Obsessed

by Devon Scott

  As soon as the plane touches down at Reagan National, Joe Goodman is on his cell phone.

  His first call is to Kennedy.

  That goes to voice mail.

  He curses, capturing the ire of an elderly white woman who is sitting beside him.

  His next call is to Michael.

  He gets one of those generic messages stating that the number dialed is no longer in service.

  Then he remembers. He directed Kennedy to ditch her BlackBerry and to tell Michael to do the same.

  And Joe doesn’t have the new numbers.

  It takes the pilot several minutes to steer the plane to its gate.

  All the while Joe is impatient. It’s been like that all afternoon.

  Checking out of the hotel.

  Fighting with the manager to obtain a refund (he had been there barely two hours).

  Racing back to the airport.

  At the gate, using his badge to commandeer a seat on the next flight back to D.C.

  It worked, finally.

  Three hundred bucks lighter, he had swapped tickets with some guy who didn’t care that he made it back to his wife a few hours later than scheduled.

  Back to the present.

  Before the airplane reaches the gate and the engines are shut down, Joe is out of his seat. The flight attendant nearest to him signals for him to sit down.

  He holds up his badge and announces to those in front of him, “Metropolitan Police, let me through, please.”

  Four minutes later he is sprinting up the jetway, cell to his ear as he redials Kennedy’s number.

  Again it goes to voice mail.

  Garment bag swinging from his shoulder, he dials Terrell, one of his partners at the Fifth District.

  Another detective, who has backed up Joe numerous times. Body-builder type. When not working the streets, he lives in the gym.

  Terrell picks up on the fifth ring.

  “What up, Joe?”

  “Hey, man, where are you? I need a serious favor,” Joe says.

  “Me ’n’ Tretch are just over the border in P.G. getting something to eat. Wha’d’ya need?”

  Tretch is another Fifth District cop. Terrell & Tretch. Known among Metropolitan’s finest as TNT, two bad motherfuckers.

  “Listen, I’m working this stalking case, and I think my vic may be in trouble. I tried to reach her, but she’s not picking up. I’m at the airport heading over, but I need someone to get over there now. The perp is in the area and possibly on his way. Can you check it out for me?” Joe pauses a half second. “It’s my ex-wife.”

  Terrell chews his food and swallows.

  “Ex-wife? Okay, yeah, no problem. We’re finishing up here. What’s the address?”

  “Thank you, man. She’s on Taylor Street.” Joe gives him the address.

  “Got it. Let us settle up the check and we’ll check it out, let you know.”

  “I’m gonna hightail it up there.”

  “All right, cool.”

  The line goes dead.

  Joe can now catch his breath.

  He heads out of the terminal to the taxi area. There is a line of people waiting to catch a cab. No official vehicles in sight that he can use. Joe curses under his breath.

  He stands impatiently in line for a taxi.

  That lasts all of five seconds.

  Joe whips out his shield and holds it up, making his way to the front of the line. Most people give him the eye but say nothing.

  Getting in the waiting cab, he gives the driver Kennedy’s address and tells him to step on it.

  He wonders where Damian is right now.

  Wonders exactly what he’s up to.

  Michael ends his call and returns the cell phone to his pocket. He rubs his gloved hands together, staring up at the moon hanging in the December night.

  The call had gone on longer than expected. A project he and a colleague are collaborating on.

  He walks back to the entrance of the skating rink, thinking not about his call but about the evening.

  He had felt apprehension as he got himself and Zack ready for tonight, knowing he would be seeing Kennedy later.

  A family outing.

  That’s what this is, even though he hasn’t felt like he’s had a family for some time now.

  He contemplates Kennedy and Joe together, and an intense wave of jealousy washes over him.

  And when he considers that Zack might not be his, his entire being shuts down.

  So he doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t want that part to be true.

  But then he saw her, looking so damn good, and Michael couldn’t help but feeling the desire infuse back into his pores.

  It had been so long since he had held his wife, and for the first time he acknowledged that he honestly missed her.

  The ying and yang of love.

  Michael walks into the rink.

  Shows the attendant his ticket and grabs his skates. Laces up and heads to the ice.

  It’s not as teeming as before.

  Michael scans the crowd, searching for his wife and son.

  “O Come All Ye Faithful” is playing over the sound system, and several families that skate past him are singing along.

  His brow furrows.

  He doesn’t see his clan.

  Michael reaches once again for his phone, speed-dials Kennedy’s cell.

  It rings five times before going to voice mail.

  Michael turns. Looks for the restrooms.

  Zack probably had to pee. Was afraid to go by himself. He finds the men’s room and darts inside.

  Empty.

  Back out.

  Walks across to the ladies’ room. He waits patiently for someone to enter or exit. A woman with her tween daughter ambles up, both with their skates still on. He says, “Excuse me, I’m looking for my wife and son. Can you see if they are in there? Her name is Kennedy.”

  The woman nods while clutching her daughter’s shoulder tighter.

  Michael waits.

  Five minutes go by.

  The mother/daughter duo exits with the mother shaking her head.

  “No one else in there,” she utters.

  Michael thanks her.

  His brow furrows again.

  He speed-dials Kennedy a second time.

  Voice mail.

  Back to the rink.

  Scans the crowd.

  Gets on the ice and makes two complete revolutions, just to make sure.

  Michael doesn’t find them.

  Odd.

  Perhaps Zack was hungry.

  But there’s a concession stand here.

  He passed it on the way to the restrooms.

  He goes back to the rental attendant.

  The young man is gone. Replaced by a teenage girl with dark gothic makeup.

  “Have you seen a mother and son come by here?” Michael describes Kennedy and Zack to her.

  She shakes her head. “Nope.”

  Michael exchanges his skates for his boots.

  His heart is racing now.

  His first thought is that something bad has happened to them.

  His second thought is something else. Replaced by another emotion.

  What if Kennedy took Zack to get back at him?

  Preposterous.

  Not Kennedy.

  But people who are going through marital problems do stupid shit every day.

  No, that’s not it. It’s something else.

  Another explanation.

  He heads out, hangs a right onto Ninth and walks briskly toward Constitution. His car is a few blocks away.

  The temperature is beginning to drop. He shudders under his sport coat.

  He glances back, but his wife and child are not there.

  Michael walks for several blocks toward his car.

  He pulls out his cell again.

  Dials Zack’s cell number.

  “Pick up,” he utters to himself.

  He passes a black BMW.

  Stops, turns, star
es.

  Kennedy’s car.

  Empty.

  Zack’s phone is still ringing as he stares into the darkened interior.

  No answer.

  So he hits a few keys to enable the Chaperone feature.

  It takes but a few moments to locate his son.

  He stops dead in his tracks and stares at the map.

  Taylor Street, Northeast D.C.

  Their home.

  If Kennedy’s car is here, how did Zack get home?

  Michael stares at his phone, trying to connect the dots.

  Nothing makes sense.

  He hits redial, attempting to reach his son.

  The call just rings.

  He ends the call.

  Swallows his pride.

  And calls Joe Goodman, his wife’s ex, instead.

  Chapter 73

  Zack feels the cell phone’s vibration in his pocket.

  It shudders just below his right thigh.

  His hands are bound by duct tape to the Ikea work chair in his room. His ankles are also restrained. His mouth remains uncovered. The bad man felt it wasn’t necessary to gag him.

  Displaying the Heckler & Koch was incentive enough.

  Zack struggles against his restraints. His wrists refuse to budge. He’d need a steak knife to cut through this tape.

  There’s a clock radio by his bed.

  It’s on, tuned to an urban-adult station.

  Kennedy frowned when the bad man turned it on; she voiced her disdain, only to be told she had more pressing issues to consider.

  The door to his bedroom is closed.

  The vibration ceases. Then begins again.

  It wouldn’t be Jeremy—it’s way past his bedtime. And he witnessed his mother’s phone being tossed out by the bad man.

  That meant the call was from his dad.

  Zack attempts to reach it. His fingers graze the top of the pocket flap. No way he can reach the phone. He needs about four more inches of fingers.

  If only he could lift his leg.

  Zack tries, but his ankles are bound to the chair legs. He manages to lift his thigh less than two inches.

  The phone remains tucked away in his pocket, silent and unmoving.

  He contemplates attempting to rock himself and the chair onto its side. But he figures this is easier said than done. Besides, the sound would surely reverberate throughout the house.

  The bad man was adamant about keeping quiet.

  Be good and live.

  Be bad and die.

  The bad man’s words resound inside his skull.

  Zack desperately wants to live.

  So he keeps still.

  Thinks of his favorite Xbox 360 game.

  His nana’s cooking.

  That time Pop Pop let him drive the tractor.

  He prays his mommy is safe and unharmed.

  Prays that his daddy comes busting in, guns blazing, sending the bad man to that place where bad men like him belong.

  Straight to hell.

  He stands away from the bed, watching her.

  She is on the edge, sitting perfectly still, eyeing him back.

  Damian goes to the window, peeks out from behind the blinds to the small backyard and alleyway beyond.

  It is quiet here, yet the pain inside his head is a roar that will not settle down.

  He turns, Heckler & Koch still raised in her direction.

  Stares at her, rubbing his temples with his other hand.

  For a moment neither speaks.

  Then Damian opens his mouth.

  “I wonder how many you’ve fucked in that bed.”

  “What?” Kennedy says.

  Damian grins.

  “Don’t be coy with me. Your lovers. You know. The ones you bring here to fuck.”

  “I don’t bring anyone here. This is me and my husband’s bed.”

  “Well, we’re gonna change that tonight. Take off your clothes.”

  Kennedy remains immobile.

  “I said, take off your fucking clothes.” He has taken four large strides from the window and is now pressing the barrel of the .45 into her forehead. His eyes are unblinking.

  Kennedy begins to undress.

  She keeps her eyes trained on him as she removes first her boots, then unzips and slips off her jeans. In her panties, she struggles out of her sweater, placing it on the bed beside her. She sits in bra and panties, eyes lasered into his skull.

  “Everything, bitch,” Damian commands. His voice is barely above a whisper, but the message is received loud and clear.

  Kennedy unhooks her bra and removes it, tossing it onto the floor. She stands, pulling down her panties. They go by the bra.

  “Please don’t hurt my son,” she says in a fluttering voice.

  Damian retreats until he is standing several feet away, admiring her beauty. He does not respond to her, except to laugh.

  “I don’t understand. You’ve come all this way just to rape me?” Kennedy asks. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Shut up,” Damian growls. “You don’t know shit, bitch. You fucked up a good thing, you know that? You fucked up a perfectly good marriage!”

  He takes two steps forward and leans in next to Kennedy’s face.

  “You are nothing but a home-wrecking cunt. So shut the fuck up!” Spittle flies from his mouth as Damian’s free hand comes up and slaps her across the face, hard. Instantly Kennedy is knocked over onto the bed. Her hand rushes to her face, eyes wide with fright.

  “I’m telling you for the last time to shut the fuck up. Do you hear me? SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

  Damian’s eyes have grown to the size of silver dollars. They are full of fire, and his hand shakes as he yells.

  “CUNT FUCK BITCH! I should shoot you right the fuck here and now!”

  “Oh God! I’m sorry . . . Please stop. . . .” Tears stream down her face.

  “You ruined what we had. Lie back on the fucking bed and spread your legs. Better yet, bend over like the whore that you are. I’m gonna do you just the way you did her.”

  Kennedy, sobs, holding her face in her hands.

  “Please don’t hurt me or my son. Just tell me what it is you want.”

  There is pleading in her eyes.

  Damian fumbles with his belt. Unzips his pants. Pulls out his manhood. Strokes it, glaring at her smooth, mocha-fine skin.

  Her nipples are erect, and he is almost hard. God, she is beautiful.

  “What I want? I want to violate you for what you did to me. You destroyed my life. So I’m gonna return the favor. Gonna give you a piece of me that can never be ungiven. Something that you’ll carry around for the rest of your life.”

  Kennedy stares back at him. She wipes her tears with her hand. She winces when her fingers graze her swollen cheek.

  She moves off the bed.

  “Anywhere else but in this bed. Please.”

  Damian watches her move.

  “Fucking whore,” he swears, but the volume has been throttled down a notch. “Get back on the bed. I could shoot you dead right now. But that’s not my plan. Nope—I want you to live. Want you to wake up every day thinking about how I fucked the shit out of you for what you did to me.”

  He watches her terror-filled eyes. Fear and dread live there now. He observes the rest of her. His temples throb. He blinks rapidly.

  Legs the color of mocha chocolate.

  Smooth, like only he can imagine.

  Full breasts, dark, erect, inviting nipples.

  Damian can’t wait to impale her.

  Kennedy moves to the left of the bed.

  “Your wife was an incredible woman,” Kennedy utters softly.

  Damian is instantly thrown off guard.

  “What the fuck did you say?”

  “Your wife. Dawn—”

  “Do not speak her name!” he commands.

  Kennedy swallows. Blinks.

  “I remember meeting her in Miami.” She pauses, waiting to see what will come next. A bullet or
merely a sigh? She is watching him, this madman with a faraway gaze suddenly painted upon his face. He’s remembering her, she can tell. “She was a beautiful woman,” she continues. “What a smile. And those eyes. When she stared at you it was like she was looking straight through you.”

  Damian is silent. The fire is still burning, but for the moment is under control.

  “I can see why you fell for her. Anyone would.”

  “Bitch, you don’t know shit about my wife,” he hisses.

  “I know she loved you.”

  Damian ceases to stroke himself. He stares hard at Kennedy. He presses the cool steel of the Heckler & Koch against her temple, making her flinch.

  “I should blow your stupid brains—” He stops, catching himself. Takes a breath, then grits his teeth. “Keep fucking with me.”

  Kennedy’s teeth chatter, and her entire body is shaking. But she presses on anyway. It’s her only hope.

  “She told me so. We spoke about how conflicted she felt. Loving you and dealing with this way of hers that made her desire other women.”

  Damian swallows, shaking his head.

  “She wanted to tell you,” Kennedy says. She nods. “Yeah, she was searching for a way to let you know just how she felt. She didn’t want to lose you.”

  Damian’s cock begins to wilt. He is thinking of her while rolling Kennedy’s words over in his mind. He can see her, clear as day, standing in their kitchen, white panties on and nothing else, enjoying a glass of orange juice, a bit of pulp on her lip that he wiped off lovingly with the edge of his hand.

  “You lie,” he says, voice near a whisper. The pain in his head screams. He winces, shoulders sagging. The gun wavers.

  “I have no reason to. It is the truth. She loved you. But she couldn’t deny who she was. I understand that. And I understood her. It is why we bonded. I wasn’t looking to take her away from you. But I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure of her any more than you could. She was intoxicating. You of all people know that.”

  Kennedy places one knee on the bed, one hand on the headboard, leaning over. She reveals the fullness of herself to him.

  Damian is enthralled. The sight of her coupled with her words takes his breath away. Blood is returning to his member.

  And for a moment, he sails off.

  Drifting, if you can call it that, thinking about her, here and now as he marvels over Mocha’s exquisite form. Readying to devastate her, this goddess bitch before him. How many hours did he dream of this sweet revenge, this very moment when vengeance would be his, spilling his river as he imagined hurting her for what she’s done? Countless hours. So much spilled seed. Yet he thinks of her.