Vengeance

by George Willson

  “I was once what you once were,” the figure whispered. Athena was confused.

  “I… I don’t understand,” she managed to say in response, shaking her head.

  “You will.” The figure displayed her knife for Athena to see before she raised it to strike, but Athena came to her senses and rolled off the bed, narrowly missing the blow. Her eyes barely adjusted to the darkness, she ran out of her bedroom through the unlit house to her front door, but stopped short when she saw that a table had been placed in front of the door, blocking it. She looked back to her bedroom, and the shadow was heading toward her.

  Athena ran toward the back door, but when the figure swung her knife, Athena spotted light glint off of it out of the corner of her eye. She tried to dodge the swing, but leaned too far and lost her balance. She hit the floor only barely putting her hands out in time to catch herself. She rolled over onto her back to see the figure barreling down on her, and she knew she would not have the time to get back to her feet and run before the figure was there. As the figure drove the knife downward, Athena grabbed the figure’s arm, planted her foot on the figure’s chest and swung the figure over her head in the direction of the kitchen.

  She heard the figure crash into the kitchen table but didn’t pause to look before scrambling back to her feet and running toward the garage door. As she threw open the door, she looked back as she went into the garage to see the figure run back into the living room. She closed the garage door behind her, but the lock was inside the house. She ran to the exterior door, but it was a two-sided deadbolt, and her keys were still in her bedroom.

  She reached for the automatic garage door button, pressed it, and sprinted between the cars toward the door. She chanted “Come on, come on,” at the door helplessly waiting for it to open enough for her to get under it. As she waited, she heard the house door open and shot her eyes to the door to find that the figure had found her. Rather than give immediate chase, however, the figure looked around the room until she found the button for the door on the wall next to her. She pressed it.

  “No,” Athena breathed, feeling like her escape routes were spent. She glanced to the bottom of the door and saw that it had raised just enough for her to roll under. She looked back to the figure who only stood at the door, watching her.

  “Run,” the figure whispered. “I’ll find you.”

  The figure pressed the button, and the garage door lowered. Athena dropped to the floor and rolled under the door just before it hit the ground behind her. She lay on the ground for just a moment, only just realizing the tears on her face. As she breathed, she cried in the fear and agony of her situation before she heard a footfall on the driveway. With a gasp, she looked toward sound and saw the police cruiser parked at her curb. Officer Spencer, the man who was keeping his vigil outside her house was outside his car and walking toward the house, his hand on his weapon. Athena jumped to her feet and ran to meet him.

  “Officer Spencer!” she cried.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. She reached him and rested her hands on her knees, still completely out of breath.

  “She’s … in there,” Athena said between breaths. “I got out … through the garage … blocked me in…” Spencer ran to the garage and listened. He pressed the talk button on his radio.

  “This is Officer Spencer at the Michaels’ residence. I’ve got action over here. Requesting assistance.”

  He turned his attention to the front door, and as he ran toward it, his radio crackled off another message: “Citizen reports officer down at seven four eight North Rimsky Drive. All units in the vicinity of seven four eight North Rimsky Drive, please respond.”

  Spencer arrived at the front door and didn’t hesitate to kick it in. He surveyed the room, reached for the light and flicked the switch. The room was bathed in light. There was no table blocking the door, nor was there anything out of place that he could see. Weapon still at the ready, he cautiously moved into the kitchen, turning on every light as he crossed from room to room. Something moved in the kitchen behind him. He glanced, but it didn’t move again.

  He turned his attention to the hall and the bedroom. He turned on the bedroom light and surveyed the room. Nothing was disturbed, and the bed was even made. He wrinkled his brow in confusion and turned back to the kitchen. He spotted the movement again.

  He strafed to check it out and found the source of the movement. He had his weapon pointed directly at a mirror on the kitchen wall that was reflecting his movements. He saddled his weapon and pressed the button on his radio.

  “Spencer to dispatch … the house is clear.”

  “Roger, Spencer.”

  I had received both calls simultaneously and arrived at the Duke house first. Robert Duke sat at the curb, a bouquet of flowers on the ground next to him. In jeans, a white shirt, and tan sport coat, he stared at the ground, his middle-aged face stained with tears he may not have even realized were there based on how far from reality he appeared to be. He was actually quite unresponsive for a few minutes when I tried to talk to him, and considering what he walked into, I wasn’t surprised and felt for the guy.

  What was left of Officer Gene Carver was in his car. He had been stabbed repeatedly and not very cleanly decapitated, and while the car had handprints all over it in blood, none of them appeared to have any prints at all indicating that the killer wore gloves. As you already know, we did not find Carver’s head on the scene.

  When I walked in, the lights were off, but they came on moments later as someone outside the house turned the master breaker back on. They let me know later that blood on the switch was also Carver’s. Inside the house, I noticed the phone in the middle of the living room and the patio door glass destroyed. The kitchen didn’t give up a single print, and a glance outside revealed that the grass of the Duke’s backyard was neatly groomed and very full. Our killer wouldn’t have hit a speck of mud anywhere out there, so the dew stained footprints would have dried immediately. If they were lucky, they might find some dried impressions, but I doubted it.

  Walking back toward the bedroom, I had to walk through the bathroom since the bedroom door was still locked. The doorknobs showed that the killer’s gloves were still wet from the blood of Carver, but still no fingerprints, and that the killer had tried the bedroom door before entering through the bathroom. Sherry Duke was lying next to the wall beside a broken window with a single stab wound under her jaw. Her cell phone was on the floor to her right with more blood on it, which was expected as I’d already been informed that the killer spoke to Laurie, the operator, and a review of the calls showed the 911 call I was informed of only moments before I arrived.

  I instructed the other officers to find what they could, but the killer didn’t leave them much again. I had to get to Athena’s house to see what was going on there. Spencer reported the all clear as I reached the car.

  When I parked by the curb in front of Athena’s house, Athena was leaning against the cruiser while Spencer was making some notes.

  “Trouble?” I asked a bit rhetorically.

  “What do you think,” Athena responded with some irritation. “I was in there trying to sleep, and before I knew it, she has the front door blocked–”

  “I see,” I said, holding up a hand to stop her, since I really wasn’t asking her. I needed a non-emotional account of what was in there before I decided whether it was worth checking it out for myself. I turned to Spencer, who had waited patiently for Athena to finish.

  “Officer Spencer. Was there something blocking the front door?” I thought I would cut right to the heart of the matter.

  “No sir,” Spencer responded, which is what I thought he might say.

  “Yes, there was,” Athena insisted. “It was the end table in my living room. It was blocking the front door.”

  “There wasn’t a table in front of the door,” Spencer reiterated. “In fact, her bed was made. Didn’t look slept in.”

  “What?” Athena stared at him, surprised. I looked
at her carefully to determine whether she was actually surprised, or just caught.

  “You sleep in a made bed?” I asked.

  “No,” Athena replied. She appeared to be almost beyond words.

  “You must have made it right before you ran out the garage door,” I suggested.

  “I didn’t make my bed,” she said, her tone dropping to a combination of frustration and anger.

  “And this mysterious table that stopped you from going out the front?”

  “It was there.”

  “And I imagine that you pushed the button to open the garage door, and the perp pushed the button to close it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Athena paused and looked away for a moment. I could imagine what was going through her mind. She recalled pushing the garage door button to open it and let it rise just high enough so that when she pressed it again, she could just make it out. Pressing the button to close the door, she bolted across the garage and rolled under just before it closed. She came out of what I believed was her true memory with a shake of her head.

  “No,” she insisted. “She was there!”

  “Really,” I asked, disbelieving. “Mrs. Michaels… We’ve had a lot of deaths in the last few days. More than we’re accustomed to. More than anyone is accustomed to. The victims were visited once by this guy. You know we got a call from another victim’s house?”

  Athena just stared. I wasn’t sure if the worry I saw on her face was because she was actually concerned about the people there, or if she was worried that we might have found something that implicated her. I thought I’d continue.

  “This guy not only killed his victim, but he decapitated a police officer who was there to protect her. The killer took him out first. A trained police officer couldn’t avoid being killed, but you’ve done it twice. He was also able to get into your house three times now without being discovered. Explain that to me.”

  Athena was flustered. She couldn’t explain that, and she knew it. I had her. She pointed at Spencer to deflect my attention. It wasn’t going to work.

  “He was out here the whole time!” she said.

  “Sherry Duke’s house is only a couple of blocks from here,” I said. “You could have walked. Out the back door. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Officer,” I said formally to Spencer as I indicated Athena. He produced his handcuffs and restrained her as she protested. I wasn’t going to deal with this any further. It had to end.

  “Athena Michaels, you are under arrest under suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent.”

  I continued with the Miranda Rights as Spencer put her into the back seat of his car. In the back of my head, I wasn’t one hundred percent certain that Athena was behind it. She didn’t seem like the type, but there was enough doubt to keep her locked away for a couple days. My angle was that if she did it, no one would die. If she was not guilty, then we could be certain of the killer’s costume, and yet, have the pressing question as to why this killer would leave her alive. So many questions were unanswered, and as this case progressed, it just got worse.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Remembering Failure

  Darla Hemmingway sat at her desk in her well-organized classroom looking at the headline of the paper, which read: “Wife of Slain Teacher Arrested!” The story contained a mug shot of Athena Michaels and detailed the story of the murders to date including what happened to Sherry last night. Darla shook her head in dismay. Though she had good reason to hate Hank Michaels, she was not sure she would have gone to such lengths to get rid of him and everyone he’d ever been with. Sure, she talked big sometimes, but in her heart, she would never go through with it. And to kill students? She shook her head again at the thought.

  She glanced up to look down the rows of empty desk to the one student that remained in her classroom. Mindy Zimmerman was twenty with long brown hair and minimal, if any, makeup. She wore a wooden cross around her neck along with a plain dress shirt and jeans, which pretty well described what she wore every day. Tucked within the papers and books she carried around was a Bible that Darla knew Mindy read when nothing else was going on. At present, Mindy was working to finish a test that they would have normally called a time limit on, but given the events going on at present, the dean had asked that students be given some leniency on time and their tasks as he would be doing for the teachers as well. This situation had become a nightmare for everyone, and the best they could do was try to maintain some semblance of a normal life.

  It was hard, though, the more that happened. Hank and Jody were a surprise, and then Scott and Jenny being killed just off the campus grounds brought it too close to home for everyone. A lot of the kids had gone home if their parents lived in town, and some had left the school altogether until the crisis could be confirmed as over. Then Sherry Duke was killed. Two teachers down had created more chaos to the point that the school was mostly a ghost town. The police department had stepped up security on campus along with everything they were trying to do to combat the problem, but everyone in town knew they were spread very thin. It also didn’t help that a police officer had been killed, which further scared everyone involved. Darla wondered how long it would be until the police did something more drastic to protect those who were associated with Hank. She knew she would have to be a target, and she was honestly scared for her life as well as anyone else that man had unwittingly dragged down with him.

  Darla went back to the article and further down the page, there was a picture of Hank. It was his staff picture taken on campus at the beginning of the term, and Darla even remembered him sitting for it since they had gone together. She touched it gently, remembering the last time she had seen him.

  She had entered the lounge that day, and he was already standing by the coffee pot with a cup in his hand, sipping it. The rest of the lounge was empty as they tended to arrive a bit earlier than everyone else. Darla closed the door behind her and locked it. She knew no one would think anything of it since the door’s lock was a little cantankerous and occasionally got stuck. People often placed something in the door frame to keep it propped open, so no one got locked out. It made moments like these very easy to attain.

  Darla slinked across the room to him. Under her pink jacket, she wore a white top with only spaghetti straps. With her jacket on, no one would know, but with her jacket off (which she tossed onto one of the chairs as she approached him), it was very enticing, and she knew it. He took one more sip of his coffee as he turned to her before placing his cup on the counter behind him.

  She stopped in front of him, her breasts only a paper thin distance from his chest. She was only slightly shorter than him, so she was easily able to look into his deep, brown eyes. She had something to say, but part of her still wanted his attention first.

  “Hank,” she began, but as she expected, he grabbed her and kissed her long and hard, like they’d done many times in many parts of the school along with his house on occasion before leading into other things. This time, though, it wouldn’t go so far even though part of her wanted it. She felt this conversation was too important, and she would not be able to focus on what he wanted until she had it out there. Once the opportunity arose, she broke the embrace and stepped away from him.

  “Did I misunderstand something?” Hank asked as she stopped an arm’s length from him. “I thought you might be up for a quickie.”

  “Actually, Hank, what I wanted to talk to you about is a future to this relationship.” She had considered how to broach this topic many times, and while she wasn’t sure if that was the best lead-in, it was all she had come up with.

  “A future?” he asked, almost amused. “You know, of course, that I’m married.”

  “Seems we both do,” she said, annoyed. “What are you going to do about that?”

  “What do you want me to do, Darla?”

  “Well, to the point,” she said, “when
are you going to leave your little wife for me? When can I see you outside of all this secrecy?”

  “Why?” he asked with that insufferable grin plastered on his face.

  “Why? Because otherwise, this relationship is a total dead end.”

  “I never said it would be otherwise.”

  “No, but in the beginning, you also never said you were married. You acted like you were available and this was going somewhere and as soon as I start talking about the future, you drop this bomb of some wife at home. That wasn’t fair to me.”

  As he listened to her, Hank casually picked his cup of coffee back up and took a sip. He returned it to the counter behind him and crossed his arms with a sigh.

  “So what do you want?”

  “I want to be your life,” she said like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “I want you to leave your wife and stop flirting with everyone on campus. It’s a wonder your wife doesn’t know, but I do, and for me, it would have to stop.”

  “Why?” he asked indifferently. “You aren’t getting enough action out of me now? You want more?”

  “I want you exclusively,” she said, practically begging for the possibility. Instead, Hank laughed.

  “Exclusively? Do you honestly think that I’d be faithful to you when I not even faithful to my own wife? And exclusivity is right out.”

  “Maybe you don’t love her like you love me.”

  “I love a lot of people, if you follow me, but she is an excellent housewife. A lot better than the last one I had, for sure. She like the free maid that I can bang every once in awhile. What would you bring to me? You can’t cook; you can’t clean; and I wouldn’t be faithful to you anyway. I already get what I want out of you. I don’t need any more than that.”

  Darla was shocked. For him to just say it so calloused and unfeeling was unreal to her. He treated her like some kind of object to be measured and either purchased or left at the store. Or worse, like a plaything that he can discard when he gets bored. She could not contain her anger. She slapped him across the face. He only smirked as he took the blow.