by Anne Baines
“Ok, Max, one more house. Let’s go find the rest of my twenty grand.”
The good one turned out to be about two blocks down. The yard was, like every other house, meticulous, but the sprawling home was tucked back behind lovely gardens and well hidden from the street and the neighbors. Perfect.
Delilah slipped into the back yard and was accosted at once by the heavy scent of blooming vegetation. The garden back here was meticulously laid out around a stone patio with a latticed lanai. She didn’t know the name of even one of the tropical and exotic-looking plants blooming freely here, but she knew true care and passion for something when she saw it. She stood with Max for a long moment, gawking at the myriad colors and flavors available to her senses.
“In and out, Dee,” she said, time ticking past.
She tied Max to an iron and marble birdbath and checked the back door. No alarm system that she could see and the lock was a simple tumbler, the deadbolt not thrown. She pulled out her lock kit and had the door open in less than a minute.
This house was homier than the last, a few more knickknacks cluttering shelves, some mail dropped negligently on the table.
“Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Whitechapel,” Delilah read. “God, how pretentious. Poor saps.”
She felt easy here, the garden scents following her into the home, lingering in the cooler air of the house. This was a nice place, something normal and calm about it, lived in. Even if they had countertops with granite the color of vomit.
She passed through the kitchen, noting photographs stuck with artful magnets to the fridge. The man, unfortunate Theodore, was tall, dark, and handsome, his smile white and perfect. The wife was smaller, a mousy blonde slip of a thing with nervous eyes. Delilah started to build a story for them in her head, with the man marrying the woman for money and then going around behind her back. A man that looked so confident, so perfect, had to be working some angle.
She stopped herself with a rueful smile and set her shoulder bag down on the vomit-granite countertop. She checked the kitchen drawers and found nothing of any value, though the silverware was real silver and tempted her, as did the authentic Japanese chef knives in their bamboo block on the island. But she’d already pulled so much high-value stuff from the previous house that she felt okay with being picky here.
Out of habit, she opened the freezer and managed to stop her scream before it broke free of her lips.
Inside, between a pint of Haagen-Dazs cookie-dough ice-cream and a bag of stir-fry veggies, sat a woman’s severed head. She was a young brunette, eyes wide and glassy and dead.
Behind Delilah, a man cleared his throat.
Three
She spun around and froze. A few feet away stood a man who was a dead ringer for the sly, handsome Theodore Whitechapel in the pictures.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the man said. He appeared as stunned as she felt.
“I was just leaving,” Delilah said, an automatic response more than anything. She took a deep breath, adrenaline pouring into her body. The exit was behind him, she had no idea how he’d gotten inside and so close without her hearing anything.
“What—” the man began to say, but Delilah didn’t give him a chance to finish.
She charged at him, aiming a straight kick at his groin. He caught and spun her, her kick missing entirely and throwing her off balance. With a jerk he slammed her into the kitchen island. She’d never seen anyone move so fast and, pressed against her, his body felt like it was iron instead of flesh.
She clawed at his face, but he tipped his chin away from her. The granite counter dug into her back and one of his hands caught her throat. She exhaled sharply, blinking away tears. She bucked, twisting to get free of him.
Then her body stopped responding, pain radiating out from her stomach. He stepped away from her and she stared down blankly at the paring knife protruding from her belly.
“Teddy?” A woman’s voice cut through the heavy breathing and Delilah’s whimper of shock. “The door was open, are you here?”
Teddy grabbed Delilah, lifting her like one would carry a child, though he bent her in a way that drove the knife deeper and she cried out. His mouth came down over hers as he rushed down a hallway, swallowing her cry.
“Shhh, stupid girl. It’ll be over soon. I’ll be right back for you, if you’re still alive.” His voice was soft, a horrible parody of caring.
Hot and then cold, Delilah twitched and a red haze clouded her vision. She wanted to fight him, to struggle, but nothing seemed connected to her brain anymore. Her body just lay in his arms.
He brought her into a large bathroom and dropped her into the huge soaking tub. She couldn’t stop the scream as she landed and new agony speared through her.
Teddy grabbed a towel and rubbed the blood from his hands. With a warning look at Delilah, he ducked out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Four
Delilah wasn’t sure if she’d passed out or not. Max barking outside, beyond the wall behind her, brought her back to a thinking state. She gritted her teeth and found a grip on the knife. It slid free quickly, a shorter blade than she’d thought. Blood rushed out after it, soaking more of her shirt and pants.
She took shallow, careful breaths, talking to herself through the pain. Max kept barking and she heard scrabbling and looked over to see a large frosted window with a dark shape dancing near the bottom. A way out.
Pulling her belt out of her pants meant having to lift her hips, the pain of which nearly knocked her out again. Delilah bit her fist to keep from screaming and then grabbed at a hand towel. She balled it up and jammed it over the wound, using her belt on its tightest setting to secure it in place. Then she crawled up over the lip of the tub and tumbled to the travertine tiles below.
She looked at the door. Scary, crazy Teddy would be back. She could grab the knife, try to surprise him. Stabbing the fucker had its appeal. But he’d been so strong, so fast. Bad idea. Thinking about facing him again brought on shivers.
Get out, Dee, she told herself. Live.
There was a vintage make-up table below the window. Only a narrow portion of the window opened, up at the top. She was sure she could fit through, if she could get up there. Without the wound it wouldn’t have been an issue, she’d jammed her thin body through narrow openings before in her line of work.
With the wound, however…. Delilah shook her head. She’d cope. She had to get out.
Standing up straight sent her head whirling. Delilah clenched her jaw, focusing on the window. She dragged herself up using the table, knocking bottles and compacts to the floor. She turned her head and looked at the door, despairing when she saw a smooth handle, it had no lock. Who didn’t put locks on their bathroom doors? She forced her gaze away. If he heard her and came back, there’d be nothing she could do.
Dragging herself up onto the table brought buzzing to her ears, her vision blinking in and out. She’d never known pain like this, it was worse than childbirth. She’d kill for an epidural now, she thought with a crazy half-smile around gritted teeth.
She got the window open after three tries, her bloody gloves slipping on the clasp. Her hands were too slippery to pull herself up and over. Frustrated, she bit down on the fingers of one glove, yanking it off. Survival was more important than prints, and she doubted this guy would be calling the police anyway.
She bit her lip and grabbed hold of the window edge. With a jerk she hauled her body upward, arms straining. Don’t think about it, just go. Delilah jammed her leg through the narrow opening and twisted her body across the edge. Her belt buckle caught for a moment, then she tipped over the ledge and fell free.
Her belly exploded with pain as she hit a large leafy plant. This time, she couldn’t prevent the scream. It felt good to get it out. Max bounded up and licked her face, whining. He’d slipped his collar.
She pulled herself up using the side of the house and checked her makeshift bandage. It had slipped so she jerked it back in place, us
ing one hand to hold pressure on the wound. Leaning heavily on Max, Delilah stumbled away from the house and out onto the street. She moved as fast as she could, taking a direct route to the car.
Adrenaline and determination kept her going. The neighborhood stayed as quiet as it had been on her way through, none of the cars that passed stopping or even slowing.
Max leapt into the car as soon as she opened the driver’s side door. Delilah fell into the seat and closed the door. The heat that had built up in the car hit her in a wave, sucking her down. Her vision blurred, turning from red to black and she gave in to the siren call of unconsciousness.
Five
“Teddy?” Cora called again.
Cursing under his breath, Ted pulled his bloody shirt over his head, popping a couple buttons in his haste. This little lunch-time dalliance wasn’t starting out as planned at all. He had to get rid of Cora, beg off, get her out of the house so he could deal with the mystery blonde in his bathroom.
And where in God’s name was that barking coming from?
With a growl, Ted stepped into the kitchen and found Cora bent down, touching her fingers to blood that had dripped on the floor.
“What is this? Are you okay?” She rose, her perfect salon red curls bouncing as she lifted her head. “Oh god, your hand, did you cut yourself?”
Abruptly Ted realized his tactical error. He should have wrapped his hand in a towel or something, anything to make an injury seem possible.
“It’s nothing, it just seems like a lot of blood. I’ll be fine.” He gave her his trademark beaming grin.
“Go wash that blood off,” she said. “I’ll get you some ice. That’s supposed to stop bleeding.”
“No!” Too late Ted lunged for her as she opened the freezer. He slammed it shut but the look of horror on her overly made-up face told him all he needed to know.
“You stupid bitch,” he said. “Fucking everything up. You realize how many people are going to miss you? How many of your girlfriends have you told about our affair? Five? Ten? Everyone on your Facebook?”
“Teddy,” she stumbled back from him, fetching up against the island much as the tiny blonde dying in his bathtub had done. “What are you saying, Teddy? What was that thing?” The words came out faster and faster as he closed in and gripped her arms. She didn’t fight him like the mystery woman had. Not a fighter, his pampered, sheltered Cora, not a bit.
“Please,” she whimpered, “please. My dad can sort this out for you if you’re in trouble, but you gotta talk to me, Teddy, please.”
Her father was a lead prosecutor for the State’s Attorney’s Office. It was why Ted had seduced Cora. She was a red-head, not a brunette, and not nearly perky enough to be his “type”, but he loved flaunting his extra-curricular activities under the nose of the daughter of a supposedly powerful law man.
Or he had, until today. Her disappearance would eventually trace back to him. And he didn’t relish the thought of uncomfortable questions or anyone digging around in his life. Or his garden.
Ted brought his hands up to Cora’s throat and squeezed. She finally struggled, but his body pinned her arms and the counter did the rest of the work for him.
He loved the time strangulation took, the personal feel of flesh beneath his fingers. Her breath was sickly sweet as she exhaled out over his face. Her skin, so heavily made-up, hardly changed color, but her eyes bulged and blood vessels in them burst and hemorrhaged into the whites. So much tidier than a stabbing.
“Women,” he said philosophically, as her eyes rolled back in her head. “Women ruin everything.”
He’d known this fact since he was six and had been humiliated at a pool party when his mother insisted on breastfeeding him in front of the other mothers and children. He’d liked the warm feel of her breasts, the large dark nipples with their bumpy texture and sweet taste. But Ted had realized how stupid it was for a boy his age to breastfeed. Realized when the shocked looks and soft whispers started, had the point driven home by the ridicule and horrible names that only first graders could invent with special juvenile malicious imagination. His mother had begun it, destroying his chance at a happy school life with one beckoning gesture.
Ted bit his lip and leaned in; watching the panic fade to unconsciousness in Cora’s terrified bloodshot eyes. When he killed her, he killed all women, if only for a moment.
When she was good and dead, a lifeless object in his arms, Ted dropped her and walked to the sink. He pulled a glass out of the cupboard and switched the faucet over to filtered water. He took a long drink, staring out the diamond-shaped window into his prize-winning garden. His pineapple guavas had a few late blooms left, the bright red stamens springing joyfully from between delicate pink petals. He smiled and set down the glass.
Ted walked back and bent over Cora’s body, slowly undoing her shorts as his blood rushed in his ears and his groin tightened. Her skin was still warm. He stroked a finger down through her neatly trimmed light brown pubic hair, then sniffed and grimaced. Her bowels had vacated. That happened sometimes. If she’d been one of his special projects he might have bothered to bathe the body and enjoy a little more time with her.
She wasn’t worth it. He kicked her body and stalked down the hallway to the bathroom. It was time to get some answers from the blonde intruder, if she still lived. He couldn’t hear anything but his own breathing in the house now. Even that dog had stopped barking.
“Knock, knock,” Ted said, tapping the door, his good humor returning. He opened it and stepped into the bathroom.
Blood was smeared across the tiles, the air thick with lingering perfume from a few of Emily’s bottles that had come off the vanity and smashed on the floor. A bloody glove lay discarded on the table, the only trace left of the mystery girl.
Ted cursed, dashing up to the window and peering out the open top. She’d crushed one of his firebushes, leaving a smear of blood across the bright green leaves and a trampled patch of yellow-orange flowers in her wake.
He wished he’d grabbed a bigger knife.
He took a deep breath and walked to the master bedroom. He removed his Beretta PX4 sub-compact handgun and checked the clip. She’d been injured badly, she couldn’t have gotten far. Of course, shooting a gun in the middle of the day was risky, but Ted didn’t care. He was going to have to disappear anyway. He pulled on a clean shirt and tucked it over the gun in his waistband.
In the kitchen he nearly tripped over a large shoulder bag. It didn’t look like something Cora would carry. He guessed it was the mystery woman’s and had tumbled off the island when they’d struggled. A velvet box had slid out of it. Ted opened the box and found a pair of opal cuff-links. Men’s, definitely.
A thief then. His smile widened. A new sort of prey for him, something rarer than his perky, preppy brunettes. Pity this woman was a blonde. He checked the bag and came up with a small wallet but no keys.
“Donna Utley,” he said aloud, tasting the name. Probably a fake, if she was any good. There was a lot of expensive jewelry in this bag, and a few thousand in cash. She was probably good. But he’d find her, because he was better, he had to be better.
He started where she’d crushed his firebush and followed the dripping blood trail out to the sidewalk. Oh, he’d find her, and he’d make her suffer; make her pay dearly for ruining his life.
Six
Max’s barking woke Delilah from her pain-induced stupor for the second time that day. The Golden Retriever was in the back seat of the BMW, clawing at the door. For a bleary moment Delilah stared at the steering wheel, wondering where the dark stains on it had come from and why she still had the dog with her. Her wig had shifted, the gum starting to degrade from time and sweat, blonde hairs sticking to her forehead and teasing her nose.
Then the pain hit.
And someone tapped on the window beside her head.
Agony blurring her vision, Delilah twisted her head and saw a smirking man leaning over beside the car. He had a nasty looking pistol, maybe
a 9mm Beretta, and was lightly tapping it on the glass.
Theodore Whitechapel. Fear took over for a moment. She scrabbled sideways in the seat, trying to get away from him. The tearing pain in her gut nearly put her out again and Delilah lay back, gasping and fighting to think.
Teddy held up a tan shoulder bag, her bag.
“Donna? Is that your name? Open the door Donna, or I’ll shoot.” His voice was muffled by the closed window, coming in as though through a tunnel.
Max fell silent at the sound of Teddy’s voice, licking Delilah’s arm from between the seats.
Donna? Donna Utley. Right. Damn. Her ID, the one she’d used for this trip anyway, was in that bag. Along with her stolen bounty.
But not the car key.
Delilah took a deep breath to steady herself, regretted it, and took a couple shallow ones to breathe through the pain. She reached up with her left hand to the sun visor in as quick a motion as she could manage, dropping it and letting the key fall into her lap. She caught it with her right hand and jammed the key into the ignition.
Outside Teddy let out a stream of curses and took a step away from the car. He raised the gun as the engine turned over and caught.
Delilah threw herself to the side as she slammed the car into drive and was grateful for an automatic transmission for the first time in her life. The car jerked forward as the gun cracked in the hot afternoon air.
The passenger window splintered as the bullet cut through it. Delilah straightened up, leaning over the steering wheel as she took a hard corner, praying she remembered the way out of this neighborhood.
She heard another gun shot and then they were away, zipping down the quiet lane. A sign for the I-95 loomed ahead. She’d chosen this neighborhood not just for its wealth, but also its proximity to the highway.
She took shallow breaths, fighting unconsciousness as Max whined softly in the seat behind her. The wig still itched, hair teasing her eyelashes and Delilah yanked it off with a hiss.
