by Mic Palmer
Phil opened the front door and tossed his suitcase onto the couch, while at the same time talking on his cell phone. “Ok,” he commented, before hanging up.
Suddenly, he felt the heavy metal rod smashing against the back of his hamstrings. Collapsing onto his chest, he was momentarily incapacitated.
Quickly, Jack ripped an extension cord from the wall and tied up his hands.
“Son of a bitch,” Phil growled, as Jack kneeled on his back.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jack apologized.
“I thought I recognized your car. Fuck!”
Jack helped him to the couch. “What do you think of the paint job?”
“It looks like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“What do you want?”
“I need to speak to Susan.”
“Fuck you.”
“Listen, someone’s after her, and I think he knows where she is.”
“Yea right.”
Jack was indignant. “You really think I’m a fuck’n serial killer?”
“I don’t know,” said Phil, suddenly taking a different tack. “Convince me otherwise. Maybe I can help.”
“Look, we might not have much time. Suffice it to say I was framed, and I know who did it, but for now we have to get Susan away from wherever she is; didn’t someone call you?”
“Yeah, just now, and I was just about to call her, but not with you here.”
“I’m trying to save her life!”
“Forget it!”
Jack picked up Phil’s phone from the floor. Quickly, he checked it for anything that might lead him to Susan.
Phil was angry. “You think I’m stupid.”
“Alright,” Jack told him, “I’ll leave, but first I want your word that the second I’m gone you’ll pick up the phone and tell her to immediately find someplace else to stay.”
“Why? No one even knows where she is, not even her family. How the hell can she be in danger?”
“The killer’s been tailing me. I’m sure of it. Maybe he was there when I met up with her last week. He might have followed her.”
“Maybe, probably? What makes you think he’s even after her?”
“Because he told me! He said he’d be seeing her today. For all I know he’s already there.”
“And how is it you came to speak with him?”
“It’s too complicated. Just promise me you’ll call her.”
Phil kept glancing at a picture over the fireplace. It was of Susan and her mother. In the background was a small green house and well beyond that a water tower.
“Is that where she is?” asked Jack.
Suddenly Phil’s expression changed. He appeared insolent, desperate, vicious. Smashing his head into Jack’s chest, he knocked him against the wall, then spun around and kicked him in the head, all the while with his hands tied behind his back.
Jack fell to his knees, but before Phil could strike again he yanked the carpet out from under him. Falling backwards, Phil struck his head against the coffee table, knocking him out.
Trying to rouse him, Jack called his name and smacked his face, but it was no use. He was out cold.
“Now what?” Jack asked himself. Then he took a closer look at the photograph. The water tower contained the words, “Glen Cove.”
Jack untied Phil, took his gun and badge, grabbed the photograph, and raced to his car.
Once on the road, he again called Phil’s precinct. Now that they could see that he had Phil’s phone, they listened to him.
“He needs an ambulance,” Jack told them. Then he hung up and removed the battery, so that they couldn’t track him.
The next thing he had to do was ditch the car. Once Phil woke up, every cop in Long Island would be looking for it.
His first thought was Cassandra. Pulling over at a tire shop, he quickly dialed.
“Hello?”
That’s all he needed to hear. She was home. Hanging up the receiver, he headed directly over. Who knows? Maybe she’d believe him.
Chapter Seventy-Five
Watching her statuesque silhouette through the curtains of her window, he was happy to see that she appeared alone. Lithe and graceful, she appeared to be holding a pot. Good. If she was cooking, she’d be less likely to hear him.
Having made his way up to her apartment, he took out his picking tools. “Gently,” he told himself, having set the pins. The door opened easily, but let out a kind of ticking sound. “Ok,” he exhaled, having cleared enough space to enter.
Before him was a long corridor that led into a small room, illuminated only by the light of the television. It contained a red couch, glass coffee table, and white book case, within which were a variety of jade pieces, blue ceramics, dynastic fans, and porcelain dolls.
The news was on, but surprisingly they were talking about something other than the killings. Appearing both stunned and appalled, the journalist seemed to be saying that some war, somewhere, had led to a rise in hostilities. “Brilliant,” Jack mused.
From the kitchen he could hear the sound of running water and the clanging of pots against the walls of the sink. The place smelled of garlic and ginger. Even now, with everything coming to a head, he could still feel his salivary glands working.
“Do I really want to do this?” he asked himself, but then he thought of Susan and knew that he had no choice. Gently stepping onto the tile floor of the kitchen, he noted how bright it was. The walls were yellow, the cabinets white, and the floor beige. Wearing a small yellow t-shirt and baggy green sweat pants, Cassandra was still by the sink, with her back toward him.
“Don’t be afraid,” he heard himself saying.
Cassandra dropped the pan and spun around.
Jack was ready to put his hand over her mouth, but instead of screaming, she placed her palm against her chest and caught her breath.
“I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve got to believe me.”
“I know,” she responded, with an almost hypnotic gaze.
“Sorry for breaking in like this, but I need to borrow your car.”
“Sure.”
“Thank you; I know how this must look.”
“You’re everywhere, on television, in the newspapers…”
“I’m sorry. I just had nowhere else to turn.”
With her hair in pigtails, she moved closer to him, deliberately, seductively. “I’m touched.”
Jack couldn’t help himself. “You do understand what they’re accusing me of?”
“No one’s perfect.”
Jack was incredulous. Now he knew how death row inmates managed to get so many dates. “So you believe them?”
Flushing a bit, she averted her glance. “No, of course not.”
“Then why did you say no one’s perfect?”
Cassandra picked up the frying pan. “Well, certainly the situation isn’t ideal.”
“But why so friendly? I mean it’s almost like you’re star struck.”
“What do you want from me!”
“I’m sorry. I guess I’m disappointed.”
“About what?”
“About you, about your judgment.”
“I go by my heart, ok!”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m doing this.”
Leaning against the sink, she wiped her wet hands against her sweat pants. “Do I know you’re innocent? Yes, but you’re right. There’s a childish stupid part of me that wants someone dangerous, that likes the drama, and I’ve paid for it all my life.”
“Why would you possibly want something that’s so obviously bad for you?”
Pride maybe, the sense that with me it’ll be different? I don’t know. I judge people by how they make me feel. I mean what am I supposed to do, write out the pros and cons?”
“Maybe you should.”
“Are you trying to convince me to call the police?”
Jack laughed.
Rummaging through her things, she pulled out her keys and handed them over to hi
m. “It’s the red Volkswagen, right in front.”
“Thanks.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Get the real killers.”
“Killers?”
“That’s right; there’s two of them.”
“You know who they are?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you tell the police?”
“I tried; it’s a long story.”
“Truthfully, I knew you didn’t do it.”
“Ok. I’ll get the car back to you as soon as I can.”
“Be careful.”
Before he arrived, his plan had been to tie her up so that she couldn’t notify the authorities, but now it seemed unnecessary. Then again maybe she was just placating him, to get him to leave.
“Please don’t call the police,” he told her.
“I won’t.”
Should he kiss her? he wondered. “At a time like this? Don’t be stupid.”
Pulling the door closed, he entered the hallway feeling somewhat bewildered.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Heading west on the Long Island Expressway, Jack’s only concern was a speeding ticket. Whereas the ancient Mustang constantly reminded him of how fast he was going, through the pinging of the engine and creaks from the chassis, the Volkswagen was silent, and before he knew it he was traveling nearly seventy five miles per hour. Nervously pressing on the brake, he scoured the landscape for a police car. Fortunately, he didn’t see any, but just to be safe he set the cruise control to fifty eight. He wasn’t going to help anyone if he were pulled over.
By now it was about six o clock and the sun was setting. With the sky a tranquil mixture of pink, blue and orange, he took a deep breath and began reflecting. Could this really be happening? Having nearly been murdered, he had actually tracked down the killers. Maybe he wasn’t such a fool after all. Nevertheless, he should’ve figured he was being followed – but the Russian? He wouldn’t have suspected him in a million years. He was so warm and affable – not at all the type you’d expect to be strangling people.
Suddenly a wave of light flashed through Jack’s brain. “Wait,” he thought to himself. The giant Englishman from the bar; how could he have missed it?
After all of his own efforts to disguise himself, he had somehow been taken in by a suit, cane, glasses and beard.
Perhaps he wasn’t so smart after all. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake the belief that Susan was in danger.
Patting the gun in his pocket, he felt confident, maybe even heroic. Perhaps things would actually work out.
All at once he heard the sound of a police siren. Dumbstruck, he looked down at the speedometer, which somehow had him going well over seventy.
“Here we go again,” he reflected, just when he thought he was making some progress.
His initial impulse was to take off, but that would have been crazy. Within minutes the whole force would have been on his tail. No – his only chance was to show the badge and hope that the cowboy hat would provide enough cover to prevent him from being recognized.
Sauntering over, the officer seemed disgusted, as if Jack were somehow bothering him. Although rather large, he had a tiny head with a nose about the size of a postage stamp. Upon reaching the car, his enormous belly brushed up against the side view mirror. “Do you know how fast you were going?”
Jack flashed the badge. “Truthfully, I thought around sixty four.”
Rubbing his hand over a rather patchy buzz cut, the patrolman appeared at a loss. “Well the speed limit’s fifty five, so what are you telling me?”
“That I was speeding?”
“That you knew you were speeding, but didn’t give a shit, only instead of sixty four, you were going more like eighty.”
“Wow, sorry about that. Truth is, I’m on my way to a wedding rehearsal, and I’m a little late.”
The officer was perpetually tucking in his shirt and pulling up his pants. “That’s the second time you used the word, ‘truth.’ You trying to hide something from me?”
“Come on guy; we’re both law enforcement, right?”
“That’s right, so I’m enforcing the law.”
“Look,” Jack chuckled. “If I’m not there in fifteen minutes my girlfriend’s going to kill me.”
The police officer appeared angry. “And you think that gives you the right to speed?”
“I didn’t say that.”
The officer had a big wad of gum in his mouth. “Then what are you saying?”
“Look, normally I stay right at the posted limit, but today…”
“I know, the wedding.”
“Rehearsal.”
“Excuse me, rehearsal. I guess I should be more precise when I’m talking to a detective.”
“I probably was mumbling,” said Jack, wondering what was wrong with this guy.
“So where is it?”
“Glen Cove, the Church of Holy Martyrs.”
“Are you sure it’s in Glen Cove?”
“Yeah.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I hope they gave me the right address.”
Still chomping on his gum, the officer almost appeared to be drooling. “Who’s getting married?”
“My girlfriend’s sister. As a matter of fact this is her car, which is probably why I didn’t realize how fast I was going.”
The cop took a patronizing tone. “How so?”
“It’s only a year or so old and runs a lot smoother than what I’m used to. Eighty feels like fifty on my car.”
“Oh is that it?”
In the past Jack had been let out of his share of tickets, but could never figure out why. In every instance, however, the patrolman seemed to engage him in conversation until suddenly he heard something he liked.
“Seriously, I figured I was going in the low sixties,” Jack told him, hoping to stumble upon this particular officer’s magic word.
“You know it’s people like you that give us a bad name.”
Jack was becoming visibly annoyed. “I was speeding, not taking a bribe.”
“Ok, then, license, registration, and insurance card.”
“That’s it,” Jack thought to himself. “I’m done.”
“Now!” said the cop. “I don’t care who you are.”
Nervously rummaging through the glove compartment, Jack found a flashlight, maps, menus, and a bunch of outdated insurance cards that slipped through his fingers and onto the floor. He appeared pathetic, lost, defeated. “I can’t win,” he began mumbling to himself.
The officer let out a loud sigh.
“I can’t seem to find my registration,” responded Jack, just about to punch the gas.
“You know what,” said the officer, “forget it. It’s been a bad week. You know what I mean?”
Jack had apparently hit on something. Whereas some cops appreciate honesty, others humor, and still others a good sob story, what did it for this one was the appearance of complete and utter despair.
“Are you sure?” said Jack, absolutely shocked.
“Yeah, but keep it under sixty-five.”
“Thanks!”
“Enjoy the wedding.”
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Jack had found the water tower, which meant that judging by the picture, the house was about a mile away, on the side that had the word, “Cove,” painted on it.
If she was alone and everything was alright, which was probably the case, he’d tell her what he knew and urge her to go elsewhere, but first he’d have to locate the place.
Starting out about a half mile from the tower, he systematically worked his way outwards, slowly, carefully, until finally he located the structure depicted in the photograph, a quaint little ranch with green siding and shake shingle roof.
“Nice piece of property,” Jack thought to himself. Consisting of nearly three acres and a lake, it reminded him of upstate New York. There was even a small barn, complete with a weathervane.
“It’s pro
bably owned by a relative or a friend,” Jack reasoned.
Circling the place, he kept an eye out for police. “So far so good,” he told himself.
The night was cool, but not uncomfortable. The setting sun reflected off the lake as several ducks waddled across the yellow grass.
Passing by the garage, he took a peak through the window. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed. Parked there was the flat bed truck that he had helped to load.
With his heart thumping through his ears, he peered through a crack between the curtains. There they were, Susan and the Russian, dressed it seemed for the prom. He was in a white tuxedo and black bow tie, while she wore a long violet dress with a white corsage. They appeared to be dancing.
Jack pulled out Phil’s phone and telephoned 911. Rather than getting into the whole serial killer situation, he just reported seeing a man with a gun.
“We’ll send a car right over,” the police told him.
In the mean time he continued to watch them through the sliding glass doors. It appeared that they had just eaten.
On the dining room table were the remains of some sort of fowl, a lit candelabra, a bottle of champagne, and what appeared to be a tin of caviar.
“Soon it’ll be over,” he thought to himself, but suddenly the dance turned into a kiss. It was light, gentle, respectful. Nevertheless, she started to scream.
Quickly, an enormous hand began closing around her throat, smothering her cries into whispers. With bulging eyes she could see Jack through the curtains. “What the hell’s he doing!” she thought to herself.
Having frozen for a moment, Jack tugged at the sliding glass door, but it was locked. Rapidly, he pulled Phil’s gun from his pocket and smashed the glass. “That’s enough,” he shouted.
A smile broke across the killer’s face. “You found us – very good!”
Susan ran over to Jack and hugged him, her face running with mascara. “I’m sorry,” she tearfully told him.
“About what?”
