With Cruel Intent (28 page)

for your patience, we have a winner. Join

me in awarding the title of Mr. Muscle to

Jasper Jackson of Valdosta, Georgia. He

jumped and thrust his hand into the air

before giving the audience a few more

muscle crunching moves. Blanche and

Rufus jumped up and down, and hugged,

seemed like the natural thing to do. A

moment later Jasper jumped from the

stage, took the librarian in his arms,

picked her up, smearing her clothing with

body oil and spun her around in a

triumphant dance of celebration. She

didn’t quite know how to react but gave

him a kiss on the cheek and congratulated

the hulking giant for his win. He placed

the little woman down and picked up

Rufus in a monster bear hug and repeated

the same happy dance.

“Can’t believe I won. I really

won! Thanks so much for comin' Blanche.

You were my inspiration tonight, could

notta done it without ya cheerin' me on,”

Jasper said, trying to catch his breath.

“I don’t know how true that is, I

think the whole crowd had your back

tonight, but I’m so glad I came. It was a lot

of fun,” she sincerely responded.

“Ya sho nuff kicked der ass ta

night son,” Rufus threw in, still pumping

his fist in a celebratory fashion.

“You gonna stick around till I get

cleaned up?” the bodybuilder asked.

Blanche looked down at herself

and her now almost see through blouse,

“Under the circumstances, I think I better

get home and get these things in some cold

water before they stain.” She could tell he

was disappointed so she continued, “But,

how about we get together this weekend

for a celebration, like an ice cream

Sunday or something really unhealthy?”

His smile returned to his face.

“That would be awesome. I’d like

that a lot,” Jasper replied.

“Yup, dat sounds like fun, where

should we go?” Rufus interjected.

“I don’t think she was including

you pops,” the nearly naked man clarified.

“Sho she was, why ya think des

good lookin’ women always jus intrested

in you? I still got what it takes.” Putting

his hands on his hips, mimicking what

Jasper had done on stage, and flexed his

groin forward. “Tode ya so.”

“Listen you two, I’ll let you sort

out the details and I’m happy with one or

both of you coming, but I should run. Why

don’t you pick me up around 6:30 on

Saturday night?” She registered the day in

her head, remembering that it was now

Wednesday.

“It’s a date,” Rufus said, as Jasper

shrugged his shoulder and winked at

Blanche.

“See you then,” Jasper whispered,

without making a sound.

Blanche found the same cab she’d

taken to the event and lazily enjoyed the

ride back to her room, running the image

of Rufus doing the ‘bump and grind’

through her head, bringing a smile to her

face each time she imagined the old guy

shaking his groove thing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘Rob’

left

the

Mr.

Muscle

competition angry that he’d not had a

greater

opportunity

to

photograph

Blanche. Frustration, and the pressure

from his employers to get two more

outings in before the weekend, had set him

on edge and he knew he needed some

release. A house in an estate area, with

plenty of valuables, would ease his

tension. He cautioned himself that working

out of impulse and rage could lead to

sloppy work, and the possibility of

leaving unwanted clues, or even capture.

Pulling the van to the side of a lonely

road, he took a couple of deep breaths,

closed his eyes, and focused on the job at

hand. His pulse reacted, slowing, 80 bpm

- 70 - 60 and stable, his breathing also

more shallow, more controlled, his mind

more clear, as he meditated and drew his

attention away from the librarian and saw

within his mind’s eye the house he

intended to invade.

Months ago, he had almost burgled

the home he saw now, but the owners had

come home unexpectedly, just as he was

climbing the back fence and he had

aborted the mission. It was a large brick

home, four-car garage, with at least one

Porsche, but best of all, no security

system. He’d noted the signs in the

windows and the placard displayed

prominently near the front door, indicating

that a security system was in place.

Normally, he would simply bypass such a

house but this was too perfect, too good a

score to just let it slide. Two months ago,

he’d donned a pair of coveralls, complete

with sunglasses, hat, and clipboard and

had walked the neighborhood pretending

to read the meters on the side of each

home. When he had arrived at the house in

question, he had carefully examined the

wiring leading into the home, as well as

the casement around the windows, for

signs of a security system. Nothing. He

also had managed to get a view through a

window to the entryway, no control panel,

nothing that would point to a security

system in place.

“Cheap bastard,” he’d thought.

Could afford the bogus signs but not the

actual system, he would pay for that

greedy decision.

He’d gazed into the interior of the

home,

marble

floors,

expensive

furnishings, and limited edition paintings

hanging on the walls. He could not help

but wonder what it would be like to have

such wealth and power. Soon though, he’d

have it all! The house, the car, the hot

women, finish this job and he’d be set.

His initial impulse was to drive by

the home and see if any lights were on,

however, 10:45 p.m. was really too early

to do the kind of work that needed to be

done here. He could just see the police,

going door to door, after they discovered

his crime, “Did you see any suspicious

vehicles in the area? Any that looked like

they didn’t belong?”

“Officer, there was an ugly, gray

van that slowly rolled down the street

before the break in,” some woman with

curlers in her hair and a scarf wrapped

around her head would say, standing at her

front door, dressed in a bathrobe. Not a

good idea after all.

He drove the ugly, gray van down

Bemiss Road trying to remember where

he’d seen a small church that would act as

a shield for the van. He passed several

streets that looked familiar, then as he

approached Lori Street, he could see some

floodlights to the left that he was sure

were at the church site. He pulled to a

complete stop at the light, being careful to

obey all traffic laws. Getting pulled over

tonight would be more than inconvenient.

A few blocks down on the left was a

country church. The parking lot and front

of the chapel were flooded in light, but no

cars were present. He drove past the

church to see if anyone was out walking

their dog, or any other activity, none was

evident. A mile past the church he flipped

around and returned to the chapel, pulling

to the rear of the building where it was

dark and a small shed stood. It was

probably used to store the yard care

equipment and would block the van from

the street if a patrol car were to cruise by.

He sat his backpack, full of the tools of his

trade, on the seat next to him, inspected

each pocket to make sure everything was

in its place, including the black face paint

that he would need to apply when he was

closer to the house. There was no sense

alarming someone that may see him

walking down the street.

For now he was a college student

that had missed the bus and was walking

home. Leaving the back of the church, he

cut through an empty field full of knee high

weeds and found a road that would cut

across Bemiss Road, and into the vicinity

of the target. He’d seen the couple that

lived there a few times, as he’d prepared

to rob them before. Didn’t think they’d be

any trouble if he was confronted, but as a

precaution he still had the pepper spray,

and had thrown a seven-inch hunting knife

into the bag in case his life was

threatened. The burglar knew how to use a

gun. He was quite proficient with the semi

automatic Beretta his father had bought

him on his 18th birthday, but it could get

him many more years in prison if he were

ever caught in the act and had the pistol on

him.

He lay in a ditch paralleling the

main road, waited for a lone pickup truck

to

roar

by

before

kneeling,

then

scampering across the road, in a low

crouch. The black paint, now covered his

face, and his dark clothing helped to hide

his location even though there were dim

lights from homes and streetlights not far

off. The moon was in his favor, with only

a sliver emitting light over the expanse

before him. Alternating walking hunched

over, and crawling, he found the orchard

that the homes of the upper end sub

division backed onto. The pecan trees

rustled very gently in the wind as he

moved from trunk to trunk, concealing

himself and his movements, the best he

could. The Stalker reached the back of the

home he had in mind, recognized the area

where he’d waited before, in his first

attempt. No lights were visible, including

the porch light. His watch read 11:45, still

earlier than he’d like. Some of the houses

down the row had numerous lights on

casting beams and shadows into the yards

and orchard. ‘Rob’ concluded to wait an

hour before proceeding. He needed more

of the neighbors to get shut down for the

night to reduce his risk.

The minutes sluggishly ticked off,

60 seconds at a time, providing him an

opportunity to contemplate his situation

and what he must do. “Don’t get

overconfident, don’t screw up,” he

reminded himself. The job that lay before

him had too much uncertainty; the first two

had been a breeze; keys, single women, a

set of instructions, but not this time. He

had done some prep, but that was months

ago, and there were variables he had no

control over. Something felt wrong but he

couldn’t put his finger on it. He expected

no 'gimmies' here; only luck would

provide an unlocked door or an empty

house. His employers would be pissed, if

he screwed up this early in the plot, and

they were out of an experienced ‘night

crawler’. A sudden flash of light from his

right brought all of his senses to full alert.

He slowly rotated his head in the direction

of the random light. Three houses down,

someone had turned on the back porch

light, he waited, listening, squinting his

eyes to make out any movement, and then

as quickly as it was switched on it was

extinguished.

“Must have put the dog out to

crap,” he postulated. The watch on his

wrist now read 12:39, there had been no

lights or any change in the house in front

of him. “It’s go time,” he whispered.

He crept to the fence, keeping a

low profile, lifted the backpack over the

fence and hung it from the top, dangling on

the other side. Carefully and quietly, he

overcame his first obstacle, pulled the

backpack from the fence and moved to a

black, shadowed area of the yard. He

waited and listened; his best defense now

would be his keen senses. Nothing. He

moved to the back door. No screen, but a

dead bolt. A decorative glass inset

occupied the top one third of the door; he

brought his eye as close as he could to the

glass, finding a place where the inside