Miscarriage Of Justice (15 page)

However, now that things had settled down a bit, at least for the moment, it looked like such a move would perhaps not be necessary. She crossed her fingers!

CHAPTER TWELVE

Had Ethan known of Mariana’s two week vacation, he would have proceeded on his project with a bit more urgency. The woman’s absence would have made the job of setting up the casino scene much easier. He could’ve had it waiting when the D.A. arrived home. But, not being aware of any of this, he’d taken over a week to prepare the props. Three days after her return, everything was ready for the trip to Cedar Springs.

Before daylight, he pulled his car to rear of the hotel, loading the mannequins into the trunk, along with the rest of the paraphernalia. Then, parking in his usual space again, he returned to his room to patiently watch TV, while he waited. At ten minutes past eight, he picked up the phone and dialed the Lincoln County District Attorney’s Office. Hearing the receptionist’s friendly voice on the line, he asked for Mariana.

“She’s in court this morning,” came the reply. “Could I take a message?”

“No, thanks,” Ethan pleasantly replied. “I’ll try to reach her later. Will she be available this afternoon?”

“Possibly, but doubtful,” the woman answered, oblivious to the fact she was being pumped for information.

Saying he would try again next day, Ethan politely thanked her and hung up. The villainess was out of the way! With the Mariana busy in court, he now had a green light to proceed. Time to get things rolling. Noting that if he left right away it would put him at her house around ten-thirty or so, he nodded thoughtfully, that should give him time to arrange things, even if she came home for lunch. It wasn’t likely, but he had to be prepared for the possibility just the same.

As he drove, nagging doubts and little worries began to set in, eventually leading to second thoughts. Had he considered everything? Would he able to get inside the house? Unseen? What if she had an alarm? Or worse, what if someone were home? He knew she lived alone, but there was always the chance she could have visitors.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. There was no need to panic. A simple knock on the door would tell him if anyone was there. And an alarm wouldn’t present much of a problem. As an electrician, he’d installed enough of them—all makes and models. Disarming one shouldn’t be that difficult. The process would take time though, which was a critical factor. The more time he took, the greater the chance of being spotted—or caught.

Traffic was uncharacteristically light and Ethan made good time, despite his determination not to speed. Turning down Griffen Road, he arrived at Mariana’s house a full fifteen minutes earlier than he had anticipated. He’d met only one car on the road from the freeway to the D.A.’s house. A single car driven by a teenager. That provided a little reassurance.

Teens were notorious for not paying attention, and considering the way the young guy was dressed, and the loud head banging music resounding from the car—even with all the windows up, Ethan doubted the guy would remember being on the road himself, much less who he’d met. And as more time passed, it was even less likely the guy would be able to recall much of anything. Let a few days, or weeks, go by and he was betting the kid wouldn’t be able to provide any reliable information whatsoever. Betting on it with his life, literally.

Pulling as far into the drive as possible, in hopes he could remain hidden, or at least not so conspicuous, Ethan boldly walked to the front door and knocked. Receiving no response, he rapped on the door again, louder this time. Still, there was no answer.

Hearing no one milling about inside, he cautiously peered through the window. The house was dark and appeared empty. Breathing a little easier now, but needing to be sure he wouldn’t be barging in on anyone, he moved to the next window for a better angle. Careful to keep his body hidden from the lone neighbor’s house, which had an unobstructed view of Mariana’s place, he cupped his hands on the window to block out the blinding rays of the bright summer sun. Squinting, he tried to focus on the room’s interior. From the looks of things, no one was home.

Then he saw it, just as he supposed it might be. The alarm’s control unit, mounted on the wall, right inside the front door. Immediately, he identified the model, and saw the mess of wires running to the windows and the door.

“Typical,” he laughed. Wires strung carelessly across the wall was a sure sign of customer installation. She’d put it in herself, and recently too, judging by the kinks in the wires.

Familiar with the make of the alarm, Ethan knew it came equipped with a battery backup. He also knew from experience, most people didn’t use the feature. They had good intentions, sometimes putting in batteries at first, but later neglected to replace them, some due to procrastination, others just figured the electricity wouldn’t go out.

As one of his former customers had so eloquently put it, “What are the odds someone will try breaking in the house during the few minutes a year my electricity is out?”

“Pretty good, right about now,” Ethan predicted, walking stridently to the meter box, located near the back corner of the house.

As usually was the case, there was no lock on the gray box at the bottom of the weather mast. Snapping open the cover, he quickly shut off the switch. Instantly, he was aware of an eerie silence as the compressor on the central air stopped running. Hurrying back to the window, he again peered in through the glass. If the alarm system had switched over to operating on battery power, the red light indicator would be flashing. Straining to see into the living room, he smiled his satisfaction. The control box was dark!

With the burglar alarm effectively disabled, Ethan slipped the small blade of his pocketknife into the crack between the door and the jam. A quick prying motion, back-and-forth, and the latch easily retracted. The deadbolt was not locked. Effortlessly, the door pushed open.

Returning to his car, Ethan made four trips, carrying each of the mannequins, and then the rest of the materials into the house. Nervously, he glanced out the window, looking down the road, half expecting someone to come by and ruin everything. Relieved he saw no traffic, he quickly turned his attention back to the task at hand.

Glancing at his watch, he saw the time was already eleven o’clock; that left only an hour to complete his job. Working steadily and efficiently, he cleared Mariana’s kitchen table, transferring empty cups, dirty dishes, and several stacks of papers to the counter. Then, moving the table to the living room, he spread the large piece of green felt over it.

Standing the female mannequin against the table, he placed the male, the dealer, behind the table, in the corner. Opening the three packs of cards, he sorted through one deck, removing the five cards known as dead man’s hand. “The Ace of Clubs, Ace of Spades, Eight of Clubs, Eight of Spades and the Nine of Diamonds,” he mumbled to himself. Legend has it these were the cards Wild Bill Hickock held in his hand the day he was shot to death in Deadwood, South Dakota. Ethan taped the five cards to the woman’s hand. Shuffling the rest of the cards together, he arranged them on the table in front of the dealer.

He’d purchased several packages of poker chips, and sliding them from the boxes, he piled two stacks of $100 chips on the table beside the woman. The rest he arranged according to color on the dealer’s side.

Casting another furtive glance out the window and seeing nothing threatening, he continued working. Using the clear tape again, he wedged the toy pistol into the dealer’s outstretched hand. Opening the can of red paint he’d used for blood, he splattered a few drops over the lifelike figures, and then the rest of the props, covering the cards, poker chips, and the felt.

Back in prison, when he had first thought of this hair brained idea; he’d planned a courtroom scene, somewhere in the living room, or maybe the den. But that would have required more mannequins and considerably more work. This was easier.

The dummies would still serve no real purpose, other than to startle the D.A. as she entered her house—and scare the wits out of her if he was lucky. Shock value. He was betting the gambling scene with the “dead woman” would quite effectively get the woman’s attention. The extra care he’d taken on all the little details was sure to enhance the aura of fear and add to the mystique.

He suddenly stopped, grumbling under his breath. All the painstaking preparations he’d made, and he’d forgotten one important detail. The note! It was still laying on the table back at the hotel. Agitated by his own incompetence, he glanced around the room, looking for a pen and something to write on. Seeing Mariana’s desk in the den, he strode through the open arched doorway. Choosing a pen and helping himself to the pink flowery stationery, he quickly wrote out his short message, again in the easily identifiable handwriting.

Swaggering back to the living room, he dropped the note on the table and smirked, a cocky grin. Forgetting the note had turned out all right, better in fact. Using Mariana’s personal stationery added a certain evil charm to the scene.

Standing back admiring his crafty creation, he realized something still was missing. Every gambler he’d ever seen had been nursing a drink. An adult beverage. Hurrying to the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator door hoping to find a beer or maybe some wine. He was disappointed. Apparently, Mariana had neither. Then his eye fell on a gallon jar of what looked like iced tea. Several tea bags floating near the top suggested his observation was correct. He frowned. What good was tea? Then he broke into a grin. It would still work!

Finding a clear glass in the sink, he poured his gambler a stiff drink. Replacing the tea in the refrigerator, he carried the drink to the table, setting it beside the woman’s left hand. Even knowing it was only tea, he could hardly tell by looking.

Just one thing remained to be done. Lifting the cover from the alarm control box, he quickly rewired zone number one. Mariana would never know it, but her front door would now be unprotected, allowing him to come and go freely in the future. “Never know when easy access might come in handy.”

Replacing the cover and taking one last look to make sure each detail was perfect and everything was in place, Ethan read the note aloud to himself. “The house always wins.”

It was true in Vegas, had held true in his trial, and now that the tables had turned, it was true here. Gathering his supplies, he threw them carelessly into the car. Quickly checking to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, he locked the front door on his way out. Taking a few extra seconds to turn the electricity back on, Ethan slid behind the wheel of his car.

Leaving the scene of the “crime,” he glanced at his watch. “Two minutes ’til twelve.” Perfect timing!

Turning away from town, he retraced the route back to the freeway, and finally allowed himself to relax. In a particularly lighthearted mood, he set the cruise control and eased back into the seat, envisioning Mariana’s arrival home that evening. He’d certainly outdone himself on this one, but it was far from being his grand finale. Miss Mariana Clark had not yet begun to experience the full scope of his wrath. By the time he was finished, she’d be begging for mercy—and no such reprieve would be coming. He laughed again. Revenge was so sweet! Though nothing he did would serve to vindicate him or his good name, a certain satisfaction was derived from getting even.

Turning on the radio, Ethan continued driving, pulling off at the first exit in Fulton for a long overdue lunch. While downing a double cheeseburger and fries, he contemplated his next move. After the spectacular casino he’d created for Mariana, he’d have to work hard to maintain the same level of creativity while still producing as much fear as possible.

Back in his small hotel room, he set the alarm for eight o’clock that evening. For over two weeks now, he hadn’t called Mariana. It was time for that change. By eight o’clock, the D.A. should have made it home and discovered her starring role in the off-Broadway production “Casino Death,” as he’d decided to call it. A well-timed phone call would dramatically intensify the effect. He laughed again. This was the most fun he’d had since, well, since going to prison.

Watching TV, he calmly sipped a glass of soda, patiently waiting for the clock to make its rounds. But by fifteen after six, his anticipation got the best of him.

“She’s got to be home by now,” he growled looking at the clock for the third time in as many minutes. Scooping up the phone, he mindlessly tapped his fingers on the table, waiting for the call to go through.

After the fourth ring, he found himself growing edgy and exasperated. “Answer,” he silently commanded.

Just as he was ready to hang up, Mariana’s voice, courtesy of the answering machine, came on the line, directing him to leave a message. For the first time, since starting the phone calls, Ethan spoke. “Looks like your luck is about to run out,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Leaving only the short message, he hung up. If given the chance, he was sure she’d have plenty to say to him, but if she weren’t answering her phone, he’d never be able to hear it. Maybe I’ll call again later, he thought, settling back in his recliner. “Or, I could take it easy for a while,” he mumbled to himself, “and wait until morning.” He grinned, a shameless and malicious thin smile. “While she worries the night away.” This was exactly what he’d waited for!

And yet, he strangely felt as though something were missing, as if his life were incomplete. He’d thought when his long-awaited release from prison had arrived and he was able to execute his revenge on Mariana, things would somehow feel right again. So, why did he feel so down? It was all entertaining, even exciting, but part of the anticipated thrill was lacking. Perplexed by the persistent feeling, he found himself in a dismal mood.

Pushing the nagging thoughts from his mind, Ethan scowled. Though his spirits were a little deflated, he most certainly wasn’t going to end his siege just because the full satisfaction he’d expected wasn’t there. This was a matter of right and wrong, a principled response to an egregious act—and of course, revenge.