by Adam Sifre
He loved suburban neighborhoods; completely empty of men on weekdays. Marvelous.
He sat down on the chair to her left, and gently cupped her face in her hands. She's running a fever. Her face was sticky slick from tears and snot, and a little blood. It disgusted him, but his face remained impassive…. no, not impassive... kind. He had a kind face and people trusted him because of it. One reason he hated wearing the mask. It made it difficult to make a connection.
His cell phone buzzed, pulling him out of the moment. The screen read “Home,” and he cursed under his breath. The woman started to struggle now, her eyes finally pulling away from the knife and fixing on the phone. Jon smiled and held a finger to his lip.
“Shh!”
Duct tape or no, he took the call in the adjoining room, just to be safe.
“Hi babe.”
His current ‘significant other’ had a bad habit of calling at the most inopportune times, and he struggled to keep his voice free of anger and annoyance.
“Hi love. Busy?”
Jon kept eye contact with the woman, smiling.
“Always. What’s up?
“I just wanted to remind you that I’ll be visiting mother this weekend.”
“I remember.” He made an effort to crank up the cheer factor. “I’ll try to muddle by without you.”
“Are you sure you can’t come. Mom would love to meet you, and you know how much Jeffrey likes you.”
Behind the mask, Jon’s smile slipped just the tiniest notch. The last place he wanted to spend his weekend was at some nursing home watching old people. As for Jeffrey, he was all right as far as 12 year old boys went; which wasn’t very god damned far.
“I’m sorry babe, I have too much work. Next time though, I promise.”
He heard Lori sigh on the other end of the line.
End of the line. That made him smile. We’ll see.
A few kissey kisseys later and he ended the call. Thank Christ.
”Now where were we?” Back in the kitchen, she’d turned away.
He slowly turned her head until she faced him. She was having trouble breathing. Her nose must be all stuffed up.
"Such lovely eyes. You're very fortunate." She tried to pull away, but it wasn't a serious effort. A beautiful woman can only struggle for so long before understanding weighs her down, he thought.
"Despair can works better than duct tape," he whispered. Sometimes he wondered if he said shit like that because he was crazy or because he felt that’s what someone like him should say.
He let go of her face and gently wiped his hands on her blouse, enjoying the feeling of her soft breasts against his hands. Jon wasn't one of those sick sociopaths who killed women out of revulsion. Women excited him, and knowing that he would be the last pleasure they ever had -- Yum.
Her breathing quickened and she tried to scream when she saw him reach for the knife on the table. John brought a finger to Casper’s lips. "Shh. It's okay. Everything is okay." He brought the knife to her face and she renewed her struggle.
"Don't move," he warned. “I don't want to hurt you.”
That made him giggle. He brought the knife to her mouth and poked a small hole in the duct tape.
"There. Better?"
Her breath made a soft whistling sound as she sucked air in through the new life hole.
"You're a whore," Jon said. "I don't know you very well, so I can't say what your price is. But you're a whore."
Fresh tears spilled down the pretty woman's face. He gently pressed the knife edge flush against her cheek and watched as they pooled on the bright metal.
"It's okay," Jon whispered. “I like whores. And I love your eyes, you know.”
More tears. More snot.
He took the knife away from her face
"So."
Jon stood up and walked across the kitchen. This was so exciting. He went to the front door and took a quick peek outside and was greeted by a ghost town of silent SUVs and automatic sprinklers. He smiled and ducked outside. His car was parked a few streets over, and he had to force himself not to run, just in case.
Such a thrill, to let one live. So exciting.
“Maybe I’m getting better.”
CHAPTER 25
COFFEE
Mark stood outside of the Starbucks on Route four, Hackensack, sipping from his Styrofoam cup. The wind caused his cheap, dirty overcoat to billow out ridiculously behind him. The thing was at least three sizes too long for him and, without the assistance of a stiff wind, it dragged along the ground when he walked. It was a nice touch, but an overcoat, three sizes too long or not, was just an overcoat. What he needed was a routine.
He sighed to himself. He hated improvising. Originally he intended to work Paramus in the morning, and planned on taking the shopping cart, but that was out of the question now. Management called at the last minute and changed the location. This particular Starbucks had already hired him twice in the last six weeks and he had used the shopping cart both times. Now he needed something new.
"And away we go," he muttered as he walked into the cafe, coat dragging on the ground.
Several people were seated at the tables. Two twenty-something Asian girls had claimed the sofa. Both were clicking away on their laptops, large coffee-like drinks set on the small side tables. They were pretty enough, but their eyes were bloodshot and their hair could use a little conditioner. Mark’s practiced eye pegged the closest one as a novelist who would never finish a story and the other as a blogger who would never have a story to tell.
Ensconced in one of the big comfy chairs was a large, middle-aged woman writing in one of those daily journals that people paid good money for when a dollar note book would do. She was heavyset, dressed in gray sweat pants and a red pullover sweat shirt with "Rutgers" proudly displayed across her expansive front; probably a gift from a grandchild who would consider chewing their arm off to escape just one Sunday visit.
At the "bar" were two girls and a guy, their coffees ignored in favor of iPhones. Mark couldn't tell if they knew each other. For all he knew, they were tweeting each other right now.
He approached the counter. The young man, one of Starbuck’s finest, greeted him with a cheery smile. "Good morning sir, what can I get you?" Mark thrust his coffee cup under the startled man's nose.
"This coffee is iced cold," he shouted. "And it tastes like bad water!" That got the attention of the writers, texters, and diary lady. "You people have some nerve charging these prices for this crap! I want my money back AND I think I should get a free coffee.
The boy looked down at the cup and leaned away at the same time.
"But s-sir," he stammered. "That's a McDonald's cup. And umm..., there's ice in it --"
"I know what kind of god-damned cup it is!" Mark shouted. From the corner of his eye he observed the three iphone musketeers holding their phones up, no doubt videoing the two of them.
The boy looked from the cup to Mark. "And, it is water."
"I don't need a history lesson on coffee cups from you, sir! What I need, is my money back and a hot cup of coffee!"
Another employee emerged from behind the espresso machines, eyes bright with curiosity and from overindulging in free lattes. She was a pretty young thing, content to enjoy the action without interrupting.
"Oh noooo," Jacked mocked. "Is your little sister going to cause trouble?"
The kid puffed himself up at that -- it always surprised Mark the way guys had a tendency to transform into Bruce Willis on crank whenever a girl entered into the picture.
"Buddy, you need to leave. Now."
Mark slammed his coffee cup down, sending ice and water splashing across the counter top and soaking packages of chocolate graham crackers and Yanni CDS. The kid backed away again, all thoughts of Bruce Willis retreating with him.
"I'll leave when I am ready to leave, you pissant corporate shill. And I'll be ready to leave when I have my money back and my goddamned cup of coffee!"
Having sa
id that, Mark turned and walked over to grandma. The woman started swaying back and forth, trying to launch herself out of the comfy chair, an event that might happen sometime before Friday. Mark reached down and snatched her coffee up, holding it over his head in victory.
"This lady deserves a refund!" he shouted and made his way out the door.
The Asian double mint girls were typing furiously away, and the iPhone musketeers tracked him with their cameras. Mark knew he'd be on YouTube before he pulled out of the parking lot. The Diary lady settled back into her comfy prison and was already writing about her near death experience.
He left the store and without turning around.
"And your Quarter pounders taste like friggin' biscotti!"
Back in the car, he took a few moments to relax. Not bad. Not bad at all. He reached for the clipboard lying on the passenger seat. He had to hit two more Starbucks at the local malls before lunch and then he was done for the day.
These days good coffee and scones didn't cut it. You had to give the customer's something to write about.
CHAPTER 26
FLIES
She touched his hand and it felt warm to her. He looked peaceful, contemplative, really. With his head turned slightly toward the wall, everything looked more or less normal. She smiled down at him. If it weren't for a single fly lazily crawling over his eye-lid, Devin suspected no one would have thought anything was amiss. Not that there was anyone else here. That might work against her, but it was too late to change the plan now. He’d done what he did and she did what she had to do. She closed the door and went to wash up.
There was surprisingly little blood on her hands, and other than a few scratches on her forearms, she looked no worse for wear. In the shower, she ran the water extra hot and paid special attention to her arms and fingernails. She thought she’d be terrified and guilt ridden over what she’d done, but the whole thing had excited her immensely, and she took a few extra, delicious minutes to pleasure herself in the shower.
She searched her mind for memories, the good ones, to help her along. Thinking back, there was that first kiss, the night before their wedding, when she had taken him in her mouth on the kitchen floor, and tonight, before she ended it. Three heated moments, sexual diamonds scattered on a desert of neglect.
When she was done, she toweled off, put on a robe, and popped her head inside the bedroom. He had company. Or rather, more company. Several flies now buzzed above his face, landing on open eyes (they don’t stay shut, like in the movies), lips, and nostrils for a brief respite before taking off again. Devin glanced at the windows, but they were both closed. Frowning, she closed the door and went downstairs.
She had intended to make herself a sandwich, but she couldn't seem to find her appetite. The dead husband didn’t offend her sensibilities. It was the flies, of course. Murder was a strange enough occurrence in her life. She shuddered and made her phone call.
“Hello, this is Mrs. Kane at 17 Winding Way,” she sobbed. “There’s been a terrible accident.” In a choked, stage-shaky voice, she told the officer on the phone that she’d been in the shower when she heard noises. Now her poor, sweet husband was dead, the front door was broken open and she was terrified someone else was still in the house. She was quite convincing. She hung up the phone and waited.
Everything was dead quiet, as it should be. God only knows why, but she felt compelled to pop her head in the room one last time and check on the body. As she opened the door, she was greeted, and consumed, by a roar of buzzing.
When the police came, they found a broken door, and a dead silent house. No body. No victim.
Not even a fly.
CHAPTER 27
FOLLOWERS
A Channel Six news van was already parked in front of the house when Sheriff July Stevens got there. Deputy Larkin’s cruiser was parked in the driveway, bathing the front of the house – and half the street, in blue and red light. It looked as if Joe had beaten them there at least. Yellow police tape was everywhere, tied around two trees and a lamppost in the front yard. It was sloppily done but it did the job.
He eased himself out of the car and did a quick jog up the driveway. Not the stereotypical Dunkin’ Donut poster cop, he was still trim and relatively fit, despite logging in nine years on the force, no small feat given the ratio of pastries to criminals in Comfort, Colorado. Last year, for example, he’d made a total of thirty-two arrests – 20 of which involved public indecency, the majority having ‘Old Grand Dad’ whiskey and George Potts, the town lush, in common. The remaining twelve were mostly domestic disputes and none more serious than a broken nose (Janet Bachman had really done a job on poor Stanley that time. Stanley never pressed charges and July didn’t blame him. No sense in stirring that hornet’s nest).
A pretty young thing hopped out of the news van, followed by a not so pretty camera man. July waved her off as she made her way across the lawn.
“Not now. Let me see what’s what here and I’ll give you a ‘no comment’ on the way out.”
She must have been new at the job because she let him be for the moment. Joe Larkin greeted him at the door. If the news van wasn’t enough to convince July that this was going to be a bad night, the look on Joe’s face did the trick. Joe was a young, good looking sonofabuck with a sunny disposition that belonged more on a village idiot than a cop. He wasn’t smiling now. His face, as Purple Harem so eloquently phrased it, was a whiter shade of pale.
“It’s bad July.”
July glanced inside. Everything looked fine from what he could see. Upstairs then.
“What’s that?” He half nodded to the small Evidence bag Joe clutched in one hand.
“It’s a Blackberry, the killer’s.”
July walked into the house, Joe following at his heels.
“That’s a bit of luck. Where did he drop it?”
“He didn’t.” Joe held the bag out to July. “I mean, that is, he didn’t drop it. He left it right on the fireplace over there.” July raised his eyebrows at that.
The house was a tidy, center hall colonial, with a dining room to the right, living room to the left. July walked to the fireplace, giving the room the once over.
“Nothing’s out of place that I can see. Nice bit of detective work, finding it here, though.”
Joe cleared his throat, looking a bit embarrassed.
“Actually, it was my, um, daughter that told me.”
July shot Joe a startled glance. “What? Your daughter?”
Joe held the evidence bag out to July and he noticed that the phone was on. “You better take a look at this.”
The bag, just a regular zip lock really, was clear and he could read the screen well enough. It was a Twitter account. Like most of the country these days, July was a social media junkie. and he recognized it immediately. The “Tweeter” called himself “Seeker.” The profile picture showed an old man on a bench, wearing an old suit, his face hidden by a fedora hat. Black and white. Even with the phone in the bag, July was able to scroll down as he read.
Seeker
117 Tweets
Following: 0
Followers: 12
Bear with me. I’m new at this!
I am standing outside her house. She’s inside. About an hour now. Can’t see her! Going to the back.
July felt the bottom drop out from under him. “Jesus.”
In the back yard now. No shades! Yay! She’s watching TV. Looks like she’s wearing a t-shirt and sweats. She still looks hot. Lol!
Guess what I’m carrying?
Tweets: 120
Following: 0
Followers: 27
“Where is she?”
Joe swallowed. “Upstairs in the bedroom. It’s Emma Thompson. We’re still trying to find the parents. Tom over at Stanton County is lending a few hands.”
“That’s good,” July said absently.
She went upstairs.
I’m putting on the mask. Feels weird.
Tonight’s disguise...
. Comedy!
{picture attached}
July clicked on the link and was rewarded with a picture of Seeker. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing one of those Greek comedy masks, all eyes and smile. There were no lights on in the picture and the white mask looked ghostly, reflecting the flash from the camera.
“Were the lights on when you got here?”
“Downstairs, yes. Upstairs, no.”
He pressed the back key on the phone and was taken to the Twitter screen again. “He turned them on before he left. Why would he do that?”
I have rope and a hammer. It’s going to get messy!
She left the back door open! Didn’t even need the key!
{picture/kitchen attached}
July walked to the kitchen as the picture uploaded. Again, nothing out of place. A few dishes in the sink, an orange juice carton, otherwise, clean. He glanced down at the phone and there was Seeker again, standing by the refrigerator, which was open, the orange juice carton in his hand. He wore white gloves, but –
He walked over to the counter. If Seeker stopped to take the pause that refreshes, there’d be DNA. He could send it over to Boulder…
The carton was unopened.
