This Blog is a compilation of different great stories from many sources which is a work of art by different authors. The goal of this blog is to give a nice cross section of short stories in the hope that these short stories will excite people into rediscovering this excellent source of entertainment. The stories in this blog are fictional and non-fictional and are the highest quality stories from great writers around the world.
Friday, September 16, 2016
CRIME: Maude's Deceptions
By
Joan Ramirez
“If you feel that way about me,
don’t come to visit,” Godfrey James yelled as the guard led him out of the
Trenton Prison’s visiting room.
Alex James grit his teeth. After an
argument with his estranged brother, Alex didn’t relish battling the rain to
return to Manhattan. He’d be better off finding a cheap place to stay and
getting something to eat. He could head back to the city the following morning.
Good thing his boss knew that he was here. Ashamed of brother’s incarceration,
he’d told Mr. Alcot that he checked in on his ailing aunt every Friday
afternoon.
Alex hurried to the ticket counter
in the bus station. “It’s pouring out there. When’s the next bus?”
“Sorry son. You just missed it. The
next one isn’t until very later in the evening,” the agent replied.
Alex would have to go with Plan B.
“Do you know a place I can rent a
room for the night?”
The man behind the window took one
look at the dark circles under Alex’s eyes as well as his sagging shoulders and
wrote a number on a slip of paper.
“Go to Maude’s B&B. It’s not the
Hilton, but the rooms are clean, and the old lady makes a great breakfast. Tell
her I sent you. She likes referrals.”
“Thanks,” Alex said walking out to
the taxi stand.
En route to the inn, Alex popped
another Tums into his mouth. The way his luck was running, the innkeeper was
probably a crazy old lady.
A half hour later, the cab arrived
at the B&B. Alex gathered his jacket
collar tighter around his neck and inside. The rain, which subsided during the
drive to Maude’s Inn, returned with a vengeance. After handing the driver a
paltry tip, Alex raced up the rickety wooden steps and rang the bell.
“Who’s there?” a nervous voice
asked.
Alex positioned himself in front of
the peephole so the proprietress could look him over.
“My name is Alex Reynolds. The train
station attendant said that you might have a vacancy.”
The door opened with a chain
attached.
“Can I see some identification?”
Maude Franklin asked.
Alex held his driver’s license at
eye level. He heard the chain come off the latch.
“Sorry if I appeared a bit paranoid,
but one never knows who’s roaming these streets with the prison so close,” she
said.
Alex shook out his coat and hung it
on a hook in the mud room and followed her into the parlor. The furnishings and draperies would have made
an antique dealer’s heart flutter. On
closer inspection though, Alex could see how worn the upholstery was and
concluded that Maude had bought them at some show. She and her family were probably the original
owners, and they made sure they got their money’s worth out of everything.
The proprietress had a thick neck
and big chest. Plump hips were squeezed into a floral print dress about to give
way at the seams. At five feet nine inches,
she was a good sized woman. The lace trim and buttons on the cuffs and hem were
as yellow as the woman’s cigarette stained teeth. Her cheeks matched her
bloodshot eyes. The Gibson girl hairdo was about five decades too late to be
considered stylish.
When Maude turned to leave the room,
the seams in her stockings stood out like a sore thumb. “Please fill out the
registry card on the coffee table. I’ll be back with a cup of tea and honey to
warm you.”
Alex slipped out of his loafers and
walked over to the living room fireplace to dry his soaking wet feet.
Maude returned with a dainty china
tea cup and matching saucer.
He savored every sip of the hot
liquid. “Thank you. It’s like my grandmother’s.
I can taste the cinnamon and honey.”
He handed her the delicate china,
which she placed on a lamp table.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you
to your room. It’s not fancy like those big city motels, but I keep it spic and
span.”
Maude walked upstairs and opened the
door. A four-poster bed took center stage in a room with starched curtains on
two sets of windows. A fireplace was on the opposite wall. Paradise.
“I’ll get a fire going. It will keep
you cozy through the night,” she said. “There are hot towels on the
radiator. Why don’t you take a relaxing
shower? I’ll go down and start
dinner. I’ll call when it’s ready. It will be nice to have some company.”
“Are there any other guests?”
Maude shook her head. “Another
prison visitor. He’s been moping in his room for two days. Sad story. See you
in a bit.”
As soon as Maude closed the door,
Alex stripped and hopped into the shower. The hot water and milled soap felt
great on his skin. The day’s tension faded. The need for sleep superseded
hunger.
Alex wrapped himself in a terry
cloth robe hanging on the back of the door and collapsed on the bed.
About an hour later, Maude knocked
on the door. “Dinner is served.”
When Alex opened, she handed him his
clothes, neatly pressed and on hangers.
He rolled his eyes. “They were
soaking wet.”
Maude let go of a girlish giggle. “I
raised three sons and a daughter. I’ve seen it all. While you were asleep, I
took the liberty of laundering your clothes.”
Unaccustomed to kindness from
strangers, Alex forced a smile. He followed the proprietress downstairs and
into a spacious dining room with two settings.
After saying grace, she placed ample
portions of turkey, mashed potatoes, carrots, stuffing, and cranberry sauce on
his plate.
He savored every mouthful. “This is
fantastic. I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality.”
When he’d finished eating, Alex
noticed an upright piano opposite the living room fireplace.
He walked over and lifted the cover.
“May I?”
“Be my guest,” Maude said. “It
belonged to my husband. No one has
played it in years. I’m afraid it may
need tuning.”
Before long, she joined him in
song. By the time the cuckoo clock
struck nine, Alex felt sleepy.
“Have a good rest, dear,” she said.
“I’m going to finish knitting an afghan I’ve been working on for my
granddaughter.”
Alex went upstairs and slid under
the covers, more mellow than he’d felt in weeks. About three hours later, loud
noises from the room down the hall roused him out of a deep slumber.
He peered out to investigate. The
hostile voices grew more hostile. Alex walked toward the argument and pressed
his ear against the door.
“If you’d been kinder to my
daughter, she wouldn’t be in that hellhole,” Maude said.
“With you for a mother-in-law, what
do I expect? From the minute Roslyn brought me into this house, you’ve treated
me like trash.”
“That’s because you are. How a
college-educated girl like my baby could marry a no account garage mechanic
I’ll never know. She didn’t rob the bank or kill the teller.”
Alex peaked through the keyhole. A
man of about forty unbuttoned his shirt. “These aren’t hickeys.”
Alex squinted to see scratch marks
on the man’s chest.
He continued his tirade. “Your baby
girl does drugs. She used her Ivy League degree as a cover for her habit. Then
she made a fool of me. I thought she was a lady instead of a good lay. I should
have banged her and left.”
Maude dried a falling tear. “My
daughter’s had it rough. After my husband died, she took odd jobs to pay
tuition and help me to keep this inn going.”
Maude pointed to her knees. “My
arthritis is going to do me in long before she’s released.”
The enraged man walked across the
room and lifted a fireplace poker over her head. “I’ve traveled from California
to see Rosalyn. If you don’t shut your trap, I’ll put you out of your misery.”
Alex couldn’t let the big lug hurt
an innocent old lady. He kicked in the door and stepped between them.
“Drop that thing.”
The man turned to Maude. “Who’s he?”
“A paying boarder,” Maude replied.
“Alex, I can handle the situation. Please leave.”
“Get the hell out of here,” the
enraged man screamed.
Alex quickly landed a right jab to
the man's jaw.
He tipped backward and hit his head
against the edge of the fireplace’s marble mantle.
Alex saw blood oozing from the back
of his head. “He’s hurt. We should call a doctor.”
Maude picked up the poker and
whacked her son-in-law several more times.
Alex screamed, “What are you doing?
Are you insane?”
Maude’s eyes seemed to have glazed
over. She lifted the bloody poker and turned toward Alex. “You’re next.”
“What did I do?” he said, taking a
couple of steps back.
Maude laughed. “I’ve been trying to
get rid of that useless piece of crap for years. Roslyn never should have
married him. If I’d let him testify, Roslyn would’ve fried in the hot seat. He
was out to destroy her. You’re the perfect patsy.”
Maude raised the poker to strike
Alex. To her chagrin, the son-in-law rallied to pull it out of her hand,
hitting her in the forehead.
”You son of a bitch,” she cried,
collapsing on the rug.
The son-in-law moved to attack Alex
but collapsed on the floor.
Alex stooped to check his pulse. He
was gone. In death, he’d taken Maude
with him.
Alex ran back to his room, hurried
into his clothes, and dialed a cab service, making sure to give them a location
two blocks from Maude’s place. He hurried downstairs, tore up his registration
card, and wiped down everything he’d touched. After he’d locked the front door,
Alex walked in the pouring rain to the pickup spot.
A few minutes later, the cab
arrived.
Alex plunked his wet bottom on the
back seat. “Thanks, buddy. I need to catch a train to New York City. My father
had a heart attack. I want to say goodbye before he dies.”
“Sorry about that son. I’ll get you
there, but the first bus isn’t until early in the morning. You’ll have to camp
out in the waiting room for several hours until it arrives.”
The noise of an arriving bus woke
Alex from uncomfortable slumber on a bench. Jumping on, he seized the first
seat and closed his eyes, but visions of Maude’s lifeless body on the carpet
forced them open.
CRIME: Carly's Mistake
By
Jim Harrington
The double date was a favor for
Carly’s roommate, Sara. Josh, Carly’s date, who had recently moved to the city,
was a college buddy of Sara’s boyfriend, Ken. The evening went well. They
strolled through Central Park to view the autumn leaves—Sara’s idea. Then they
rode the subway to a Thai bistro near the girls’ apartment—Carly’s choice. The
girls shared a bottle of Riesling wine. The guys drank beer and sang karaoke.
“So what do you think of Josh?” Sara
asked Carly in the ladies’ room. “He’s really cute.”
“He’s okay,” Carly replied, coming
out of a stall.
“What do you mean, ‘okay’?” Sara
said. “If I weren’t with Ken, dot, dot, dot.” She punctuated that thought with
a wink and a smile.
“You know what my job is like,”
Carly replied. “I don’t have time for a relationship right now.” She checked
her lipstick in the mirror, looked to see if any was on her teeth, and fluffed
her short, brown hair.
“Well, you know what they say,” Sara
said with a shrug, “all work and no play, dot, dot, dot.”
The night ended a little after ten
when Carly said she had an early meeting.
She thanked Josh for an enjoyable
night, let herself into the apartment building, rode the elevator to the third
floor, stripped to her panties, and climbed in bed just as Sara stuck her head
in the door. “The guys had a good time,” she said, “and want to do it again
sometime.”
“We’ll see,” Carly replied.
***
Working on two new ad campaigns plus
preparing a presentation for a potential client took all of Carly’s energy for
the next few days, including an all-day strategy meeting on Saturday and
working most of Sunday putting the final touches on materials for her Monday
meetings. She ignored the phone, at first, when it rang Sunday evening, but
decided to pick it up. It might be her Pops wondering why she hadn’t called
earlier in the day like she always did on Sunday. She didn’t bother checking
the caller ID.
“Hello?” She said.
“Hey, Carly, it’s me. How’s it
going?” She frowned when she heard the voice and realized it wasn’t her dad.
“I’m okay, Josh, just very busy with
work. How did you get my number?”
“Even on the weekends?” he asked,
ignoring Carly’s question.
“I’m afraid so.” Carly rubbed her
temples and took a deep breath. He must have gotten the number from Ken. “In
fact, I’m kinda busy at the moment.”
“Oh. Well, sorry to disturb you,”
Josh said. “Maybe you’ll be less busy by Friday, and we can go out again.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea
right now. I’d be a terrible date, always thinking about work.”
“That’s okay. I’m a good listener.”
Sure you are, thought Carly.
“I’ve got to get back to work,
Josh.” She wasn’t going to say more and give him any hope of there being
another date.
“Okay. Another time.”
“Bye, Josh.” She hung up, grabbed a
Diet Pepsi out of the fridge, and went back to work.
***
By Thursday, Carly felt like she was
sleep walking through her day. She entered the apartment around seven and was
met by Sara and Ken.
“Wow, you look beat,” Sara said.
“I feel beat,” Carly replied.
“Well, we’ve got some news for you.”
Sara looked at a smiling Ken and back at Carly. “We’re engaged!” Sara jump out
of her chair and flapped her hand in the air.
“Congratulations,” Carly said with
as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
“We haven’t set a date yet, but we
plan on living together.” Sara looked at Ken again. “I’ll be moving out on
Saturday.”
“Gee, that’s short notice, Sara.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I know this is
quick, but I plan to pay my part of the rent for six months, or until you find
another roommate. Is that fair?”
“More than fair. I appreciate it,”
Carly said, falling into the living room chair.
“Who knows. Maybe by then you and
Josh will be an item, and he will take my place.”
Carly slumped further into the
chair.
***
The Sunday after Sara moved out,
Carly sat in front of the TV watching the Packers play the Giants. Having come
to New York from Wisconsin, she took every opportunity to watch her favorite
team. Today’s game was close, but she had confidence in her Packers’ ability to
pull off a win. Just as half time started, the phone rang.
“Hey, Pops. Watching the game?” She
knew he was. It was something they did together every Sunday after mom left.
“Hey, Babe. Who’s Pops?”
“Hi, Josh,” Carly said, feeling the
onset of another headache. Since Josh hadn’t called for a week, she thought he
might have given up on her. “Pops is my dad. We usually talk every Sunday.
Although I’ve missed a few weeks. He understands how busy I am at work and
usually waits for me to call.” She hoped Josh could take a hint.
“Oh. Okay. Thought I might have some
competition,” Josh said with what sounded to Carly like an irritated chuckle.
“Nope. No competition at the
moment.”
“There better not be. I’d hate to
think you were leading me on and seeing another guy on the side.”
Carly couldn’t believe what she was
hearing. “No, there’s no other guy, Josh. There isn’t any guy.”
“Like I said, there better not be.”
Carly heard a hardness in his voice that made her cringe. “Anyway, you up for
some dinner? We could go back to that Thai place you like.”
“No, thanks. I already ate,” Carly
lied.
“Dessert?”
“I’ve gotta go, Josh,” Carly said
and hung up before he could reply.
The next night the light on her
phone was blinking when she got home. She pushed a button, and a voice told her
she had three messages.
“Hey, Babe. How about getting a
pizza tonight?”
She deleted the message and went to
the next.
“Hey, Babe, I forget to say it was
me, Josh. Here’s my number. Give me a call when you get home.”
She deleted that one and went to the
next.
“It’s Josh again. Why haven’t you
called? You sure there isn’t another guy?”
Carly’s legs wobbled and she slumped
into the chair by her desk. Was this guy for real?
There were multiple messages on her
phone the next two nights. All from Josh. Each one more threatening. Sunday
morning, after a restless night’s sleep, she went to the hall closet and
grabbed the box on the back of the shelf. In it was the revolver Pops had given
her before she moved to New York. “You never know what kind of loonies you’ll
meet there,” he’d said. She sat at the kitchen table, took the gun out of the
box, held it in her hands and stared at it for a few minutes. She knew how to
shoot. Pops had taken her to a gun range three times to teach her what to do.
After a cleansing breath, she loaded the chambers and put the gun in her night
stand. Just as she closed the drawer, the phone rang. She put the receiver to
her ear but said nothing.
“Hey, bitch, it’s me, Josh. I know
you’re in there. Who’s the guy?”
“I keep telling you, Josh. There is
no guy.”
“I don’t believe you. Let me in so I
can see for myself.”
Carly walked to the window and saw
him standing on the sidewalk. “There is no one here, and I’m not letting you
in. In fact, if you don’t leave, I’m calling the cops.” Carly slammed the
receiver down, closed her eyes, and took a few deep breathes. She looked out
the window again and thought she saw Josh across the street sitting on a stoop.
She grabbed a beer from the fridge and tried watching the rest of the football
game, but Josh kept popping into her mind.
For the next few nights, every time
the phone rang she let it go to voice mail. Most of the calls were from Josh.
There were a couple from Pops. She was afraid of what her Pops might do if she
told him what was going on, so she decided not to call him back until her
problem with Josh was solved.
On Thursday, Josh rang her bell and
threatened her over the intercom. She had feared this happening and wondered
why it had taken him so long. Instead of letting Josh in, she called the police
and explained what was going on. She watched from the window as the patrol car
pulled up. Unfortunately, Josh was gone.
The two officers took her statement
and canvassed her neighbors. The policemen reported back to Carly that no one
had seen a stranger out front, or, the officers surmised, no one wanted to get
involved. “It would help if there was a security camera pointed at the door,”
the older officer said. Carly nodded in agreement. They told her to call if she
felt threatened again. She said she would but doubted if anything would be done
unless Josh physically harmed her in some way.
Later that evening, alone in her
room, Carly held the gun in her hands, flipped the safety off and on, and
stared out the window. A neon light from down the street flickered in a
syncopated rhythm. Street smells that she’d ignored before permeated the room.
The gun felt slippery in her damp palms. The intercom buzzer rang. She ignored
it. It rang again. She ignored it again.
She heard a man’s voice in the hall
having a conversation with a woman, maybe Mrs. Murray. She couldn’t hear what
was being said over the voices in her head. She moved into the hallway and
pointed the gun toward the front door. Josh was not going to hurt her.
She saw a shadow under the door and
flipped the safety off. There a knock on her door, then a louder one. A voice
called her name. The voices in her head warned her to be ready. There was a
third knock on the door, the knob turned. “Leave me alone, Josh.” He was trying
to get into her room. He was going to rape her. She knew it. Carly aimed the
gun, steadied her hands and squeezed the trigger, just like Pops had taught
her.
Hearing a thud, she opened the door.
A body lay face down on the carpet. A pool of blood formed on the hall rug. She
stared at the back of the man’s head. Something didn’t seem right. She turned
the body over and screamed.
“Pops?”
CRIME: The Great Detective
By
Rufus Woodward
We are in the drawing room with the
Great Detective. Everyone is assembled. All the family, the household staff,
the weekend guests, anyone who has been
near this place since we found the body of poor old Aunt Charlotte last Friday
evening. It is time, it seems, for the
grand finale. This is the moment where
he lines everyone up and unravels the mystery for us. This is the part where he
explains exactly what has been going on, displays at great length every facet
of his genius before eventually, finally pointing a finger at the murderer.
I don’t know about anyone else, but
I very nearly didn’t come. It’s a Sunday
evening, after all. I should be out on
the golf course, or relaxing somewhere with a cigar and a brandy, not sweating
away in here with the rest of the family.
Still, this detective fellow is a difficult man to say no to
sometimes. He has an oddly persuasive
manner about him. You find yourself
agreeing to the oddest things.
Besides, it is rather in our
interest to be here. We are suspects
after all and we know it. We’ve all had
to put up with a questioning and cross-examination from the man himself, as
well as the usual clumsy prodding from the local constabulary. Nobody, it is fair to say, has enjoyed the
process. All sorts of skeletons emerging
from closets, you understand. You can’t imagine the feathers he’s been
bristling this past few days. It really
has been marvelously enlightening!
God only knows how he gets away with
it. You'd have thought there'd be rules against this sort of thing. Other
people have to play it by the book, to follow procedure and whatnot, but none
of that seems to apply to him. Genius makes its own rules, I suppose. And he does have this habit of always, inevitably
solving the crime. There is no puzzle, they say, that the great man cannot
unlock, no code he cannot break. If there are jewels to be found, he will find
them. If there is a plot to be stopped, he will stop it. Reading his press he
comes across like some sort of all-seeing superman with a monocle and a
waistcoat. The flawless bloodhound who
always, always gets his man.
All of which is a little bit
worrying for me at this stage, to be honest. You see (and I do hate to spoil
the surprise for you) I am the murderer.
It was me. I did it. So you can imagine how exceedingly
disconcerting it is to have to sit here and watch him explain, in great detail
and with no little flair, exactly how I managed to pull the thing off. Very
worrying indeed.
So far, he has everything pretty
much spot on. The motive - Aunt Charlotte's money, of course, and the threat of
a horrid new codicil in that valuable old will of hers. The method - arsenic in
the hot chocolate (I am so fond of the classics). The misdirection - putting
the poison into Charlotte's secret brandy stash too, so as to make it look as
though the murder might have taken place much earlier than it actually did. I
have to say I'm very impressed. Even in my precarious situation I can't help
but admire the skill with which he's picked it all apart. He's even unravelled that little double bluff
I set up - planting the arsenic bottle in my own luggage but cunningly making
it look as though young Emma - the waiflike maidservant who has a thing for
Cousin Stewart - must have put it there.
I fear there's no denying it. He's
seen right through everything and it's only a matter of time before I hear the
snap of handcuffs around my wrists. I should be upset, but to be honest I'm
enjoying the show too much. More than
that, I’m actually eager to hear see exactly how he's going to pin me down. No
doubt there was some shoddy mistake I made along the way, that's the way these
things normally pan out. I'm sure that whatever happens I'll completely deserve
everything that comes my way. I'm not asking for any sympathy. I am guilty
after all, there's no question about that.
So I'm sitting back in my chair,
quite resigned to my fate when he comes to summing things up and prepares to
unveil the culprit. I'm not even listening properly anymore. It’s so obvious
what's coming next that I've already begun to mentally prepare my confession
and congratulations to the sleuth. Something suitably witty and
self-deprecating I'm thinking. Something sharp with a little bit of style. If one
has to go to the gallows, one might as well be cheerful about it, don’t you
think?
You can imagine my surprise then,
when his voice rises to a crescendo, a peak of flamboyant outrage and, standing
right in front of me, he spins and stretches out a finger and declares the
murder to be none other than...Great Uncle Philip? Really? That decrepit old
codger in the wheelchair? Can he be serious?
At first I can't believe it. It
doesn't seem possible he's made such an obvious blunder. I'm waiting for him to
crack a joke and turn his glare my way, but he never does. Instead, to Uncle
Philip’s horrified indignation, he runs through all the evidence that proves
indisputably that he is the only one of us who could possibly have committed
the crime. I'm glad to say that it does all sound very convincing. So much so
that I begin to wonder whether I'm not the only murderer in the room. Maybe we
both did it? Who knows? Either way it seems like I've pulled it off. I’ve managed to luck my way past the Great
Detective and all his lackeys.
CRIME: Stolen
By
Chris Bedell
Black hugged the night sky while
rays of light shined down from the moon after the car pulled into my driveway.
I tilted my head while sitting in
the front passenger seat. “Thank you for tonight, Patrick.”
He gave my hand a squeeze. “You’re
welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”
I winked. “And what’s that supposed
to mean?”
The color disappeared from his
cheeks. “Nothing. I just noticed you seemed stressed with the SAT’s coming up.
I didn’t mean anything bad by it, Rachel”
The lump lingered in my throat and I
was unable to swallow it. I couldn’t. I might have been having fun with
Patrick, but he still didn’t know the real me. Not yet. It was too dangerous.
“Is this the part where I kiss you
goodnight before your Mom notices?” Patrick asked.
I flipped my hair over my shoulders.
“I don’t want a guy to ask if he can kiss me.”
“Fair enough.” Patrick leaned in for
a quick peck on the lips, managing to wrap his hands around my face. The
embrace lasted for what must have been a good ten seconds, allowing me to
inhale the sweet and earthly mixture of whatever cologne he put on for our
date.
“Text me tomorrow.” I undid my
seatbelt before getting out of the car and closing the door.
His smile widened, showcasing his
well-aligned teeth. “Will do.”
The clunky sound of the ignition
started a moment later before Patrick honked his car horn goodbye and pulled
out of the driveway. I then made my way up the front steps and took out a key from
my pocket before unlocking the door.
Locking the front door was a
precaution my Mom had to take because we couldn’t afford any surprises. It
didn’t even matter if we lived in a safe neighbor or that there hadn’t been a
murder in Clarkton in over a decade. Leaving the door locked was a reflex born
out of necessity-like breathing.
My Mom sat on the living room couch
with a glass of wine on the table. But unfortunately for me, the vein on her
forehead surfaced to the top of her head. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I rolled my eyes at her. “I don’t
know why you’re so mad, Mom.”
She bit her lip. “I can’t help it.
It’s my job to care about you.”
“As you can see, I’m fine. Maybe
you’d feel better if you finished your glass of wine,” I said.
Her jaw twitched. “Don’t change the
subject, dear. You know what’s at stake.”
I huffed at her. “You should be glad
I found happiness with Patrick.”
“I am, but we can’t afford to take
any risks. Not after last time.” My Mom reached for her wine, taking a good sip
before putting it down on the oak coffee table.
I crossed my arms. “I think we’re
fine. He’s dead.”
“I’m aware of that, but that doesn’t
mean we’re safe.” She picked at one of her nails, giving herself a distraction.
“You like Patrick, don’t you?” I
said, stuttering.
She inhaled several deep breaths.
“That’s not the issue, and you know it. But for the record, yeah, Patrick’s
nice.”
An awkward silence ensued for a
couple of minutes while we stared at each other, as if we were waiting for the
other person to speak.
My Mom waved her hand through the
air. “You’re right. Maybe I should get back out there too.”
I forced a polite expression. “That
would be good. You deserve to have some fun. But I hope you know how sorry I
am. I never meant for things to get out of control with Mr. Stan.”
She sighed. “I believe you, dear.
You don’t owe me any explanations; not now. I trust you.”
My eyes traveled to the end of the
table, making me almost grunt at the photo. “I don’t even know why you’re
looking at his picture. He was my boyfriend, not yours.”
“Don’t remind me,” My Mom said.
“The age of consent in Connecticut
is 16. Although maybe I should have known better than to get involved with my
teacher.” I started pacing back and forth, unable to make direct eye contact
with my Mom.
Cackles fell from her mouth. “I
wouldn’t brag about that.”
“What happened was your fault, and
you know it. You should never have told his wife the truth.” I paused, taking
in another breath. “Yeah. I know what you did.”
“It’s not like he got arrested and
was branded a sex offender. The relationship might not have been illegal, but
it was still inappropriate.” She averted her gaze to the family portrait of
her, my Dad, and I that was taken around my tenth birthday, which was one of
the last times we were happy. It was before my Dad died of cancer.
I pursed my lips. “So you finally
admit your betrayal? Pretending to be supportive while scheming behind my
back?”
She remained silent.
“Here! Let me take care of it.” I
reached for the photograph, tearing it up into a bunch of pieces and letting
them fall to the ground.
She wagged a finger at me. “They
never found a body, you know.”
I snickered. “You watch too much TV,
Mom. So. Yeah. You don’t need wine-just take a Xanax.”
“This isn’t a joke. We’re lucky I
got us new identities from my FBI friend because I don’t think I could do that
again. Anyway, I’m glad you had fun, but I’m going to bed.” My Mom got up
despite her half full drink and trudged up the stairs without another word,
letting me ponder my thoughts alone.
I couldn’t help but glance down at
the ripped up pieces of the photo on the carpet…
I hadn’t realized what Jake did the
moment it happened since I was asleep on my bed. But the last thing I
remembered was eating dinner with my Mom and Jake a.k.a. Mr. Stan.
I yawned, rubbing my eyes before
putting my hand against my forehead. Sweat currently stuck to my face, making
me run out of my bedroom door.
A sea of red, orange, and yellow
engulfed my previous house in Connecticut while the smoke grew thicker by the
minute. I just didn’t understand it.
“I had to say goodbye to you,”
called out a hoarse voice.
I spun around, noticing him. “What
the hell did you do?”
He smirked at me. “Because of you
and your Mom, Jill left me and took the kids. I have no idea where she went.”
“Think fast.” I grabbed the lamp
from my nightstand, unplugging it in the process before smacking Jake across
the head. His body made a thumping sound after hitting the floor.
I raced out of my bedroom as fast as
I could, darting down the hallway to my Mom’s room. She woke up a couple of
seconds later, and we didn’t have time to think after glancing out of her
bedroom. The fire had spread everywhere, and we did the one thing we could do.
We went out the bedroom window. It was the second floor, and there was only a
garden underneath it, as opposed to a driveway-meaning there was a chance we
wouldn’t break our necks.
The house was reduced to ashes by
the time the fire department arrived. Not that my Mom and I wanted to live
there after what happened. We couldn’t. Not after Mr. Stan shook up our lives
by his act of violence. Thinking Mr. Stan drugged my Mom and I wasn’t absurd
since there had to be a reason we fell asleep after dinner-proving he had no
traces of innocence left. Because trying to kill my Mom and I wasn’t a crime of
passion, it was premeditated.
The sound of the wind rattling
against the house brought me back to reality, and I went to bed. I would put
the thought of Mr. Stan out of my head since there was no reason to think about
the situation. I was done with him.
***
The hairs on my back pricked up the
following morning when I went for my daily walk, but I tried not to get upset
because good girls don’t think about psychopaths. It’s not polite. Besides, I
was determined to get a good night sleep even if every night over the last two
years had been spent with the burned image of the fire flashing through the my
mind while trying to fall asleep, only to finally doze off so late in the night
that rest wouldn’t make any difference since I would wake up tired in the
morning.
***
I went for another walk the next day
on Sunday evening around twilight while a car engine roared in the background,
pulling up next to me.
I looked in the backseat of the car,
gasping at the person with the dry bloodstain on his forehead because I would
have recognized the blond hair anywhere. It was Patrick.
I smacked my hand over my mouth,
muffling my screams before the front driver’s seat window rolled down.
There was something familiar about
the man even though I didn’t want to admit it.
“Hello, Clarissa,” the person said,
snorting. The window rolled up a moment later before the man drove out of
sight.
It couldn’t be Mr. Stan since the
fireman hadn’t even found so much as one tooth in the fire. But calling me
Clarissa? That was my old name, which was something Mr. Stan would have known.
Tears trickled down my face while I
walked home.
My Mom plopped up from her garden
the moment we crossed paths after she yanked a weed.
“Something wrong, honey?” she asked.
“It’s Patrick.” I continued sobbing
even louder this time. “Mr. Stan killed him.”
“We should get inside,” My Mom said
before grabbing my hand and guiding me up the property and into the house.
The details might have been murky,
but I didn’t need a label to tell me what was true because I knew who was in
the driver’s seat. There was no doubt about it. But everything would be fine
despite how I had unfinished business with Mr. Stan. I was prepared to kill him
because he stole Patrick from me, and I wasn’t going to back down.
***
The ignition halted once I took the
key out of it after pulling up to a lake house hours out of town several days
later.
I knew what I had to do even if it
would be difficult. The place was Mr. Stan’s. He had given me a key so I could
take the train and sneak away to his second home on the weekends (which was
before I had my license). The fact was, Mr. Stan would be there if he were
alive. It made sense because that was the only thing he got when his wife and
kids left.
I grabbed my beach bag that
contained my supplies before walking up to the front door and opening it.
I waited for him, standing against
the wall (before the turn in the hallway) in the dark until clicking on the
light when Mr. Stan trekked into the living room.
“Think fast.” I smacked him with a
weight several times across his head, making him crash to the ground.
I grabbed the canister from my beach
bag, pouring gasoline all over the place before striking a match and dropping
it next to his body.
The fire started spreading and I
hurried out of the house while there was still time, as I shoved my hood up,
concealing my face.
He took Patrick from me, so I stole
his life from him and put an end to this twisted cycle.
CRIME: Three For One
By
Sean O'Grady
"I want them gone. That's the
only way you'll get her back."
Sierra zipped across Marshall Avenue
Bridge towards the St. Paul. Snow whipped through the city, gripping it in an
icy embrace. Sierra weaved through traffic like a Formula One racer desperately
racing towards the finish line.
The voice on the phone; that calm,
low baritone voice, haunted her memories. "Your daughter's brave. The gun
hardly frightened her at all. Even when stuck under her chin. A brave soul you
raised. She's safe...but only for now." Only for now, that last line
repeating itself like a chant. Sierra fought hard against the visions that
engulfed her, a horrific film reel that wouldn't stop. Her grip on the wheel
threatened to rip it from its stem; her frozen breath like a great fist in her
chest.
"Jessica..." Sierra wailed
at the empty air around her. "Goddamnit. I didn't want this, not
this."
The Beretta 9mm laid on the
passenger seat, the loaded weapon resting like a coiled snake. Eleven years,
eleven years away from the pull of the object of black steel and metal. Even in
her panic she felt it calling for her now. Sierra crossed the bridge and drove
deep into downtown St. Paul. She looked at the clock on the dashboard:
nine-twenty. Everything needed to be finished by ten.
"It was easy finding you,"
the middleman had said earlier. "We have contacts everywhere; police, city
hall, registries. Names change, but photos never do. You got careless, arrogant
in your hiding. We found you. You left us. Now you must pay your debt to the
Syndicate. Either their blood or your daughter's."
Theirs or your daughter's.
The Penfield Apartments loomed in
sight. Sierra parked across from the building. Nine-thirty, nine-thirty.
Stepping out a cold wind struck her deep, blistering the bones in cold. She
walked straight to the building entrance, the gun in her holster inside her
coat. An old couple walked past her, oblivious. Sierra's heart raced faster,
the rhythmic beats echoing in her ears like a tin drum.
Inside the lobby she looked quickly,
spotting a camera near the security desk. No guard on duty; typical security,
never there when needed. The camera was too far away to get a good read on her
face. She looked at the mail slots on the wall, finding the name of the man she
needed: Parker Savage. "The famed prosecutor," Sierra said. "Got
everyone scared. Even me."
Sierra got in the elevator. Her
heart was trying to escape from her chest, breathing more ragged as she passed
each floor. Got to stay calm, be steady. This has to happen, no choice. No
choice, no choice. The doors opened on the seventh floor. Sierra stood outside
the elevator, looking down at the long hallway. She had been down many
hallways, through many doors, always delivering skill and precision to her
work. Then, the Syndicate came calling, forcing a job she could not do. A
family, all of them, they had to go. She had always stuck to her core
principle-no women, no kids. She refused. But you can never say no to the
Syndicate. She fled and Jessica came. Maybe the pregnancy changed her mind, a
chemical reaction that awakened a part of her she did not know before. When
Jessica was born the change that took hold of her would not be reversed. She
moved quickly to erase herself from that life. She and Jessica fled, to hide
and make a new life, a better one.
Now Sierra was back in the hallway,
the dark hallway that called back to her. She looked further down the hall and
saw a figure standing there. Black suit and red tie, tanned leathery skin with
cracks forming around his mouth and cheeks; a cigarette dangling from his lips.
The middleman was there, a specter calling out to Sierra from her mind.
"You know what to do. It must
be done."
"Why? Why me, damnit?"
Sierra said.
"You're good, you can't deny
your talents. But your loyalty was weak. We don't tolerate weaklings. You're
lucky we didn't kill you.
"I can't. I can't do
this."
"You want to throw her away?
Blood must be taken, you only have the choice of who."
"Crazy. All crazy,"
"The world is crazy. Those that
embrace it can live with anything, accept the dark that is the world. Those
that try to rise above it will always be dragged back down." The middleman
chuckled. Sierra blinked, the middleman was gone.
"Crazy, all crazy," Sierra
repeated to herself. She looked at her watch, nine forty-five. She walked down
the hall to door 405. She knocked and waited. The door opened a few seconds
later. A sliver of light spilling out into the hallway. Sierra saw half of
Parker appear through the crack of the door.
"Can I help you?" Parker
asked. Sierra didn't answer at first. She looked at him, passed him.
"Excuse, ma'am. Do you need
help with something."
Sierra looked at him, eyes now
focused only on Parker. She said, "Yes, yes you can help."
The gun pressed hard against
Parker's face. Done so fast he couldn't react with a scream or cry for help.
"Inside, now," Sierra
said. "No noise, keep everyone quiet." She pushed Parker back into
the apartment and closed the door. Sierra saw in the living room a woman and a
young girl on the sofa looking at the TV. Sierra pushed Parker into the room,
the woman was the first to see the gun pressed against Parekr's face. She
naturally screamed. The young girl, the daughter, followed suit when she saw
her father in peril.
"Shut them up," Sierra
yelled at Parker. She pushed him over to his wife and daughter and trained her
gun on them. Parker, babbling and crying as much as the wife and daughter,
worked on getting them to stop screaming and reduce the noise to sobbing and
pleadings. Sierra looked at the young girl. She looked like Jessica; same small
face, same soft skin. Innocence in her eyes just like her own daughter.
"What-what is...what is
this?" Parker cried out to Sierra. "What are you doing?"
"On the floor, now,"
Sierra ordered. She held up her gun, training it on Parker. 'Everyone on the
floor, on your stomachs, now."
"Please, don't hurt my family-
"On the floor, goddamnit."
The scared souls trembled and sobbed
their way to the floor. The daughter's cries grew louder and louder. Sierra
started to hear Jessica's voice; Jessica's cries over the phone now ringing in
her ear. Please, mommy, please. Help me, please.
Help me, help me, mommy, mommy,
mommy.
A tear fell from Sierra's eye.
Three shots fired. Silence fell over
the apartment. The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air. The tears kept
falling down Sierra's face. She heard in the distance her daughter's cries for
help and the last cries of the girl that laid on the ground before her.
She sent photos of the bodies to the
middleman. He demanded physical proof of the hit. He was satisfied with
everything and kept his end of the bargain. Jessica was returned to Sierra,
safe and sound. Sierra looked at her young girl, her daughter, resting in bed.
Jessica slept peacefully, her mind retreating to the realm of dreams, escaping
the events that happened today. Sierra stood there at the entrance of Jessica
's room. She didn't know how long she stood there, she just wanted to make sure
that her daughter was really there.
The middleman's words haunted her
still, the words he spoke before he left. "You won't leave again. The deed
you've done has bounded you to us, to the Syndicate. You work for us now until
the day you die. Step out of line again and your daughter will pay. You know
what we are capable of. Remember her, remember this day when you feel you want
to leave. You do, she dies.”
If you leave, she dies.
"I'm sorry," Sierra said
to Jessica. Sierra walked back to the living room and took a seat on the sofa.
She rested her head on her hands, taking in deep breathes. Snow fell outside,
slowly blanketing Minneapolis in angelic white.
The cries of Parker's family rang in
Sierra ears.
"I'm so sorry."
CRIME: Daughter for Sale
By
Samruam Singh, translated by Katherine A. Bowie.
But what was he to have done? No
matter what, he would have to let his daughter go with Yai Phloy. So what point
would there have been in disagreeing with her, in forcing her to speak the
truth? Wouldn't he only be degrading himself by admitting openly for everyone
to hear that he was so destitute that he had to sell his daughter.
After he gave his word to Yai Phloy,
Lung Maa couldn't think of what to tell his daughter. His heart ached, knowing
that the words Yai Phloy had uttered that day were outright lies. But what was
he to have done? No matter what, he would have to let his daughter go with Yai
Phloy. So what point would there have been in disagreeing with her, in forcing
her to speak the truth? Wouldn't he only be degrading himself by admitting
openly for everyone to hear that he was so destitute that he had to sell his
daughter. Far better to let Yai Phloy go on with her eloquent deception.
However wrong, he could then mumble that he had been tricked by Yai Phloy. In
any event, a man is better branded as having been conned that branded as having
sold his daughter into prostitution.
Yai Phloy's soliloquy was most
pervasive. Anyone listening to it would have been seduced by it. Yai Phloy
began by elucidating in great detail about how children's behavior these days
was getting steadily worse and worse, especially city children, and especially
in Bangkok. This was because their parents were so busy working, striving to
get ahead, that they had not time to stay at home with their children. Instead,
the children were ignored until they finally got into trouble. Hiring someone
to take care of the children was extremely difficult. Some hired servants who,
as soon as their employers weren't watching, absconded with everything in the
house. Lost of them stole, even if just a little here and there. But the major
problem was that servants were so unreliable. As soon as they were the least
bit tired or were criticized or scolded in the least. They ran away back to
their homes. Consequently, several of Bangkok's wealthy elite had requested Yai
Phloy to find them dependable girls to be their servants. They paid good wages
and, moreover, even paid money in advance. As many girls as she could get would
be placed.
Even though Yai Phloy was not from
his village, Lung Maa had known Yai Phloy since she had been a young girl. In
those days, her beauty was known throughout the subdistrict. But before any of
the local youths were able to compete for possession, Yai Phloy had already run
off to Bangkok with someone who had passed through with the medicine show.
Much, much later, when she finally came back, word had it that she had become
thoroughly Bangkokian, with a haughty manner and pretentious lifestyles. She
appeared to have become a lady of no insignificant wealth. Yai Phloy went back
and forth to Bangkok often. Of the girls that went to Bangkok with her, some
came back even poorer than before. And some disappeared completely.
Lung Maa knew perfectly well what
kind of work the girls who went with Yai Phloy did in Bangkok, because one day
he had gone to get an injection at the district health center. That day, the
only too discreet doctor there had told him that two or three girls who had
gone to Bangkok with Yai Phloy had come back with severe cases of gonorrhea, so
severe that he had to send them into town for treatment.
Lung Maa heaved a deep sigh as he
thought of his daughter who was soon to become one more in the ranks of unlucky
girls. He wanted to talk with his daughter so she would understand and be as untroubled
as possible. But he could think of nothing to say.
Paa Saeng, his partner through life,
was lying sick in the hospital in the city, suffering from an intestinal
problem. She was waiting for the money that would be used to pay for the blood
and surgery needed to sustain her life. Her survival, though, would only
continue her pain and suffering.
He couldn't borrow money from anyone
else any more. His present debt totalled already about 10,000 baht. He'd been
in debt for nearly ten years. In all those years, all his efforts had only
succeeded in ensuring that his debts compounded interest slowly.
One year, the garlic price had been
exceptionally good, which was why he found himself in his present state. The
merchants that year had come directly to the village, buying at fourteen to
fifteen baht a kilo. It meant that, for once, Lung Maa had enough money to
think of working for a better life. So, he borrowed 10,000 baht. With that and
the money he had saved previously, he bought another three rai of paddyfield.
He was willing to pay the interest rate of 150 thang (Note: Thang [pronounced
taang+ not thaang+] is a northern Thai version of bushel. During 1977, one
thang of rice can be sold for 45-50 baht. Please note also that one rai [=1,600
sq. meters or 0.4 acre] of land yields 30-60 thang per crop.) of rice per year.
He had planned to use the entire rice crop from the newly bought land to pay
the interest and use the money from the dry season to pay off the original
loan.
But he met with bad luck. The
following year, the garlic prices dropped to between thirty and fifty satang
(one 100th of baht) a kilo, despite his effort to appease the merchants by
bringing the garlic directly to their warehouses and despite the fact that the
seed he had bought had been very expensive, nearly fifty baht per kilo. He
thought they were probably garlic seeds imported from China. That year began
his downward cycle. No matter how he struggled by trying other crops, the
profit he made was only enough to see his family through. One year, the price
of rice dropped to five baht a thang, forcing him to give up his new plot of
land to his creditor. But he was still left with debts worth more than the plot
of land he had inherited from his parents. He debts kept steadily increasing.
Now he was working his remaining four rai without getting anything himself,
because the rice yield went to pay the interest on his debts. The hope that he
would one day clear himself of his debts had faded.
As he thought of his past, his eyes
brimmed with tears of bitterness at his fate, welling over as his thoughts
turned to the future. In another tow or three days, his daughter, while still
living, would be forced into hell in Bangkok. In two or three weeks, he would
once again face the painful sight of his creditor callously coming to collect
200 thang of rice. This year there had not been enough water, so he was not
sure if he would have enough rice to pay, and if there would be any left over.
Agony tore his heart as he recalled the words of his creditor, echoing in his
mind: "Maa, the money you've borrowed from me now amounts to more than the
value of the land you mortgaged. What am I to do? If it keeps on like this, I'm
afraid I's going to have to ask to claim your land and house. Next year my son
is going abroad, so I'll be having a lot of expenses myself. So please try to
pay me by then, if even only the interest."
So now his daughter had gone with
Yai Phloy. He had controlled his tears. His parting words to his daughter had
been to obey Yai Phloy without questions. If she had any problems, she should
write a letter and let him know. He consoled her by saying if he had a chance,
he would come to visit her. Of what he had prepared to tell her, nor a single
word would come out.
The 2,500 baht he had received as an
advance from Yai Phloy was barely enough to pay for Paa Saeng's hospital
expenses. And when Paa Saeng returned home and learned that her daughter had
gone off with Yai Phloy, she fainted instantly. When she recovered, she began
sobbing and sobbing. She wouldn't talk to or even look Lung Maa in face, let
alone any of her other five children who were standing around her. Lung Maa
could think of nothing to say, so he sought silent refuge in making bamboo
ties. (Note: About 2 feet long ties made of bamboo are to be used in binding
the harvested rice stalks together)
Late that night, when all their
children were asleep, Paa Saeng's voice, muffled with the sounds of weeping,
whispered, "Phii Maa, didn't you know what Ee Phloy took our daughter to do?"
"Mother, I knew, but it was
necessary. You know as well as I that we had no choice. When you were in
hospital, if we didn't have the money to pay for the cost of medicine, the
blood, the saline, and other expenses, the doctor wouldn't have been willing to
treat you. They wouldn't let us go to the destitute ward. Are you angry with
me?"
"No, I'm not angry. But I feel
so sad. Ever since I was born, there's been nothing but suffering."
"Do you know Yai Phloy
well?"
"Oh, the people in the market
place know her only too well. She's taken several of their daughters to sell
already. She gets paid 500 baht a head for some, 2-300 baht for others. She
takes whatever she can get. She's been a prostitute herself, ever since she was
young. When she was not longer able to sell herself, she began selling young
girls instead. Her parents had a lot of debts then. Now things seem to be going
better for them, but they still owe money."
"I worry about our daughter. I
feel so sorry for her. Ever since she left, I don't sleep at night."
"Phii Maa, the matter has
happened and nothing can be done, so we might as well let it pass. We'll help
each other to share the burden of our demerit. It's just as if she has gone off
and gotten a husband, only that she doesn't have a real husband...By the time
she can earn the money to help her parents, I wonder how many husbands she will
have to have..."
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