(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' (5 page)
She brought the ancient weapon down, sighing deeply. The axe was a special weapon for her, the one that she had chosen to use when the time came, the one that would drink the blood of the ‘bad’ people, especially the ones that had destroyed her life. This one was the weapon that would set her mind free of pain and rage and the incredible nightmares that haunted her life. She could have chosen a different one since the place where she worked had quite a few replicas of this, the real one, but as the axe had come into her care, her mind had pictured herself using it, wreaking vengeance on the ‘bad’ people. It was an ancient weapon and to her mind it conjured incredible battles in ancient times, drinking the blood of whoever opposed it, wrecking vengeance upon the evil ones. She bent down and placed the axe in front of her, reaching for her jacket and dropping it on the floor, taking her shirt, pants and panties off. She didn’t wear a bra, her breasts were small and erect, proud and strong and there was no need for one. At the touch of the cold air in the apartment, the nipples became large, distended, a dark shape on the otherwise ivory looking body. She was tall, over six feet; her long, slender legs showing the sinewy muscle beneath the unblemished skin. Her belly was flat, like a greyhound and just below her navel, a line of reddish blonde hair made its way to the dark shadow that was her pubic area. The arms were supple and well formed, also showing the play of muscle beneath the skin as she moved. Long hair cascading down to the shoulders, the color of dry wheat, framed a beautiful face, with a small nose and full ripe lips. A row of white, even teeth could be seen when she parted her lips. And now she stood, completely naked except for the gold chain around her neck holding a small, gold key. She breathed deeply of the cold air, her mind no longer centered on the killing, almost blank, letting the feelings come without asking what it was that had finally moved her to kill the cop.
She took two steps back, her eyes closed now and started to move, her hands and feet moving in a blur, hands slashing the air, legs kicking high. She was a six ‘Dan’ in Karate, capable of snapping a man’s neck with one blow and she excelled in performing the exercises. She moved and weaved, jumping, turning, moving with an economy of movement that was impressive, until thirty minutes later a sheen of sweat had formed on her body and her breathing was coming in ragged gulps, chest burning. She continued the movements, muscles screaming in pain, her face suffused in red as the blood pumped through her veins and the sweat ran in rivulets down her entire body. When she finished, she bent down again, still naked, and picked up the axe. She walked into the kitchen with it and turned on the hot, tap water.
‘There is still work to do’, she told herself, breathing deeply, steady, calming the wild racing of her heart. She cleaned the dried blood that marred the face of the axe carefully and then she dried it cautiously, reaching for a small can of oil in the cupboard in front of her. Slowly, wary of the sharp edge, she oiled the head of the murder weapon, spreading a thin cover all over it. The axe was heavy; almost six pounds in the head alone, with a wooden shaft almost three and a half feet long and over an inch in diameter. It was a beautiful, ancient weapon, obviously crafted by an expert. The axe head was small on the top, spreading to almost twelve inches at the bottom from tip to tip, almost like a V and silver wire lines were inlaid in the metal. The handle was made of some dark wood, almost black, strong as steel and resilient. When she finished she picked the gold, detective shield that she had laid on the counter top and walked away, heading for the ‘room’, still naked. She hit the light switch, bathing the room in the amber light and bent down, laying the axe on the carpet of her bedroom floor, in front of the circle of light. She walked to the side, her hands reaching for the horizontal steel bars coming down from the ceiling. She gave a small jump, fingers locking unto the bar, pulling herself up, fast, and the muscles in her arms standing up, the blood pumping. She pulled herself up until the sweat started to run down her face and her breath was coming in ragged gulps again. She dropped lightly to the floor, breathing deep and steady until her heart slowed down and she was herself again. She was still pumped from the murder, her whole body itching, muscles tingling, alive. She walked to the circle of light, sitting in front of it. Her left hand reached for the small box, while the right lifted the gold chain and key from her neck. After unlocking the diary, she opened it and unfolded the small yellow paper. She reached for the pen and scratched Dunbar’s name from the paper, an enigmatic smile on her face, thinking that she had waited a long time for this moment. After scratching the name, she reached for the gold shield, looking at it for a moment, her lips moving, reading the inscription; Detective C. Dunbar, Chicago Police. She shook her head slightly, a look of pure pleasure etched on the beautiful face now, putting the gold shield inside the box.
Flicking the diary open to the last written page, she started to write in her small, beautiful script. For several minutes, the only noise in the room was the scratch of the pen as she methodically wrote about the killing and the emotions that it had engendered in her. When she was finished writing, she put the gold pen down, her long, tapered fingers ruffling the pages, opening the diary to a particular date, May 13, 1980.
Her lips moved as she read the pages and finally she closed her eyes and the diary, a shiver taking hold of her body, making her tremble like a lost child in a storm, her mind going back to the beginning, when it had all started.
There was no need to read the pages. It was all embedded deeply in her mind and it would be there until her last breath.
Fifteen years earlier May 13, 1980 Chicago, IL
12:00 a.m.
The girls in the car laughed and joked with each other as she drove. She was sixteen years old, a bright, beautiful child, happy and without a care in the world. She had just gotten her driver’s license and a rusty old car given to her by her grandmother. Her parents had died in a car accident when she was six and she had gone to live with her elderly grandmother on the outskirts of Chicago. They were high school cheerleaders, coming back from a basketball game and tonight it was her turn to deposit the other girls back at their homes, and then drive herself home. They had stopped for something to eat, and between eating and flirting with the boys on the team; time had flown, making them late. Now it was dark and she was trying her best to gain time, taking shortcuts and hoping that the old car would not fail her now.
She deposited the last girl at her home, asking directions from her about the best way to get back to the freeway and home and soon afterward, was speeding away, her face etched in worry lines. It was almost twelve o’clock and her grandmother would be frantic, worrying about her. She looked at the street signs, trying her best to remember the directions given, watching her speed. She had been driving exactly two weeks and living on the outskirts of Chicago, was not very familiar with the maze of streets and alleys that permeated the inner city. The streets were almost empty where she was, an occasional car passing by and hardly any pedestrians. Part of her mind was preoccupied with the way home while she listened to the sounds coming from the car. It was old, but it was the best her grandmother could afford with her meager income. The tires were bad and she knew the car needed an oil change and probably some other work. But it was going to have to wait. She would be enrolling in the University of Chicago soon, and despite the fact that she had incredibly good grades, it was going to be tight for her and her grandmother to afford the college courses. She was going to be an archeologist, had decided that a long time ago and nothing was going to get in the way of her accomplishing that.
She stopped at a red light, looking at the street signs, annoyance beginning to show on the beautiful face. She couldn’t remember any of the streets in the area or any of the signs. Panic momentarily threatened to engulf her and she cursed softly, thinking that she should have paid better attention to her friend’s instructions. She glanced at her wristwatch, checking the time again. It was late. The light changed and she started forward, only to hear something like a small hiss in front of the car and soon enough, the sound of a flat tire reached her ears. She hit the steering wheel a blow that stung her hand, cursing softly, wrestling with the steering wheel. The entrance to an alley could be seen to her left and she manhandled the car to it, getting it out of the way. She sighed deeply, mad at herself and her rotten luck, thinking that she was going to have to get out there in the dark and change a tire. She glanced out the window, noticing there wasn’t a soul around, her blue eyes registering the doubts beginning to form in her head about what she would have to do. She could change the tire, she knew that and maybe everything would be just fine if she hurried and got it done, she told herself, dropping the seat belt and getting out.
She worked fast, opening the trunk and getting the jack and the tools out, leaving the engine running and the headlights on. She started to jack the car, every few seconds glancing around, at the shadows around her, feeling her heart beating painfully against her ribs, her breath coming in short gasps as the tension inside of her mounted. She finished the jacking, her hands reaching for the lug wrench, stopping when the glare of powerful headlights hit her. She gasped, coming to her feet in one fluid motion, the wrench dropping from nerveless fingers, clattering to the ground. In the summer heat she was sweating, her face flushed with the exertion of changing the tire. She ran her hand across her forehead, wiping at the sweat, trying her best to quiet her pounding heart.
She glanced in the direction of the lights, realizing someone had come from behind her. She closed her eyes to slits, trying to see who was coming, adrenalin surging through her, her lips dry now, her stomach heaving. She had heard numerous stories about downtown Chicago in her life and the thought of getting mugged or killed by some stranger was something that filled her mind with incredible horror. She glanced again, trying her best to discern the driver. She heard the sound of doors opening and closing and suddenly, out of the shadows, appeared two men, pistols on their belts and clubs in their hands, striding toward her. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized they were cops and she breathed a sigh of relief, her face breaking into a grin.
“You okay…miss?” she heard the voice, strong and gruff, coming from one of them, a tall, beefy man.
“Oh…yeah…yeah, just changing a tire”, she said in her small child-woman voice, taking a step toward the voice. The one talking to her had something like ribbons on his shoulder sleeves, and was a big man.
“You…from around here?” the big man asked again, while his partner came around, looking at the tire, his eyes glancing at her every few seconds. She looked into the big man’s eyes and, for some inexplicable reason she shivered, noticing the way he was looking at her. She was a beautiful girl and at the moment she was dressed in a cheerleader uniform, tight and short, revealing her long, slender legs. Now she felt the eyes of both men undressing her. Her mouth was dry and she swallowed hard, trying to get some saliva working.
“No…no. I…ah…some friends and me were at a game…and I was running late…got this flat tire”. She heard herself talking, heard the fear in her voice and willed herself to remain calm. These were cops; their job was to help people. Her father had always told her when she was a little girl that cops were good people. She was safe, didn’t have anything to worry about, did she? But then, if that was so, why was she feeling so weird about them, she asked herself, feeling the butterflies in her stomach, the cold, clammy hand of fear slowly insinuating into her soul. She glanced around, wishing for another soul to make an appearance, but the streets were empty.
The cop that seemed to be in charge looked around, noticing the darkness of the place, the lack of pedestrians in the alley or in the street a few yards away.
“Pete”, he called out. “Help the…lady with the tire.” The man named Pete looked at them and slowly nodded his head, starting to work on the tire change.
“Thank you…thanks”, she said, her stomach returning to normal again. Maybe everything was going to be okay, she thought, standing still, watching the man named Pete working on the flat tire.
Suddenly she heard the voice of the big man close to her and she shivered again despite the summer heat.
“You…can sit in my car while Officer Moore…finishes.” he said roughly.
She swiveled her head to him, noticing his proximity, the eyes cold and hooded now watching her. She smelled him then, a combination of old, stale sweat and cigarette smoke and once again her stomach tightened into a knot. In the semidarkness of the alley it was almost impossible for her to distinguish the man’s face completely, but she had noticed the nameplate when the headlights had brought the shining plaque to her attention. Dunbar…that was his name, C. Dunbar. He came closer, crowding her then, so close to her that his smell was offensive and she took a step back, her stomach revolting.
“No…no, thanks. I’d rather stay…here and…” she started, never finishing. Steel-like fingers closed on her slender arm and the man’s face was only inches from her now.
“I said…get in the fucking car, you little bitch.” The voice was cold now, full of authority and menace and now her worst fears jumped at her again. She looked into eyes that were void of any emotion, the thin line that was his lips no more than a cruel gash in his face, and she heard his voice again, ordering her into the car. “Get in…the fucking car.”
For one brief moment, she thought about running, thought about screaming, her frayed nerves on edge. Something bad was about to happen to her, she knew that. But she was sixteen years old and not very wise about men like the one that was confronting her and she hesitated long enough to give him the edge that he needed. He moved then, swiftly for a man his size. The man’s fingers closed on her again, whirling her around, pushing hard on her back at the same time that a big and calloused hand struck her on the side of her head, making her cry out in pain and anguish. She reeled at the impact, listening to the big man laughing, a dry, mirthless laugh that sent terror coursing through her. She tried to scream, to get away from him, feeling the adrenaline rushing through her young body, but it was too late. His body loomed in front of her, cutting off her escape, laughing at her. He took a step toward her and pushed her roughly again inside the back seat, her head coming in contact with something hard and she heard herself beginning to cry, mumbling incoherent words, eyes full of the terror she knew was coming. Her eyes took in the man at the car door, unbuckling his leather gear, glancing around, loosening the belt of his pants, a cold, sadistic look etched on the face. The man came into the back seat, his huge hands groping for her, pulling at her skirt and panties with incredible force. She kicked at him, hard, screaming at the top of her lungs, feeling her feet connect on his huge belly and suddenly the man was in a rage, his hand slapping her hard about the face and head, once, twice, screaming at her.