As she exited the building and descended the yellow highlighted steps she could hear children laughing and playing, she followed the direction of the noise. Turning the corner on Wilson Drive she could see a group of small children running and playing in and near a fountain. Water sprayed from the white, marble fountain that graced the center of the vibrant little park, arching high into the air coming back to earth in a torrent of splashes at the base. Trusting parents sat idly by talking in small clusters as the children welcomed the cool water on their heads and tanned bodies.
“Just the place for lunch,” she thought. Sitting on the edge of a nearby fountain, Blanche opened the brown paper bag she had hidden away in her purse and pulled out the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that her landlady, Mrs. Carmichael, had made for her that morning, insisting that the homemade jam would be the best she had ever tasted. The spray from the fountain felt good as it acted to nullify some of the humidity. Blanche sat and enjoyed the beauty of the day and the children as they jumped into the fountain only to find that the water was much colder than they had anticipated. Her life perhaps was taking a turn for the better as she thought about her new job and home, as it was.
Miss Caroline Carmichael was a direct descendant of Jefferson Davis of Civil War fame, she was Southern through and through. In her late sixties, she was prim and proper but ran Caroline’s Bed and Breakfast with an iron fist. Insisting that everyone get up and to the breakfast table by 7:00 a.m. “Because there would be nothing to eat any later.” Her home, now business, had been handed down from generation to generation and she was the sole heir after her brother had passed away the previous year from pneumonia, but she was quite sure it was the smuggled Cuban cigars that killed him. Never married, Caroline preferred to spend her days fussing over her guests and making ‘good’ food. Her fruit salad was the talk of the town or at least to hear her tell it, it was.
“You know the secret is to slice the apples just so and to add a bit of walnut.” She had given this little gem away to Blanche on their first night together around the dinner table.
The house really was very nice with all the Southern charm one might expect from an older Georgian style home. Large front porch complete with swing for two, bedrooms with canopy beds and large mahogany headboards. Only drawback was the one bathroom per three rooms so some sort of schedule was available unless you could negotiate a better deal with the other guests. At the moment the B&B was not full, just too hot for most people to do any traveling. Blanche thought the rooms were certainly reasonable and were available either by the day or month. Blanche had decided to give her a month's rent in anticipation that she could find a condo or something more suited to her lifestyle.
As long as the food was good, the neighbors quiet and the bus not too far away it would do nicely for now. As she pushed her tongue under the bread lodged on the roof of her mouth and carefully wiped at the corners with a small napkin, that had been thoughtfully included in her bag, she had to admit, most likely, this was by far the best peanut butter sandwich she had ever eaten.
CHAPTER TWO
Overhead the flag rippled in the wind as he surged forward; keeping his balance, step after step, getting closer to home and safety. His rifle slung over his shoulder must have weighed a hundred pounds and was gaining weight with each labored footstep. Images of Sarah by the fire knitting, her beaming face changing with the flames as shadows danced on her image. Up ahead he could not yet see the cabin but smoke was rising where the cabin should be. His heart raced, the anticipation of holding his Sarah overwhelming as he moved, each step more agonizing than the prior. The battle had been hard fought but ultimately a defeat, sending the survivors scattering for home or worse. His mind’s eye pictured the reunion with his beautiful bride, her full breasts crushed to his chest, her arms pulling him close, their lips desperately seeking each other, and then he saw it - a flash of blue from his right, moving quickly. He parried to his left pulling the flag down toward the assailant to act as a weapon and shield but it was too late. He felt the tip of the blade enter his ribs, burning and sharp. Blood trickled from his lip as he fell, his face pressed against the cold earth and in the distance he could hear his Sarah calling...
“Seymour, Mr. Wood,” a pause, “Mr. Wood, are you with us? Will someone nudge Seymour so he can join the discussion?” the instructor said.
Seymour quickly jumped to life following the jab in the ribs from a well-aimed pencil. His sun bleached, course hair matted a little closer to the left side of his head where he’d had it pressed against the desktop. The corner of his mouth was moist but thankfully no saliva was running down his chin. Laughter filled the room as the battle weary soldier realized what had happened.
“Mr. Wood, are you with us now?”
“Oh yeah, Mrs. Wild, I’m really sorry,” somewhat slurring his words, as he tried to regain his consciousness.
“Okay good, let‘s move along. Who can tell me what it was about Ted Bundy that made him so successful as a serial killer? Anyone have an idea?” she said moving back to the whiteboard, marker in hand.
Seymour Wood, 24, although awake, still didn’t have his mind in the game. The long hours helping his mom run their small farm, days taking summer courses and the occasional night at the library were taking their toll. He had to admit the little power nap he’d just had did make him feel better and as he tried to insert himself into the discussion he could feel his second wind kicking in. He really was enjoying the classes he’d selected for the condensed summer schedule. Only two years into his major, he was a few years older than most of the other students, but the years following his dad’s death had been spent just trying to make ends meet and keeping the family farm from bankruptcy. Things were a bit better now. His mother had found a hired hand that was reliable and able to lighten the load, which freed up the time Seymour needed to begin his education. Criminology had always been of particular interest to Seymour. Old Dragnet and Hawaii Five-0 reruns, CSI, and others had filled his young mind with images of busting down doors, high-speed chases and the 'collar'.
Ultimately he wanted to work with the FBI, CIA or GBI, but was happy just to have the part time job with the local library for now. Great job for a student, quiet, not much to do once the books were shelved and the tables and chairs straightened. He even managed to get a few hours every shift to work on his studies. Looking at his watch he mentally calculated how many hours he had before work and what he had to get done before then.
The balance of the class period lapsed without any further incidents. Seymour stood and stretched his frame, bending right then left and a couple toe touches for good measure just to get the kinks out. He stood six feet tall, was not overly muscular but toned, with sleek, well-defined muscles; his dad said he was ‘wiry’. Hours on the basketball and racquetball courts not to mention the unending hours on the farm slinging bales and pulling weeds helped to keep his physique in top form. This had not gone unnoticed by the young co-eds that blushed and giggled when they saw him coming down the hall. Girls had been a bit of an enigma for Seymour, sure he’d had a few girlfriends over the years but the commitment level required in most cases was more than he could give, so he, for the most part, just tried to ignore them.
He’d been raised with Southern gentleman values, respected women, tried to see them as an equal partner in all respects, academically, intellectually, and so on. This was not to say that he did not find the feminine form appealing, on the contrary, he had days when he could think of nothing else, however, he did find it odd that he often found himself thinking and daydreaming more about the instructors and administrative women rather than the young, nubile bimbets bouncing about campus. In either case, he generally kept his distance in an effort to focus on his studies, after all tuition was expensive and his funds were limited.
Seymour was a likable character and had plenty of friends of both sexes; he was quick on his feet with always something witty or insightful to say and didn’t mind poking fun, even if the
finger was pointed directly at him. He knew when to have fun and when it was time to buckle down and get things done. The teachers had grown fond of Seymour in his short time at Valdosta University. The ladies often talked of his charming style and the tilted grin that sported a small dimple in his left cheek. Certainly he would be a catch for any of the young women on campus but they respected his choice to put school first, especially considering the challenges he’d overcome to get there.
CHAPTER THREE
Blanche was allowed a reprieve from working the late shift on her first day, so at 6:30 p.m. she gathered up her few personal items and left the stately building in anticipation of a quiet night curled up with her latest romance novel. The humidity wasn’t as thick as it had been at noon so there were couples taking advantage of the beauty of the day, walking with fingers interlaced or arms around one another with the occasionally wandering hand drifting lower to cup a rounded bottom. Blanche sighed as she watched the young lovers move about the downtown area, wishing she could find someone who was thoughtful, caring, but with a hunger to match her own. For now the daring young World War I pilot fighting to free the lustful French maiden from the hands of the barbarian Hun would have to fill the void. Walking away from her first day on the job she felt a sense of both relief and satisfaction.
“I think I’ll do okay here,” she thought, standing on the sidewalk looking up and down the street for the closest bus stop. “Screw it, I’ll walk and enjoy the evening as well, even if my pilot ace isn’t here to walk with me.” She turned on her heels and headed in what she hoped was the direction of Caroline’s establishment.
Finding herself in a section of town that could be perceived as unsavory, to say the least, was not what Blanche had bargained on. The sun was setting and a much rowdier crowd was filling the streets, headed for local bars and eateries. Her feet ached from the days work and the miles she’d walked, most likely in the wrong direction. With cell phone in hand, she remembered that her service would not be available until tomorrow at the earliest so she slipped it back into her purse just as an old, rusted out impala with dark windows slowed to almost a stop and cruised by her, very close to the curb.
“Lookie here now Missy!” floated over the breeze in a deep Southern drawl.
Blanche jumped; startled that someone was behind her. She turned to see an elderly black man sitting on his porch, a short stone throw away. “Excuse me, were you talking to me?”
“Yessiree, ya’ll oughtent be out here all by yosef. Bad things be happinin’ to a raght pertty little thing like ya’ll if’n ya ain’t careful,” the older fellow uttered, from his perch on the porch.
The exact dialog was lost on Blanche but the message was abundantly clear. “I’ve been looking for a taxi but haven’t had much luck.”
He chuckled and shook his head, “Ya ain’t gonna be findin’ any cabs dis pawt of town ta night.”
“Great, that’s just great,” she fumed, scuffing her soles on the rough concrete like she was five years old again. “You wouldn’t happen to have a phone would you?”
“We sho nough got a phone, but ain’t had no powah to it fer some time now. My boy, Jasper, could hep ya with a lift. Where ya’ll be needin’ ta go?” he said, waving his hand and motioning Blanche up onto the porch.
Blanche could feel her anxiety level rising like mercury in a thermometer on a hot day. Wishing not to be impolite, she slowly started to decline, moving her head side to side, when she noted that the Impala had flipped around at the end of the street and was now pulling to a slow stop, engine idling.
“Well, you know what, maybe I’ll take you up on that offer if it’s not too much trouble,” she said, making her way quickly up the sidewalk to the relative safety of the porch.
“You sho is a pertty little thing missy, what be yo name?” the dark skinned gentleman said, extending his bony hand and baring his large yellow, coffee stained teeth.
“Delaney, I mean, Blanche, Blanche Delaney,” takes his hand in hers surprised by the power in his grip.
“Pleasure to be meetin’ ya Miss Delaney, I’d be Rufus and my boy Jasper could sho nough get ya home. Ya cum on in now, ya hear.” He pulled the rickety screen door open and ushered Blanche into the dimly lit living room.
Stepping into the tidy space, an aroma reached her delicate nostrils, not unpleasant, but also not definable. Rufus pointed to a couch with a large afghan thrown over the back, leaned into the doorway of the kitchen and hollered down the stairwell.
“Jasper, Jasper, listen up boy! Cum on up here. Got a job fo ya.”
Moments later, the unmistakable sound of someone lumbering up a flight of stairs, then a giant of a man filled the frame of the doorway, dwarfing his father.
“What you need pops?” Jasper boomed, his deep voice reverberating in Blanche's chest.
Reflexively she moved her hand, lightly pressing the area just above her cleavage. The motion drew Jaspers eyes to meet Blanche’s, and then dropped to the exposed tanned flesh, her breathing accelerated.
“Jasper, dis here is Miss Delaney. She be a bit lost and needin’ a ride to her place. Ya do that for us, ya hear.”
“Miss Delaney,” Jasper nodded his large head in her direction, Blanche responded with a nod of her own, pulling the top of her shirt together in the process.
Her breath continued to come in quick intakes, her head very light now; she reached for the arm of the couch and plopped down on the seat.
“Ya okay, dere little missy?” Rufus said, moving quickly to her side.
“No, I mean yes, I’ll be fine just feeling a bit light headed. Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” Jasper moved from the doorway and she could hear water running in the adjacent room.
“There you go, sorry if I scared you, coming in the room like that,” Jasper said.
“No, no, just the long walk, the heat and the humidity. Guess I’m not quite used to it yet,” she said, drinking the water down quickly.
Blanche suddenly came to the realization that the position of the trio was somewhat ‘uncomfortable’. She on the couch, Rufus standing at her side with the arm of the couch between them and the hulking Jasper standing directly in front of Blanche, her head at the level of his crotch. He stood at least 6’5” and was covered from head to toe in a fine mist of sweat, his muscles large, stretching his skin to a fine sheen. He wore only a very small, very tight pair of shorts that were struggling to contain all of him. She’d read about women getting trapped in these very circumstances and how stupid they were.
“That’s not what a real woman would do,” she had said a hundred times, yet here she was in a home alone with two men, strangers, in a strange place and totally at their mercy. Jasper sensed her uneasiness and took a few steps back and sat on an opposing chair.
“Thank goodness,” she thought, pulling the hanky from her purse and wiping her neck.
“Where is it I can take you?” Jasper said, not taking his eyes off her shapely form.
The color in her cheeks began to recover and her breathing slowed. Rufus’ demeanor was very non-threatening and within minutes she began to calm down and her breathing normalized.
“I’m staying at Caroline’s Bed and Breakfast, are you familiar with it?”
Jasper lowered his gaze to the carpet and shook his head, then looking back into Blanche’s face asked, “Is that over on Jackson Street, got a big porch and flies a Confederate Flag in the front?”
“That’s it, you know how to get there?” she replied, a spark of hope in her voice.
“Yeah, that’s not too far, only take us a couple minutes to get you there,” the bodybuilder said.
Relief must have shown on her face.
“Ya’ll was lookin’ a might worried there missy. We’uns don’t mean ya no harm. Ya ain’t used to bein’ round black folk?” Rufus inquired, gently patting her on the arm.
“No, it’s not that, just been a long day and I’d like to get back to my room. This is so very kind of you to offer me
a ride.”
“Pops, I’ll go get the truck and bring it ‘round to the front, if you’ll help her out I’ll take her home.” Jasper stood, again startling Blanche with his obvious strength and brawn.
She couldn’t help finding him attractive, etched features, chiseled - thick muscles, and a ‘carved from stone’ buttocks that shifted as she watched him walk away, the color in her cheeks rising as he left the room. A moment later she could hear a vehicle roaring to life.
“Sounds like he be riddy ta go.” Rufus took her elbow, helping her to her feet and moving toward the front door.
There was that smell again, she looked about trying to place the source but could not. Through the screen and back onto the porch she could see a small, yellow Datsun truck pulled alongside the curb.
She couldn’t help but laugh, “I’m sorry, really, I am sorry. Just Jasper in that tiny truck makes it look like a matchbox car.”
Rufus looked in the direction of her pointing finger, “Oh, he get dat a lot. Pertty big boy fer such a small truck. He’s a good un though, driva dat is.”
Jasper waved a hand, motioning her to the car. On his way to the Datsun he’d taken the time to put on a shirt, to Blanche’s relief. He motioned her around to the passenger door, reaching across to open the door without having to get out. Blanche couldn’t believe that someone so large and bulky could fit into such a confined space. His knees touched the dash and the top of his head grazed the roof of the tiny truck. She bent down to see how she might get in, not wanting to catch her clothing on anything or reveal too much.
Blanche turned facing away from the truck, ran both hands over the back of her skirt, pulling it tight against her fanny, and with the same motion lowered her behind into the seat, pivoting to draw her legs into the cab, being careful not to bang her knees on the frame.
With Cruel Intent Page 2
