Thriller, p.11
Thriller, page 11
His desk and computer were in the center of the room. There were a few chairs lined up against the far wall.
“Closet again!” he whispered.
Once again, he walked ahead before she could grab him.
But this closet held luggage, boxes, and miscellany.
No killer lurked within.
“Bathroom,” he said.
She nodded and they left the second bedroom/office to return to the hall and open the last door there, that led to the bathroom.
He turned on the light.
Just the usual. Toilet. Sink. Medicine chest. Toiletries.
But a shower curtain was covering the bathtub. Again, Riley felt tension fill her as Ethan stepped forward and wrenched the curtain back.
“Nothing.”
“See. We’re safe. And the police should be here soon,” he said.
They walked back to the living room and Riley noted that the door was still open.
“And we’re both idiots!” she said. “We left the front door open.”
“Riley, I have four dogs. Three little ones who yap like crazy and one big one capable of ripping a throat out.”
“Right. Of course.”
“Come on. Sit down. Chill for a minute!” he said. “I’m going to fix you a drink.”
“I’m good. Really. I don’t want the police to come and smell my breath and think I’m not just crazy but drunk too.”
“Okay, then, come sit!”
He made a sweeping bow, indicating the couch. She smiled and stepped ahead of him and took a seat. She leaned back and groaned.
“My keys!” she whispered. “We still haven’t found my keys.”
“We will find them,” he assured her. “And, by the way, thank you!”
“For being crazy certain I saw murdered people?” she asked.
“For taking care of these guys.”
“Of course.”
“We really are more than friends!” he whispered.
She touched his cheek. “I would have done it no matter what.”
“But you do like me.”
“I—uh, yes,” she said honestly.
He slid an arm around her, smiling. “I like you too. And I don’t really care to be careful anymore, I mean, you know, because we’re coworkers.” With his free hand, he stroked her cheek.
Riley smiled, thinking that this was something she had so wanted, and yet today . . .
She wasn’t crazy. And she hoped the police could prove that!
She frowned suddenly. “Ethan, what did you do with your bags? We need to get them if you left them outside somewhere.”
“Oh, they’re not outside.”
“You said that you got a ride. Where’s your car?”
He smiled again, stroking her cheek, leaning toward her. “I did get a ride.”
“Then . . . shall I pick you up for work tomorrow? Oh, wait, I can’t—unless we find my keys. No, I have a second set. Of course, I’ll have to get a locksmith to get into my apartment, but . . .”
“I won’t need a ride,” he said quietly.
“Why is that?”
She had never seen such a strange smile on his face before.
“My car is right out front,” he said.
“Your car?”
“The sedan is my car. The sedan—with the body in the trunk,” he said.
Her heart seemed to stop. He had to be teasing her. Teasing her for her imagination, for being such a coward, or for being, in his mind, crazy.
“Come on, Ethan,” she said. “The cops are taking their time getting here, right? We should start looking for my keys again. I mean, they have to be here somewhere. I got here, right?”
“You don’t have your keys,” he told her. “You won’t find your keys.”
“Ethan—”
“I’m kind of sorry,” he said. “I mean, you are good to take care of animals like this for a friend, but . . . well, you are a pretty young thing, and you’re . . . well, like I said, you are awesome, in so many ways, and I have wanted you for a long time—ever since I first saw your young, beautiful face.”
“Ethan, what are you talking about?” Riley was suddenly scared. Of Ethan! This couldn’t be. It was a macabre joke.
“Pretty young thing, pretty young thing!” he murmured. “I love pretty young things, beautiful ones like you . . . the kind who are, no pun, a thriller! I just love them a very special way, I love the slick feel of a woman’s life’s blood against her skin, and I love to look into her eyes when that blood drains away . . .”
“What?” She shrieked in horror and tried to jump to her feet.
He pulled her back.
“Ethan, the police will be here any second—”
“No, they won’t be here any second, Riley. Oh, come on, please, I guess I am a pretty good actor. You fell for that!”
He held her arm.
But not her mouth.
And this time, she screamed with sound. And the sound was a loud and terrible shriek that seemed to reverberate through the air and even shake the walls of the house.
And she screamed again as he pushed her down, crawling over her.
He still held the carving knife. The carving knife he had taken—presumably for protection for the two of them!
And he smiled that macabre smile at her as he raised the knife over her.
She screamed and screamed again. He slammed the hand that held the knife over her mouth to whisper to her.
“God, are you beautiful! The terror in your eyes. The feel of your skin.” He paused to smile. “I couldn’t help it. I had to pretend to leave. I wanted you to see the body in the trunk, see my neighbor! I have dreamed of this since I left New York. Well, I had to leave. You might have heard of the women who had been stabbed there, and the blond, well, she died beautifully, but my neighbor . . . that was all for you, all to see the beauty of fear in your eyes, all to see your face as you realized that I was about to kiss your beautiful lips when they were covered with blood, touch your skin, feel you, love you . . .” Again, he paused to grin. “It is a thriller, isn’t it?” he queried.
She managed to draw a grunt of pain from him as she bit down as hard as she could on his hand. He almost dropped the knife. She kicked him, kneed him with all her strength. He cried out in pain, but told her, “Oh, baby! Nothing like a woman who puts up a big fight and screams loudly, no whimpering!”
She screamed. “They’ll get you! Oh, yes, I heard about the murders in New York. But I have screamed and screamed. Police will come!”
He appeared amused, still confident. And she’d hurt him, yes, but again . . .
He was straddled over her, tightly now, lest she tried to kick again.
She was going to die. She’d been seduced, in love, and even as she stared at the sheen on the knife, she couldn’t believe that a man so perfect . . .
Could be a heinous killer.
He was smiling, smiling, and his smile was horrid, and he was suddenly hideous to her, because, of course, he was her murderer.
And now, worse. Behind him, she saw that Rocket had come into the house. The huge dog was staring at them strangely, as he tended to do.
Ethan’s eerie grin deepened.
She was going to be stabbed to death and ripped apart by the giant jaws of the dog!
She screamed again, the sound loud, and long, and shrill, and still she knew there was no hope as she waited for the pain of the blade to fall.
Except . . .
It didn’t.
The sound that followed her scream was like something straight out of hell, a growl, a rumble, something so deep that it, too, seemed to shake the air.
And to her amazement, there was a whir before her, and Ethan was ripped away from her and he was suddenly on the floor.
Rocket.
His own dog.
Maybe dogs did know the difference between simple right and simple wrong.
Ethan was shouting and the dog was standing over him, teeth gnashing.
And she realized, Rocket wasn’t going to rip apart her flesh, he had saved her life!
Riley tore out of the house, screaming desperately, heedless of the darkness, heedless of the brush and the trees and the shadows and even the darkness of the night.
She stood in the road screaming and people began to pour from their houses. A woman tried to help her and more people arrived as she spurted out her story.
The police came quickly.
And there was a body in the trunk of the sedan.
The neighbor was found dead as well.
Ethan was found only half-dead. Rocket had stood over him, threatening to rip out his throat, until the police arrived and took him in.
Riley never found her keys. Nor did she spend that night at her apartment. She went to her sister’s house. Her brother-in-law had been in the army and still had his service weapon. It was a good place to be. Safe, secure, and where she was loved.
In the days to come, she discovered that there were several unsolved murders not just in New York, but in the other two cities that the man had lived in during the past several years.
He was under arrest but taken to a hospital ward. And it was while he was there that he ripped out his IV and tried to escape that a doctor, defending himself and the nurse Ethan had tried to use as a hostage, ended his reign entirely with a well-placed needle into his heart.
Riley was numb on hearing the news. She had thought she had known a man. Worse, she had been attracted to him, and he had been a psychotic killer. She wasn’t sure she could trust her judgment anymore.
Except on one thing.
Her brother-in-law told her that Ethan’s dogs had been taken to the pound. That brought her to life again. She hurried there and was glad to hear that the little fluffy mutt pups had been adopted.
But not Rocket. He was still there.
He watched her gravely as she walked up to his cage.
“You are man’s best friend!” she told him softly, hunkering down to pet him through the cage.
Could a dog nod? She thought that he did.
“My best friend!” she assured him. “Like I said, there are those who think that dogs are best, best all around. Better than people. And now, that may just be true in my life!”
And, later, having legally adopted him and leaving with Rocket on his leash, she thought that she had lost one friend, one friend who she had ridiculously thought might be more.
But she had gained an amazing friend as well. One she would love the rest of his life and her life, which, thanks to him, promised to be much longer than it might have been.
Bringing the dog home to her own apartment in the Kendall area, she watched him sniff, test his new bowls, and make himself at home.
Maybe because of what had happened, and most probably because of Rocket, she wouldn’t be such a terrible chicken again. She would be far more careful and make sure that she knew people very well before trusting them.
And still, she had a true friend. He lay at her feet, and she patted him on the head and scratched his ears.
“Rocket . . . well, he said it would be a ‘thrill.’ But Rocket, the thrill now is knowing you! And yes, pup, you can sleep on the bed as long as we both shall live—a long time now, most probably, and all thanks to you!”
BEAT IT
WILLIAM KENT KRUEGER
“Beat it,” Mrs. Helgerson said with growing impatience. “Just
beat it.”
Dwayne stood before the dark green chalkboard, staring at several poorly erased words ghosting up from behind a film of chalk dust. In each hand, he held a black, felt eraser.
“Do it now, Dwayne,” Mrs. Helgerson said.
Dwayne lifted his hands and slapped the erasers against the board, leaving two white rectangles on the surface. He stared at them, imagining they were empty graves dusted with snow.
“Oh, for pity sake,” Mrs. Helgeson said. “Knock them together.”
They were alone in the classroom. The other kids had gone home for the day. Mrs. Helgerson stood at the back wall, near the door to the coat room, where she was pinning Thanksgiving drawings from her sixth-grade students—turkeys, mostly, but there were a few pilgrims in the mix. Dwayne’s drawing wasn’t among them. The sheet of manila paper he’d handed in had appeared to be blank. When Mrs. Helgerson questioned him, he’d told her, “My turkey doesn’t want to get eaten. He’s hiding.”
Dwayne eyed the two erasers, and once more slapped them against the chalkboard. This time the two chalk rectangles reminded him of coffins made of white pine.
“I said knock them together. Like this.” She pantomimed what she wanted, bringing her hands together with a clap.
Dwayne eyed the erasers in his hands, then slapped them together in an explosion of white dust, which he breathed in. He coughed hard while he watched the dust settle onto the floor at his feet.
Mrs. Helgerson rolled her eyes. “Do that at the window, Dwayne, so that the dust stays outside.”
Mrs. Helgerson’s exasperation was clear in the pitch of her voice, but Dwayne didn’t mind. Most of his teachers had been like Mrs. Helgerson. Either they spoke to him sharply or they tried to ignore him altogether. Mrs. Helgerson was better than some. At least she was pretty, and she always smelled nice.
He walked to the window and slid the pane up. It was late November. The weather in Bigelow, Texas, had cooled enough for the windows to be closed and the radiators filled with hot water from the boiler in the basement. Ollie, the janitor, had once let Dwayne put a shovelful of coal into the furnace that heated the boiler, and Dwayne had watched the coal turn to flame as hot as an August sun on his face. All the other adults in the school had to be called Mister or Missus, but the friendly janitor had given Dwayne permission to call him Ollie. Some of the kids made fun of Ollie because he was a janitor and had to clean up the mess when one of the littler kids peed on their desk chair or someone threw up all over a bathroom stall. But Ollie never said a bad word about the kids whose messes he dealt with.
The sixth-grade classroom was on the second story of the old schoolhouse. From the window, Dwayne could see the dark silhouettes of the Guadalupe Mountains pressed against a vast blue sky. He put his arms out the window into the cool air and clapped the erasers. There was no wind and the dust drifted slowly down toward the dead grass of the schoolyard below.
Behind him, he heard the classroom door open, but he didn’t turn around. He had a job to do.
“Oh. I thought you’d be alone.”
Now he turned. Mr. Carraway, the school principal, stood in the doorway, his hand still on the knob. His eyes shifted from Dwayne to Mrs. Helgerson, then back to Dwayne.
“Dwayne’s done,” the teacher said. “Aren’t you, Dwayne.”
“I haven’t finished my job yet.”
“Beat it, Daryl,” Mr. Carraway said.
“My name’s Dwayne.”
Mr. Carraway glanced at Mrs. Helgerson. “He’s big for a sixth grader.”
“Held back,” Mrs. Helgerson said. Then added, “Simple,” and tapped the side of her head.
“Like I said, Daryl. Beat it.”
“I’m supposed to clean the erasers. It’s my job. Everyone has a job. Some kids are safety patrol. Some kids are hall monitors. Some kids pass out papers. Some kids pick up papers. I clean the erasers.”
“He wanted a job too,” Mrs. Helgerson explained to the principal. “So today I gave him one.”
“They’re clean enough,” Mr. Carraway said.
“Not yet.” Dwayne stepped to the chalkboard and slapped one of the erasers against the surface. This time the chalk image reminded him of an empty raft on an empty sea.
“I said beat it, Daryl.”
“The erasers,” Dwayne said.
“Are you too stupid to understand a simple directive?”
“It’s my job,” Dwayne tried to explain. “Mrs. Helgerson gave it to me.”
Mr. Carraway took a deep breath. “Tell you what, Daryl—”
“My name’s Dwayne.”
“I’ve got another job for you. The erasers in the science classroom need to be cleaned. I’ll give you a dollar to clean those erasers.”
“A dollar?”
Mr. Carraway drew a leather-tooled wallet from this back pocket and plucked out a bill. He held it toward Dwayne. But as the boy moved to take it, the man pulled the dollar out of reach. “You only get this if you do a really good job cleaning the erasers in the science room. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. And don’t come back here. You’ve got another job to do now, one you’re being paid for. Do you understand, Daryl? When you’re finished, just go on home.”
Dwayne took the dollar. His Aunt Rose gave him an allowance of a dollar a week, which he was saving so that he could buy her a nice Christmas present. He’d been thinking maybe a soft bath towel. The ones Aunt Rose had were thin and scratchy.
Dwayne placed the erasers on the sill of the chalkboard. He didn’t feel good about leaving them still full of chalk, but he’d accepted money for another job. And Mrs. Helgerson didn’t seem to mind.
“Close the door on your way out, Daryl,” Mr. Carraway said and turned toward Mrs. Helgerson.
Dwayne stepped into the hallway, then reached back for the knob.
“Not here,” he heard Mrs. Helgerson say. “He might find us.”
“Relax. I’ve given him work that’ll keep him busy a good long while.”
“Lock the door,” Mrs. Helgerson said. “Just to be sure.”
Dwayne closed the door and a moment later heard the lock click behind him.
He descended the stairs to the first floor and turned down the hallway toward the science classroom. The school felt completely deserted. He’d never been in the schoolhouse before when it was so quiet. He liked it this way. Usually there were kids and noise and bells and shoving and sometimes mean things that were done to him that made other kids laugh. He thought about the final image the eraser had left in chalk dust on the board, an empty raft on an empty sea. He thought that wouldn’t be so bad, to be alone on your own raft on a sea where no one bothered you.
He heard the squeak of rollers on the linoleum of the hallway. When he turned, he saw Ollie, the janitor, pushing a cart mounded with rugs. He liked Ollie, who was one of the few people who didn’t make Dwayne feel stupid. The janitor was tall and lean and reminded Dwayne of the trunk of the oak tree in Aunt Rose’s backyard that offered cool shade in the heat of a summer day. Ollie spotted him and lifted his hand in a wave.
