PREY by J. R. Lindermuth

PREY


They came out of the dark, circling him like vultures honing on the scent of a carcass.

Stan waited, not saying a word, knowing there was naught he could say to dissuade them. He was in their territory. He was outnumbered. He was prey.

The leader approached now, coming so close Stan smelled the man’s sour breath. “You got any money?” the man asked.

Stan shook his head. “I got a proposition.”

“We don’t deal in propositions,” one of the others said with a coarse laugh. “We like money better.”

“Money is what I’m talking about,” Stan told them.

“Whyncha say so? Spit it out, bitch.”

Stan took a deep breath and swallowed. “I want you to…” He hesitated. Could he really do this? The leader leaned closer. He took the lapel of Stan’s jacket between thumb and forefinger. “Nice cloth. Must have cost a bundle.”

“Yeah, he even smells rich,” the other said, sidling up. Whyn’t we just take his wallet? Should be plenty of money. Some nice credit cards. And look at that watch. Who knows what else. Whadya say, Jimmy? Shall we…”

“No, wait,” Stan pleaded. “Let me tell you my proposition. I’ll pay you—much more than what I’m carrying tonight.”

“Go on,” the leader said, interested.

Stan pointed. “See that building. The tall one over there?”

“Yeah. We sees it everyday. So what?”

“The owner—he’s my, uh, competition.”

“Ol’ Ray? You want we should pop Ray?”

“Well, not exactly. You see…”

“So come on, chump. What exactly is it you’re proposin’?”

Stan swallowed. He wished he still smoked. Maybe that would take the edge off his fear. He seldom came down here. Usually he got his rents in the mail. He’d only come down once in the past year. “Like I said, Ray is my competition. I own another building. The one back there—behind you.”

Some of the others turned and looked at his building. The leader kept his gaze fixed on Stan. “So you’re a slum lord, just like Ray. You gouge folks for rent and don’t fix nothin’. Why should we help you?”

The comment irked Stan. He didn’t consider himself a slum lord. He was a landlord. They didn’t understand what it cost to operate a building. They didn’t understand how people complained constantly but were often late with their rent. But he held his tongue. He needed their help. “I’ll pay you,” he said.

“Yeah. You said. So you don’t want us to pop Ray what you want us to do?”

“I want the old bastard dead. But it has to look like an accident. If it looks like he was murdered the cops will be coming down on me. Because we’re in competition… you get what I’m talking about?”

The leader grinned. “I ain’t stupid. So what’s the deal? How much are you offerin’ for us doin’ the deed?”

“Uh, maybe three?”

“Three what?”

“Thousand. Three thousand. That’s what I meant.”

“Make it five.”

Stan nibbled his lip. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Take it or leave it. You don’t wanna pay, do ol’ Ray youself.”

Stan didn’t answer right away. The punk called Jimmy turned and slouched off down the street followed by his retinue.

“Wait!” Stan called.

Jimmy came back, grinning. “Thought you’d see it my way.”

***

More than a week passed before he saw the obit in the paper. Stan had almost given up, thinking they’d taken his down payment of half the money and weren’t going to do the job. He smiled, reading how Ray had apparently fallen down a flight of stairs in his building and suffered fatal injuries. Stan rubbed his hands together in delight. Ray had no family. The building would go up for sale soon. Stan doubted anyone else would want to put in an offer. It would be his. He’d have two buildings. A little adjustment in the rents and he’d have back his money in no time.

There was only one flaw in the situation. He’d promised to go down as soon as he had proof the deed was done and pay off the contract. The thought of it made him queasy in the stomach. But it had to be done. No way he was going to take a chance on cheating them out of their money.

***

They met in the parking lot behind his building. Jimmy and his crew were just as scary as before. But Stan had a little insurance this time. He had the money for them. He also had a .25 automatic in his jacket pocket.

Jimmy took his time counting the money, taking it from the carrier bag and counting it out on the hood of Stan’s car.

“We good?” Stan asked as Jimmy tallied the last bills and stuffed the money back in the bag.

Jimmy handed the bag to one of his crew and grinned at Stan. “We good.”

Stan stepped around him, going for his car.

“What’s your hurry?” Jimmy said, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“I-uh-gotta back up town.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a busy man. But first we gotta show you somethin’.”

“What?”

“Inside.”

“In the building?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I…” Stan fidgeted.

“Come on, dog,” Jimmy said, throwing an arm across his shoulders. “It won’t take long.” They herded him along with them into the building. Stan’s mouth went dry. What were they up to?

The foyer smelled of decay, mildew and unwashed bodies. Stan sweating all the way, they went up, up in the old elevator until they reached the top floor.

“What are you doing? Why did you bring me up here?” He reached in his pocket for the comfort of the gun. It wasn’t there. When had they taken it?

“This is your building, right? You been in here before.”

“Of course I have.”

“Well, we wanna show you somethin’. Come on.” They maneuvered him to the staircase leading up to the roof.

“I don’t understand. What’s this all about?” Stan asked as they came out on the roof. The night air was cold and clammy on his face.

“Look over there. See that?”

Ray’s building. There was enough light from the moon and surrounding structures for him to make it out clearly. “Yeah. What about it?”

“Before ol’ Ray had his accident we had us a discussion and came to an agreement. He signed his building over to us.”

“What?”

“Figgered we’d give you a chance to do the same.” Jimmy drew a document from his jacket and waved it in front of Stan’s face. “Give ol’ Stan a pen, Tony.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Yeah. You said that before. Just take the pen and sign where the X is. It says you’re givin’ the building to us for a buck.”

“A buck! Are you crazy?”

“Not the last I looked. Just sign, bitch. I got your dollar right here.” He held up the bill.

Stan took a deep breath and accepted the pen. “I sign if you’ll let me go?”

“Sure. You can fly right out of here.”

This was crazy. These chumps didn’t know anything about real estate or the law. He was being coerced. His lawyer would sort it out. Stan signed and handed the paper and pen back to Jimmy.

“That’s a good man,” Jimmy said. “Now we got us two buildings, boys.” He folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

“I can go now?”

“Sure,” Jimmy said with a grin. “Said you could. Help him out boys.”

Two of them seized him by the arms. “W-what are you doing?”

“Said you could fly, man.”

And they flung Stan off the roof.


BIO:
J. R. Lindermuth is the author of eight novels, including four in the Sticks Hetrick mystery series. His short stories have appeared in a variety of magazines, both print and on line.

Being Someone Else (July 2010), Whiskey Creek Press
Watch The Hour (April 2009), Whiskey Creek Press
http://jrlindermuth.com

YELLOW PERIL By J R Lindermuth

YELLOW PERIL


It was on a Thursday the Chinese deputy foreign minister went missing.

At first no one was concerned. Lin Fah-shien was known for eccentricity and it would not be the first time he had wandered off on his own and got lost in a foreign city. But when he had not returned by that evening to 12th Avenue the consul general began to worry. Comrade Lin was an important man and the consul general’s responsibility since the foreign minister was in New York for an important meeting on trade policy.

The consul general and his minions made discrete inquiries and sought advice from colleagues and the PRC’s friends in other legations.

A North Korean spokesman immediately proclaimed Comrade Lin had been kidnapped by the Americans and his release would be contingent on more pressure on Korea’s nuclear ambitions. Though closely allied with the Koreans, the Albanian envoy called that nonsense, pointing out the U.S. had other carrots to dangle and would not dare to jeopardize Sino-American relations in this manner. Though China held the edge as the U.S.’s biggest foreign creditor, the Cuban delegate said he would put nothing past the CIA.

Meanwhile, Comrade Lin was getting off a Greyhound bus in a small upstate village. A dapper gray-haired gentleman clad in a tailor-made Hong Kong suit, he stood a moment on the square in this unfamiliar community and asked himself where he was and why he’d come here. He gazed around the square and observed a gas station on the opposite corner and a line of various shops up and down both sides of the street. It seemed a pleasant little town on this warm spring afternoon, people strolling up and down the tree-lined street and darting in and out of the shops, greeting one another pleasantly as they passed.

Lin suddenly realized he was hungry. He couldn’t recall exactly when he’d last eaten. But knew it must have been a while, since he was hungry. He marched up the street, nodding and smiling at people who greeted him. Lin thought this was a very nice town. Much friendlier than the last place he’d been. Lin halted then, scratching his head. He couldn’t remember where he’d been before this town.

Well, it didn’t matter. He was hungry. That was the important issue. Soon he came to a small diner. He entered and sat down at a counter. In addition to Mandarin, Lin spoke fluent English and several other European languages. He had no trouble reading the menu or giving his order to the cordial waitress.

It was getting late and the consul general was extremely worried now. He couldn’t risk reporting the absence of Comrade Lin to his overseers, but he knew he had to do something. He carefully wrote, and then rewrote, a short enquiry which he emailed to his counterpart over at the United Nations. This man was a friend and could be trusted; he was also very wise. The envoy gnawed his nails until a reply came from his friend. The message suggested he contact the Americans immediately and ask why they had taken Comrade Lin. The envoy didn’t see this as the wise advice he’d anticipated.Still he didn’t know what else to do. So, rather than accusing the Americans, he dispatched a brief note explaining the minister had gone missing and asking if they had any idea where he might be.

His American counterpart read between the lines and immediately contacted his superiors who, in turn alerted the FBI, CIA, NSA and every other possible acronym. He was instructed to reply the U.S. had no knowledge of the minister’s whereabouts but would cooperate in a search.

Distrusting one another, none of the agencies took overt action.

A free-lance journalist tracked rumor and learned a Chinese official was missing. By six o’clock that evening the news had been released to major news media and broadcast on television even in the tiny village where Lin Fah-sien wandered the streets. Though he’d fed his hunger, he still couldn’t remember his name or what he was doing in this place.

Lin Fah-sien wandered around the town as though searching for something, but every person he approached acted afraid and avoided his inquiries. This puzzled the minister. People seemed so friendly earlier in the day. Had he done something to make them angry? If he had he couldn’t imagine what it might have been.

One of the people who’d seen him and suspected Lin might be the missing official contacted his legislator. The legislator promptly alerted authorities.

Representatives of several agencies arrived in the town and kept a close watch on Comrade Lin. None dared to intercede. An international incident could only be avoided by taking him in custody and returning him to his people. But U.S. officials feared any move might be misinterpreted or confirm suspicion of kidnapping.

As dusk descended and the world hovered on the brink of war, the dishwasher for a local Chinese restaurant talked himself into taking a bold step. Danny Shen’s student visa was long expired and he was an illegal alien who judiciously endeavored not to attract attention. But he had been following and watching the minister from a distance for some time and it was clear to him now something was not right about the man.

Danny seldom watched television. So he had no idea who the man was. His curiosity had been peaked when he observed other people shy away when Lin tried to talk to them. Danny Shen suspected the minister might be an illegal alien like him and didn’t speak good English.

By the time Danny worked his nerve, their peregrinations had brought them back to the bus station where Lin had first alighted in the town. A Greyhound coach stood before the building, motor throbbing and spewing exhaust, its door open for boarding passengers. Spying the vehicle, it suddenly occurred to Comrade Lin he had arrived in this village aboard such a bus. He hurried forward.

Danny called out to him and picked up his pace. Comrade Lin had got into line with several other people. Just as Danny reached out a hand to tap him on the shoulder, two FBI men ran forward, seized him by both arms and dragged him away from the bus. “Wait! What are you doing?” Danny pleaded. But they ignored his protest, shoved him against a wall and one of them quickly frisked him while the other demanded his identification.

“That man,” Danny said. “You’ve got to stop him. I think he needs help.”

“Never mind him,” the agent said. “Let’s see your papers.”

While Danny stalled and tried to explain Comrade Lin entered the bus and found a seat. He still had no idea what he’d been doing in this town. But it didn’t matter. Lin remembered he’d come on a bus like this one and he was certain it would take him back where he belonged. He glanced out the window and saw two men accosting another who looked Chinese. Poor fellow, he thought. It’s dangerous being a stranger in a strange land.

The driver closed the door and the bus drew away from the curb.

END

BIO:
Being Someone Else (July 2010), Whiskey Creek Press

Watch The Hour (April 2009), Whiskey Creek Press

http://www.jrlindermuth.com/

A THING OF BEAUTY by J. R. Lindermuth

A THING OF BEAUTY

Her mother always preferred him.

Call it incestuous if you must; it was simply a fact he early recognized. Though he valued her support in his many arguments with his wife, he never consciously wanted to exchange one woman for the other. Obviously, as he was to learn, her mother felt differently about that.

Perhaps it was their similarity in age. Olivia was less than 10 years older than Neal and he was double that number of years older than Leslie. Or, perhaps, rather than the mere fact of age, it was their similarity of temperament. She and Neal were quiet introverts while Leslie was a confirmed and vociferous extrovert.

This difference in temperament was often the source of their arguments. How could he have imagined it otherwise when he married her? Should he not have realized it was his affluence and not his appearance persuaded this young and beautiful woman to marry him? How could he have thought a life of solitude and books would offer her the contentment it did him?

Oh, he was devoted to her in his way. She was his wife and he loved her. Despite their many disagreements, Neal always eventually gave into her whims, bought her many gifts, allowed her to roam at will, turned a blind eye to her many indiscretions. What else was he to do? He loved her.

When Leslie took ill he was devastated. He sat by her bedside long hours, helpless as she writhed in pain until her life faded away. It never occurred to him then her mother had poisoned her.

The night Leslie died her mother went to bed and slept soundly.

In the morning Olivia came into the bedroom where Neal had tossed and turned away the hours until dawn. Olivia sang happily as she entered the room with a pot of tea and two cups. She sat beside him on the bed, shook out her hair and smiled.

Neal shrank from her in horror. She was the image of his dead wife.

Days, then weeks passed. Each morning Olivia came to his room with a song and a pot of tea. On the morning of the third week, he accepted the tea and that night Olivia got into bed beside him.

The next morning he looked on her and smiled, thinking of that line from Keats—“A thing of beauty...” She looked exactly like his dead wife, but she treated him as he’d wanted to be treated.

He thought he might prefer her to Leslie.


BIO:
Watch The Hour (April 2009), Whiskey Creek Press
Corruption's Child (June 2008), Whiskey Creek Press
The Accidental Spy (July 2008), Lachesis Publishing
http://www.jrlindermuth.com

DOPPELGANGER By J.R. Lindermuth

Halloween's coming, and here's a great chiller to get you in the mood...

DOPPELGANGER


The old man they had dubbed “the priest” sat in the shadows on the edge of the circle, sipping chocolate, listening to the conversation, but not participating.

The old man fired Harry Stryker’s curiosity and his reporter’s instinct made him want to draw the man out.

Most of the afternoon, their talk had focused on the supernatural. They sat through the gloomy hours before the fireplace, drinking mugs of hot chocolate or toddies, smoking and confessing tales each had previously kept locked in the private closet of mind and heart.

Perhaps it was the weather, gray and dreary with periods of heavy rain that melted the last of the snow and kept them inside and apart from the pursuit for which they had come to the lodge, that turned, first their minds, then their conversation, to a consideration of this morbid subject matter.

They had come to ski and now, frustrated by the vagaries of nature, their talk conformed with the circumstance and unfolded the gloom and depression they felt; the unspeakable was made vocal and drew them to probe the darkness of their souls and tell what each had witnessed, or heard, or supposed.

Stryker, more widely traveled than the others and, thus, with more to say, held the floor longer than the rest, recounting his experiences with the strange in Asia and Mexico; there was more he could have said if he’d wanted to retain the spotlight. But he didn’t. He wanted the “priest” to speak. He was intrigued by this old man who seemed so out of place in these surroundings. Who came to a ski lodge in a three-piece suit? The man was as pale as snow, white-haired and frail. Definitely not a skier. So what was he doing here?

Stryker recalled the old man had been garrulous at dinner the night before but he hadn’t really told them anything about himself. Not even his name.

The reporter sensed another story.

Each of the group had his turn until a period of silence prevailed and it appeared the stock of stories had been used up. Bored, or in search of a drink, their companions filed off until only Stryker and the “priest” were left.

Stryker rose from his armchair and sidled up to the old man. “How about you?”

“Hmph?” The man raised his head and his clear blue eyes bore straight into Stryker’s.

“I said, what about you? We didn’t hear a spook story from you.”

The old man raised a thin white hand and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been very interesting, but I have nothing to add.”

“Oh, everybody has a story,” Stryker coaxed.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

Stryker remained hovering over the old man, his mind still riveted on the subject, though at any other time he might have been as game for a drink as the others.

“Sit down, Harry,” the old man said, “you’re making me nervous.”

Stryker slid onto the chair next to him, lit a cigarette and blew smoke. “So we’re alone now. Are you gonna indulge me or what?”

“I’d rather not,” the old man said, waving smoke away with one hand.

“Bother you?”

“It’s not good for anybody.”

Harry leaned toward him, holding the cigarette so the smoke curled up between them. “I’ll put it out if you’ll talk.”

The old man shook his head and smiled. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

Angrily, Stryker turned on him. “How do you know? I didn’t challenge the others, did I?”

“No, you didn’t. But you didn’t believe them either.”

“So, maybe you’ll have a better story.”

The man gave him a thin smile, but said nothing. With a long white finger he flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve.

“You’re a reticent cuss, aren’t you? I don’t think you even told us your name last night.”

Rain drummed against the roof and ran in a steady stream off the eaves. Down the hall they heard the jukebox kick on in the bar. The music thumped in an unintelligible rhythmic vibration along the far wall.

“You may call me Nick.”

“So what’s your story, Nick?”

The man smiled again, gazing at him wistfully. “I was much like you once,” he said.

“What? You were a reporter?”

Nick chuckled. “No. I meant ambitious, curious and brash.”

“It goes with the territory,” Stryker said with a shrug. “I wouldn’t be much of a journalist otherwise.” A hint of perfume from one of the women still hung in the room mingled with the stale scent of his cigarette but Stryker was surprised as he shifted closer to Nick the pithy medicinal dry flesh odor he associated with the elderly was missing. Instead he could have sworn he smelled the sharp tang of ozone.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Nick was saying. “As I said, I was much the same. I was a lawyer. I didn’t believe a thing unless the facts were there to back it up.”

Stryker nodded. He snuffed his cigarette, sensing that the old man finally was leading up to a story and not wanting to annoy him by continuing to smoke.

“Facts are very important to you, too, aren’t they, Harry?”

“Sure.”

“That’s why you listened politely to their stories, though you didn’t believe them. Even when you presented your own tales you went to great lengths to seek logical answers for what happened.”

“Right.”

“But sometimes there is no logical explanation.”

Stryker shook his head. “There’s always…”

“No, there isn’t. I felt the same until I met a man who showed me there are no facts, only possibilities.”

“Ahah,” Stryker said, sitting up and slapping his thigh. “So there is a story.”

Nick’s eyes, dilated but with a queer yearning in them, turned on him. The old man sighed and folded his hands over his breast.

Stryker waited, his heart beating anxiously.

“Not much of one,” Nick said in a muted voice. “Just an experience. Since you insist, I’ll relate it.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Do you know the German term doppelganger?”

“Sure. A double. A look-alike.”

“Not exactly. More accurately, one who walks in our place.”

“Whatever.”

“They exist. They come out of nowhere and suck up your life like the rain melting the snow on the slopes. They take everything—family and friends, possessions, your very existence—leaving you with nothing.”

He said it so profoundly, Stryker could only grin.

“Oh, I know you don’t believe me,” Nick said. “I said you wouldn’t. But it’s true.”

“I guess you’re gonna tell me it happened to you.”

The music vibrated between them, an invisible curtain of sound.

“Indeed,” Nick said, solemnly.

“You saw yourself?”

“No. I met a man who became me.”

Stryker laughed. “So now there are two of you?”

The old man scowled and Stryker struggled to presume a serious interest in the tale. “Go on,” he said. “Please.”

Nick gazed at him, steadily, but with something akin to compassion reflected in his pale eyes. “I know. You’re a skeptic. I was, too,” he said, calmly. “But that was before.

“Before he came to my office, I’d probably passed by him a dozen times or more on the street without giving him notice. But he had been observing me. He knew all about me.

“That day, when he came to my office, I assumed he was just another potential client. I didn’t fear him. In fact, I probably looked down on him. I was the great lawyer. He was nobody. Oh, if I had only known!”

Stryker leaned forward, intrigued by the old man’s sudden burst of passion. “Who was he?”

“Who he was is not important. Then he was nobody. Later, he became me.”

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

Nick sneered, giving him a sidelong glance. “Understand? Of course you don’t understand. We never do, do we? Not until it’s too late.”

Suddenly, Stryker shuddered. He had a sense of regret for goading the old man to talk. The poor old guy was crazy and here he was encouraging his paranoia.

“You don’t understand, but you will,” Nick said.

Stryker shuddered again. He craved another cigarette, but even more he wanted to get away from this crazy old man.

Nick leaned down and untied his shoes. He pulled one off, rubbed his foot. “Do you mind?” he asked. “My feet are swollen.” Smiling, he stretched out his hand and laid it on Stryker’s knee. “You don’t know what it’s like to get old.”

Stryker jerked his leg away, repulsed.

As though he hadn’t noticed, the old man reclined in his seat, legs stretched out before him, hands laced together over his stomach. “It was all really my own fault,” he said in a voice barely audible. “I see that now. I took for granted what I had. I was vain and arrogant. I took advantage of those I considered beneath me. He knew all that. He came to make me better.”

Stryker squirmed in his seat.

Then Nick turned and looked at him again and he felt an icy chill as those blue eyes focused on him. He jerked convulsively. The old man laughed. It was more a raspy bark than a derisive crow.

Nick reached out and touched him once more with just the tips of his fingers.

Stryker bolted from his chair. “I’m sorry,” he sputtered, “I’ve just remembered something important I have to do.”

“Of course,” Nick said, smiling.

Stryker felt as though he had fallen into a pit of snakes. He felt queer, unclean. Hurrying down the hall to join the others, he wanted nothing so much as a drink. But as he came abreast of the restrooms, another need summoned. He wanted to cleanse himself, to wash away the old man’s touch.

The hot water seared his flesh and Stryker didn’t care. He scrubbed and scrubbed until he thought the skin would peel away. Then, satisfied at last, he shut off the tap and shook water from his hands. The music from the juke box throbbed behind him and, for a moment, the mirror was obscured by rising steam from the sink.

As the steam cleared and Stryker reached for a paper towel, he glanced into the mirror.

“No!” The word came without thought as he beheld the sight before him. Gazing into the glass he saw not his own face but that of the old man.

BIO:

John Lindermuth is a published author. See below for more info

Watch The Hour (April 2009), Whiskey Creek Press
Corruption's Child (June 2008), Whiskey Creek Press
http://www.jrlindermuth.com/

A DEADLY SECRET - by J.R. Lindermuth

Another author joins the 'fun'...

A DEADLY SECRET

What does she know?

That—even more than the identity of the person—was the question kept recurring to Karen Stahl as she stood holding the phone in one hand and nibbling at her lower lip with an overbite she usually was at odds to conceal. The phone crackled and an automated voice said, “If you’d like to make a call please hang up and dial again.” The comment was repeated again before Karen responded.

Like everyone, Karen had secrets. But were any so dire they should have prompted a call from a person she didn’t know? She hadn’t even recognized the woman’s voice and she’d been too surprised to reply before the caller hung up.

“I know your secret and I’m going to tell.”

That was the extent of the message. Short and sweet. Not exactly a blatant threat. Yet these simple words sent chills up and down Karen’s spine. Her hand shook as she replaced the phone on its cradle. She clasped her arms around her and bent forward to peek out through the curtains. A warm summer day. A child blithely peddling by on a bicycle. Mrs. Blackwell seated on her front porch swing and smoking a cigarette across the street. Nothing…

Karen’s throat suddenly went dry. Mrs. Blackwell. That old bitch. Was there anyone more nosy than her? Could she know…what? What could she know? I haven’t done anything. Though it was probably only her imagination, Karen thought she saw the woman glance in her direction. She stepped back away from the window, trying to recall the woman’s voice, trying to grasp what her neighbor might know about her.

The woman was always stationed on her porch, eyes peeled and ears perked for any activity she was quick to share with anyone handy to listen. Mrs. Blackwell actually knew about Reese’s promotion before Karen did. Where she’d picked up that tidbit was anyone’s guess.

Reese. Was it possible…no. How could she? Then, with a horror that chilled her like a wet spring rain, Karen remembered. It was last summer when she and Reese had been going through a rough time. They weren’t speaking to one another, not for weeks. They were on the verge of breaking up.

It was then, in a moment of weakness, she’d fallen prey to Larry Wagner’s charms. It was easy. He was so handsome, so caring and always there on the verge of her life. She’d known him since high school. She knew his reputation. But she had been so vulnerable.

The affair hadn’t lasted long. Only a matter of a week or so. Then Reese, realizing what was happening to them and not wanting to lose what they’d had, revitalized their love and brought Karen back to her senses. Things between them had never been better since then. They were happy with one another and the life they’d created together. Karen didn’t want to lose that.

But it was in jeopardy now.

During the brief interlude back then Mrs. Blackwell had seen her and Larry together. Karen had forgot all about it, thinking it of no consequence.

Now fear rose up in her like a wave. Mrs. Blackwell was going to tell Reese. She was going to ruin their perfect life. Reese grew up in this house. Mrs. Blackwell had always been his neighbor. The woman doted on him and was always cold to Karen.

Karen clenched her fists and looked out the window again. Mrs. Blackwell was coming down the walk toward the street. As she stepped into the road, Mrs. Blackwell glanced toward Karen’s house. Did she smile? Karen wasn’t sure but another chill passed over her.

Mrs. Blackwell didn’t have a phone. Reese had allowed her to use theirs on a few occasions in the past. There was a public phone box down at the end of the hill. Was that where the woman was headed now? Was she going to call Reese and tell him of Karen’s misadventure?

No! She mustn’t. I can’t let her.

Karen hurried to her front door.

The old woman was already out of sight. Karen’s hands shook. Fear gripped her like some angry beast. I’ve got to stop her. She looked around. Her car sat in the driveway. Karen staggered toward the vehicle.

Karen backed out of the driveway, bumped over the curb and sped down the hill. Tears welled up in her eyes and she brushed them away with one hand. There. Down at the bottom of the hill. Mrs. Blackwell had just stepped into the phone booth.

Karen tramped down on the accelerator. She bit her lip as the car bounced over the curb and plunged into the phone booth. Mrs. Blackwell’s scream arced over the sound of shattering glass and scraping metal.

***

“Mrs. Blackwell?” Karen asked.

Reese shook his head. “She didn’t make it to the hospital. What happened?”

“I don’t know. I must have passed out. I’m sorry—about the car.”

“Karen, I’m not worried about the damned car. I’m just glad you weren’t …”

Aside from a bump on the head, a split lip, bruises and a sprained ankle, Karen had come through the accident all right. She regretted Mrs. Blackwell’s death but at least her secret was safe now and Reese would…Why was he looking at her like that? “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head again, reached out and took her hand in his. “I can change the plans. We’ll do it later.”

“What? What can we do later?”

Reese squeezed her hand and smiled. “Your birthday party. I know you don’t like to make a fuss about it. But I wanted it to be special this year. I wanted all our friends to be there. I wanted it to be a surprise. It won’t be now but we can still do it later.”

“Birthday party?”

“Yes. Didn’t my secretary call you? She was supposed to let you know the secret was out and we were telling everyone.”


BIO:
J.R. Lindermuth has published seven novels, including three in his Sticks Hetrick mystery series. His short stories have appeared in a variety of venues, including Mysterical-E, Flash Fiction Offensive, A Twist of Noir, Crime and Suspense and Mouth Full of Bullets.