The Schliemann Legacy (30 page)

The boy stood alone at a bus stop beside an all night gas station, an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. He made no move to get out of the way. He just stood, waiting.

He fought the urge to run. His eyes flicked toward the station but the attendant was playing a guitar, paying no attention as the world went on around him. No cars were at the pumps and nothing but empty cars on the street and in the lot. He was alone.

* * * * *

Luis Gabel watched the blood drain from the fat cheeks of the loser in front of him and smiled. He couldn’t believe his luck when he saw the blub waddling toward him.

This was the same wimp that had fallen on his ass when he scared him earlier. What a geek, Gabel thought as he watched the guy push his glasses back on his nose. God, the guy was sweating like a pig. There was actually steam coming off him.

This porker was ripe and Gabel was going to pick him clean. One glimpse of his blade and he’d be handing over his wallet. Gabel knew the type. He’d be too scared of him and his crew to ever call the cops.

“Christ man, you look like you gonna piss your pants,” the boy said, putting his ace into his vest pocket. “We need to talk about a toll on my sidewalk.”

The blub never looked him in the eye but tried to step around like some peasant avoiding the King. Gabel stepped onto the grass and grabbed his arm. The carton slipped and hit the ground. Orange juice shot up the Gabel’s boots and jeans. In the half-light, it looked like he had wet himself. And then, the asshole actually laughed.

“Look watcha did to my boots! They’re fucked. Now you are really gonna pay. Gonna shove my boot right up your ass!”

As he planted his foot to kick out, Gabel stepped on the half-empty carton. His foot went out from under him and he sailed into the air. Unprepared, he went down hard in the small garden on the boulevard, his breath rushing out of him.

Preston took one look at the prone figure and ran. He crossed the street and looked over his shoulder. Expecting to see the kid right behind him, the empty street surprised him and he stumbled into a parked car. Prepared for a ruse, he was ready to bolt at the first sign of movement. But there was nothing.

Seeing the helpless figure dispelled the fear. Rage flowed into the void. Checking left and right, he cautiously went back.

“Were you going to give me some of this?” he asked, pulling his foot back. The toe of his shoe connected just below the teenager’s rib cage. The tentative kick barely moved him. Stumbling backwards, Preston saw no reaction, not even a moan. Bravado surged in him, giving flight to his rage.

“I can do better than that!” he said.

Taking a step, he slammed his foot into the boy’s side. The force of the kick rolled him onto his stomach.

In the spill of the gas station lights, he could see blood, so dark it was almost black. It had soaked into the boy’s stringy blond hair.

He had killed the little scum sucker.

RUN
, his brain screamed at him. They’re going to blame you.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

THINK. You know they will blame this on you. You won’t last in jail, not even for a single night.

Fighting the rising panic, he looked around. The kid in the booth still had his back to him, headphones on his ears and a guitar in his lap. None of the houses had direct line of sight because of the trees. Suddenly, he was relieved for the empty street.

RUN
.

Car.

“Turn, turn,” he said, willing the car to turn down one of the side streets. “Damn,” he said, unaware he was talking aloud.

The lights were getting close.

No time to run. Think, damn it.

He grabbed the boy by the vest and propped him against the bus sign. The punk fell over; his head sounded like a ripe melon when it hit the sidewalk. Preston started to giggle and fought for control. The second time, he got the body balanced against the sign. With seconds to spare, he stood facing away from the car and waited. The car didn’t even slow as it passed.

Genius. God damn genius. Now RUN!

Ya, run, genius. Great idea. How many bodies do you think turn up at the side of this street? Did the driver get a good look at you? How much would he remember? You do stand out.

Hide the body. The longer it takes to find, the less chance of the driver making a connection. But where? He couldn’t carry the kid very far.

A small sliver of light showed along the crack in the partially open door of the station restroom. “What better place for a piece of crap?” he said aloud and another giggle escaped.

He picked up the boy and wrapped an arm under his armpits. He felt the blood soaking into the sleeve of his jacket. He toted the teenager over to the washroom, just one friend helping another. The boots made the only sound as they bounced along the asphalt. Panting, he pushed the door open all the way and grunted as he pulled him over the lip of the threshold. He staggered and let the body drop just clear of the door.

He shut the door as quietly as possible and caught his breath. Dragging the boy across the floor, Preston pulled him up on the toilet seat. He pushed his head against the wall. The skull met the tiles with a satisfying, dull thud.

He grabbed a handful of hair and slammed the head against the wall again. This time, he heard a squishy crunch and smiled. Pounding the head against the wall in a primal rhythm, he spoke in a low voice.

“See what you made me do? All of you, always pushing, pushing, pushing! Never satisfied. You laugh at me, make jokes about me. Hurt me. Well, you pushed too far, didn’t you? Now, you paid the price.” In his mind, he could see all those who had terrorized him in the past.

Not conscious of his actions, he continued to pound the head against the wall until the skull was a chipped pulp. Suddenly, he realized how much noise he was making. Frightened, he released the hair. The body slumped forward off the toilet seat. He listened and could barely make out the chords of the guitar. He took several deep breaths to calm himself. He pulled the boy back up to the toilet seat.

Grabbing a wad of paper towels, he carefully wiped down the leather vest. CSI wouldn’t get anything.

Turning to leave, his foot kicked something, sending it across the floor in a metallic skitter. Bending under the sink, he picked up a knife. He pressed the small button on the black and red handle and a six-inch blade sprang into view. The knife must have fallen from the boy’s pocket when he fell off the toilet. Preston closed the knife and slipped it into his pant’s pocket.

Standing in the bushes by the bathroom door, he scanned the area. The neighborhood was quiet. He took several deep breaths and started across the station lot.

As he passed, he picked up the empty juice carton. He tossed it and his bloody jacket into the garbage bin at the Chinese food place near his home. Smiling, he was confident he had left no clues.

* * * * *

Dan set his guitar down and stretched, rolling his head to relax his neck. Less than three hours and his shift would be over. He hated the 11 to 7 but at least he could practice his guitar. He stretched again and grabbed the key for the washroom. Carefully locking the door to the booth, he went around the building.

He opened the washroom door and immediately stepped back.

“Sorry man, didn’t know you were in here. Hey, you okay, man?” Then he saw the blood, the matted hair and splintered skull. “Jesus Christ!” was all he got out before he threw up all over the crime scene.

D.A. Graystone — Biography

THE SHORT VERSION

Derek Graystone was born in Rivers, Manitoba, Canada. After a brief stay there and in Trenton, Ontario, Canada, Derek has spent the majority of his life in London, Ontario, Canada. He graduated from the University of Western Ontario with a Bachelors Degree in English Literature in 1984.

Derek has had a varied career including jewellery store manager, warehouse manager for an ice cream distributor, manager of a gas station, and the finance and systems manager for a children's charity. In 2002, Derek quit his day job and started his own office automation and Internet presence company and a relaxation massage business with his wife. Derek is also a Reiki Master as well as having a successful online Wiccan business.

Derek's first book,
The Schliemann Legacy
, is a spy thriller involving Nazis, terrorists and the hunt for the treasures of Troy.

Derek followed up with
Two Graves
, a crime novel about a serial killer who is killing look-alikes of the people who bullied and terrorized him in his youth. Derek is planning to release the next in the Kesle City Homicide series called
Too Many Graves
which will appear in the summer of 2012.

Currently, Derek is working on two non-fiction books
OMG, I Think I'm a Witch
and
A Year of Wicca
about the Wiccan religion due for release in September 2011 as well as the first novel in the
Witches of Aquarius
series;
Windcrusher
will be released in December 2011.

Derek lives with his wife Yvette in their home in London Ontario when they aren't visiting their island getaway in Exuma, Bahamas. Derek is also the father of four girls and one boy and has three granddaughters.

THE EXTENDED VERSION

After reading many articles and looking at other author's bios, I still don't know what should be in here. So feel free to just ignore any bits you don't want to know about. Meanwhile, I will just add to it as life happens or whenever I think of a better story.

One of the regular questions I have seen answered is a combination of when did you decide you wanted to be a writer and what qualified you to be a writer? For me, those two events happened at the same time. After mastering the entire ABC song and being able to line up all those blocks, I knew I wanted to rearrange the letters into a more useful form. And since I knew all the letters, I realized I was infinitely more qualified to do it than the kid next to me who still couldn't grasp the intricacies of turning the M block into a W. From there it turned into a craft when my overdeveloped imagination took over. I am pretty sure that is what my mother called my explanations of how I got so dirty or who broke her favorite vase.

English quickly became one of my favorite subjects in school. All the other subjects like math and science had correct answers and dealt in absolutes. But English, ah, English had such flexibility and scope. As long as you could keep the bull (uh literary criticism and insight) flowing, you got good marks. I even got a good mark on a disturbingly sexist piece I wrote arguing the merits of female beauty according to Hugh Hefner and Bob Guccione. Sorry about that Mrs. Ferguson.

My love of the written word continued when I attended the University of Western Ontario. I chose to pursue an eclectic education. I felt it was in the tradition of the Renaissance Man that I saw myself as rather than the scattered, undisciplined student lacking direction that my guidance counselor proclaimed me. Following that broad education with a major in English Literature, I found myself uniquely unemployable in any worthwhile position that required even the most rudimentary knowledge. I went into sales. Saved yet again by my overdeveloped imagination.

During that illustrious time, I was working hard on my first novel. I still think it is a great story and has the honor of occupying one of the earlier spots in those large boxes of questionable manuscripts and thick files of rejection slips. However, it was an incredible feeling of accomplishment when I finally finished the novel quickly dashed by the reality of that file of rejection slips.

Time passed and my love of computers and ability with numbers allowed me the incredible experience of working for a wonderful charity that raised money for the local Children's Hospital here in London. During much of that time, I was continuing to practice my overdeveloped imagination - the outlet focused more on flyers, newsletters, fundraising letters and, of course, accounting. Writing had become something lost in the hustle and bustle of life.

Let that be a warning to anyone under the age of 103. If you are pursing a career as a writer, an actor, an artist or as the guy that tests the consistency of oatmeal for General Mills, never lose sight of your dreams or let them get lost. Dreams and our true loves are what make life worth living.

That is what my wife, Yvette, reminded me. Well, at the time, she wasn't my wife yet. Anyway, Yvette asked me one simple question that totally changed my life, "What do you love to do?" Without a moment's thought, my answer was, "Write."

Then she asked me "When was the last time you wrote?" and that was when I realized I needed to change my life if I was ever going to be truly happy.

OK, so it was two questions but, as my father always told me, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

It took some time because life still intrudes but I am now directing my overdeveloped imagination where it belongs and am writing every day. And what does that mean for you, the reader?