With Cruel Intent (69 page)

could make out the furniture and layout of

the room with exit, but that was all, no

Lester or Blanche. Backing up he moved

around to the front door, felt the knob and

confirmed that it was unlocked.

“Here goes nothing,” he thought,

turning the knob he stepped inside the

small living room.

His system on full alert, he

scanned the room and slowly moved to the

hallway, the barrel of the .50 caliber rifle

leading the way. He looked before

stepping into the hall and slowly searched

the entire premises, not finding anyone at

home and no sign that Blanche had ever

been there.

At the end of the path that led from

the house to the old fishing shed, an

agitated Lester stood within the shelter,

pointing the knife blade at Blanche. She

was tied to an old rocker that his dad used

when fishing from the banks of the river.

A strip of duct tape covered her mouth;

tears ran from her eyes, wild with fear.

Lester laid out his plans for their future

and the move to California. She listened in

disbelief. The Stalker closed the distance

between them, putting his left arm around

her and as he’d done before, took in the

smell of the beauty, his face very close to

hers. She struggled to get away causing

him to hold her all the tighter. With his

cheek against hers he looked down to see

the swelling of her breasts under the

button-up cotton shirt she wore. He

brought the knife to the first button and

with a skilled flick of the blade sent the

button bouncing across the wooden floor.

He slowly moved the knife down the front

of her, caressing her skin as it moved. The

second button joined the first on the floor.

“Virginia May, dear, I’ve got some

business to attend to then I’ll come back

and we’ll finish this little game. What do

you think of that?” he whispered into her

ear, kissing it lightly.

Blanche did her best to head-butt

the creep but he withdrew and left the

shed, returning the seven-inch blade to the

sheath attached to his belt. Lester walked

back toward the house, a swagger in his

step. He was quite pleased with himself

that things had gone so well tonight. The

money would not be forthcoming but he’d

managed to get his woman and left

everyone else suffering in his wake.

Before leaving he would need to burn

everything that pointed to him as The

Stalker. On the back porch he had placed

a cardboard box full of the pictures, maps,

documents and anything else connected to

the past months work. The lock box also

rested on the porch, the money he’d

accumulated and valuables taken from the

homes would make for a nice little nest

egg to begin their life on the west coast.

Seymour stood in the kitchen

looking out toward the barn, the light was

off and only a faint glow from the living

room illuminated the items in the kitchen.

From where he watched the open area an

object suddenly caught his attention,

slipping between some trees and shrubs,

moving toward him. He slipped to the side

so he could still observe the person

walking through the brush but left himself

unexposed. It was Lester, but where was

Blanche. Lester walked past the back

porch and the silver vehicle to open the

rear dual doors on the van; he removed the

few belongings there and walked around

to the porch. Seymour crouched below the

windows and behind the sink giving him

an advantage should Lester enter the house

through the back door. He angled the rifle

at the ready, held his breath and listened

as he heard Lester moving something from

the back porch, but no action on the door.

He waited a few seconds, and then

lifted his head high enough to see back

into the area behind the house. The

backside of the man could be seen moving

away from the house carrying something in

his hands. Seymour tried to imagine what

would be at the end of the dirt lane but he

was sure he would find Blanche there.

Surprise and the darkness would be his

only allies in his quest to free the librarian

from the fiend who held her captive. When

the image moving down the trail vanished

from his view Seymour opened the back

door, prepared to venture into the

unknown.

The crackle of the radio brought

Deputy Guest back from her deep thoughts

as she turned down the rural road that lead

to the Cummings’ home. Otis’ ears perked

up when they heard the voice of the

Sheriff over the system.

“Deputy Guest, Lupo here, where

are you?”

“I’m a few blocks from the

Cummings’ house. What’s your situation

there?”

“We’ve got one dead, a Felix

Unger, and the owner, Beverly Davis says

the killer was named Lester, no last name

given.”

“I’m rolling up on the house now,

got a pickup parked on the main road,

looks like Seymour’s. Doesn’t appear to

be anybody in it.”

“Guest, do not proceed without

backup. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah, I got you Sheriff but

something is going to go down here pretty

quick, I may be able to save a life if I get

in there.”

“Damn it! Where’s your backup?

Natalie, I’m leaving it up to you. It’s your

call but use your head. I don’t want you

playing the hero there and check your

service weapon before you leave your

unit.

Keep

us

appraised,” Angelo

cautioned his youngest officer.

Natalie stepped from her K-9 Unit

just at the same time that Seymour started

the treacherous walk to the shed. Standing

at the back of the station wagon the Deputy

pulled her service 9mm semi-automatic,

slid back the action and put a high velocity

round into the chamber, leaving sixteen

shells in the magazine. She opened the

door exposing, the cage where Otis stood,

wagging his tail and whining quietly.

“That’s a good boy. Be quiet now,

Otis,” she said, as she released him,

holding his collar long enough to put a

leash on him.

Canine and handler moved at the

same pace as Seymour, the two separated

by seventy-five yards but without any

knowledge where the other was. At the

mailbox, Otis sniffed and raised both front

paws, coming to rest on the poorly

maintained structure. He let out a low,

deep howl; sounding like a wolf calling

his mate.

At the shed, Lester ignited the

incriminating items in the fifty-gallon

drum and was returning to Blanche when

he heard the dog. He spun and looked

down the trail but could see no one

coming. He exited away from the flaming

barrel and into the trees, protecting him

from view.

Seymour heard the dog as well, the

opportunity for surprise gone, he pressed

on, feeling that Blanche was in danger. He

could see the flames through the trees and

the smoke billowing up into the darkness.

Pausing only briefly, he calculated his

options, knowing that if he moved toward

the fire he would surely find Blanche. She

would be waiting there to pull him close

and seal their reunion with a kiss. The

rifle continued to weigh him down, the

barrel forward and leading the way, he

moved more swiftly now, afraid that

Lester would do something foolish and

harm Blanche.

Down the driveway Deputy Guest

pulled her service weapon from the

holster and in doing so removed one of

her hands from the leash that was holding

Otis back. The powerful dog sensed the

possibility of escape, being so excited to

get his man; he bolted away from Natalie

and raced down the drive toward the shed.

She pursued her friend, gun drawn and at a

dead run, her heart beating out of her

chest, not knowing what she would

encounter once she caught up to her

partner.

Seymour charged down the trail

toward the fire and smoke, anticipating

that a shelter of some sort must lie nearby.

Just when the silhouette of the small shed

came into view he saw the glint of a blade

rushing toward him from his right. He

turned to bring the muzzle of the antique

weapon to bear on his target but Lester

had been too quick. With the hunting knife

in his right hand, he used his left to thrust

the heavy barrel up, just as Seymour

pulled the trigger and the rifle discharged,

sending a flash of fire and smoke from the

barrel but only into the night’s sky. The

blast from the ancient gun was deafening

and the recoil set Seymour back on his

heels. Lester took the brief advantage and

thrust the fine-edged blade under the

defensive right arm of Seymour and began

to impale the steel between his ribs; when

the growl of a huge German Shepherd

could be heard, fast approaching.

Otis left the ground six feet in front

of the assailant and carried his 105

pounds through the air, jaws open, front

paws extended. Before Lester could pull

the blade from Seymour’s side Otis had

his left arm in his jaws and was shaking

the man, driving him to the ground.

Further down the trail Deputy

Guest was covering the distance as

quickly as she could. The gunshot had sent

a shiver through her and she could not

deny that she was, for the first time since

this investigation began, scared beyond

reason. The sound of Otis attacking

someone could barely be made out through

the crisp night air. She pushed on,

anticipating the scene just a few yards

ahead.

Seymour lay sprawled out on the

ground, his blood mingling with the dirt

from the trail. The shepherd battled The

Stalker and had the upper hand but

Seymour could see the blade again being

raised high above the fighting duo, then

pitch downward quickly, driving the blade

deeply into the left front shoulder of the

brave dog. Otis yelped but continued his

fight, thrashing at the man’s arm, not done

with the job he was trained to do.

Seymour grasped for the rifle and ejected

the spent shell, reached for a live round

from his front pocket, the pain causing the

simple act to be monumental. He managed

to extract the lead tipped shell and slide it

into the chamber. Before him he saw the

moonlight reflect off the blade again, as

Lester raised it above the pair. Seymour

rolled onto his back, the heavy rifle

between his legs, with all the energy that

he had left, he brought the barrel up and

level with Lester’s chest.

Natalie saw the blade bite into the

body of Otis and she screamed, “No!” but

no one heard her. She ran the last few feet

to bring her within range of the assailant

and her dog. The young officer struggled

to get a line of sight on The Stalker and

did not want to kill her best friend. The

blade lifted into the air above them again

and she knew that the next blow would be

deadly.

In the very moment when Otis' life

should have been taken, the Deputy and

Seymour fired simultaneously. Guest’s

aim

was

true,

her

slug

arriving

milliseconds before Seymour, striking

Lester in the hand and flipping the hunting

blade through the air, landing in the dirt.

The large caliber Sharps bucked and

rocked Seymour onto his back, the bullet

finding its mark in the center of The

Stalker’s chest, picking him up and

propelling him backward six feet,

collapsing in a pile of lifeless tissue. Otis

attempted to get to his feet but being

unable, crawled, using his three good legs

and dragging the other, to make his way to

Seymour, laying himself down next to the