EDGE OF SUSPENSE: Thrilling Tales of Mystery & Murder (6 page)

I was trembling, frightened to death as the
dog looked up at me growling and baring its teeth. It jumped up at
me time and time again, barking madly as if possessed or rabid,
determined to eat me for dinner.

I saw the man coming over and knew that he'd
do whatever it took to let his dog have a piece of me.

I climbed over to some sofas that were
stacked on top of each other. The man quickly moved in front of it
and began to shake the pile from the bottom. His dog barked wildly,
sensing he was about to be rewarded for his efforts.

I had to get out of there some way,
somehow.

There was a lower stack of mattresses not
far away. I figured if I could just get to them, and then to some
nearby bookshelves, I might be able to knock one over and block the
dog from getting at me.

Just as the madman got the sofas to topple,
I jumped onto the mattresses, twisting my knee and losing my cell
phone in the process. I bit back the pain, watching as the dog went
for the phone as if it were part of me.

Knowing this might be my only chance to
escape, I quickly bounced off the mattress and ran to the
bookshelves. With all my might, I managed to rock one till it fell
over just as the dog was charging.

It fell short of squashing the dog, but
scared it enough to back up and look baffled.

I used this as my moment to make a break for
it, running toward the entrance as fast as I could with a sore
knee.

"Go get 'em," I heard the man say.

I peeked over my shoulder to see the dog
easily sidestep the shelf and once again charge toward me at full
steam.

My legs felt like lead weights as I
scampered toward the exit, nearly out of breath. I took one big
stride and got my foot caught under a cord, tripping.

Turning around, I watched as the dog lunged
toward me. I blocked my face and waited for the unimaginable horror
of what was about to happen.

A shot rang out and I saw the dog fall to
the floor just short of me. It whimpered, but was no longer in
attack mode.

Looking up, I saw my dad and one of his
deputies come in, guns drawn.

Dad knelt over me. "You okay?"

My heart was still beating rapidly and my
knee ached. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good," he said. "We'll have a doctor check
you out anyway."

"What about Stewart?" I asked, fearing the
worst.

"We found him. Looks like he'll live, but
he's got a broken leg, fractured jaw, and some other injuries."

I watched while the deputy handcuffed the
crazy man.

"Guess I really screwed up this time," I
said apologetically.

"You both did and paid a hefty price for it.
I hope you've learned your lesson the hard way," he said
sternly.

I had and was betting that Stewart had,
too.

My vandalism days were over for good, but I
feared my nightmares had only just begun.

# # #

GONE BUT NEVER
FORGOTTEN

I made my way down Seven Mile in the Bagley
community on the Northwest side of Detroit. A grayish tint hung
over the city like smog and the smell of sulfur blew in the window
along with stagnant hot air. The radio was on an A.M. station that
played jazz music.

I passed by a chicken joint on one side of
the street with a few cars in the lot; on the other, there was a
liquor store with bars covering the windows and door. Next to it
another building was boarded up altogether as if the owner had fled
to Florida and wanted to keep the place sealed from the outside
world in case he changed his mind and came back.

Maybe I should've gotten the hell out of the
Motor City myself years ago when it might have made a difference.
But the truth is I never wanted to be anywhere else at the time. I
was too caught up in a trap of my own making. Leaving it behind
would have only fed my dark hunger and caused me to turn it on
others.

I flipped to a different station. There was
a commercial about the dangers of smoking. I drew in the nicotine
of the cigarette in my mouth for one last round; then tossed it out
the window, watching in the rearview mirror as it sailed in front
of oncoming traffic.

Turning right onto Outer Drive, I lit up
another cigarette and drove slowly down the boulevard. On both
sides of the street were large brick homes built in the thirties
with well-manicured lawns and old oak trees standing guard. The
occupants were largely second generation middle class, and
newcomers escaping the higher prices of the suburbs for the
affordability of the inner city.

I drove by a young woman. Her raven hair was
in long braids and her clothes tight against a voluptuous body. She
was walking a small dog and talking on a cell phone.

Pretty, I thought.

We made eye contact before she dismissed me
as someone unworthy of her time or interest. Maybe that was a good
thing. She would never know just how much.

I was suddenly hit with a fresh wave of
guilt, the type that ate at you like termites on wood. I used to be
able to will it away and pretend the effect was minimal at best.
But over time that determined and coldhearted façade lost its
potency, replaced by someone who found he actually did give a
damn.

Only it was too late for that. Or so I kept
trying to convince myself.

In my mind's eye, I could still see her as
clear as day...

It was twenty years ago on a muggy evening
like this. I was cruising in the neighborhood after a particularly
tough day on the job. My new boss was a major league asshole and
seemed to take pleasure singling me out.

I needed to find someone to take my
frustrations out on. As if by some force of nature, she seemed to
appear almost out of nowhere.

She couldn't have been more than twenty or
twenty-one, though her well-developed body suggested an older
woman. She was hitchhiking.

For an instant, I had second thoughts about
my first thoughts. But I turned my back to them and put into motion
what I needed to do.

I stopped the car and waited for her to
catch up, pushing the button to let down the passenger side
window.

She stuck her head in. "Can you give me lift
to Seven Mile?"

"No problem," I said coolly. "Get in."

She hesitated, as if a sixth sense told her
to run the hell as far away as she could.

I didn't want this opportunity to get away
from me. Not when I had my mind made up.

"Don't worry, I don't bite. Unless, of
course, that's what you want."

I smiled and she smiled back. I got the
feeling she was ready to toss aside her sixth sense.

Big mistake.

I began to drive with my passenger, my
devious mind working overtime.

"What's your name?" I asked her.

"Francine."

"Nice name. I'm Kenneth."

She flashed a tiny smile, but offered no
response.

I took out my cigarettes. "Smoke?"

"Thanks." She took one.

I did the same and lit both.

"So what's on Seven Mile, other than a lot
of businesses and former businesses now vacant or occupied by rats
or druggies?"

She seemed to think about it. "My job."

I wondered what type of job she had.
Prostitute crossed my mind. Perhaps a stripper.

She must have read my thoughts. "I work at a
vegetable and fruit market and I'm running late."

It's much later than you could possibly
imagine.

I sucked on the cigarette and looked at her.
"You like getting high?"

"Yeah, sometimes."

"How about now?" I asked. "I've got a few
joints in the glove compartment. Help yourself."

Her bold, black eyes widened at me. "Can't.
Have to go to work."

"Too bad."

By now she realized that I was heading away
from Seven Mile.

Those eyes stared again. "What're you
doing?"

Don't ask what you really don't want the
answer to.

"I have to make a quick stop. I promise I
won't be long," I told her.

She seemed to want to argue the point, but
perhaps realizing there were no real alternatives to her current
dilemma, thought otherwise and instead simply stared out the
passenger window.

I lived in a corner house on Cedar and
Margarita. I'd gotten a good deal on it five years earlier. Back
then I was married. That ended when the wife left me for her old
boyfriend.

I kept the house as a good investment. And a
place where I could hole up when I needed to be alone.

Or, in this case, with an invited guest.

I pulled into the driveway, far enough up so
the mulberry bushes that separated me from my nosey neighbors kept
them from getting into my business.

"Why don't you come in for a minute," I said
nicely to Francine.

She sneered. "I already told you, I'm late
for work."

"Yeah, you did say that, didn't you?"

Fear suddenly flooded her eyes. "Look, maybe
this was a mistake—"

"We all make mistakes and just have to deal
with them, for better or worse."

In this case, it would definitely be worse
for her.

"I'm getting out of this car," she said in a
higher octave.

She tried to open the door, but I controlled
the master lock, meaning I controlled her.

"You're not going anywhere!" I yelled.

Francine faced me and tried to claw my eyes
out. Having dealt with an unruly woman on more than one occasion, I
managed to dodge her sharp nails, save for one that caught my cheek
and took some skin. She wasn't as skilled. I slammed my fist into
the side of her face and Francine went out like a light.

I got out and unlocked the side door of my
house. I returned to the car, hoisted the prisoner over my
shoulder, and carried her into the house.

I took her to the basement and laid her on a
leather sofa. Turning on a single light that hung in the corner, I
gazed at the woman named Francine and wondered if it was too late
to stop this.

The part of me that looked at her as an
object of my built up rage rather than a human being overcame any
degree of rationality.

There was no turning back.

As Francine began to stir, I quickly pounced
on her like a leopard, removing her jeans and underwear.

"Please...don't," she begged.

"Don't talk," I ordered, unzipping my pants
and getting between her legs.

She made a weak effort to resist, but
seemingly resigned herself to being raped, while hoping to still
somehow make it out of this alive.

I forced my way inside her, feeling a surge
of adrenalin, reveling in the power I suddenly had over her.

When it was over, I did the only thing I
could to keep her from being able to identify me.

Using my bare hands and brute strength, I
strangled Francine, staying just beyond her grasp as she tried
valiantly to attack my face.

I watched her die, her eyes wide open, but
void of expression. I felt nothing in that moment, other than
relief and misguided blame.

Now what was I going to do with the
body.

I thought about driving to Belle Isle and
dumping her in the Detroit River. Or maybe going a little further
to Kensington Metropark and tossing her body in Kent Lake.

In the end, I ditched Francine's corpse in a
nearby wooded area; then hightailed my ass out of there before
someone spotted me.

* * *

I stood at the gravesite of Francine
Saunders. Someone had left flowers, which had started to wilt. I
lit a cigarette and stuck it in my mouth, my lower lip trembling
slightly. It always gave me the creeps when I visited the cemetery,
where shadows crept over shadows and the macabre reality of
tortured souls in dead bodies turning to rotted flesh and maggots
made me want to puke.

Yet I continued to come back every year, as
though enslaved by the spirit of the young woman whose life I had
taken prematurely that summer so long ago.

"I'm sorry," I said in barely more than a
whisper, not knowing if she could hear me or not. It did little to
make me feel better, but the words needed to be said.

I inhaled deeply on the cigarette and tossed
it to the ground.

I had already made my way to a second
gravesite as a courtesy call before lighting up again. Even as
darkness began to settle in like a shroud, I could make out the
words on the granite headstone.

Jocelyn Parker: She Died Before Her
Time.

I agreed.

After enjoying the high of killing Francine,
like an addict, I wanted to experience it again. Though it went
against the grain in terms of risk versus reward, the desire was
too strong to overcome.

A year had passed since Francine's death
before I set my sights on the next target.

It was a similar bleak day in the Motor City
and no one seemed in the mood to do anything other than bitch,
booze, snooze, or pretend to be anywhere but there.

After picking up some smokes from a liquor
store, I drove down Schaefer. I saw a young blonde woman with her
thumb out. She was standing beside a Volkswagen that had steam
shooting from the rear as if in an angry mood.

I pulled to the curb and waited. Through the
rearview mirror I studied her. She was slender, pretty, and wore
jean shorts and a halter top.

The window was already down when she leaned
her pretty face in.

"Looks like you've got car problems?" I
said.

She frowned. "Yeah. Damned radiator must
have sprung a leak or something."

I gave her a concerned look. "You need a
lift to a service station?"

"There's no time for that now," she said.
"What I really could use is a lift to school, if that wouldn't be
too much trouble. I can pay you."

Oh, you will.

"No problem at all," I said sweetly. "And
save your money for car repairs. Get in."

She didn't hesitate to do just that.