on. They leave nothing to the imagination.”
“Convenient. I have a terrible imagination.”
“I’ll model them later. For now, let’s make sure I won’t get murdered in my sleep.”
After a check of the perimeter, Shelby discovered an unlocked window and asked Carly about it.
She shrugged. “I don’t remember.
I sometimes open windows a crack at night. I like the cool air when I sleep.”
“How well I know. I finally remembered to wear socks to bed when sleeping over here during the winter.”
“So anyway, crybaby, maybe I forgot to relock it.”
“There are some scrapes around the lock, but they’re minor. Either they’re incidental or someone knew what they were doing. Keeping your windows closed and locked from now on, whether you’re home or not, would be a good idea. And certainly at night.”
“I don’t know. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced I was seeing things. The flash was probably my own headlights reflecting off the front windows as I turned the corner.”
“All the same. Let’s be safe. Do you notice anything missing?”
“Not off hand.”
“Let me know if you discover anything. And be careful.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You called me over, didn’t you?”
“Only because I knew you wouldn’t want to miss the action.”
“You’re so good to me.”
“I try.”
Shelby leaned over and planted a kiss on Carly’s full lips.
“You want me to stay the night?”
“Is that offer to settle my nerves or yours?”
“Depends on which nerves you’re talking about.”
“I suppose I did promise to make up for laughing at you.”
“Yes, you did. And I think I remember some remark about you modeling something sheer and revealing.”
“Let’s eat first. Getting scared out of your wits builds an appetite.”
20
Shelby’s phone rang.
“No, I won’t post bail,” he answered.
“I wouldn’t take a dime of your dirty money anyway,” Mack replied. “How the fuck are you?”
“Trying to keep my head above water.”
“No more shootouts, I hope.”
“Are you actually concerned for my welfare?”
Serenity Stalked Page 7
