Death Hampton

by Walter Marks

  Gretchen and Arnold — not likely. That fantasy of them throwing me off the cliff was pretty far-fetched, so the idea of them breaking into this house to kill me is even more remote. Still...

  Quinn Healey — by now, hopefully the lawyer’s been informed about his business card on the hitman’s body. So he shouldn’t be a problem either. Still...

  Jessie Russell — If he’s alive, he’s someone to be deathly afraid of. I would swear he was dead. Still...

  Somebody Else — There’s always the possibility that someone I haven’t considered is part of some conspiracy to do me in. I can’t think who. Still...

  God, my imagination’s running wild. Maybe it’s guilt — I killed and now it’s my turn. But I did what I had to — I defended myself. And I’ll do it again if somebody comes through that door. I’ll shoot to kill.

  She reached into her nightstand, took out the gun and placed it under her pillow. After a moment, she pulled out the pistol again to check the safety. It was ON.

  Alarm system ON, she thought. Gun safety ON...maybe it should be OFF so I can use it quickly...don’t be crazy, I could turn over in my sleep and shoot myself.

  Fatigue was starting to catch up with Susannah. It had been an exhausting and trying day.

  The wind had died down and it was quiet — quiet enough to hear any strange noises. It had gotten cool and Susannah pulled the summer-weight quilt over her body. The flannel shirt she wore made her feel quite snuggly.

  Her eyelids closed, opened, closed again. Her head kept dropping to her chest.

  Eventually she nodded off.

  A loud creak from the top step on the stairway jolted her half-awake, but she was too groggy to react. She drifted back into a state between wakefulness and dreaming.

  “Susannah.” A man’s voice, guttural and menacing, breaks the silence.

  “Susannah.” Louder this time.

  The disembodied head is floating in blackness, its features indiscernible. Susannah can make out his eyes — shiny green-black ovals that gleam like opals in the darkness. His hand reaches down toward her nose, the fingers pinching her nostrils closed.

  She screams.

  The creature laughs. The fingers pull away.

  Susannah woke up as the bedside lamp flicked on. She stared in shock at the intruder — his body now joined to his head. He was holding a lit flashlight. He turned it off and put it on the nightstand. She saw his stocking-covered face wearing sunglasses.

  “Hello, Sweetie,” he said. His bee-stung lips moved in the stocking’s hole.

  “My God,” Susannah said in a choked voice. “Burt.”

  “You should see the look on your face,” Burt said. “I believe scared shitless would describe it best. It’s even better than last night.”

  She looked at him in stunned confusion. “Last night?”

  “Yes, last night I only caught a glimpse of you before I turned off my flashlight,” Burt said. “Oh, my little Game might seem a bit over the top, but its purpose is revenge. And a big part of that is scaring the crap out of you.”

  The reality jolted Susannah into action. Her right hand snatched the gun from under her pillow as her left pushed off the safety.

  “Get out of here,” she said. “Or I’ll blow your head off.”

  “Come on, Sweetie.”

  “I mean it Burt,” she said, holding the gun in a two-handed grip. “I’ll shoot.”

  He calmly stepped back. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just came to talk,” he said.

  “What do you want, Burt?”

  “I told you — to talk,” he said, inching closer. “But we can’t have a civilized conversation with me staring down the barrel of your gun.”

  “Stop. Don’t come any closer.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “How...how did you get in here?”

  “Easy. Remember you’re my wife, so I know you quite well. The sign outside said you had an AHS wireless alarm. I went on their web site, and they actually described the option of controlling the alpha numeric keypad from the outside with a cell phone. Very informative of them. Anyway, I punched in your birthday on my cell, then Martha, then Graham, then Ethel, E-T-H-E-L. Bingo! Alarm Disabled.”

  “But...you still needed a key to get in.”

  “Spare key under the geranium pot.” He smiled smugly. “Now, Sweetie, put down the gun.”

  “Take one more step and I’ll kill you.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I tried once before. Remember?”

  “How could I forget? But why not let bygones be bygones. Put down the gun.”

  Burt reached for the weapon.

  Susannah pulled the trigger. The only sound was a click.

  She tried again. Click.

  Burt laughed. “If you ain’t got no ammo,” he said, “gun won’t go bammo.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of cartridges.

  Susannah pulled the trigger again and again.

  Burt smirked as he stuck the ammunition back in his pocket. “I removed them yesterday afternoon.”

  He drew a large handgun from his holster. “This 50mm Glock, however,” he said, “is fully loaded. It was recommended by our mutual friend, Mort — may he rest in peace. His only caveat was that 50mm bullets make messy entrance wounds.”

  He enjoyed her look — helpless, terrified.

  “Burt,” she said. “How did you...?”

  “Survive?”

  She nodded, mute with panic.

  “I’m sure you’re dying to know,” he answered. “But first let me get this stocking off my head.”

  Burt removed his sunglasses. As he was pulling the stocking from his head, Susannah snatched the cordless phone from the nightstand, punched speed dial location 1, and hid the phone under the thin quilt.

  She heard a faint ringing, and to cover the sound she spoke loudly to Burt.

  “I’m warning you,” she said. “there’s a new man in my life. He’s a cop and he’s on his way over. You better get out of here. If he sees you with that gun, he’ll kill you. You won’t get a chance to explain.”

  He waved his gun at her, guffawing derisively. “Sure, Sweetie. Your boyfriend’s a cop. I can just see that.”

  Burt’s face looked leaner, and his hair was coming in gray under the dyed black.

  Jericho, she thought. Please be home. Please pick up!

  “I’m telling you,“ she shouted, praying Jericho could hear her, “he’s a cop and he’s coming over right now. Put down your gun and leave. It’s your only hope.”

  Jericho was watching late night TV. He picked up the phone and heard Susannah’s desperate voice.

  “I’m warning you, Burt. Ditch the gun and get the hell out of here!”

  Burt? Jericho thought. Her husband!

  Their words were muffled but audible.

  “You’re getting hysterical, Sweetie. And shouting won’t do any good.”

  “I’m telling you the truth, Burt.”

  “Oh, first you kill me, or try, and then you start dating a cop? You’re not that stupid.”

  “Believe me. He’ll be here any minute.”

  “Sweetie, it’s one o’clock in the morning.”

  “He works late — night patrol. You better go.”

  Jericho was already mobilizing. Sticking the phone in his pocket, he buckled on his waist holster and service revolver. He rushed to the closet and strapped on his bulletproof vest, then threw on a sweat shirt. He heard talk on his cell phone but had no time to listen.

  “Now, Sweetie, it’s time for you to learn how I cheated death. It’s quite an extraordinary story.” Burt gave her a self-satisfied smile. He was in no hurry.

  “You better get out of here,” Susannah said.

  Burt put his pistol to his wife’s temple and twisted it into her skin.

  “Cut the bullshit,” he growled. “From now on, keep your trap shut or your brains’ll be on the floor.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry
, Sweetie,” Burt said, resuming his witheringly gracious tone. “I don’t mean to be impolite. It’s just that I’ve been looking forward to sharing my secret with you, and I don’t want this moment spoiled.”

  Susannah said nothing. Her mind was on Jericho, her only hope.

  Burt took two pairs of handcuffs out of his pocket.

  Jericho dashed to his car in the driveway. He started the engine, then stuck his cell phone into the car’s adaptor. He wanted to call for back up but he didn’t dare hang up the phone. He drove away, tires squealing. Burt’s voice came over the speakerphone, sounding metallic and faraway.

  “Assume the position.”

  “Please. Not that.”

  “You don’t really have a choice, do you, Sweetie?”

  What the hell’s going on? Jericho wondered. He pushed down harder on the accelerator. With luck he could be there in ten minutes.

  Burt handcuffed his wife’s arms to the bedposts, fastening them in the grooves under the ball finials.

  He pulled a rattan armchair close to the bed and sat down. He placed his gun on the nightstand.

  “It’s really quite simple,” he said proudly. “You remember, of course, that in Benares I mastered yoga disciplines enabling me to concentrate my mind and control my bodily forces. As you attempted to drown me, I performed Samadhi, which is a form of self-hypnosis leading to a radical slowing of respiration, heartbeat, all life signs. The most difficult part is the Kechari, in which one must obstruct the windpipe by doubling back the tongue — swallowing it, so to speak. Like so.”

  He pushed his tongue back into his throat with his fingertip. His face was again the Greek tragedy mask Susannah had seen when she dragged Burt’s limp body onto the beach — eyes clamped shut, mouth frozen in a grimace.

  Burt yanked his tongue out and regained his composure.

  “Well, Sweetie?” he said. “Impressed?”

  Susannah didn’t respond.

  Burt grinned.

  “After I came ashore,” he went on, “it would seem Lord Krishna, eighth avatar of Vishnu — the Protector himself, was watching over me. On the beach I found a Jeep with the keys in it, along with some clothing and even some cash. I drove to Montauk and took the train into the city. I moved into a cheap hotel and began to formulate my plan.”

  As Jericho swung his car onto the Montauk Highway, Burt was boasting about his Singaporean bank account; and how with that money he’d hired Mort to murder a Mexican illegal, planted his spine on the beach, and then pulled off the hairbrush DNA switcheroo, outfoxing Long Island’s Finest.

  Jericho floored the accelerator.

  “Then, of course, Mort was to eliminate you,” Burt said. “but after his unfortunate death, I was left to finish the task myself. It was my Purvakarma, my pre-ordained destiny. I had to be the one to cleanse my life of its poisonous negativity — you, my sweet, loving wife.”

  Jericho was struck by the coldness and egotism in Burt Cascadden’s words. It was clear — Jericho faced a formidable foe, a brilliant, devious psychopath with a distorted moral system in which human life had no meaning. Susannah was in mortal danger.

  He looked at his watch.

  I’ll be there in five minutes.

  Burt stood up and whispered to Susannah, “Oh, one other thing — I’m sure you’d like to know what my plans are, I mean, after you’ve passed on to your next life.”

  Susannah panicked. “Help! Help!” she screamed, her hands clawing at the bed’s finials. “Jericho, I’m in here. He’s got a gun and — ”

  Burt backhanded her to the mouth. “That’s enough,” he said and pulled a roll of duct tape from his pocket. “From now on, silence is golden.”

  He stripped six inches from the roll and cut it with his teeth. He sealed Susannah’s mouth and added a second layer for good measure. Her desperate breaths hissed through her nostrils.

  “I’ve arrived at a new level of enlightenment these last few weeks,” Burt said. “I’ve re-embraced the Hindu faith. Soon I’ll be leaving for India, to study once more with my master Swami Nittiya Vivekanda, who’s now in his ‘eighties. The rest of my life will be devoted to striving to achieve Moksha, that purification and balance of Karma that will allow me to reach Swarga, the abode of the Divine Paramatma, and serve at His feet.”

  Again the painful question raced through her mind: How could I have married this man? How could I have married this man?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Burt said. “How will I live?”

  He smiled. “Yes, I have some hidden money. But I’ve embraced poverty. I’m no longer interested in worldly possessions. In fact, what’s left of my assets will go to the mendicants of Benares.”

  Jericho, she thought desperately. Please. Where are you?

  Burt raised his right hand and touched the tip of his index finger and thumb together, like an “okay” sign.

  “This is a Mudra — a Hindu hand position. I’m sure you’ve seen it on religious statuary. It’s called the Vitarka Mudra, the gesture of Intellectual Debate. It’s very powerful. Let me demonstrate.”

  He sat down on the edge of Susannah’s bed and held his thumb and forefinger poised over her nostrils. Then, in a graceful gesture, he closed the two fingers. With her mouth taped shut, she could not breath. She struggled in vain to wrench her face away from his fingers. She yanked on her cuffed hands. Her face began to flush, her eyes bulging.

  “This game’s getting exciting, isn’t it?” Burt said.

  With a flourish, he released his thumb and forefinger and lifted his hand. Susannah sucked air through her nose in desperate breaths.

  “As I said,” he whispered. “Very powerful Mudra.”

  He stood up.

  “The Intellectual Debate is of course between two conflicting Hindu principles: nonviolence versus the purging of bad karma. That dichotomy has puzzled wise men for centuries.”

  Jericho turned onto East Dune Way.

  A couple more minutes.

  He heard Burt’s threatening voice.

  “All right, Sweetie, let’s get those pants off. And don’t try kicking me with those strong legs of yours, or the Vitarka Mudra will pinch off your life.”

  Silence.

  “Ah, that’s a good girl”

  Jericho’s tires made a gritty sound on the sandy asphalt road.

  One more minute.

  Burt’s tone grew more sadistic.

  “Susannah, the last time we played a Game together you were a big disappointment to me. I hope you will perform better tonight. Perhaps you’ve heard of erotic asphyxiation? They say when your lungs are deprived of air, you can achieve orgasm right on the cusp of death. Your body goes into spasm, your internal muscles clench, your nerve endings go haywire, and ineffable paroxysms of ecstasy suffuse your entire being. Sound nice? It is my sincerest wish that in your last moments, you will experience this death rush. And that I am fortunate enough to share in it with you — vicariously, of course.”

  Jericho saw the house and cut his headlights.

  CHAPTER 53

  “Sick fuck,” Jericho muttered to himself as he pulled up behind a Pontiac with rental plates. He cut the engine and ran back to his trunk. He grabbed a tire iron and headed for the beach house.

  He saw the AHS sign on the lawn and the decal on the door. I don’t know how he got in, he thought, but I hope to hell he didn’t re-set the alarm once he entered. But why would he? Well, I’ve got to take that chance.

  Jericho tried the front door. Locked. He inserted the crowbar between the door and the doorframe at the exact spot where the lock was. He threw all his weight against it and heard a crack as the lock sprung loose and the door flew open.

  No alarm.

  He drew his gun and entered the vestibule. The front door was far enough away from the upstairs bedroom that he figured his break-in couldn’t be heard. I better be right. I’ve got to catch him off guard.

  Jericho made his way across the darkened living room. When he reached the sta
irway he saw light coming from the bedroom.

  He stopped, listened. There was the faint sound of Burt’s laughter.

  He began to climb the stairs. Midway he stopped again. No sound.

  He resumed his climb. As his foot hit the top step there was a loud, echoing creak.

  He held stock still for a few moments.

  Then Burt’s voice: “Come on. You need to do better than that, my girl.”

  Jericho eased himself onto the landing and waited.

  “Oh, that’s much better, darling,” Burt said. “Yes, you’re really getting into it now.”

  Jericho checked the straps and positioning of his Kevlar body armor. Then he edged along the hallway wall until he reached the bedroom door.

  He gripped his revolver firmly in his hands.

  Burt whispered, “Ah, Susannah, you excite me so.”

  Jericho took three deep breaths, then swung into the open doorway. He saw Susannah cuffed to the bedposts, hands clawing frantically at the finials. Her eyes were wide, beseeching, her taped mouth making muffled sounds.

  But no Burt! Where was Burt? Why wasn’t he on the bed with Susannah?

  The answer came in four gunshots from the closet. The bullets tore into Jericho’s vest. The impact felt like a pile driver punching into Jericho’s torso. He was knocked backward and the gun flew out of his hand.

  Burt ran toward Jericho, who lay on his back in the hallway, stunned.

  When Jericho looked up, Burt was looming above him, pointing the Glock at Jericho’s head.

  “I’ve been bugging Susannah for months to fix that creaky stair,” Burt said. “Fortunately, she didn’t.”

  Jericho eyed his revolver nearby, but Burt kicked it out of reach.

  “So she wasn’t kidding about the cop boyfriend,” Burt said. He leaned over and pulled up Jericho’s sweatshirt. “Bulletproof vest and everything.”

  Jericho blinked. He was still disoriented from the fall.

  “How’d you two meet?” Burt asked. “Did you stop her for speeding?”

  Jericho said nothing. His head was clearing.