“Okay,” she said, weakly.
Nate then sat her down on the toilet lid and began gently cleaning and disinfecting her tender scalp. The embarrassment alone was agonizing for Noel, and each dab of Nate’s peroxide-soaked cotton ball was a physical embodiment of the sting she felt in her heart. What was happening to her? Was she really going crazy? Was the pressure of being an author too much for her? Question after question bombarded her mind, beating her already-down-trodden psyche to a pulp. Why had she agreed to such a tight timeline as a first-time author? She lamented quietly to herself.
“There, all done.” Nate’s soft voice and light kiss on her nose brought her out of her mental torment. “Here, take these,” he said, taking her hand and placing two Ambien in it.
Obediently, Noel took the pills as Nate filled a cup with water for her to wash them down.
“Good girl. Now, let’s get you changed and ready for bed before these babies kick in.”
After tucking her in, Nate went to the living room. She could hear him pulling out the hide-a-bed. As she lay there in the dark feeling the now-familiar drowsiness of the drug taking effect, she glanced one last time at the clock on her dresser. 11:59 – one minute until the Witching Hour, she thought. That was the last thing she remembered before she closed her eyes and let the blackness take her.
***
A quiet stillness hung over the apartment, interrupted only by the peaceful rhythm of breathing as Noel and Nate slept. Light from the street outside slipped past the slats in the window blinds, casting irregular shadows throughout the apartment. The blood red digits on the clock glowed 1:43 a.m., and Noel’s eyes opened.
After staring at the ceiling for a moment while her eyes adjusted, she decided to get up and go to Nate. She could hear his soft breathing as he slept peacefully, and she crouched down next to his bed and watched him for a moment. How beautiful he was lying there, she thought, as she watched the rise and fall of his chest in the bits of light from the window. Then, she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. Nate stirred, and in a sleepy voice said, “Everything okay, hon?” Placing her finger on his lips, she shushed him and softly kissed him again.
“You want to get in and cuddle with me?” he said, still groggy but a little more awake.
Without saying a word, Noel slid into the bed and sat gently on his stomach straddling his torso. With her hands on his chest, she leaned forward and kissed him on his lips, then his nose and then his forehead. He tried to pull her down so he could hold her, but she resisted.
“Everything okay?” he asked again, only to be met with another soft finger to the lips and a “shshsh” sound from Noel.
Saying nothing, she tucked his arms down to his sides and held them in place with her inner thighs. Then, she shifted her weight briefly to one side so she could reach her hand to the end table next to the sofa bed. Centering herself again, she sat completely upright on top of Nate and looked down at him. She could clearly see his eyes in the light coming through the blinds, but the rest of his face was in shadow, and although the room was dark for the most part, the streams of light coming in from the street glinted off of the shiny object in her hand.
“What do you have in your hand?” Nate asked, somewhat playfully. “Are you planning to punish me somehow?”
In silent answer, she leaned forward so Nate could see her face, and put the cold metal tip of the letter opener to his chest.
She watched his eyes follow her movement and could feel his heartbeat quicken as the object registered in his mind.
“Noel, what are you doing?” Nate asked, more perplexed than afraid. He laughed a little bit and tried to pull his arms up to push it away but she squeezed her legs so he couldn’t move. Then she continued to sit there, not saying a word, with the tip of the opener still against his chest.
“Noel, cut it out. You’re being weird and it’s kind of freaking me out,” he said more nervously. Then, when she still didn’t say anything, she watched his expression as wide-eyed realization crossed his features. His eyes darted from her face to the blade positioned directly over his heart that was now leaving a slight indentation where the tip pushed against his skin.
His expression changed to one of absolute horror as he tried to process the entire situation. “Noel, what are you doing?” Nate said in a panicked voice. “Oh my God, what’s going on? Am I dreaming?”
For the first time, she spoke, and her voice was like ice, foreign to her own ears. “You’re not, but Noel is.”
Completely paralyzed with fear, surprise and confusion, Nate lay there stunned. Then he tried to squirm beneath her and was caught up short as she squeezed him with almost inhuman leg strength. She pushed him down with her free hand while the letter opener dug painfully into his flesh.
He began to blubber as he vacillated between pleading for his life and trying to figure out if this was just a really bad dream. “Noel, don’t. Please. What are you doing?”
“I’m not Noel, silly. I’m Rebecca,” she said in a deadly voice.
“Oh God,” he began to cry, “Have you gone completely mad? Don’t do this, Noel. Oh God. Please.”
Then, tilting her head slightly to one side as if in consideration, she smiled tenderly and said, “Good night, Nate.” Then, she leaned forward and kissed Nate softly on the lips.
With a look of terror in his eyes, Nate’s whole body began to shiver and shake as he repeated over and over between sobs, “Don’t do this, Noel. Wake up! Wake up!”
“Shshsh,” she said consolingly, as she placed her hand smoothly over his mouth as if to keep him quiet.
Then, slowly, she leaned forward and began to put her weight on the tip of the 8” blade. It was met with resistance, at first, as it pushed through the taut barrier of skin, and she could hear Nate’s muffled cries beneath her hand as tears flowed freely from his horror-filled eyes.
“Shshshsh, it’s okay, baby. It’s going to be okay,” she cooed in a soft, soothing voice. “Just relax.”
His eyes got wider in pain and terror as the blade broke skin. Then, her weight suddenly fell forward as it gave way into his heart. Nate made one final gasp as she looked directly into his eyes, ensuring her face was the last thing he would see, and then his body went limp as the shimmer of life left his eyes.
TUESDAY, APRIL 26TH
Noel jolted up out of a dead sleep with a lung-bursting scream that made her throat burn. Bawling hysterically at the dream she had just awaken from, her whole body trembled violently with shock. It was so vivid and felt so real. It was, by far, the worst of her dreams that she had had, and she couldn’t shake the images out of her mind. Forcing herself to breathe more slowly to calm herself, she focused on being grateful that it was only a dream.
Then, it occurred to her that with the bone-chilling scream she had let out, it would have awaken half the neighborhood, let alone the person sleeping in the next room. She listened carefully but didn’t hear any stirring from the living room. Her stomach clenched like a tight fist. Glancing at the clock, she noted that it was 6:18 a.m. “Please God, I hope he went in to the office early,” she prayed.
Very slowly, she got up to investigate the living room. Her tears began flowing again in trepidation, and as she went down the hall and turned the corner into the living room, the color went completely out of her face. There, lying perfectly still in front of her was Nate, eyes still open and staring at the ceiling; a slight film had formed over them where they had dried out. And there, standing like a monument, as if in taunt, was the letter opener that Nate had given her for her birthday, sticking boldly and unapologetically out of his chest.
Unable to scream as her throat locked down on her, Noel began to hyperventilate. Her muscles became lead and she felt light-headed, on the verge of passing out. Forcing herself to move, she backed slowly away from the sofa bed, unable to take her eyes off of the stake in her husband’s chest. She knew it was her hand that did this.
When her back hit the wall, all she co
uld do was slide to the floor, and then she fainted.
***
Rebecca Pampillon stood victoriously assessing herself in the mirror above the fireplace mantle. It would take a little getting used to, she thought, but the hair would grow back, and she could always color it to her preferred black. Soon it wouldn’t matter much anyway. Where she was going, no one would recognize her or even care. The last couple weeks had been tantalizingly satisfying, and with a congratulatory smirk, she breathed, “Mission accomplished.”
In the mirror, she could see the reflection of the sofa bed behind her where poor Noel Casey’s husband, Nate, lay cold and still. The letter opener had been a nice touch, she thought. It was a shame he had to be killed; he really was quite handsome. “Pity,” she said aloud, “a waste of a perfectly good ‘mail.’” She laughed at her own joke.
She still had a couple of loose ends to tie up, so she fitted a cap on her head to cover the bald spots. Then, with a wink, she blew herself a kiss in the mirror and turned on her heel, leaving Noel’s apartment with an extra little bounce in her step.
MONDAY, MAY 9TH
Today was the big day. Noel would be meeting with her publisher to submit her completed manuscript in exactly six minutes. She waited in the lobby of the office, calmly observing the goings on as agents and editors walked in and out of the big double doors of the conference room directly in front of her. This was the moment she had been preparing for these last four weeks; the proverbial checkered flag.
“Noel Casey, they’re ready for you,” the receptionist motioned toward the set of double wooden doors. Standing up, she smoothed the black leather skirt that molded perfectly along the contours of her lean, fit body, falling just above her knees, in a sexy but classy way. Then, she picked up her bag and walked confidently into the conference room.
“Hi, Noel, I’m Fred, the submissions editor, and you’ve met Mary.”
“Pleased to meet you, Fred” Noel said, shaking their hands. “Good to see you again, Mary.”
“So what do you have for us?” Fred asked in a congenial tone. “I read your proposal, and it looks very promising. I can’t wait to see the finished product.”
“I made a few tweaks and changes to the original idea, but I think you guys are really going to love this,” Noel responded in an equally comfortable manner, to which Fred and Mary nodded appreciatively.
Then she proceeded to tell them the whole story of how a young, aspiring writer set out to write her debut novel and lost her mind, her identity and much more in the process. “It’s the sad irony of what happens when one tries to play God by creating,” Noel said, “but is then overtaken by the created – a real modern day tragedy.”
“Wow,” Fred said, “very mind-bending and original. I like it.” Mary nodded in agreement, a big smile on her face.
“I especially like the ending,” Mary said, “where she kicks the body down the embankment. It’s a great cliff-hanger for a sequel.”
“Yes, bravo!” Fred said, clapping enthusiastically. “A perfect ending! And with that, I think a perfect ending to our meeting. Nice work, Noel. Mary will be in touch when the first round of edits is done.”
“Very well, thank you,” Noel replied.
They all got up and shook hands one more time in parting. Then, as Noel walked toward the double doors to leave, Mary called after her, “Noel, I forgot to mention, I really like what you’ve done with your hair. Black is definitely your color, and very fitting for the pen name you’re using – Rebecca Pampillon – très chic!”
“Thanks, Mary. I was ready for a change.” Then Noel spun on her heel, her jet black hair fanning out as her head snapped around in one fluid move, and she walked out of the conference room in long, purposeful strides.
As she crossed the lobby to the elevator, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror hanging by the reception desk. With a smirk, she ran her fingers through the hair of the wig she was wearing to cover the bald patches. Satisfied, she winked and blew her reflection a kiss, then stepped into the elevator with the faintest hint of a lilt in her step.
“Yeah, it’s going to be a really long time before anyone finds that poor sucker,” she said to herself, thinking of Nate’s body at the bottom of the Spangler River ravine, “and by then, Noel Casey will be nothing more than a distant memory.” Rebecca laughed as the elevator doors closed. “A perfect ending, indeed.”
Also by Deborah Provenzale:
Enigma (Book 1, coming soon)
Deborah Provenzale, Uncaged:
http://deborahprovenzale.blogspot.com
Follow Deborah on Twitter: @debprovenzale
Follow Deborah on Facebook: Deborah Provenzale
Vincent Zandri
Vincent Zandri is the #1 international bestselling author of The Innocent, The Remains, Godchild, Moonlight Falls, and Concrete Pearl. He's also the author of the digital shorts, Pathological and Moonlight Mafia. He is a photo-journalist and a foreign correspondent for RT and other global publications. He divides his time between Italy and New York. For more information go to his authorized website: www.vincentzandri.com
Moonlight Mafia
ONE
Ding
WILL I EVER LEARN? I should know better than to park my ride on a steep incline, one that makes me feel like I’m falling out of the old man’s hearse when I open the door. Or maybe it’s the shot of Jack I put down at home before starting on this, well, let’s call it a job. You know, one of those questionable but badly needed jobs that comes to you from out of the blue from an anonymous source who mails you a perfectly good bank check for three Gs as a ten percent, nonrefundable deposit against a possible thirty if I complete the project spelled out in an attached letter.
And check it out: The guy calls himself John Smith. I mean is this guy for real?
Fake name aside, the cash is real and the job seems easy. All I have to do is answer a want ad at a used car lot across the river in Troy and, assuming I get the job, keep a close eye on the owner and do my best to gather evidence of his cooking the books and running a gambling parlor out of the back. Three Gs and a cush, potentially five-figure job—what else can an out-of-work, formerly-suicidal private eye with half a bullet in his brain ever ask for?
But back to the situation at hand.
I should know enough about parking on that kind of inclined angle, especially with Dad’s pride-and-joy Cadi. Because sure enough, when I pull into the too-tight parking spot, sandwiched between a duct-taped Saturn wagon on one side and a brand new chrome and black Dodge Ram eight cylinder on the other, I open that too-heavy hearse door and doesn’t the handle slip right out of my hands? Doesn’t the door obey gravity and open up faster than I can thrust my open hand out to catch it? Doesn’t the hard, narrow, metal edge of my hearse door slam itself into the passenger door of that Dodge Ram?
Ding!
The noise rattles the cramped parking lot of Billy’s Bar. It bounces off the Italian restaurant just one hundred feet ahead and against the big wood and brick two-story building that occupies the center of the used car lot where I’m looking to answer that “Salesperson Wanted!” ad. Undercover!
The ding, I mean. Only it doesn’t sound like a ding. More like a hollow bang, like a gunshot almost. It’s the kind of caught-in-the-act sound that not only gives you pause, it makes your stomach flip, your chest go tight, your breathing constrict.
Here’s what I do: I sit still in perfect, pregnant silence and wait for the shout. You know, “Hey, jerk! Look what you did to my truck!” I wait for the sound of footsteps, for a gang of plastered iron workers to come after me with framing hammers and tire irons.
But when none of that happens, I inhale my first deep breath since I messed up that truck door. Only then do I crawl on out and check the damage.
Standing there in the narrow lot in my black boots, jeans, and leather jacket, I can see that it’s not nearly as bad as I thought. The door-to-door collision left a mark for sure. But it’s just a scratch, not even a
dent. Maybe nothing the driver will notice, especially if he’s been drinking. And considering the sun is about to go down in an hour, he (or she) might not notice it at all.
I smile, run a hand over my shaved scalp and feel the tiny scar where the piece of .22 caliber bullet entered my skull almost five years ago now. For the briefest of moments I think about moving my dad’s hearse to around the back of the bar, or maybe even parking it in the used car lot since that’s where I’m heading after a couple of loosen-me-up cocktails.
But then, what if they’re watching me through the bar window? What if someone spotted me dinging the door? To move my ride now would be like an admission of guilt; a sure sign that I’m guilty of damaging automotive property and not assuming legal responsibility. At least by keeping my parking space, I can retain the advantage of deniability, if there is such a thing. Besides, the ding ain’t much of a ding at all. It’s the kind of small scratch you might pick up any given Sunday at the mega-mart—common, garden-variety wear and tear.
Happens to all of us.
Pocketing my key ring, I turn and, with a swagger that befits all Dirty Harry wannabes who are free to have a drink or two at their watering hole of choice, head towards the front door of Billy’s Bar. I can already taste the Jack on my lips and tongue, just like I feel the jingle of three Gs in my pocket.
TWO
The Bar
I don’t get it. For a packed lot that extends all the way to the used car lot, there’s only a couple of drinkers inside the dark bar—both of them so wasted their faces are practically buried in their beer and whiskey chasers. Since I have my choice of seating arrangements, I grab a corner stool. The kid tending bar approaches me.
Intrigue (Stories of Suspense) Page 22
