To Probe A Beating Heart

by Wren, John B

  “Why do they bother locking this place up, it’s a wreck?”

  “Who knows, why don’t we just bust in the door?”

  “You are a barbarian.”

  “Ha, yeah.”

  Averell went back to the rear door and shook it as hard as he dared, trying to loosen a bolt or whatever was holding the door closed. It seemed to shake more than when he started. He gave it one more frustrated type shake and the door opened.

  “So who’s a barbarian now?”

  “We’re in.”

  Averell walked from room to empty room. Everything was covered in dust, floor boards creaked and door hinges screamed for a touch of oil. The windows were surprisingly in-tact, dirty, but whole. As he entered a bathroom on the second floor, the odor was strong, almost overpowering. He looked in the toilet bowl and lifted the lid to the tank. There was water in the tank and he turned the lever to flush and water flowed into the bowl. He let it settle and flushed a second time, the batch of water was brown having sat in the pipes for an unknown period of time. He went through the entire house turning on all the water taps and flushing all three toilets. After a while, the water was running clear. A small victory.

  There was no power to the house, thus no lights or any other electrical convenience. He went back out to the barn and sat on a wooden rail thinking. As long as no one noticed his presence, this could be a great ‘laboratory’.

  “I think we have a winner.”

  “Yes, you may be right, but I think we should watch this for a while, to be sure nobody else comes here.”

  “Yeah, okay, we watch, but how long?”

  “For a while, I don’t know, but now we should go.” With that Averell opened the doors and backed the van out and clear of the doors. He closed the doors and leaned a long stick against the latch holding both doors closed. He got back in the van, turned around and drove out the driveway. Back on the road he decided to check the stick each time he came to the Cleveland area.

  Averell decided to drive past the farmhouse and seek out the nearest cemeteries each time he was in the area. The weeks passed and winter approached, the stick stayed against the latch and Averell identified three cemeteries within reasonable driving distance of the farmhouse and noted that each one was large enough that he could visit one in the middle of the night and remain unseen from the streets on each side. The gently rolling landscape together with the trees and bushes provided very good cover and reduced the risk of being seen. Thanksgiving was approaching, the evening dark came earlier than in the summer and Averell was considering what time of year was truly best suited for his sessions and disposal.

  He drove past the farmhouse, noted the stick and also the leaves falling from the trees.

  “Nobody has been in there. It’s perfect.”

  “Yeah, but, It’s cold and I prefer the leaves on the trees not on the

  ground, better cover from the neighbors and sooner or later, somebody is going to come here and we have to have a plan to address that.”

  “We could do them, you know, DO them.”

  “No, we should follow the plan, so we don’t do anyone if we don’t

  have to. If somebody shows up when we are working, that would be bad, so we only do this work when we are sure nobody would come here.”

  “Like when?”

  “Initially, I would guess after dark, there’s no power, and who ever

  owns this place would know that, if they saw lights in here. Someone

  would investigate, and we do not want that.”

  “Yeah, so probably best in the middle of the week during the day time, they would be busy at whatever job they have.”

  “Now you’re getting it. Probably later in the day rather than early, if someone was going to come here, it would probably be with enough time to do something while they had daylight.”

  “So when do we do it?”

  “Well, we should not be doing it when it could snow, there would be tracks in the driveway, and we would be seen.”

  “So now, before it snows?”

  “We haven’t selected a ‘subject’. No, we will wait and be sure about this place and take the time to look around for a couple of routes in and out of here. We should also make the run to all of the cemeteries that we selected and case them so we know what ever routine they may have. Then we can find a ‘subject’.”

  December 1990 and snow was lightly sprinkled over the ground. Averell took the opportunity at least two times each month to search for cemeteries in the area around the farm and drove slowly past the house on each occasion. Each visit to the farm he noted that the stick was still against the latch and there were no tracks in the driveway. In the week just before Christmas, the snow was about a foot deep and the plows had been down the road. The stick was still there and no tracks in the drive. Four more visits during January and February and still no tracks in the drive and the stick remained against the door. The snow starts to diminish through March and is usually gone by April in the northeast part of Ohio. As spring brought warmer weather and leaves returned to the trees, the farmhouse became more and more attractive to Averell. Visibility from the neighboring farms was minimized and sound would not travel to unfriendly ears. Averell had driven the routes to the cemeteries in the area and established alternate routes between cemeteries so that he could adjust his plan on the fly. He began to watch the obituary notices defining when funerals would occur and a fresh grave might be available.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He ignored her protest . . .

  Averell decided that the summer of 1991 was the time for his first really controlled session in his newly discovered laboratory. He had decided on a subject type. His intense hatred for both Sarah and Ellie had settled that matter in his mind. He knew what he would look for, he knew what he would settle for.

  He was in Erie on August 19th, a Thursday, and cleared his last

  appointment around 1:30 pm. He drove to a gas station on the north side of Erie, filled his tank and immediately turned his van south and west on Interstate 90 and drove to Cleveland. He was heading for Cleveland Heights, a proper hunting ground for his purposes. As he came to the 271 split he was imagining his subject, and the farm. He took 271 south to the Brainard Road exit and then Cedar Road north. He pulled into a small strip center on Cedar Road to think about his plan. The streets in the East Side suburban community where he was heading are lined with hundred year old trees. Oaks and Elms primarily with some Maples and Sycamores scattered about. Tree lawns are wider than the adjacent concrete sidewalks and the streets are curbed, wide enough for two cars to pass with one parked on the side. The front yards were not large, and the view from a front window of most homes to the street did not favor his escape. Whatever he was going to do had to happen quickly. He would have to grab his subject, contain them in the rear seat, bind their hands and feet, get a gag in place and drive away. He was teetering on this situation considering dropping the entire matter when he noticed the gathering clouds. “An advantage, people look initially but then get involved in an indoor activity, read a book, watch the tube, write a letter, use the phone, but do not go outside or look outside.” He continued thinking about his hunting ground, where he would go first then second.

  Traffic is minimal in these neighborhoods during the bulk of the day and kids play freely in the streets. Baseball and football games use fire hydrants and trees as out of bounds markers and goal lines. Well trimmed lawns and neatly edged gardens are the norm and fences almost non—existent. Boxwoods cut into square edged barriers follow the property lines tending to keep dogs in their own yards. The occasional police cruiser slowly roaming the streets both day and night gave this place a level of comfort fully appreciated by the neighborhood residents.

  Everything was ready, the farm house and the cemeteries. He purchased a newspaper from a coin operated box at a bus stop next to the strip mall immediately after coming off the freeway and checked the obituaries. There was a sch
eduled burial at each of his subject cemeteries in the afternoon that day. All the pieces were in place and he had simply to find a ‘proper subject’ and get to the barn. He knew the chances of finding a subject were very high at this time of day, finding one that closely matched his criteria may be a little more difficult. It was approaching 3:00 pm as he pulled out of the strip mall and headed north on Cedar again. Then, as he turned off Cedar on to a side street leading into one of the residential neighborhoods, the sky darkened and clouds began to gather, he continued to drive. Thinking that if it rained, he could come back in a week, maybe even a little earlier in the day. As he drove, he thought about his first two sessions and how he would do better this time. He was pleased that this time it was to be someone that was like Sarah. Someone who would remind him of the many times Sarah had gleefully said “Mommy hates you,” or “I hate you,” or “You’re a bad boy and we hate you.” He had been

  looking forward to this day for an entire year and now it was here.

  The want to do it right, to prolong the process and see the change in her eyes from the defiant little bitch to a completely submissive little girl as the life, the light, the very essence of what she was drained out of her. He wanted to be looking directly into her eyes as she faded from existence. The other two had been awkward, messy and a struggle. She would be easily manipulated, placed where and how he envisioned her. She would be belligerent at first, and sorry in the end. She would be completely in his control, totally dependent on him for the final act of mercy when he would allow her to die.

  As he continued down one street and up another, trying to not be obvious, Averell passed through the neighborhoods he had driven many times before, learning the streets, getting comfortable with the turns, traffic lights and possible alternate routes. Today the more he drove, the more frustrated he was becoming. He saw several young girls, but they weren’t quite right. Some were close, but not close enough. He was not seeing what he wanted and the sky was threatening. The change in the weather was making changes in plans on several fronts. Averell was about to abandon his hunt and head for a motel. At the same time, a group of children noting that the sun was no longer alone in the sky and the darkening clouds were threatening rain, decided that inside under a roof was more appealing than outside under a tree. A bit of a breeze rustled the leaves of the trees bringing a slight chill to the group of children. It was 3:14 in the afternoon.

  “Maybe we should all go home,” said Jennifer.

  “Yeah, before it rains,” said Charlie.

  “You wanna’ call your mom to come an’ get you?”

  “No, I can walk fast, and be home before it rains,” said Annette.

  Annette was seven years old and she was alone, walking home when it started to rain, gently at first. But the rain was soaking her pink blouse and her denim shorts.Averell was about to turn back toward Cedar and give up as the rain increased in intensity. Then he saw the little blond girl all by herself, the pink blouse, the blue denim shorts and the white shoes, she was perfect, she was better than perfect, she was walking in a hurried sort of way with a determined look on her face. That kind of tough defiant look that he had seen in Sarah. She could have been Sarah, as he looked at her, she was Sarah.

  It was raining harder now and Annette knew her mom had told her to not walk alone like that, but it was only two blocks and she was a fast walker.

  Averell steered his van around the corner directly in front of Annette and stopped. It scared her, she froze and stared at the huge tire about a foot in front of her. She was staring when the man leapt from the van, ran around and said, “Did I hit you?” It was 3:17.

  “No, I’m okay, just a little scared.”

  “I’m sorry” he said as he moved closer.

  Then in one movement he opened the sliding door, grabbed the

  girl and jumped into the van pulling the door closed behind him. He quickly wrapped duct tape around her wrists and buckled her seat belt. He wrapped her ankles with duct tape and pulled her seat belt as tight as possible.

  “Nice move, buddy.”

  “Yeah, now to the place.”

  “Don’t speed, the cops here do not have a sense of humor,” he laughed.

  He was certain that nobody saw the van stop. Sure that nobody saw a

  man jump out and grab the girl.

  Lightning flashed as if some higher power had witnessed the event

  and the following thunder spoke with great disapproval. It was 3:18. Clare went to the window and thought she would go outside and bring her daughter home. They would make hot chocolate and watch her favorite TV program. As Clare moved to the front door with umbrella in hand, Averell’s van moved down a side street and away from Annette’s street. Clare walked out her front door with an umbrella spread, determined to walk up the street to Annette’s friends house in case her daughter was walking home.

  “Let me go!!”

  “Let me out!!”

  Averell slowed the van, stopped, put it in park, turned and slapped the little girl knocking her back into the seat and she started to cry. “Shut up Sarah.” He grabbed the roll of duct tape and a small piece of cloth. As he was about to shove the cloth in her mouth, she screamed “I’m not Sarah.”

  He ignored her protest and pushed the cloth into her mouth and wrapped tape around her head and over the cloth in her mouth. Averell did not hear her sobbing, he only heard the engine shift gears as he sped up, staying within the speed limit, he did not want undue attention and he continued toward Cedar Road. It was now 3:19.

  The rain was heavy now, coming down in large drops and blurring

  one’s vision more than fifty feet away. Clare covered the two blocks in

  about six minutes, arriving at her neighbor’s house soaked through. As

  she ascended the front stairs, she could see three of Annette’s friends in the house, sitting in front of the television. She was relieved, and casually shook the rain off her umbrella, brushed her hair back away from her face and rang the doorbell.

  The van was turning on to Cedar Road and heading south toward the freeway that would take Averell and his prize to the farm. It was 3:24. He tuned into the local weather station and heard that the rain was soaking the Cleveland Heights, University Heights and Shaker Heights areas, but farther south, no rain was falling. “Figures, soak the cities, nothing for the farmers where it was really needed.”

  Joyce answered the door and invited Clare in. “The rain was awful

  sudden” said Clare.

  “Yeah” said Joyce,”as soon as it started, the kids came running in and went straight for the tube.”

  They laughed as they crossed the foyer and stepped into the living

  room.

  “But, but, where’s Annette?”

  “Oh, she went home” said one.

  “Yeah, she’s a fast walker” said another. The others agreed and turned back to the television.

  “I, I didn’t see her” said Clare. “I couldn’t have missed her. Could I?”

  “I’ll drive you home and we will keep our eyes open, She may have

  stopped under a tree or on somebody’s porch,” said Joyce.

  “Yeah, okay,” and Clare was standing in the rain next to Joyce’s car straining her eyes, looking down the street for Annette. Joyce pushed the button on her key chain and the car doors unlocked, “Get in, you’re getting soaked,” and she got in and started the car.

  “Yeah, okay,” said Clare with a half blank stare and water streaking

  down her face.Joyce backed out of the driveway and slowly drove down the street, Clare staring at every tree and porch, but no Annette. Joyce pulled into Clare’s driveway and said “I’ll wait here, you check and see if she’s in the house.”

  “Oh, okay, yeah,” and Clare ran to the front door. She practically

  screamed Annette’s name inside the door and ran to her bedroom, then to the bathroom, back to the stairs “ANNETTE,” back down the stairs, “ANNETTE,” to the family
room, and the kitchen, “ANNETTE,” to the basement, tripping on the bottom stair and falling on her knee, “ANNETTE”. Nothing, back to the kitchen “ANNETTE.”

  Joyce came in the front door, “Clare, call the police, NOW.”

  “Yeah, okay,” she fumbled with the phone, “ANNETTE” tears now streaming down her cheeks.

  Joyce took the phone and dialed 911, “My name is Joyce Singer, I’m at Clare Shelton’s house, her daughter is missing—, Annette—, seven—, 9345 Ashton—, about 15 maybe 20 minutes—. She was walking home from my house and—, 9463—, yes—, and she is not here. We looked and I am going to go out again and knock on doors—, yes—, please, and hurry, she’s seven. Oh, a sort of pink top with denim shorts, white, I think, yes white shoes. Blondish, blue, green, more blue, yes she’s very pretty, okay, bye.” She pushed the ‘End’ button and looked at Clare.

  “The police will be here in a few minutes, you should stay here in case she calls or walks in the door, I’m going to knock on doors, you should call Dave, Clare, call Dave you need him.”

  Clare fumbled the phone again and Joyce said, “ What’s his number?” as she took the phone from Clare and dialed, it rang and she handed it to Clare.