|
DUCK, DUCK, GOOSED By E. E. Williams The time on the clock read 3:45
a.m. when the alarm sounded. Bill was up in a flash to turn it off. He hadn’t been
sleeping anyway. Susan turned over and groaned. “Too
early,” she whispered, and went back to sleep. Bill stared down at her and
thought, You won’t have to worry about it
much longer. He got up from the bed, went into the bathroom
and dressed in the clothes he’d laid out the night before. Boots, insulated pants,
camo shirt and jacket. Back in the bedroom, he removed his Browning Maxus shotgun from
the closet. Cradling the weapon in his arms, he took a long, last look at his sleeping
wife. His mouth curled into a tight, mirthless smile. “See
you soon,” he said. She didn’t respond. Bill made his way out of the room and down the stairs
to the front foyer. Before opening the door, he grabbed his hat and earmuffs. It was cold
outside. He
examined himself in the full-length mirror Susan had insisted he hang by the door so she
could check herself before going out. How many times, he wondered, had she checked herself
before seeing … him? Bill
left the house and walked down the driveway to where a white Honda Pilot, belching exhaust
in the frigid morning air, waited for him. He climbed inside. “Terry,” he said brusquely. “Bill,” Terry
said with a solemn nod. Terry
and his wife Trudy had moved into the neighborhood just a few months after Bill and Susan
and in the six years since, the four had become fast friends. The women got together often
for coffee in the mornings to discuss the things they couldn’t, or wouldn’t,
share with their husbands, while the men hung out watching football, drinking beer, bowling,
or, as they were doing this morning, duck hunting. Bill thought both he and Terry looked
ridiculous decked out in their camo gear, like they were off to war or something, but where
they were going only the birds would notice so what did it matter. Together, the men had
built a blind on an inlet of the lake where no other hunters ventured. Once there, they
would be totally alone. Which
suited Bill just fine. Terry
parked the car, and the men silently slogged their way to the blind. Beyond their initial
greeting, they hadn’t spoken, each man seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Once settled into the blind,
Bill said, “Quiet this morning.” “You, too,” Terry said. “Something up?” “Well, now that you
ask, an anonymous someone sent me a picture last night.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.
Real pornographic.” “Pornographic?” “Yeah. Hardcore stuff.” “Huh.” “You don’t seem surprised.” “Why should I be surprised?” “Don’t know. Your
best friend tells you someone sent him some porn and all you got to say is, ‘Huh.’” “Maybe that’s
because someone sent me some pictures, too.” “Huh.” “Show you mine if you
show me yours,” Terry said. Bill
reached into pocket, pulled out his phone. Terry did the same. Each fiddled with their
devices, held them up for the other to see. On
Bill’s phone was a picture of Susan, naked and legs spread, and between them, Terry.
Terry’s phone showed an equally nude Trudy straddling Bill. Terry leveled his Syren XL R5 Waterfowler at Bill and
shouted “You sonavabi …” Bill didn’t let him finish but pulled
the trigger on the Browning. As Terry was blown back by the buckshot hitting and shredding
his chest, his finger reflexively yanked the Syren’s trigger. The blast removed much
of Bill’s face and painted the side wall of the blind in a red mist. The twin booms reverberated
across the lake but were heard only by the V formation of ducks flying overhead. Later that morning, Trudy
and Susan sat in Susan’s kitchen, drinking coffee. “Did you call Terry?” Susan asked. “Yes. He didn’t
answer. You?” Susan
nodded. “Bill didn’t answer, either.” They
smiled at one another. “You
think it worked?” Trudy asked, fingering one of the tight coils of the auburn hair
that bunched at her shoulders. “Are they both dead?” “I do, and yes,” Susan said. “I’ve gotten
pretty good at Photoshop. I could have put a donkey in those pictures, and you wouldn’t
be able to tell.” “What
if …” “…
one of them is still alive? He’ll be spending the rest of his days in prison for
murder.” “The
police?” “What
about them? We weren’t there.” “The
pictures?” “Already
wiped. I’ve also gotten pretty good at hacking phones. It's amazing what you can
learn on the Internet.” Trudy
leaned across the breakfast table, gently tucked back a stray strand of Susan’s blonde
mane, and softly kissed her lips. “That’s
why I love you, baby.” “Need
to shut down that fake email account, though,” Susan said. “Just to be on the
safe side.” Trudy
stood and began unbuttoning her blouse. “Later,”
she said. “Let’s go upstairs and take some more pictures.” THE END
THE DREARY DETECTIVE BY E. E. WILLIAMS It started to rain for the third
time that morning. Jackson Horn stared out the window at the gray titanium clouds, and
the rain streaking the glass. It was a dreary start to a dreary day, in a dreary week,
in a dreary month, and, if Horn was being completely honest, a dreary existence. His last job had been catching a tech mogul’s wife in flagrante
delicto with her tennis instructor, a cliché in what had become a lifetime of clichés.
Horn had tracked her for three weeks and eventually provided the tech guy with a list of
flagrante hotel rooms, inns, apartments, and tavern restrooms, as well as delicto photos,
audio files of phone calls, and transcripts of the conversations to which he’d listened
in on with a directional mic. Presented with the evidence of
his wife’s infidelity the mogul grew furious. With Horn. Refused to pay the remainder
of Horn’s fee. Told him he could sue. Horn could, of course. He had a contract. Signatures
and fine print and everything. Ironclad. But the mogul’s pockets were deeper than
Horn’s. Much deeper. So, one hundred twenty hours of wading through the muck of humanity
disappeared down the drain. Thirty years ago, this wasn’t
the way Horn had seen his life going. He’d just mustered out of the Army and wanted
nothing more than to be a famous private eye, like the ones in novels and movies. Philip
Marlowe. Mike Hammer. Jake Gittes. There would be book deals about his cases. Movie offers. That was the plan. Then. Now,
here he was, trailing adulterers through back alleys, bedbug hotel rooms and sleazy bars
that stank of booze and desperation. That’s
who Jackson Horn was when someone rapped on his office door, the one with JACKSON HORN
stenciled on the pebbled glass. Jackson Horn wasn’t his real name, but at the time
he’d started being a “Private Detective,” as it read under his name,
he thought it had a sexy ring to it. The knock
tugged at Horn’s reverie but didn’t pull him completely out. Fat raindrops
slithered down the window, dividing once, twice, three times and branching crazily left
and right. It was hypnotic. Each tributary was a different path Horn’s life could
have taken. This branch, he was a doctor. That one, a lawyer. That one? Maybe an
investment banker making million-dollar deals. A second more insistent thump on
the door finally jerked Horn out of his stupor. “Come in,” he said
in a voice loud enough to be heard out in the hallway. There
was a moment’s hesitation before the knocker stepped into the office. He was in his
early thirties, dressed in black jeans, a soft blue Orvis t-shirt and blood red Nike sneakers.
He had one of those local TV weatherman faces: Not handsome, not ugly, but vaguely recognizable
in a bland sort of way. Horn stood and offered his hand. The young
man took it and squeezed, somewhat harder than he should have. Nerves, thought Horn. Not
uncommon when hiring a private detective. “Erik Thornton,”
the young man said by way of introduction. “Jackson
Horn. How can I help you, Mr. Thornton?” “Please,
Erik. With a K,” he said, glancing around the chaotic mess of an office, where precariously
leaning towers of paperback mystery novels were stacked in various corners of the
cramped room and sheaths of crumpled notes and wrinkled correspondence appeared to be vomited
up by Horn’s desk. Horn thought he detected a slight downturn
at the corners of the young man’s mouth, but it was there and gone in an instant
replaced by an easy smile. “Okay, Erik with a K. Same question.
How can I help you?” Horn was expecting the usual. I think
my wife is cheating on me … I need you to follow my girlfriend … I have to
blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah. The script rarely changed. But Erik with a K surprised him. “I’m looking for my
father,” he said. Gesturing
for Thornton to take the chair, Horn opened a notebook, clicked open a pen and asked, “Your
dad? He’s missing?” Thornton shrugged
and said, “I don’t know. Maybe.” “You
don’t know if he’s missing?” Thornton’s
lips thinned as he sought the right words. “I
… I never knew him. He abandoned my mother before I was born. So, I really can’t
say he’s missing missing, but, you know, maybe. Could be he’s missing
from wherever he is now.” Horn stared
at Thornton, wondering if the man was pulling his leg. “I’m
not really putting this very well,” Thornton said. “As I say, I never knew
my dad. I don’t even know his name.” “Your
mother never told you his name?” “No.” Thornton spat the word like it was vinegar on his tongue. Wind continued to whip rain against the window, and something tickled
the back of Horn’s brain. There was something familiar about Erik with a K, but he
couldn’t put his finger on it. “Do we know one another, Erik?” Thornton gave Horn a dead-eyed stare and said, “No.” “Right … so, you don’t know your
father’s name. How about the year he left your mom?” “I’m thirty-three.
Figure it out.” Thornton’s tone had taken
a sudden left turn. He’d started off pleasantly enough if a little goofy. Now his
voice had an edge sharp enough to slice through Horn’s desk. “Sure,”
Horn said. “Thirty-three years ago, then. Where were you born? I can check birth
records, maybe get your father’s name from that. Use it as a starting point.” “Don’t know.” “You don’t know where
you were born?” “We moved around a lot,
my mother and I. She didn’t offer up a lot of details about my … background.” Horn sighed. “Let’s come at this a different
way,” he said. “What was your mother’s name?” “Greta.” “Greta Thornton …” “Michaels,” Thornton
said, interrupting. “Greta Michaels.” “And
your last name is Thornton? Why?” “Because
I didn’t want to keep her name one minute longer than I had to,” Thornton said,
his voice rising. Well, this is definitely off
script, thought Horn. “If I may, why not?” “Because she was a crazy
freaking bitch, is why. Because she was a drunk. Because … because of this.” Thornton
yanked aside the collar of his shirt to reveal puckered rounds of white scar tissue. Horn’s
gut clenched. “Cigarette burns,”
Thornton said. “Why?”
Horn asked. “Why would your mother do …?” “You’re
really not much of a detective, are you?” Thornton said with a sneer. Bewildered, Horn said, “Look, Mr. Thornton, I’m not sure
where this sudden hostility is coming from, but …” Thornton’s face purpled
with rage. “You don’t know where this
hostility is coming from? Let me tell you. It’s coming from the fact my mother was
so destroyed when my father abandoned her, that he threw her away like yesterday’s
garbage, it broke her. She spent the rest of her life taking it out on me.” Thornton rocketed out of his chair and paced the room. What was it that
made him so familiar, Horn wondered. The piercing gray eyes? The nose slightly too large
for his face? Then it hit him, a sucker punch to the jaw. “I wasn’t truthful with you,” Thornton said, turning
to confront Horn. Horn tried to say something. Anything. His
mouth opened and closed but the words stuck in his throat. A line of sweat beaded across
his forehead. “My mother did tell me my father’s
name,” Thornton said. “His real name.” Like magic,
a gun appeared in Thornton’s hand. It was small and compact, yet for Horn the barrel
yawned as wide and black as a mountain tunnel. “It
was James Wilson,” Thornton said. “Jimmy Wilson back then. He picked my mother
up in a bar. Took her back to her apartment. Left the next morning before she woke up.
Put fifty dollars on the nightstand. She never saw him again and never ever got over that
he thought she was no better than a cheap whore. It sent her down a very dark
alley she never found her way out of. I blame him for that and everything that came
after.” The gun jumped in Thornton’s hand,
and Horn suddenly found himself slammed onto the floor, flat on his back. There was a burning
sensation in his chest and then a searing pain that grew with each passing second until
it consumed his entire body. He tried to grab a breath but there was no air. “When you get to hell,” Thornton said, “say hello
to mom. Don’t bother telling her I’m sorry for cutting her throat. Because
I’m not. Goodbye … Jimmy.” Then Erik with
a K was gone. As the office door creaked shut, memories flooded back to Horn. Lawton, Oklahoma.
Fort Sill. A pretty brunette at Rooster’s bar, drinking alone. Lovely gray eyes.
Easy, ruby-lipped smile. Nose just slightly too large for her face. Greta. Greta was her
name. Horn felt something liquid and warm trickle
down his ribs and begin to pool beneath him. Blood. His blood. Greta, he mouthed silently.
Erik. As the light dimmed around him, Horn’s
eyes shifted upwards to the window where rivulets of rain still branched crazily left and
right. Left and right. Left and … THE END
THE MUNCHIES By
E. E. Williams The man
drove a cherry red Corvette and that’s all Jimmy Dee needed to know. “Gotta be worth fifty grand,” said Chris Hale. “Idiot,” Jimmy said. “That’s a
Z06. Hundred-twenty K easy. Maybe more.” “With that kinda money, what’s
he doing in a 7-Eleven?” asked Tim Freese, the third member of Jimmy three-man crew. “Even
rich assholes get hungry,” Jimmy said. “It’s late. Whole Foods ain’t
open. When a man’s gotta eat, he’s gotta eat. He can’t, hungry turns
to hangry.” “I don’t know,” Freese said.
“It don’t feel right.” “Nothing
feels right to you,” Jimmy said with a scowl. “Remember that house down in
Homestead? You kept saying someone was home and we’d get caught.” “Someone was home, and we did get caught,”
Tim said. “Yeah, but we didn’t get caught,
caught. We got away. Whacked the woman a couple of times but we didn’t kill her.
Left with a couple thou in cash and some jewelry if I recall. So, stop your bellyaching.” Tim and Chris knew it was pointless to argue. Once Jimmy made up his
mind on a job—or anything for that matter—he brooked no discussion. They’d
both learned that the hard way. Right this moment, Jimmy had
made up his mind to rob the guy driving the Vette. For someone rich enough to drive
a car worth a quarter million dollars, the man was thoroughly unimposing. Thirty-something,
short, maybe five-seven or five-eight, slumped-shouldered, brown hair thinning at the back,
glasses. He was such a plain joe you couldn’t pick him out of a lineup of plain joes. He was dressed in ill-fitting cargo shorts, a Cheeseburger in Paradise
t-shirt and sneaks that had been around the block more than a few times. They’d all
seen him drive up to the 7-Eleven in the Vette, so it was his car, even if he looked like
he couldn’t afford the insurance on it for even a day. Once
more Tim thought there was a disconnect and opened his mouth to again voice his objection
but caught the warning look from Chris and let the words die at the back of his throat. The man in the 7-Eleven strolled out slurping
something out of a plastic cup large enough to swim in and munching a Big Bite hotdog.
He placed the drink down on the parking lot asphalt to free a hand so he could open the
driver’s side door. Sliding inside, he put the food on the seat beside him, the drink
into a cup holder, and pulled the door shut. It closed with a satisfying thunk. The man glanced up, taking in the blanket of stars in the midnight sky.
A second later, the Vette roared to life, then idled for a moment, a low thrum, like the
purring of a big jungle cat. The driver reversed and hooked a left onto Brickell Bay Drive.
Jimmy, behind the wheel of his ancient Honda Civic, allowed a car to pass between them
before pulling out of the lot and following. The red
Vette motored casually up to Brickell Ave., made a lazy right, and crossed over the Brickell
Key Bridge, eventually darting into the underground garage of a twenty-three story condominium
complex on Claughton Island Drive. The driver parked, killed the engine and was about to
exit the Vette when the Civic roared up and skidded to a stop inches from the Vette’s
front grill. Jimmy, Chris, and Tim piled out and surrounded
the Vette. The man said, “Help you fellas?”
His voice was flat, his tone calm. Too calm, thought Tim. The crew had done this a dozen
times. Followed some rich asshole back to his home, robbed him, took whatever they wanted
from the house and promised to return if he or anyone in the family went to cops. Each
time the mark was left quaking with fear and sprinting to the john before he soiled himself. But not this guy. Curious. We’re all bigger than him, noted Tim,
especially Jimmy, who topped out at six-one and hundred eighty-five pounds. The driver
was lucky if he went a buck fifty. So why wasn’t this guy pissing his pants right
about now? “Yes, you can,” Jimmy said, all
friendly like. “You could hand over your wallet for starters.” “Wallet?
I don’t have a wallet,” the driver said. “Just
saw you buy a dog and a Coke at the 7-Eleven,” Jimmy said with a smirk. “How’djapay?
Your good looks?” The man chuckled. “Had some spare
change in my pocket. Had the munchies.” He shrugged. “But if it’s money
you want, I could maybe scrounge up a few bucks if you care to come upstairs with me.” “A few bucks?” Jimmy said. “You drive a car like this,
you’ve got more than a few bucks layin’ around somewhere. And we would love
to come upstairs with you.” An insistent
voice in Tim’s head said, Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do
it. “Jimmy …” Tim
started. Wheeling on Tim, Jimmy said, “Shut
your freakin’ trap. You use my name in front of him? You know what that means …
Tim? Tim Freese.” Tim realized his mistake and closed his
eyes. It was true, they hadn’t killed anyone yet. Hurt people, sure. Hurt them bad
in some cases. Like the old lady in Homestead. But nobody died. The use of Jimmy’s
name, and now his own, meant that was going to change. “Come
on up fellas,” the Vette driver said, his mouth creased in small smile. If he understood
what was going to happen once they were upstairs, he didn’t let on. The man exited the Vette and led the way to an elevator. Jimmy and Chris
followed. Tim hesitated, the voice in his head churning from insistent to screaming. But these were his friends, Jimmy and Chris. They’d grown up together
on the streets of Liberty City, where you fought and clawed to survive, or you died. Nobody
did it alone. You needed allies, friends. Friends like Jimmy Dee and Chris Hale. They’d
always had his back. They trusted him to have theirs. He trudged after them. They all crowded into the elevator. Jimmy’s eyes were bright with
anticipation. Of money, and merch, and now, violence. Tim
glanced down. Noticed dark brown spots on the driver’s white Nike Pegasus sneaks.
Tim’s heart fluttered like a hummingbird in his chest. Up, up, up rose the elevator.
Up, up, up rose Tim’s anxiety. Everyone was grinning but him. Even the driver. Why
was he grinning? The elevator halted and the
doors swished open not to a hallway, but to the condo itself. Lights blinked on automatically
as they stepped into the cavernous space. Everything gleamed and sparkled and glimmered.
The tiled floors, the marbled kitchen, the posh dining area, the sleek living room with
its modern chrome accented furniture. Floor-to-ceiling sliding doors opened to a spacious
balcony overlooking Biscayne Bay and downtown Miami, both of which shimmered under a full
moon. It was breathtaking. “Now
this is what I’m talking about,” Jimmy crowed. He swiveled his gaze to the
driver and said, “The money.” The man said, “Right,” and
gestured to a room down a short hallway. “Bedroom safe.” He made
to move in that direction and Jimmy said, “Ah, ah, ah. Chris here will escort you.” Chris, who hadn’t yet said a word,
snagged a Ruger .38 from the small of his back. “Lead the way,” he
said. He pointed the gun’s barrel down the hallway, and the man complied. Jimmy, meanwhile, wandered through the living
space, regarding the artwork on the walls. “Who’s Jasper Johns?” he asked. Tim shook his head and Jimmy said, “You’d think a guy as
rich as this dude is he’d buy some decent art. Never heard of ol’ Jasper or
this other one … Hockney? More like hackney. But who knows, maybe they’re worth
…” Jimmy was cut short by a muffled thump from
the bedroom. “Chris?” yelled Jimmy. “Everything
okay?” No answer. “Chris?” No answer. “Chris, what the hell is going
on?” No answer. Jimmy drew a Glock from his belt.
Tim followed suit, filling his right hand with a Springfield Hellcat. Cautiously, they
made their way back to the bedroom. “Chris?” Jimmy called out again,
with the same result. No answer. Jimmy was first into the room,
and he gasped. Futilely, he reached for a breath, but found none available. Tim squeezed
past his shaking friend and confronted an unimaginable horror. On the bed were four mutilated
bodies, all oozing crimson from a multitude of stab wounds onto a once white comforter.
A man, a woman, two kids, maybe early teens. Hideously, the man’s head was missing
and as Tim glanced down, he found it on the floor next to Chris, whose neck was spurting
blood like a broken water faucet. The Vette
driver was crouched over Chris. He glanced up at Jimmy and Tim and said, “Oops.” He moved with incredible swiftness then.
He slammed his right foot into Jimmy’s left knee, torquing it backward and hyperextending
it. There was a crunch and a pop, and a crack as the ACL and PCL ligaments tore and the
kneecap shattered. Jimmy went down in a howl of pain, the Glock skittering from his hand
as he hit the floor. The driver did a forward roll and launched himself at Tim, who tried
to level his Hellcat at the man, but was too slow and he felt a hot prick of pain up under
his ribcage. He lowered his eyes and saw the hilt of a knife flush against his skin and
knew instantly some sort of knife was inside him. With a fft, fft, fft, the driver tattooed
the blade in and out and up Tim’s body, the final stab under his arm, severing the
axillary artery. Tim gave the driver a quizzical who-the-hell-are-you
look before he crumpled to the ground, the voice in his head now saying, I told you
so, I told you so, I told you s… The driver
stood, sauntered over to Jimmy as the gang leader clawed his way toward his gun. “Ah, ah, ah,” the man said, mimicking Jimmy’s earlier
admonition. He stomped on Jimmy’s right ankle
and there was another loud snap. Jimmy’s eyes filled with starbursts of agony. Tears
streaked his cheeks and snot wormed its way out from his nose. “Please,
please,” he croaked. “Please.” “Oh,
now Jimmy. Isn’t this what you were going to do to me? Tim there used your name and
then to put him in his place you used his. His full name. Freese, wasn’t it? You
couldn’t let me live after that, right? “Anyway,
you guys just picked the wrong guy at the wrong time. See, this here is the Bonham family.
That’s Mr. Bonham’s Vette you saw me driving. Anyway, I saw them leaving a
Heat game, and knew I just had to have the wife. So pretty. So sexy. That happens to me
a lot. I see a woman and I just know she wants me even if she doesn’t know at the
time she wants me. Get what I mean? “So,
I follow them home and eventually the women all admit that, yes, they want me. Unfortunately,
someone from the family occasionally gets in the way and …” He pointed to the
bed. “… and sometimes this happens.” He
gave Jimmy a knowing look. “Ah hell, I know you don’t believe
that. I won’t lie. This always happens. Inevitably, the woman starts crying
and I know she regrets what we did, and it just sort of makes me … angry. You know?” The man stooped over Jimmy, the bloody nine-inch stiletto blade—still
dripping with Tim’s and Chris’s blood—hovering just inches from Jimmy’s
neck. “I’m sorry about you guys, I
really am,” the man said as he slowly slid the knife tip, millimeter by millimeter,
into Jimmy’s carotid. Taking his time. Enjoying it. “We’re sort of like
brothers in arms.” The man watched the light gradually leak
from Jimmy’s eyes and said, “You’d probably all be sitting on the back of
your Honda right now drinking beers if I just hadn’t, you know, gotten the munchies.” It
was the last word Jimmy Dee would ever hear.
E. E. Williams is a former
journalist who worked at some of the country’s largest and best newspapers, including
the New York Daily News, the Cleveland Plain Dealer, and the Fresno
Bee. During his 42-year career, he won numerous national and regional awards for his
writing and editing. He is the author of four Noah Greene mystery novels, all
of which are available on Amazon, and the soon to be published Little Girl
Lost.
|
