Serenity Stalked

by Craig A. Hart

  “It’s okay, Carly,” Shelby said. “I understand. I’ll let you go. It’s for the best.”

  Smith felt Carly begin to move lightly, as if testing Smith’s grip, trying to see if he was buying into their hokey melodrama. He loosened his hold a little, letting her think he was releasing her. She twisted a little to one side and he let her move away an inch or two. Smith looked toward the porch and saw Shelby watching intently, poised to make his move.

  Carly tried to step away, but Smith reestablished his hold and pulled her back. He pressed the knife hard against her throat, drawing blood.

  Shelby came forward a step, but Smith shouted a warning.

  “Don’t try it! You people thought I was buying this shit? Give me a fucking break. It was a good show, but I knew what you were doing the entire time. And now I’m tired of waiting. It ends now.”

  He gripped the knife tighter and began drawing it across the woman’s throat. Soon the blood would spurt. Then he’d be on the larger man. The smaller one wouldn’t be able to shoot well at really close range. His knife would be perfect for this job. A few quick moves and he’d get them all. And then he’d leave this godforsaken state for good.

  Shelby saw the knife blade flicker. It was a deliberate move. Smith was going to kill her. Now was the time.

  Shelby went for his pistol. The move seemed to take an eternity. His hand dove inside his jacket, he gripped the butt. More blood appeared on Carly’s throat. Smith had a fistful of her hair, pulling her head backward and stretching the skin tight. Shelby saw her throat contract as she swallowed, no doubt in abject terror. He was witnessing death in slow motion. He knew he had to stop it but also knew he wasn’t moving fast enough.

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  Carly was going to die.

  A shot cracked the night air. Smith jerked around and, for a moment, thought he’d been hit. But, no—he’d been shot before and now felt no stab of burning pain. It was an ambush. Somehow he’d been found out and they’d set him up, the fucking bastards! He began dragging Carly back toward his vehicle, all while keeping a close eye on Shelby for any sign of attack. Another shot sounded, then a third, accompanied by the dull thunk thunk of bullets slamming into the side of the car.

  “Get in the car!” Smith yelled, trying to muscle Carly inside. She resisted, but he was in no mood for it. He practically threw her across the center console and piled in after her. The car was still running, so he threw it into reverse and stomped on the gas. The car shot backward, fishtailed. He braked, cranked the wheel, shifted into drive, and gave it the gas.

  He glanced in the rearview as another bullet splintered the back windshield and burrowed into the dash. A dark figure detached from the trees and ran across the clearing, holding something—a pistol, most likely—out in front. Then they were down the drive and screeching onto the main road.

  28

  “I’ll get my keys!” Shelby ran for his cabin.

  “No time for that shit. We’ll take my car,” Fritz said. “I’ve got my, what you say, keys.” He reached the old Renault in three long strides, threw open the door, and slid inside. The engine roared to life. “Get in!”

  Shelby ran to the far side of the car when he saw the figure closing on him. He turned and raised his pistol.

  “Shelby! Wait!”

  Shelby lowered the gun. He knew that voice.

  “Quinn!”

  “No time to explain. Let’s go.”

  The car was already moving. They jumped in and Fritz floored it.

  “They went right,” Shelby said.

  Fritz held the steering wheel with both hands and leaned forward, his eyes glued to the road. He made a searing right turn, causing Shelby to grab for any steadying object.

  “There, taillights. That must be them.”

  “I’ll get em,” Fritz said.

  “You sure this old contraption can go that fast?”

  “I thought you were all set to buy this old contraption.”

  “That was before I found out it didn’t drive worth a damn.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Fritz gave the car another burst of speed.

  The dark trees flew past and Shelby braced in his seat. He’d never been a fan of fast driving, preferring to get his thrills in other ways. He glanced over his shoulder at Quinn.

  “I suppose I don’t have to say it’s a surprise to see you here.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Hardly. If you hadn’t shown up, Carly would be dead by now.”

  The car bounced over a pothole and swerved around a tight curve. Fritz shot a quick look at Shelby.

  “Relax, Shel. I’m a helluva driver. Besides, you’re gettin cold sweat all over the upholstery.”

  “I saw Smith at Carly’s house. Watched her get into the car with him.”

  “And you didn’t stop her?”

  “I was with Wilkes at the time. I couldn’t do anything without letting him in on the whole thing.”

  Shelby frowned. “How did you know Smith by sight?”

  “I’ve been tracking him for years, following him from state to state. I’ve seen him a couple of times before, but he’s always stayed at least two steps ahead of me.”

  “You’ve been tracking him? Why would you track someone like Smith?”

  “The Blair murders weren’t a robbery gone bad. Although that’s what he always wants people to think.”

  “He’s killed before.”

  “Many times.”

  “And you were on his trail. I suppose your law enforcement contacts came in handy for that.”

  The car weaved violently back and forth, tires screeching. Shelby imagined he heard the frame being wrenched asunder.

  Fritz chewed his moustache. “Goddamn car handles like shit at these speeds.”

  “Not comforting,” Shelby said. “Are we getting any closer at all?”

  “Course we are. Another couple minutes and we’ll be crawlin up their tailpipe.”

  Shelby turned back to Quinn. “Why didn’t you tell the police what you’d found out? They might’ve been able to stop him, not to mention we wouldn’t be in our current situation.”

  “It’s personal.” Quinn’s voice hardened. “I wanted this bastard to myself.”

  “What do you have against Smith that any sane person with a sense of decency wouldn’t have?”

  “He tried to kill me.”

  “That would do it,” Shelby said.

  He wanted to ask more, but Fritz had indeed closed the gap and the chase had taken on a new level of danger. The cars were engaged in a high-speed dance down the black highway, weaving back and forth, jockeying for position, playing chicken for keeps. Fritz maneuvered close and nudged the bumper enough to make Smith’s car swerve.

  “Ha! Take that, ya stabbin bastard!” Fritz gripped the wheel harder and bared his teeth. “I’ll run ya clean off the road or my name ain’t Fritz McGillicuddy!”

  “Your name isn’t McGillicuddy,” Shelby said.

  “Yeah, I know. Just hedgin my, what you say, bets.”

  Fritz nudged the car again, this time harder. Again it swerved, but Smith retained control.

  Fritz swore. “Guess I’ll have to really give it to him. Cross your tits we don’t lock bumpers.” He put on a surge of speed and got the Renault positioned so that its front bumper was a few inches beyond the rear of Smith’s car. Then he jerked the wheel. The vehicles collided with a thud and shriek of metal. Fritz wrestled the wheel as the Renault struggled to stay on the road. Smith was not so fortunate. He fishtailed, overcorrected, and in a moment, the car was screaming off the road and into the ditch.

  Shelby let out a whoop and pumped his fist. “You did it, you old piece of shit! You—look out!”

  It was too late. The deer seemed to materialize out of thin air. The Renault struck it head on, flipping it up and over the car. The windshield cracked, splintered. Fritz fought the car as it jerked and veered wildly, but it was impossible to see through the maze of
cracks in the windshield. Shelby felt the car leave the road, heard the tires churn gravel, smelled burnt rubber, and tasted blood as a heavy jolt made him bite down on his tongue. Then a screech and crunch—and they were stopped.

  Shelby rattled the door handle, but it stuck. He kicked the door and it opened with a reluctant shriek. He stumbled out and began running back toward Smith’s car. His side was alive with pain—he’d probably torn the healing ribs. He heard Fritz and Quinn behind him, and then saw Smith. The killer had Carly held in front of him, just like at the cabin, knife ready. Only this time, the entire side of Carly’s face was covered in blood.

  “Hold it!” Smith said. “Not a step more, Alexander.”

  “What did you do to her?”

  “You mean the blood? That wasn’t me. That was the accident. The bitch hates seatbelts.”

  “So help me, you piece of shit, I’m going to take you apart.”

  “Perhaps. But I’ll kill your woman first. You’ll have to watch her die. Then you’ll try to kill me, searching for some satisfaction or relief from the pain you feel. But it won’t help. Because you’ll still be alone.”

  The knife blade moved.

  Shelby went for his gun.

  “No, he’s mine!”

  Quinn’s pistol barked and part of Smith’s head disappeared, leaving behind a gaping, red, pulpy hole. The knife blade stopped moving and Smith stood stock still. The remaining half of his face looked shocked, as if trying and failing to figure out what had happened.

  Shelby ran forward and grabbed Carly, pulling her away from Smith even as the killer slipped to the ground. Smith’s hands quivered and grasped, as if trying to use Carly for balance.

  Quinn approached Smith and stood, looking down at him. She pointed the pistol and fired into the body until there was only the click click click of an empty chamber. She spit on the body, her face a mask of hatred and disgust.

  “That was for Mom, you piece of shit.”

  29

  “You ought to write all this stuff down,” Mack said. “You could make a fortune, assuming anyone believed this shit. I wouldn’t, if I didn’t know firsthand what a fucked up place you live in. Didn’t you tell me a few years ago you were moving there for the peace and quiet?”

  “It used to be,” Shelby said. “It must be me.”

  “I ought to move up there. You’re getting too old to do this on your own.”

  “I was wishing you were there when that crazy mother had the knife to Carly’s throat. You could’ve picked that sonofabitch off like a tin can on a fence post.”

  “It sounds like the woman…what was her name?”

  “Quinn.”

  “It sounds like this Quinn person had the shooting under control. That must’ve been quite a shot.”

  “It was. A damn fine shot.”

  “And she was this Smith guy’s daughter?”

  “So she claims. Smith killed her mother when Quinn was an infant, and it wasn’t until Quinn graduated college with a degree in criminal justice that she found out who her real dad was.”

  “She must have freaked out when she found out he was a serial killer.”

  “She didn’t know right away. Her mother had told only one person—her best friend from high school—who Quinn’s real father was and had sworn the friend to secrecy. Around the time Quinn graduated, the friend was diagnosed with late stage cancer, and she told Quinn the truth. Quinn began the search soon after.”

  “All the while not knowing what her dad was up to.”

  “Right. But Smith turned out to be difficult to find. No sooner would Quinn find him, he’d have moved on. After a while, she noticed a pattern between Smith’s movements and killings with a similar M.O., not mention they were similar to how her mother and grandfather had been killed.”

  “Christ,” Mack breathed. “This should be a movie.”

  “Maybe it will be. Quinn has written a couple of true crime books based on her work in criminal justice, one of which HBO optioned. Maybe she’ll write this one.”

  “Make sure you and Carly get a royalty. You deserve it.”

  “Will do. Thanks for checking in, Mack.”

  “Later, buddy.”

  No sooner had Shelby disconnected than his phone buzzed once again. It was Helen. Now what the hell could she want?

  “Hello.” He kept his tone brusque. His relationship with Helen was still shaky, almost non-existent. One halfway decent phone call during which she slipped and called him by a dusty pet name didn’t change that.

  “Shelby?”

  Her voice sounded funny. He knew this tone. She’d been crying. Shelby’s heart thudded and turned in his chest.

  “Helen…what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Leslie.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s at the hospital. With pains. They think she might be in labor.”

  “But…it’s not time yet. It’s too early.”

  “I know, I know. Shelby…if the baby comes now…it won’t make it.”

  “Where is she?”

  “The hospital in Grand Rapids.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m here too. I just arrived.”

  “I’m driving down.”

  “Shelby?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hurry…I’m scared.”

  Thank you for picking up Serenity Stalked!

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  A Serenity Avenged Sneak Peek

  Chapter One

  Jimmy Holstine snapped awake. He sat bolt upright, his heart pounding so hard he expected it to burst from his chest. Blood roared in his ears, sounding like the ocean surf, but less relaxing. His eyes widened as he struggled to see in the darkness. Light sifted through the blinds from the street lamp on the corner, but not enough to give definition to objects in the room. Then again, he knew everything there. He scanned the perimeter, searching for anything he didn’t recognize.

  First stood his dresser, piled high with clothes—some clean, some not. There were more clothes on top of the dresser than inside the drawers, but Jimmy didn’t see the point of folding and storing clothing when he knew he would yank it out of the drawer within a day or two.

  To the right of the dresser was his guitar and new amp. He'd used the amp only twice. It was mostly hidden by its own pile of shirts and dingy jeans. He’d purchased it, far beyond his usual means, after a good month with Darkmore. Many times since, he’d wished he could sell it. He’d tried to twice, but these weren’t good times for selling things like pricey amplifiers, and pawnshops would only offer a fraction of its worth. So it sat, gathering dust and laundry, while he ran himself ragged for a boss he was growing to both fear and despise.

  Next to the amp was the closet door, slightly open. Jimmy thought he remembered leaving it that way. Or had he? He stared, trying to penetrate the solid blackness of the closet’s interior, but saw nothing. If someone waited there, watching, they were safe from his probing eyes.

  After the closet should have been a space of empty wall, followed by the bedroom door. But the space was not empty. Something was there: a large, dark shape.

  As Jimmy noticed this, the shape detached from the wall and moved forward. Jimmy scooted backward on the bed, but the form—a man—was already across the room. A powerful hand closed on Jimmy’s throat, choking the life out of him, forcing his head back against the wall. Jimmy grabbed the man’s forearm but felt only steel-like muscle and sinew. He tried to speak but couldn't utter more than a rasping gurgle.

  “Shut up,” the man said.

  And then something coarse and scratchy went over Jimmy’s head—a hood. The hand released its death grip on his throat but switched to the back of his neck.

  “Get up. Darkmore wants to see you.”

  “Come on, man. You about crushed my throat. You don’t k
now your own strength.” Jimmy coughed.

  “Stand up.”

  Jimmy stood up.

  “Start walking. We’re going downstairs.”

  Jimmy walked to the door, expertly avoiding all of the items scattered around the floor. It looked like chaos, but he knew where everything was and could navigate blindfolded—as he was now doing. The man behind him stumbled once, cursing, but never relinquished his grip on Jimmy’s neck.

  They left the bedroom and turned toward the stairs. Knowing they were coming, Jimmy felt ahead with his feet.

  “Stairs,” the man said.

  The floor dropped away beneath Jimmy’s forward foot and he slowly made his way downward.

  “Come on, come on,” the man growled. "Move!”

  “I’m going as fast as I can.”

  “Well, speed it up or I’ll speed it up for you. And you don’t want that.”

  Jimmy knew he didn’t want that. It was a steep, narrow flight and would certainly not pass modern building code. He went as fast as he could in his current sightless condition without tripping himself up.

  Then they were at the bottom. Jimmy sighed in relief. His breath was hot and moist inside the hood; he longed to yank it off.

  The man steered him around the corner and into the living room. They stopped moving and the man moved away. A moment later, the rasp of window blinds being drawn tight. Then the man was back and gripping his neck again.

  Another set of footsteps came from the kitchen. They stopped and Jimmy heard a low laugh, although it wasn’t a pleasant sound.

  “For Christ’s sake, Malone. Why the bag over the head?”

  Jimmy’s captor mumbled, “I…I thought…”

  “You know why we use bags and blindfolds on people, Malone?”

  “To scare em?”

  “To keep them from seeing where they’re going.”

  “Right.”

  “And why is that not an issue here?”

  Silence.

  “Because, Malone, we’re in his own house. Jesus! Take off the bag.”