Coasting

Salton Sea

A Barry Wilder Short Story

Kenneth James Crist

It’s never a good deal when your dog dies. When you lose one of your all-time best friends and your dog within a month of each other, it totally sucks.

Roland Nesper was a retired Sheriff’s detective from Carbon County in Wyoming. He and Iva Gonzalez had moved down to Wichita with me and Iva had paid for that decision with her life. We had been ambushed right at my own home and it had been our final contact with the cartel and the bloodthirsty bunch of assholes who made up that jolly band.

Commando Cody, the huge Doberman, had been trained initially as a bomb dog for the Carbon County Sheriff’s department. That didn’t work. He was too enthusiastic for bomb work. They cross-trained him for drug work. Again, too much enthusiasm. When it was decided he would be put down, Roland stole him and after that he was Roland’s and Iva’s and mine, too, I guess. We had all loved him and cared for him equally, but after Iva was killed, I began to see him decline. Roland and I worked with two different veterinarians, but they were both of the same opinion. Large breed dogs tend to have shorter life spans, and even dogs in relatively good health eventually die.

My personal opinion was that he died of a broken heart, pining for his mistress. When his time came, he was curled up in his bed and one morning he just didn’t wake up. Roland and I took turns digging his grave in the hard Kansas soil behind my house. We buried him wrapped in Iva’s old leather bomber jacket and we put in a box of dog treats and several of his favorite, chewed up toys. When we were finished, neither of us had much to say. Roland took off his glasses and mopped his face with his bandana. It wasn’t just sweat he wiped away. He walked off toward the house and, when he was out of earshot, I said, “Goodbye, Cody. You were a good dog and a good friend. I’m sure I’ll see you soon. Take care of Iva until I get there.”

There are those who believe that heaven isn’t open to animals. That they have no souls, and they know nothing of God or Jesus or Vishnu, or Yaweh or any deity, so they cannot enter the Kingdom. I believe those folks are full of shit. Commando Cody had been highly trained and highly functional. He had saved lives and taken lives and, since I never knew him as a puppy, I often wondered if he had always been a serious warrior, dedicated to the protection of his people. Dogs who serve as Cody did deserve a place in whatever we call the afterlife. To paraphrase Will Rogers, “If dogs can’t go to heaven, when I die, I want to go wherever they go.”

Roland didn’t have it that easy. He already had two stents in his heart when he came to live in Wichita. We both knocked around my big old house, as content as two old guys can be in each other’s company, both nursing our losses and wishing things had turned out differently.

Commando Cody had been in the ground not quite three weeks, when Roland and I were sitting at the breakfast table, having morning coffee and he suddenly said, “Shit, that hurts!”

I said, “What?” But he wasn’t answering. He keeled over and slid to the floor, managing to break his own fall, barely knocking his glasses off. He was clutching his chest and I snatched up the phone and called 911, getting paramedics started. I found Roland’s nitroglycerine pills and got one under his tongue.

Firefighters from Station 17 arrived and started CPR and the ambulance took him to the emergency room. He survived that heart attack, too. Roland was a tough sumbitch. The following day the cardiologist decided to try and place another stent and during the surgery, Roland coded, and they were unable to get him back. I’m convinced he was halfway over to the other side and heard Cody barking and just said, “Fuck it, I’ve had enough, c’mere, Good Dog!”

I had Roland’s Power of Attorney and he had mine. He wanted to be cremated and I had that done. I drove his ashes up to Natrona County in Wyoming, and had him interred right next to Iva. When it was all over, and I was once again alone, I fell back into my old ways. I took Thumper, my Harley Ultra Classic, to the dealer for a tune up and oil change and while he was in the shop, I cut off the mail, put all the house plants outside and made sure all the utilities were on auto-pay. When Thumper came out of the shop, I packed my shit and hit the road.

As I had done many times before, I looked at the weather forecast and picked the direction in which I would encounter the fewest storms. I headed southwest. In one day’s ride, I was in Pueblo, Colorado and I stopped for the night. The following day, I rode to Taos, New Mexico, one of my favorite old haunts. I visited Kit Carson’s grave and also that of the famous actor, Dennis Hopper. I stayed the night, gambled a little at the tiny Indian casino, then moved on.

Southbound toward Las Cruces, the weather warmed, and I was soon in shirtsleeves and getting baked in the good, dry desert heat. Sometimes, when things have been going shitty, it takes several days and numerous tanks of gas to get my head straightened out. Moving on from the loss of friends is one of the most difficult things for me to deal with. In my imagination, a whole group of friends rode along with me and Commando Cody paced my bike, whenever he wasn’t distracted by a rabbit.

From Las Cruces, I headed further south and west, into the eerie desert country near the Mexican border. The last time I came that way, I had been going the other direction and had been caught by a storm. I had sheltered in an abandoned gas station and had been joined by a Western Diamondback rattlesnake, or perhaps by a woman. It had been a strange episode. I knew the snake was real and I dreamed the woman, but her footprints were there when I awoke. Now, as I travelled west, I watched for the old gas station, but I never saw it. Never even saw any place where it might have been. That in itself was disturbing. It was not the only disturbing episode I’d ever had when riding alone and somehow, I was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

When I reached Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, I decided to be a tourist for a while. I still had a National Park senior pass I’d bought at the Grand Canyon years before and the Ranger at the entrance allowed that it was indeed still valid. Best ten bucks I ever spent.

The day had turned exceptionally warm for the time of year, this being October, and I found myself buying extra water at the gift shop before I moved out into the park. I had done the tour and seen all the huge old cactus plants a guy would ever care to see, and I was headed out, when I stopped at a turnout that had restrooms. Figured I’d hit the can one more time before I headed further west.

When I stepped out of the restroom, there sat the most worn-out, bedraggled Jack Russell terrier I’d ever seen. No collar or tags. She just sat in the shade provided by the roofed overhang of the restrooms and panted. I looked her over and I knew she was in trouble. First, there was no one around. Second, there was nothing to drink, and third, she had accumulated several cactus spines in her feet.

I know enough about dogs to know that they cannot sweat. Therefore, they pant, to get rid of excess heat. Without water and shade a dog can sicken and die very quickly. I walked over to the bike to get some water. The Jack stayed right where she was, watching me. When I pulled a bottle of water out of the tour trunk, she saw it and stood up. I saw her tongue flop out and I could see it was swollen.

I walked to the trash barrel nearby and rooted around and found a Styrofoam container and popped it open. There was some dried ketchup in it, but it would have to do. I walked back to the dog and put the container down and poured it half full of water. She set to, lapping it up. As she drank, I walked around the area, looking for anyone else who might be around. I needed to find this little lady some help. There was no one but me.

When I returned, she actually wagged her stump of a tail and looked at the water bottle expectantly. “Okay,” I said, “but if ya make yourself sick, I’m not cleanin’ it up.” I poured the rest of the bottle into the improvised bowl and watched her go after it while I thought about those cactus spines in her feet. I knew that the cactus plants naturally shed a certain number of spines every year. She probably picked them up wandering the park. I supposed I’d never know how she came to be out here abandoned and alone.

I went back to the bike and pulled my tool kit and got out needle-nose pliers. I sat on a bench that was tucked up against the restroom wall in the shade and when the Jack was finished drinking, I gave her a couple minutes. She went around the building sniffing and peeing, but never letting me out of her sight. Finally, she came over and sat at my feet.

I petted her for a few minutes and talked to her, then carefully lifted her up to join me on the bench. I showed her the pliers and told her what I was about to do and that it would probably hurt. I started with the back feet, snatching the cactus spines out quickly. They had been in her feet long enough that none of them bled and several appeared to be infected. They would require more attention later.

My next problem was getting her to ride on a motorcycle. We’ve all seen Jack Russell terriers perform on stage and in circuses. They are one of the smartest and most agile breeds, but training must begin early for almost any dog to be comfortable on a motorcycle.

I walked her over to the bike and let her sniff her way around it. She carefully avoided both tires and I took that as a good sign. She was smart enough to know about the dangers of wheeled vehicles. In a few minutes, I lifted her up and set her on the seat. I figured that would be fine, until I started the motor. That’s when almost any animal will bail—when the machine starts making all those scary noises.

I let her get used to sitting on the seat while I put on helmet and gloves. Then I threw my leg over and sat down with her, putting her on the saddle in front of me. She turned and looked up at me and I didn’t quite know what her expression was telling me. I stood the bike up and flipped up the kickstand. She looked over the side to see what that noise was. I turned on the ignition switch and the fuel pump whined, and the radio came on. I killed the radio. I figured we didn’t need The Eagles right then, doing Witchy Woman.

With my left hand, I steadied the dog and with my right thumb, I reached out and touched the starter. I expected the Jack to bail right then, in a mad scramble to get away from this two-wheeled work of the Devil. I felt her shiver and she looked up at me again. I figured this deal might work out after all. I could feel her tail wagging, catching me right in the crotch. “Well, okay,” I said, “let’s do this.” I clicked the shifter into first and the Harley made its characteristic clang as it went into gear. I eased the clutch out and we rolled off, headed out toward the ranger station. In spite of the heat, I could feel the dog pushing herself back against me.

We rode several miles and when I rolled up to the ranger station, I killed the engine and the ranger tried to wave me through. I stopped and called him over.

“Sir?” He was looking at the dog and speaking to me.

“Has anyone reported losing a dog in the last few days?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but let me check a couple things. Sit tight for a minute.” He went back inside and picked up a phone. Talked for a minute. Hung up and made another call. Talked again. Hung up and made a third. Finally came back out and said, “No reports we’re aware of. Do ya wanna turn her in? We can have animal control come out and get her.”

The Jack turned and looked back up at me again and I knew what the score was then. “Nope. Think I’ll just take her along and we’ll see how that works out. Have a nice day.”

I started the bike again and we moved on out. I spent the first fifteen miles expecting the dog to just go, fuck this! and jump, especially whenever we leaned into a curve, but she hung in there and we soon rolled into a place called Ajo and I decided we’d call it good. I figured my new friend could use some chow, and air conditioning wouldn’t hurt, either.

I picked a small, single-story motel called, predictably, the Cactus Motel and got us a room. The dog waited outside the office and the desk guy asked, “Is yer dog house-broken?”

“Probably better than most of your guests,” I said, grabbed the key and went to the room.

When we got inside, the dog made the rounds, checking everything out. I watched her carefully to see if she was going to do anything she shouldn’t. In a few minutes, she jumped up on the bed, turned around a couple of times and lay down. I headed for the shower.

Thirty minutes later, we headed out to find food. I had no leash, but the dog stuck close and didn’t seem inclined to run off. We walked a couple blocks and found a hamburger joint with outside seating that was in the shade. I went to the window and ordered two double cheeseburgers, one plain and one with everything, a large order of fries, a Coke and a water, easy on the ice. I sat at an old red-painted picnic table that was scarred with many names carved into the wood. The dog ate off the wrapper of her burger and licked the paper clean. I fed her fries while we talked. I knew I was going to have to come up with a name and a collar and vaccination tags, and a leash would probably be a good idea, too. I was sure these were all things she was used to. After we ate, we walked around the town a bit and she got barked at by some Pit Bulls and some junkyard dogs. I was looking to see if there might be a veterinarian’s office, but I never saw one. We wound up back at the motel, watching TV on one of the three channels available until just past ten, when she jumped off the bed and went to the door. I let her out and watched from the door as she made her rounds. When she was ready, we went to bed. As I was drifting off to sleep, it occurred to me that this Jack Russell was getting me trained quite nicely.

In the morning, I knew her name. I don’t know how. I didn’t know then and I still don’t. I just woke up and looked at her, curled up beside me on the hard motel bed and said, “Bonnie, you ready to go out?”

In characteristic Jack Russell fashion, she bounded off the bed and yapped at the door. I said, “Hush now. Let’s not wake everybody up. Go do your business.”

She quieted immediately and went out into the lot, then found some straggly grass. I didn’t watch her. I figured if she was inclined to leave me, she would at some point. Might as well be sooner as later. I left the door open an inch and went to use the can. In a few minutes, I heard the door squeak as she shouldered it open and then her nervous pacing as she looked for me. Heard her sniffing and blowing under the door. Then, she tried to dig her way under. I said, “Hey. Quit that. I’ll be out in a minute.” She stopped digging and blowing and when I came out of the bathroom, she was again curled up on the bed.

We rode on up highway 85 to Gila Bend, where I was able to find a pet supply place and they clued me in on where to find the best vet in town. By noon, we were sitting in the vet’s waiting room. Bonnie was wearing a new collar and was on a leash. A box of liver-flavored doggie treats had been added to the cargo in Thumper’s trunk and we were next up to see the doc.

When the vet came in from lunch, I had a bad moment. She looked so much like Iva, the resemblance was uncanny. She was obviously Hispanic, but her name was Curry. Angelica Curry, DVM.

As she examined Bonnie, I told her how the dog came to be in my possession. “First thing we should do then, is see if she’s microchipped,” she said. She tucked Bonnie under her arm and confidently marched off down the hall somewhere. In a couple minutes, she was back. “Looks like you got yourself a free dog, Mr. Wilder. There’s no sign of a chip. So, I guess we’d better get her current on shots and get a fecal smear to check for parasites. No chip means no records, so we gotta start from scratch.” As soon as the doc said, “scratch,” Bonnie sat down and scratched her right ear with her back foot. The doc and I looked at each other and then we both laughed. Bonnie tilted her head, wondering what the joke was. She looked like the dog ‘Nipper’ in the old RCA ads, his head tilted just the same, listening to “His Master’s Voice.”

A half hour later, I had spent a hundred and eighteen bucks and Bonnie had a rabies tag and we were on our way. We had some ointment to put on her feet to help the cactus spine punctures heal and the doctor assured me that as soon as I put it on, Bonnie would try to lick it off. “Try to keep her occupied for a while after you apply it, so it has time to soak in and do some good.”

The day was hot, and we rode west on Interstate 8 toward Yuma. The heat of the sun and the heat off the Harley’s engine were tough on me and I knew Bonnie had to be suffering. We made frequent stops for water and potty breaks and just to find some shade. We stopped in Yuma and found a Dairy Queen and got ice cream. I figured this would be a novelty for the dog, but once she got started on it, I realized it was not her first rodeo. She worked the waxed cardboard cup all over the sidewalk and reduced it to sloppy shreds in short order. More water and more potty time, then we rolled into California. When we pulled out of Yuma, I tried putting her on the back seat, thinking she’d be further from the engine heat. It didn’t work. Up front was where she wanted to be and she almost fell off once before I could get pulled over into the breakdown lane and move her back in front of me.

Another fifty-seven miles put us in El Centro, and after a break, during which I gave Bonnie a rubdown with bottled water, we went north on state road 86 toward the Salton Sea. This was a huge lake that had been created in1905 by an engineering problem with the Colorado River and it had become quite a booming tourist attraction for a number of years. Since the 1970’s it had been in the process of dying. The salt content of the lake, along with pesticide runoff from farming in the Imperial and Coachella Valleys had killed off most of the marine life and the receding shoreline had killed the hopes and dreams of many entrepreneurs and property owners. I had wanted to see it before it was all gone back to desert and besides, it was on my bucket list. I figured it would be a glimpse into the past and also a good example of environmental disaster. I was right.

Just about everywhere we stopped, the skeletons of dead fish littered the shoreline and the place stank of death. There were whole towns that were abandoned, and they might have been fun to explore, but I figured there might be quite a bit of danger there, too. I didn’t need Bonnie getting attacked and killed by a wild dog or further injured by falling through a floor or something. Her cactus spine injuries were enough for her to deal with at the moment.

I did stop at several places that were just too picturesque to pass up. I took pictures of an old salt-encrusted pier that fell a quarter mile short of reaching the water. An abandoned motel that was now the target of taggers and vandals. An old boat, left high and dry several hundred yards from the water. A ruined aluminum house trailer, half filled with weeds and trash. At each stop Bonnie ran and sniffed and came back for more water. It was at the old trailer where we found the girl.

When she staggered out into the sunlight, Bonnie went right to her. No hesitation at all. But the girl turned away, as though she were afraid. I tried calling Bonnie, but she wasn’t inclined to return. I was also looking around for a car or any other form of transportation. I flashed back to when I found Bonnie, alone and left for dead in the National Monument.

I approached the girl slowly. I could see she’d been beaten and her clothes were torn. She looked to be in her late teens, maybe a little older, but not much. Her eyes were dark, and the wide planes of her face indicated Indio blood. As she saw me, she looked like a deer in headlights. She was ready to bolt, to try and run away. But she kept looking at my hand. I realized I was still carrying a bottle of water. I held it out to her as an offering of peace. She backed up another step. Thinking quickly, I sat the bottle on the ground, called Bonnie and backed away. When I was back fifteen feet, the girl moved forward, picked up the bottle and moved away again. She opened the water and drank greedily, glancing at me from the corner of her dark eyes, making sure I wasn’t moving on her.

When she had finished the water, I said, “You’re in trouble. How can I help?”

“You stay away from me…” Her jeans were ripped up, but I was pretty sure that was just fashion. People seem to have the desire to pay big bucks for torn-up shit nowadays. Her shirt was a feminine-styled T-shirt and it was torn, too. I was quite sure that wasn’t a fashion statement. She was holding herself together, not just the shirt, but her injured psyche, too.

From my back pocket, I pulled something I seldom use. When I retired from the Wichita Police department, I was issued a black leather wallet containing a retirement badge. I opened it to show her the badge and the retirement ID. She was too far away to realize it said I was no longer a cop.

As I tucked the badge wallet back into my pocket, I said, “What happened here?”

Suddenly, it clicked. I was safety. I was The Law. I was the person who would get her out of whatever horror had befallen her. Then, she rushed me, and I caught her as she threw herself in my arms and I held her as she sobbed and wailed and bawled out her pain.

Getting the entire story out of her took a half hour. I needed to get myself and Bonnie into shade, but the girl, Lupé Rodriguez, would not go near the trailer. Her story was a tale of abduction and rape and threats that if she came back and told, she would die.

She knew her abductors. She was from San Bernardino, and she had been working hard to keep her younger brother away from drugs and the local gangs. For her trouble, and as a lesson to her and others, they had abducted her at gunpoint and brought her here. Tortured her and raped her. Beat her and left her for dead.

Between Lupé and Bonnie, they finished off the water, so I knew we needed to move on down the road. I went to the bike and dug out the extra helmet. It’s a shorty helmet that doesn’t take up much room and it was packed full of socks and underwear. I got it out and gave it to Lupé and said, “I’ll take you home or to the nearest police station we can find. Your choice.”

She said, “No. No police. They’ll kill me.” She didn’t mean the cops.

I said, “Not if I find them first.” I dug a clean t-shirt out of my saddlebag and gave it to her. We had no water left, so I could do nothing about the crusted blood around her nose and mouth. She turned her back to me and stripped off the remnants of her own shirt. She wore no bra. Whether that was by choice or she had lost it to the thugs, I never found out. From what I could see, she was well endowed, but seeing the livid bruises on her body turned off any sexual desire I might have had. My t-shirt swallowed her up, being many sizes too large, but it covered her up too, and it, along with the helmet, would make her harder to recognize if we came across her attackers along the way.

I showed her how to mount Thumper’s rear seat and I avoided touching her as she slowly managed to get seated. Bonnie jumped from the ground and landed on the seat in front of me and we headed north, looking for food and water. And maybe some medical attention, too.

We didn’t see anything but desert until we reached Indio, which sits right on Interstate 10. I pulled into the first service station I saw because Thumper was running on fumes and Lupé headed for the ladies’ room. After I filled up, I moved the bike around front and went inside to get water and snacks. Bonnie sat by the door for a minute, and then changed her mind and went around to the shady side of the building, which also happened to be where the restrooms were.

In a few minutes, Lupé came around to the front, with Bonnie trotting happily at her side. Lupe came inside and went straight to a display of sunglasses. She picked out the largest, darkest pair she could find and looked over at me. Raised her eyebrows. I nodded and motioned for her to bring them. They would help hide some of the damage to her face and further disguise her. On the way up, she had told me about the car her attackers were driving. I was keeping my eye peeled for a white Honda with slammed-down suspension and blacked-out windows. Couldn’t be more than a few thousand of those in Southern California.

As we got ready to go, I asked the clerk where the nearest hospital was. He gave me directions, but when we got back out to the bike, Lupé said, “No hospitals, okay?”

“You need medical attention,” I argued, “there’s no telling what they might have damaged, beating on you like that.”

“No. Too many questions. Plus, the hospital would have to call the cops. If I was gonna die, I would have by now.”

We moved on up Interstate 10, headed toward Palm Springs and Beaumont. It was getting late in the day and it was starting to cool down a bit.

It was as we were passing by Palm Desert that Lupé leaned forward and said, “I just saw the car!”

“Where?”

“Back there, at that casino!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It was Hector’s car, for sure!”

I jumped off at the next exit and circled back. Took some confusing side streets and eventually came up on the Agua Caliente Casino and Spa. We cruised through the lot and she pointed out the car. I parked some distance away, and we got off the bike. I dug out my road atlas and phone and started working to find someplace not too far away that I could lure them to. I needed them away from the Interstate. Somewhere more isolated.

The town of Yucca Valley looked pretty good. It had a population of 20,700 souls and was just up highway 62 about thirty-five miles. I got out a pad of paper and a pen and wrote a note. It said, ‘I have Lupé and I know what you did. Yucca Valley tonight, pussies.’ I said, “Stay here,” and walked over to their car and tucked the note under the wiper on the driver’s side. Walked back and we mounted up and rode out. Found highway 62 and went north. I figured whenever they found the note, they would probably get the security at the casino to review the camera footage of the parking lot and they would see the bike and me and Lupé. They would know I was for real and they would need to find me and try to finish what they’d started and shut me down, too.

When we got to Yucca Valley, I figured we had time to eat. We found a diner and got burgers and fries. We both saved some for Bonnie, who was waiting out front by the bike. When we had finished and fed her, we went and found a motel. Nothing fancy, just a mom and pop that looked clean. I got a room with two queen beds and installed Lupé in the room and told her to keep track of my dog, then took off to find somewhere to ditch Thumper.

Less than a mile back the way we’d come from, there was a U-Store storage place. In fifteen minutes, I’d rented a unit large enough to park Thumper in. I would use it once and then disappear. Eventually, maybe after thirty days, they’d check the unit and find it empty and just rent it again. I parked Thumper inside, backed in, so I could get him out quickly. I broke out weapons. I unloaded my Glock Model 22 and carefully wiped off each of the rounds, then put on gloves and put each round back in the magazine, charged the weapon and tucked it in the waistband of my jeans in the back. I figured I might not have time to pick up any expended brass and I didn’t want to leave any prints.

Took out a new ultra-ceramic folding knife and carefully wiped it, too. It had a blade that was probably at least twice as sharp as any metal blade. I liked it because it wouldn’t set off metal detectors. I put it in my right front pocket.

Dug around in the trunk and found my brass knuckles. They weren’t really brass. Actually, they were made of stainless steel and they had half-inch spikes sticking out of each knuckle. Illegal in every jurisdiction I’d ever had occasion to check. They went into the left front pocket. I looked around in the storage unit and saw that they hadn’t bothered to clean it out very well. In one of the back corners, I picked up a dusty old Dodgers ball cap, a plastic Wal Mart bag, and a four-foot chunk of mop handle. Perfect.

*     *     *     *     *

Hector Lopez, Gene Fuente and Mark Jimenez found the note about an hour after it was placed on their windshield. They didn’t go back into the casino. Instead, they flagged down a casino security officer who was cruising the lot.

Hector talked to the guy. “Hey, Bro, you see anybody fuckin around my car?”

The security guy looked like he might be a retired cop. Gray hair, buzzed off short, red face, overweight. Wearing a tan uniform with epaulettes on the shirt. Probably couldn’t run thirty yards to save his ass. “This about the note?”

“Yeah, man. On the white Honda there.”

“Some guy on a blue Harley. Had a chick on the back and a fuckin little dog with ‘em. I was watchin’ pretty close. They didn’t do anything to the car. Just left the note and split.”

“Thanks, man.” Hector didn’t like this shit. The bitch shoulda been dead by now.

As they walked back to the car, Mark said, “I wanted ta choot her, man. I woulda chot her when you was screwin’ her, but you said no…”

Hector just gave Mark the stink-eye and said, “Get in the fuckin’ car, man. Let’s go find this biker asshole. Teach this gringo fuck to mind his own business.”

They piled into the Honda, the screwed-up suspension creaking and groaning as their weight settled in. Hector fired it up and the loud, expansion-chamber exhaust crackled into a rough idle. He slammed it in gear and spun around in the lot and headed for the exit. They would try very hard to be in Yucca Valley in thirty minutes.

In actuality, it took them more like forty minutes. As they came blasting into town, they never even noticed the old dude in the ball cap and jeans beside the road with a stick and a plastic bag full of aluminum cans. He was such a common sight, he didn’t even register. They drove around town for a half hour and found no sign of a blue Harley. They decided they’d stay the night and have another look in the morning. It was getting dark and they were in strange territory. The motel they decided on was a little nicer than the one Barry and Lupé chose. It was about a half mile further north. When they got their key and went to their room they failed to notice the guy with the stick and the bag of cans for the second time.

*     *     *     *     *

I waited until the three idiots were in their room, then strolled across the lot and wandered around the motel until I found a utility room that was unlocked. I stepped in and swung the door until it was open about an inch. From there, I could look past the ice machine and down the row of rooms right to their front door.

“How we gonna find this biker dude, bro?” Gene was pacing back and forth across the room and around the beds. He always paced when he was nervous or agitated. “This fucker knows all about us and we don’t know shit about him.”

“Relax, Bro,” Hector said, “if we don’t get him here, we’ll get him when he brings the fuckin’ bitch back home. That’s where we got the advantage. He’ll come to us if we miss him here. Either way, we’ll cap his ass. Take care a his dumb ass…”

Mark said, “Hey, you guys want somethin’ ta drink? I’m gonna get some ice and a Pepsi.”

Hector pulled out some money and handed it across and said, “Mountain Dew, man. Thanks.”

Gene just shook his head. He was clearly worried.

It didn’t take long. I figured they’d have to have ice and some sodas, and the smallest of the three guys got elected. He came padding toward me barefoot and went to the ice machine first. Filled his ice bucket, then stepped over to a noisy, clanking beverage machine. As he was putting money in the bill acceptor, I stepped out and started to walk past him. As his head turned, I wiped the blade of my knife across his forehead, opening a six-inch slit that went clear to the bone. In moments his eyes were flooded with his own blood and he was effectively blind. As he spun around, frantically wiping at his eyes and face, I carefully stuck him just above the right kidney at an upward angle, perforating his diaphragm. Now, he couldn’t see, and he couldn’t get enough breath to scream. As he stumbled around, I took one more swipe, catching his left carotid artery. I sidestepped the blood spray and walked away.

“What the fuck? He hafta go ta fuckin’ L.A. ta get ice? Jesus, Man…” Gene was still pacing.

Hector said, “Fuck, Dude, if you’re so goddamn worried, go check on the little fucker. Maybe he got his hand stuck in the machine or some shit.”

Out in the parking lot, I crouched between two cars and waited. I figured fifteen minutes, but it only took ten. I guess they were impatient for their drinks. The second guy was a little taller and heavier, and as soon as he came out the room door, I started for him. I reached him just about the same time he saw his buddy, lying by the soda machine. He was so busy staring at the body there on the bloody concrete, I just walked up and slugged him with the brass knuckles. I caught him a perfect shot right in the temple. I had all my weight behind it, and he went down like a sack of stones. There were four perfectly spaced holes in the side of his head. There wasn’t much blood and in a minute, I checked him for vitals. Found nothing. I checked him for weapons and found a nice little Defender .380. Probably stolen. I took it and dragged him over to join his buddy, then scurried across the lot and hunkered down in the ditch at the edge of the parking lot. I tucked the Defender into the front of my jeans. I had a view of the room door from about twenty-five yards away. I waited.

Inside the motel room, Hector was watching Jeopardy and managing to catch about every third answer. He was smarter than he let on. He had actually done almost two years at USC before he figured out he could make more money cooking and selling meth than he’d ever make in legitimate work. He dropped out and went to making drugs full time.

When the program cut to commercial, he suddenly sat up. He realized Gene had been gone six or seven minutes and Mark ten minutes longer than that. Something was going on. Briefly, he thought about the biker dude. Could he be out there? Was he that good? Could he have already fucked up Mark and Gene?

He got up from the bed and picked up an AMT Hardballer from the nightstand between the beds. It was a typical Colt 1911 knock-off, packing 7 rounds of .45 ACP. It was a brutal weapon and very scary-looking. He stepped to the door and cautiously opened it. He never had time to realize it was a mistake.

Six minutes, this time. The room door opened, and the third guy was there, silhouetted in the doorway. I centered my front sight on his head, which was turning right and left, and squeezed off one shot.

A single gunshot in an urban area will seldom even generate a 911 call. People who hear a single gunshot will first ask themselves if it was a gunshot or a car backfire. Most people who commit violence with guns are so unskilled they tend to completely unload their magazine and fire the weapon dry, hoping to hit something vital. Among cops, that’s called “spray and pray.”

My single .40 caliber round entered through the guy’s right eye and caused his head to snap back as it passed cleanly through. I know it passed through, because I saw the curtain on the far side of the room jump as the round struck it. I got up and walked south toward my motel. In seven minutes, I was in the bathroom, washing off a small amount of blood and gunshot residue. Seven minutes after that, I was in bed, with Bonnie curled against me.

From the other bed, Lupé asked quietly, “Did you find them?”

“Sure did.”

“Are they…taken care of?”

“Listen. You can hear the sirens coming.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure…”

In the morning, I walked down to the storage place and retrieved Thumper, then we got breakfast and I took her home. When we got to San Bernardino, she directed me to her neighborhood, but then had me stop a few blocks from her house, at a small park. We took bottled water and walked to a picnic table and sat.

“You understand, you can never say anything about this to anyone, right?”

She looked at me, then took my hand and said, “And you can’t either, Mi Amigo.”

“I have something for you, if you want it.” I took the Defender .380 out of my pocket and laid it on the wood beside her. She looked at it. Didn’t pick it up.

“You took that off Mark, huh?”

“If that was his name…”

“He pointed this at me when they made me get in their car.”

“You can keep it. For protection. But it may be stolen, I don’t know.”

“Okay. I’ll keep it hidden. Maybe I won’t get raped again or killed.” She picked up the gun and shoved it in the back pocket of her jeans.

“I’ll be heading out then. Have a good life, Lupé Rodriguez.”

“Vaya Con Dios, Barry.” I looked for tears, but there were none.

I walked back to Thumper and Bonnie jumped up on the saddle. I stroked her head and said, “You ready, girl?”

She looked over to the park, where the battered young woman was walking away and yapped a couple of times, then looked back up at me.

Late One Night, We Killed Them All

Redhead Reba

Kenneth James Crist

“What’s this doggie’s name?” Reba June was sitting cross-legged on the carpet of the living room. From my vantage point in the kitchen, looking through the pass-through, I could see the smooth, white flesh of her upper thighs and a bit of her black panties. She was wearing a short green skirt, the same shade as her eyes, and a halter top. Her kinky, curly hair was just as red as I remembered.

“Motherfucker,” I said, and watched her dissolve into helpless laughter. The Corgi puppy backed up a step and cocked its head at her and just made her laugh harder.

“Why would you name it that?” She was still giggling and I added another slam.

“Because ‘Booger-snot’ or ‘Cock-knocker’ just didn’t have quite the pizzazz I was looking for.” Now, she was flat on her back, gasping and guffawing great gales of laughter. The three glasses of wine were making her a bit giddy, too, I suspected.

I had run across her at Quinn’s, a pub down in Old Town that I hadn’t been to in several years. It had been that long since I’d seen her, too. She had aged a bit, but chosen not to mature.

I finished fixing her screwdriver and carried it in, setting it on the coffee table.

I dropped down and sat on the floor and waited while she got herself under control, then sat up. She reached out to me and we kissed, her cool fingers playing in the hair on the nape of my neck. “Where you been all this time?” Her eyes sparkled as she asked it. “We always had so much fun together. . . .”

“And then you went and got married,” I said.

“And you got a dog and named him Motherfucker.”

“Not really. . . .”

“No?”

“No. His real name is Gizmo.”

She started laughing again and the dog was pawing at her lap. She pulled him up and reached for her drink.

“Shit. That’s almost as funny.”

“I didn’t name him. He was at the shelter and the people who had to leave him had already named him.”

“How could they leave this sweet boy?” She was hugging the dog, getting dog hair all over her top and her tits, which were not held in check very well by the skimpy cloth.

I got up and sat with my drink on the sofa, hoping she’d get over the dog and join me. She played with him for another couple of minutes, throwing one of his toys and laughing as he streaked after it on his stubby legs. Finally, she got up and came to the sofa. Instead of sitting beside me, she straddled me and sat on my lap, her skirt riding up almost to her waist.

We had been together many times in the two years we’d dated and each of us knew what the other liked. My hands stroked her thighs and we enjoyed a lot of orange-flavored kisses as the vodka kicked in.

In a couple minutes, I untied her top and freed her breasts, and brushed some dog hair off. There was a bit more sag there, but she was still very well put together. She stripped off my shirt and leaned into me, letting my chest hair tickle her nipples.

In another minute, I said, “Trade places with me.”

When she was seated, I pushed the coffee table out of the way and went to my knees before her. I pushed her skirt up, then her legs and began kissing her squarely on the center panel of her panties. She knew what was coming and she was just as eager to get there as I was. In moments, she was skinning her panties off and then I was invading her with my lips and tongue.

“Holy shit . . . I’ve missed this,” she murmured, a scant few seconds before she had the first orgasm of the evening. I held her tightly while she came, then she got the giggles again. “My damn husband won’t do that,” she said, “he thinks that’s just too dirty.”

As I started on her again, I whispered, “What a dumbass. . . .”

Later, in my bed, I asked, “Can you get away with staying the night, or do you hafta scurry home?”

She snuggled closer and said, “I probably should go home, but I don’t really want to . . . In a little while. . . .” Then we fell asleep.

It was barely turning daylight when I felt her scramble out of bed and she raced to the bathroom. I sat up and looked around. There was a broken trail of clothing from the living room into the bedroom. I got up and started gathering up her things and brought them to the foot of the bed.

Soon, she came out, having brushed her teeth and done something with her hair. I was worried just a bit.

“How much trouble are you in?”

She was slipping into her top as she said, “I texted one of my girlfriends. She’ll cover for me. Should be okay.”

Then the doorbell rang. We looked at each other and I heard her breathe, “Oh, shit. . . .”

I walked through the living room and out to the front parlor and looked out through the sheers in the bay window. In a moment, she was right beside me.

“Is that him?”

Again, “Oh, shit. How the fuck did he find me?”

“Duh. Your car’s right out front.”

“But how . . . oh, well. Guess there’s no help for it, now.” She quickly turned and kissed me and then yanked open the door and bolted past her husband, who turned and watched her as she flew to her black Honda.

Then he turned and looked at me. There was no animosity in his stare. No more than there would be in the eyes of a scientist examining an interesting specimen on a microscope slide.

He turned and stepped off the porch and walked back to his pickup and left. As soon as he was at a safe distance, Gizmo barked him the rest of the way.

I didn’t exactly haunt Quinn’s, but I started hanging out there more than I had been. I found her there the following week. She had the fading remains of a pretty good shiner and her split lip was healing nicely. As I slid into the booth beside her, I said, “Sorry I got you in trouble.”

She smiled carefully and said, “Not the first time I’ve been there, My Man. Besides, it was totally worth it. And you should see the other guy. . . .”

“What? You mean yer husband? What did you do?”

“Well, you’ve never been in my kitchen. It has an island in the middle, with a pan rack overhead. We were in the kitchen when he punched me. I wasn’t expecting it, and he got me pretty good. Then he turned around to stalk outta the kitchen and I reached up and got a cast-iron skillet.”

“Oh, no. . . .”

“Yep. I said, ‘Hey, motherfucker,’ and he spun around and I fuckin’ clocked his ass with the skillet. Knocked him colder than shit.”

“Oh, shit. Then what?”

“When he came to, one of his eyes didn’t look just right, so I drove him to the emergency room. I’d given him a concussion.”

“Didn’t ya get in trouble?”

“Nah. We were both fucked up and I just told ‘em we’d been in a car wreck. They kept him overnight. Next day, when I was drivin’ him home, I told him if he ever punched me again, I’d kill him. Pretty sure he believed me, too.”

Just then, a slightly younger, prettier blonde walked up to our table and Reba stood up and they had a quick girl-hug. “Who’s this nice lady” I asked, standing up from the booth.

The nice lady extended her hand and said, “I’m her cover, when she doesn’t get caught with her panties down. I’m Pamela.”

I turned back to Reba and said, “Well, I’m glad you’re okay and I really hate it that you got in trouble.”

“Yeah, this is only the second time in, what, four years? And I was a bad girl both times. After I got his ass home, we had pretty good sex. Nothing like you and me, though. But he’s learned there are some things I just won’t stand for. Being beat on is one of them.”

I glanced at Pamela and she hurriedly looked away. I knew I had been discussed at length by these two and that Pamela had my measure. I wondered if she’d make a move and, if so, how soon it would be.

As it turned out, it wasn’t that long. Pamela apparently had never had what Reba described to her about our times together, and it wasn’t long before I had my own personal stalker.

At first, it didn’t really register. I had stopped at my usual convenience store for gas and suddenly, there she was on the other side of the same gas pump island, seemingly having a problem.

I stepped around the pump and said, “Ma’am? Are you having trouble?”

She turned, and I saw it was Pamela and she said, “Oh! Hi, Jerry. I can’t get this damn thing to take my card. Would you mind trying it for me?”

As I put her credit card in the machine, she seemed to stumble a little and I felt one of her boobs bump against my arm. “Oops, sorry,” she said, giggling a little, “I had a couple glasses of wine. . . .” She steadied herself by gripping my arm.

The pump kicked on and I put the nozzle into the tank and started it. About that time, my own pump clicked off and I went and hung it up. When I looked back up, Pamela was standing on my side of the pump, watching me. “Nice to see you again,” she said.

“Yeah, you too, Pamela.”

Weird, I thought at the time. It would get weirder.

Two days later, on my regular day off, I was doing some grocery shopping, when I found Pamela again, browsing the aisles at the grocery store.

“Hi, Jerry! Hey, is that a new coat? Wow, that color looks good on you.”

“Um, thanks, Pamela. How you doin’ today?”

“Well, could be better . . . hey, are you busy tonight? I’ve got a couple friends of mine that want me to go to a play, and I could use an escort. . . .”

“Gosh Pamela, I’m really flattered that you’d ask, but yeah, I’m kinda tied up tonight . . . (Screwing my favorite redhead, whom you know very well. . . .)

“Okay, well, thanks anyway. Don’t let me keep ya. Nice seeing you, Jerry.”

I started watching by back trail and I soon realized Pamela was following me a lot of the time—too much of the time to be coincidence.

I didn’t say anything to Reba about it, and looking back at the way things turned out, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference, if I had.

On a Saturday night, when Reba’s husband was in town and I was having a stay-at-home weekend, my doorbell rang at ten-thirty at night. I had already gone to bed and I was almost asleep. I had to get up and clear the alarm system, then go to the door. I took along my Glock, as I always do. Gizmo was right behind me. I’m sure in his little doggy brain, he figured he had my back.

Pamela was at the door, and she was far from sober. She was slurring her words and she was unsteady on her feet. There was a shit-eating grin on her face. It was raining like a bastard and her hair was wet and plastered down.

“Hey fella. I jus’ waz passin’ by an’ I thought, ‘I bet ol’ Jerry would like a lil’ company’ . . . how ‘bout it, Jerry, you up fer some fun . . . ?”

So, finally, with the help of some booze, she’d gotten her nerve up.

“Um, no. I don’t think so, Pamela. I’d like to hang out with ya, but right now you’re sloppy drunk and I don’t care for that. You go home and get some sleep. Maybe call me later, okay?”

As I gently closed and locked the door, I could hear her yelling out there, “Hey, you . . . you fucker! Am I not good enough for you? What the fuck! You got some cunt in there? You asshole. . . .”

It went on for a few minutes and then I watched from behind the sheers as she tottered back to her car and eventually drove away.

Just as I turned away from the bay window, I saw Gizmo stretching upward and putting his paws on the sill. He was staring intently into the dark, which was relieved only slightly by the streetlamps. Then, I caught a flash of a dark car going by, in the same direction that Pamela had gone. Desperate Pamela. Needy Pamela. The car was running with no lights. It didn’t mean anything at the time and again, even if it had, it most likely wouldn’t have made any difference. I tell myself that often.

On Monday morning, as I opened my garage door to back out and go to work, there were two police cars blocking my driveway, one uniform car and one plain vanilla slick-top. I walked out into the driveway and a plainclothes copper got out and spoke.

“Jerry Laughlin?”

“Um, yeah, that’s me. What’s up?”

“Gonna need ya to come with us.” The uniform was out of his car now, a big, strapping youngster in an immaculate uniform.

“Okay. I was just on my way to work. . . .”

“Call in. Tell them you’ll be in later.”

“What’s this all about, guys?”

“We can talk about that downtown.”

“I could drive my pickup and just follow ya down. . . .”

“Nah. You can ride with me. We’ll bring ya back when we’re done.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Nope. Not yet. We’re just detaining you for questioning. . . . hop in, let’s go.”

No Miranda, no cuffs. I got to ride in the front, like a citizen. Down to the building I’d worked at, for twenty years. Up to the sixth floor and into an interview room. Then they let me stew for an hour, while they watched me. Watched my body language. Seeing how nervous I might be. Seeing if I was worried. Seeing if I would get pissed.

Finally, they came in. The first detective and another one, both in shirt sleeves and ties and empty holsters, carrying yellow legal pads and coffee in Styrofoam cups. None for me, though. We went through the preliminaries. Name, address, DOB, etc. I pulled out my wallet and took out my driver’s license and my concealed carry permit, then my retired police ID.

“You were a cop?” This came from the younger guy.

“Yeah. Right here. I’ve interviewed perps right here in this room.”

“When did you retire, Sir?” Now I was “Sir.” Things were improving, somewhat.

“About the time you were born, I would imagine. My ID number was 738, what’s yours?”

“2851, Sir.”

“So, let’s quit dickin’ around and you guys tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on.”

I had just taken over their interview and they would realize it in a minute or so.

“You know a lady named Pamela Richards?”

“I know a lady named Pamela. Didn’t know her last name. Blonde, pretty, about thirty, maybe?”

“Twenty-eight, yeah. How do you know her?”

I ran through the whole meeting, stalking, drunk-at-the-door story for them as they took copious notes, which I knew was all for show. The camera was rolling right on the other side of the glass, recording everything.

When I was finished, the older cop stepped out. In a minute he was back. This time I got coffee and a couple donuts. Now I was their hero. I was helping solve whatever they were working on. Halfway through the second donut, the younger guy said, “She’s dead.”

I set the rest of the donut down on the napkin it had come with and looked them both over.

“How?”

“Shot in the head. In her car. Saturday night at eleven thirty, or thereabouts.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck. Where were you?”

“Home, in bed. And all alone, damn it.”

“Okay, look, you’re among friends here. Any ideas who might have wanted to do this?”

I thought back to the dark car I’d seen running without lights and said, “Yeah, I’m afraid I do. . . .”

Reba was picked up the next day. The gun was still in her car. A firearms identification test proved the bullet that killed Pamela had come from that gun. Cops had already speculated the shooter was someone Pamela knew. The window was down on the car and it happened right in front of Pamela’s house. A search warrant on Reba’s house turned up clothing with microscopic blood spatter—blowback from the shot that killed Pamela. Reba eventually confessed and was convicted.

I took vacation time to attend the trial, but I never had to testify. In the hallway between sessions, and with court guards watching us closely, Reba said, “You know why this happened, right?”

“No, not really,” I said.

“One of the other things I can’t stand. Anybody trying to cut in on one of my guys.” She paused a moment and then asked, “You never fucked her, did you?”

“No. It never went anywhere near that far. . . .”

“Good. That’s good, Jerry. I’d hate to think there was any . . . unfinished business.”

And less than an hour later, she was convicted, and they gave her a life sentence.

I need to get rolling now. It’s three hours up to Lansing, where the prison is located, and Reba looks forward to my visits. Her husband divorced her about a month after her conviction. Nobody else comes to see her and she won’t be getting out for at least twenty-five years. I probably shouldn’t feel responsible, but if I’d let Pamela in and sobered her up, maybe . . . well, shit, who knows?

Ramona’s House

Kenneth James Crist

1.

“Yeah, I haven’t had many people look at this one…because…well, you know.”

Yeah, I knew. The house had been empty for over a year. It was not in really bad shape, nothing wrong with it that a handyman such as myself couldn’t handle. The real estate guy was still yacking away.

“You can prolly get this ol’ house for a song. They’ve lowered the asking price three times now. They only boarded it up to save the windows. Kids around here are kinda little pricks, ya know. Bust out the windows in a heartbeat.”

“Can we go inside? I’m not buyin’ any house I can’t walk through.”

“Yeah. Let me go get a flashlight outta my car.”

While I waited on Mr. Oliver, the real estate guy, I walked around the house. Two-story, built in the 1940’s, heavy wooden siding that looked like it had about fifty coats of paint over the years. Sitting vacant all this time. Because someone had died in it. Front porch needed some new floor boards. But the roof looked tight and the foundation was good. Lost in thought, I jumped a little when the real estate guy stepped up onto the porch and rattled a ring of keys.

As he unlocked the front door, I asked, “Was it suicide?”

“Nope. Murder. Somebody killed the lady and took some stuff. A little money. Some jewelry. An old portable TV. So far, they haven’t caught anybody…” He adjusted his ball cap and pushed the door open. Turned on his flashlight and we went inside.

Fifteen minutes later, we were back outside. I was surprised at how good the house actually was. And it didn’t even smell. Well, no more than any house might smell when it’s sat empty for a year. Mr. Oliver said the lady had been found in the parlor and it had been several days between her death and when somebody found her. They had called a professional company to come remove the carpet and do the cleaning necessary when a body has been there a while.

I made a low-ball offer of eighty-six thousand, expecting I’d get bumped at least once. The house was worth nearly twice that, after all. The next morning Mr. Oliver called me and said I’d just bought a house. We set up closing and I sent the down payment that afternoon. Because of some good investments, I was now retired, and I could afford to pay cash for the house. It also meant I’d have all the time I needed to work on it and redecorate to suit myself.

Not to suit a wife. I don’t have one of those. Not to suit some other woman, or even some other man. There was just me and Snubs, my American Pit Bull Terrier. Yeah, I know, Pits have a bad rep. Wonderful dogs, often made mean and vicious and uncontrollable, by the same kind of stupid fucks who like to mess up everything around them. They have become the epitome of fighting dogs, used by idiots to bet money on. In some places, they are even banned. Snubs was lucky. I’d been driving through a rather seedy part of town one day and saw a little kid sitting on the curb with a box of tiny puppies. He was waiting for cars to come along and whenever a car got close, he’d throw a puppy into the street.

As you can imagine, I slammed on the brakes and got out. Yeah, I was pissed. I found myself yelling at this little cretin, “What the fuck are you doing? You can’t do that shit! These are lives you’re messing with!”

“Don’t make no difference,” he said, very nonchalantly, “mah Daddy’s goan kill ‘em anyway. Ol’ bitch ain’t taken keer a dem, nohow.”

Long story short, I snatched up the box and piled back in my car and drove. I was suddenly the owner of seven Pit puppies that were not even weaned and had to be bottle fed for another two weeks. I spent over a month getting them placed in homes. All except Snubs. He had one blue eye and one sort of gray and he was “tuxedo” marked, a uniform dove gray on top and white underneath. He was the one that followed me everywhere as soon as he was able to walk. He was also the one the kid had thrown into the street in front of my tire. As he grew up, he filled out into a fine, well-muscled example of everything the breed was supposed to be. He was too pretty to leave alone and, yeah, I took him to a good vet and had his ears cropped and his tail docked and dew claws removed. He was protective, but never mean. Usually the mere sight of him and the sound of his slightly hoarse bark was all anyone needed to convince them to screw around elsewhere.

I went to the closing on the house with Snubs on a sturdy leash and got the usual stink-eye from the realtor and the property owner. Snubs ignored them and went to lay down in a corner and took a nap. Real vicious, that one. After the closing, I started opening up the house, getting plywood off the windows and starting the process of cleaning it up and making it livable. It was nearly a month before I was able to move out of the old apartment, much to the joy of the landlord, who hated me and my dog, and finally occupy my house.

All the cleaning, painting and activity had caught the interest of all the neighbors, and within a day or two of moving in, Snubs and I had visits from no less than six women, four of whom were widows or divorcees, and we had enough pie and cake to keep us fat for a couple months.

We settled in and spent our days cruising junk shops and antique emporiums, looking for items to furnish the place. I had gone from a three-room apartment to an eight-room mansion (or, so it seemed) and I needed stuff.

Snubs went through the usual doggie thing, like, when are we goin home, Dad? Huh? Dad? In due time, he finally got it and settled in well. We had been in the house nine days, when we had the first hint of trouble.

2.

It was a Sunday morning and we had slept late. Being a middle-aged guy, I had gotten up at three in the morning to pee and Snubs figured that was a good idea, so I let him out. Ten minutes later, we were back in bed, him in his doggy bed and me in my California queen-size bed. It was nine o’clock by the time I shaved and hit the shower and as I got out and was drying off, the day went to shit.

I looked up at the triple-pane mirror on the medicine cabinet and froze. For a moment, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand erect. On the mirror, carefully drawn in the steam, was a heart and within it, the words ‘Love You’…

I tucked the towel in at my waist and slipped quietly into the bedroom and retrieved a small 5-shot Taurus P-85 revolver from the nightstand. Snubs was still laying in his bed, not asleep, but not upset about anything, either. As I methodically went through the house, top to bottom, checking every window and door and looking for any intruder who might be there, Snubs was right there, ready to get in on any fun that might be coming. He had been with me on shooting expeditions. He knew about guns. They didn’t particularly bother him.

There was no one. Doors and windows all secure. I went back to the bathroom, almost convinced I’d imagined the cryptic message on the mirror. The room had aired out and the steam was all gone. By breathing on the mirror, though, I was able to make it come back. It was still there, in latent form now, but definitely there. Then I wondered if it could have been there all along. Maybe a prank, pulled by someone at Lowe’s home improvement center, where I’d bought the cabinet. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that mirror had been wiped several times when it steamed up and I needed to see myself. I usually just used the bath towel and wiped it. As I did now. I wiped it very carefully, right to the edges.

The next thing I thought about was the numerous ladies who had come to visit, bringing their high-calorie tributes to the unmarried guy and his ‘nice’ dog.

I had done nothing to reciprocate their visits and their generosity, and maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe one of them had a key and just let herself in, quietly moved through the house, avoiding the bedroom where Snubs was pulling his lax form of guard duty and was able to slip into the bathroom and leave the message. At any rate, it seemed I had an admirer. It could be worse, I thought, as the shower scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Psycho’ ran through my mind. She could have brought a knife and a hateful attitude…

Later that day, I went and bought and installed all new locks.

3.

Everything went well for another four days. Then came the Restless Night to end all restless nights. I piled into bed at about ten-thirty, after watching the news. In ten minutes, I was out like a light. I have a clock on my headboard that projects the time in red letters on the ceiling, so I know it was twelve seventeen in the morning when a long, mournful, pain-filled wail made me sit straight up and reach for that Taurus again. I sat for a moment, thinking I might have dreamed that horrible, breathy, screech of pain. It had happened that way before, on rare occasions. I had been a cop for a twenty-year career and I had seen enough horrifying shit to keep anyone awake at night and make for the occasional dream-scream.

But, whatever it was, Snubs had heard it too. He was standing at the bedroom door, a low growl rumbling in that deep chest, and I knew he was primed and ready to do whatever was necessary to keep us both safe. I jumped out of bed, gun in hand and grabbed a tactical flashlight I keep on the dresser and we went to check the house.

We checked the back first, because it was the closest, then we went down the hall, headed for the front. That was when the floor above us creaked. In older houses, floors squeak and creak. This house had tongue-and groove oak floors throughout, and they really sounded off when walked on.

I froze in place, and felt Snubs press himself against my leg. I could feel him trembling like there was a low-voltage electric current running through his muscles. I killed the flashlight and reached down to pet his neck. As we stood there, we very clearly heard footsteps move down the upstairs hallway, which was directly above us. This was pretty scary shit, but I was also getting pissed. I thought about stepping into my office and opening the gun safe and getting out something more substantial, maybe my 12-gauge riot gun. But that would take time and besides, the electronic lock would make a beep with each number entered on the keypad. I decided we’d just go for it.

We stepped as quietly as we could down to the end of the hall, (those squeaky floors again, only working against us this time) and I looked up the stairs. Up at the top of the landing, everything was pitch black. I decided stealth would do us no good and a whispered to Snubs, “Go! Go get ‘em! Get ‘em!” Bravely, or foolishly, he shot up the stairs like a rocket, ready to tear someone’s ass up. I followed, two steps at a time, my flashlight and revolver at the ready.

By the time I made the top of the stairs, Snubs was back, tongue hanging out and panting and looking at me like, “What the fuck?” I took my time checking everything upstairs and found nothing. There was only one stairway. Nothing came past us. And nothing was there. “Well, this is fucked,” I said aloud. Snubs snorted and headed back downstairs. I suspect he thought I’d somehow engineered this whole deal just to mess with his head. After all, humans can do some magical things, at least from the viewpoint of man’s best friend.

It took a bit longer to get back to sleep that night, and when I got up in the morning, the message was back on the mirror in the bathroom. Only, this time it said, “Love you, Pete”, and it was in a particularly hideous shade of orange lipstick.

4.

Oh, yeah, that’s me. Pete Lauffer. Old fart extraordinaire, buyer and fixer-upper of houses, widowed myself at fifty and, apparently the object of someone’s affection. I thought about calling the cops while I was standing there wondering how I was gonna get that greasy shit off my mirror. Not because the cops could really do anything, but just to start a paper trail, in case I did wind up blowing someone away in the middle of the night. But what did I have? Messages on mirrors and noises at night. I could see the carefully covered feelings of any cops who might show up, wondering what kind of pussy this retired cop was and why he couldn’t take care of business himself. I looked all around the bathroom for the lipstick, thinking it might be there, discarded in the tub or whatever. Of course, it wasn’t there. Just like the upstairs intruder.

Things began to change again four days later, when I ran into Freddie Carlisle at the grocery store. I turned a corner and almost rammed her cart with mine. Hurriedly backed up and said, “Sorry,” and gave her the patented Pete Lauffer smile, guaranteed to soothe jangled nerves. Then I realized I knew her, vaguely. “Oh, hi, it’s, um…” Trying harder than I should have had to for her name.

“Freddie. Freddie Carlisle. I stopped by just after you moved in…”

“Oh, yeah, I remember.”

“That’s okay, I think you had a lotta visitors for a few days there.”

“Well, yeah, it was kind of a whirlwind of activity…”

“I was the pineapple upside-down cake. One of my specialties.” I had to admit, out of all the women who had stopped by in that frantic week, Freddie was the one I was most taken with. She was on the upside of forty, and a very well put-together forty. Blonde hair, most likely tinted by someone who knew what they were doing and worn short enough to look pixie-like. Dark, liquid eyes and a body…well, let’s just say good-sized boobs and a tiny ass. That was enough for me.

“I remember. That cake was really good. I remember you mentioned you were a widow, too. Like me.”

“Really? Recently?”

“Couple years ago. Marcy had breast cancer that got out of control.”

“Don had a heart attack. One. First and final.”

“Yeah…well,” I said, “I’m gonna hafta move along here, and it was nice seeing you again. You suppose we could get together some time? Maybe go out to dinner?”

She dug in her purse and found a business card. Handed it to me. “That number is my cell phone. You just call me whenever, okay?”

As she strolled away, I alternated between looking at the card, (Freeman Motors, Freddie Carlisle, Sales Representative) and checking her tight little butt in her white Capri pants. Holy shit. Just call me whenever.

I was very suave about it. Waited until that evening at about seven-thirty, just after eating my microwaved Hungry Man chicken dinner. I found I was actually nervous. I hadn’t called a woman for a date in literally years. She answered on the first ring. Very professional phone-voice, pitched low and slightly breathy. “Freeman Motors, this is Freddie Carlisle.”

“Pete Lauffer, nice lady. Does that Freddie stand for Frederica?”

“Well, hi, Pete. Yeah, it does indeed, spelled with a ‘K’ at the end. What’s up?”

“I assume you’re at work. Didn’t mean to bother ya when you’re working.”

“No bother. Slow as hell around here. Haven’t sold a car in almost two weeks.”

“Well, tell me what nights you’re free to sneak out to dinner, then.”

“I’ll be loose tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”

“You’re gonna pick me up? Okay…”

“I’ve seen your truck. My ride’s nicer. If it bothers you, I’ll let you drive.”

“Sounds like a deal,” I said, and I noticed my heart had sped up a little, “see you then.”

Her ride sure as hell was nicer than my truck. She rolled up about three minutes early in a red Mercedes Benz E-Class coupe. I didn’t make her come to the door. I had dressed in a casual sport coat, no tie and tan Dockers, hoping I wouldn’t be over- or under-dressed. I hustled out to the car and she started to get out. I waved her back and said, “You can drive.” She had opted for a black skirt, just above the knee, white blouse, red belt, matching lipstick and matching ‘fuck me’ shoes. I was blown away. No nylons. Her nice tan let her get away with that. When I got in, she leaned over for a hug and an air-kiss, then snatched the car into gear and we roared off. I spent the first few minutes alternating between admiring her legs and watching the road as she skillfully whipped the car through traffic. She drove it like a Mercedes should be driven, using the performance without abusing the machine, and taking no prisoners.

She drove us to Bishop’s Grill, a place I’d heard about but hadn’t been to yet. It turned out to be more folksy than hoity-toity and the steaks were on the rare side and served sizzling on a hot skillet, tucked into a wooden tureen. Over dinner we talked about anything and everything and I could tell she was enjoying herself. When the check came, there was no bullshit about, let-me-get-that. She let me get it and we stepped on out into the evening.

“It’s kinda early yet,” I said, “would you like to go see a movie or something?”

She took my hand as we walked to the car and said, “Yeah, I’d like that. I have a home theater at my place and I have Netflix. Let’s go see what we can find.” Again, Holy Shit…

Her house was actually smaller than mine and just four doors down on the same street. It was newer and had a more open floor plan, except for the bathrooms and the home theater. We settled in with a movie and a big bowl of popcorn and watched a few episodes of some modern western series about a sheriff in Montana or someplace. At eleven, I decided I’d better head home and she walked me to the door. She reached up to put her arms around me and we shared a kiss. Then another. She felt really good in my arms and my crank was screaming, ‘go for it!’, but I resisted, and I felt that was probably the right thing to do. It was too early. I sensed she appreciated my decision. We said goodnight and I walked up to my place. As I was unlocking my front door, my phone buzzed with a text message.

You taste good. See you soon?

I texted back, Damn right. Can’t wait. You taste pretty good, yourself.

I got back a smiley face emoticon. Snubs was overjoyed to see me and to see the grass in the back yard. While he did his business, I brushed my teeth, took a leak and got ready for bed. I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow.

The red numbers on the ceiling said 4:40 when I came about half awake and snuggled up to the warm, sweet-smelling woman next to me. My hand slid over her stomach and upward, to cup a full, warm breast. I started to drift off to sleep, when alarm bells and a-woogah horns started going off in my head.

I snapped awake and suddenly sat up and watched in the dimness of the moon-lit bedroom, as the sheet on the other side of the bed deflated, like a hot-air balloon, that had just landed on the ground. Something (a woman, my mind said) had been there, and then it wasn’t. Like the lipstick and the creaking floor. I sprang from the bed and backed against the wall. Snubs was still in his bed, and he looked up at me with that, ‘what the fuck’ look of his. I stepped into the bathroom, fully expecting to find something new and maybe different on the message-mirror. There was nothing. I took a piss and flushed. Walked back into the bedroom. I was badly shaken and quite sure there was no way I’d sleep again that night. I turned on the overhead light and looked at the indentation in the pillow. Not on my side. On hers. Whoever she was. Whatever it was. I leaned over and grabbed the pillow and held it up to my face. There was the faint scent of perfume. And I recognized it. It was some stuff Marcy used to wear when we were young and full of love and sap. It was called ‘Poison.’

5.

It was time to stop bullshitting myself and admit that the goddamn house was haunted. Or occupied. By something outrageous or outlandish or maybe even dangerous. Sort of like the old saying about non-poisonous snakes—they won’t hurt you, but they might cause you to hurt yourself.

So far, my “friend” hadn’t done anything to hurt me or endanger me. But it—or she—was getting stronger, and she was scaring the shit outta me. I wasn’t quite ready to put the house on the market and move out. Not yet. But if things didn’t change, and soon, that was definitely an option. Once again, I let Snubs out into his yard and I went to make coffee.

One thing led to another and coffee soon gave way to bacon and eggs. I even made a whole tube of biscuits and Snubs helped me kill them off. Yeah, he’s spoiled, but he’s all I’ve got nowadays.

I showered and dressed and set off at eight to run errands and grocery shop. I had a feeling I might soon have a guest over for an early dinner and, hopefully, some messing around and somehow, I didn’t think Hungry Man was gonna cut it with this lady. I spent about two hundred bucks and I was amazed how little I got for my money. I spent some more at the local package store and got four bottles of wine, two I knew about and two that were recommended by the man at the counter.

When I got home, Freddie was sitting on my veranda, kicked back in a wicker chair with a book. She looked like she was prepared to wait all day, if necessary.

“You could have sent me a text,” I said, “and I would have hurried back sooner.”

“That’s okay. I have a rare day off and I have a feeling we’re gonna be worth the wait.” She helped me lug in groceries and she seemed to be impressed with the wine. When everything was put away, she hopped up onto one of the kitchen counters and sat, swinging her legs and said, “What shall we do now?”

I stepped over to her and ran my hands up her thighs. She was wearing red shorts and a tie-dyed t-shirt, and she looked scrumptious. I leaned in and her arms came up and we started where we’d left off the night before. As we smooched, she managed to scoot forward some, pushing those impressive boobs against me, then wrapping her legs around me. In a couple minutes, we came up for air and I nuzzled her neck, saying, “I’m sorry if this is going too fast, but you feel really good and it’s been a while…”

“Mmmm…really? How long?” Her hands were shoved down the back of my jeans now and I was getting hard.

“Bout a year and a half, I guess…” More smooching, then I got a hand under a breast. No resistance there, none at all.

“Four years, here. And I’m ready to break that losing streak. Let’s go get horizontal. Show me your bedroom.”

I walked her down the hall and into the bedroom and took my time undressing her, kissing everything I exposed in the process. She was reaching to me between my efforts and stripping me, too. When we were naked, she looked me over and said, “God, I’m glad you’re not all fat and nasty.” I sat her on the foot of the bed and pushed her back and moved downward, intending to lick her and make her crazy. Again, no resistance. Some women taste okay and some don’t. And with some, you just wanna live the rest of your life down there. Freddie was as sweet as honey and I gladly licked and tickled her until she grabbed my head and held me tight, locked her thighs on me and came, groaning and gasping, then giggling a little as I got ready to push into her.

She pulled me onto her and her legs opened and she said, “Easy, Big Fella, it’s been a while.”

“Tell me if I hurt you,” I gasped, and I pushed gently, and we were joined a moment later. It was warm and slow, and she was enjoying it, but I could tell she was feeling some discomfort. I surprised myself by holding off for quite a while, long enough to give her another good orgasm. After, we snuggled in the bed and I hoped she couldn’t smell that nocturnal perfume of the unknown entity that had occupied the place the night before.

I was ready for a nap, but sex seemed to energize her, and besides, she had probably had a decent night’s sleep. She suddenly bounded up out of bed and as she moved past me, I tried to grab her cute ass. She giggled and avoided me and scurried into the bathroom. Her gasp was loud enough, I heard it from the bed. Then, she walked back out and stared at me, standing hipshot, and making no effort to cover herself in any way.

“This is not funny, Mister. In fact, it’s a little sick, okay?”

“What are you talking about?” But, in a way, I already knew. I jumped out of bed and walked toward Freddie and she turned and went into the bathroom. I stood in the doorway and did some deep breathing exercises. On the mirror was the orange lipstick again. It read, “Get out, Bitch!”

Freddie was leaning forward onto the vanity top and she said, “What the fuck, Pete? If ya didn’t want me here, all ya had to do was say so…”

“Babe, I didn’t write that…”

“What? Bull—shit! Who else is here?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“The fuck you mean, you don’t know? There are people here and we’re in there…fucking…and you don’t know who’s in your own house?”

“No. Not people. There’s something here, but I don’t know what it is for sure…”

“Oh, yeah, here we go. Whatcha got, Pete, ghosties? Spooks? Spirits?”

“I’ve got no idea…” At that point, she pushed past me and went into the bedroom and started grabbing clothes and slipping into silky underthings. I could tell she was pissed and ready to storm out and I didn’t want that to happen. So, I sat down on the end of the bed, making no effort to get dressed, and told her the whole story, from the beginning, with nothing left out. By the time I finished, she was sitting beside me and holding my hand.

“Jesus,” she said, “that’s pretty unbelievable. If I find out you’re bullshitting me about this, you know I won’t be seeing you again. If this turns out to be some kind of weird turn-on for you, I’m not gonna appreciate it one bit…”

“No. Freddie, I promise, it’s not a trick or anything I’m in control of. Whatever it is, it’s real, and tell ya the truth, it’s started scarin’ the shit outta me.”

She got up and walked back into the bathroom, and this time she didn’t gasp. She screamed. I ran in and saw her staring at the mirror. The mirror was clean, the message was gone.

6.

I made a pot of coffee and we sat at the kitchen table. We were both fully dressed now, and I was sorry the afternoon delight had been so brief. I was ready for more, but she had other ideas.

“I’ll tell ya what, Pete. Any further hanky and panky will have to take place over at my house or in a hotel or, fuck I don’t care, in your truck in an open field somewhere. But it won’t be here.”

“I’m okay with that. I think whatever’s here doesn’t want you here. I’m not even sure it wants me here.”

“Well, I dunno, it got in bed with you…”

“Freddie, do you understand that I’m not sure about any of this? I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not? I mean, yeah, I think it was there…but I was half-asleep and there was only moonlight…maybe I could have…imagined at least part of it…or dreamed it, I dunno…”

She stood up and walked over to the sink and dumped the last of her coffee, then turned off the coffee maker and came to me. She stood behind me and wrapped her arms around my neck and spoke next to my ear. “Let’s get outta here Pete. If there’s some woman-ghost here, let’s let her have the place to herself for a while. Put yer dog out and let’s roll.”

We walked down to her house and got out the Mercedes and headed out. We drove in the country for several hours, and fifty miles away from the city, we found a barbeque joint where the beer was cold and the ribs were thick and juicy and we sat outside at old, scarred picnic tables and waved away the flies. We ate until we were stuffed and took our time getting back. We stopped by my place, so I could feed Snubs and then we went to her place. We went to bed and I expected we would be more relaxed with each other, and in some ways we were, but we were also just learning each other’s timing and rhythms. At some point, we slept.

Two more days went by and Freddie was back to work, doing long hours and not much pay, unless she sold an expensive car and got a fat commission. I spent time doing yard work and deliberately trying to wear myself out, so I’d be able to sleep all night. Snubs helped me by digging holes and carrying off my tools whenever he got the chance. On the second night, I was beat, and I found myself nodding off during the ten o’clock news. I said the hell with it and took myself off to bed.

There was a storm that night and lightning knocked out the power, so there were no lighted numbers on the ceiling when I woke up with an intense boner and someone’s mouth working it slowly. Jesus, she’s back, I thought, and then I just surrendered to the sensation. In the pitch-black, relieved momentarily every few minutes by remote flashes of lightning, she worked me up to the extreme edge of orgasm, then she would back off and let things settle. Soon, she moved up onto the bed, and straddled me. She seemed to have no weight, but she was becoming very strong. In the slight flashes of lightning, I could see that she had been moderately pretty and dark-haired. When I slipped inside her, she was as warm and real as any woman I’d ever loved. Her breasts were large and rather pendulous, with thick, hard, dark nipples. I took them in my hands and tasted each in turn and she ground her hips into me. As I came inside her, she arched back, and I heard that banshee wail again, the same as the night of the upstairs floor creaking. And she dug her fingers into my chest hair and pulled out a handful. As we finished, she faded until, on the next lightning flash, I could see through her, and then she was gone. On my belly was a nice big load of my own semen and a bunch of my own hair.

I leaped out of bed and headed to the bathroom to clean myself up and I noticed Snubs was not in his bed, or anywhere within sight. Probably the wailing ran him off, I reasoned, and grabbed a washcloth. I was grasping at anything to keep my mind away from the fact that I had just had sex with a ghost or spirit or phantom of some kind. And it wasn’t bad. My chest stung a little, but I’d had rougher sex. Now the mystery of the mirror messages was solved. My nocturnal visitor was evidently here before I bought the place and had now become infatuated with me.

I walked the house and found Snubs cowering in the front living room, behind the sofa. It took some coaxing to get him to come out, and even then, he spent some time sniffing around me. Whether he was smelling my sex-sweat, or that perfume, (Poison. It’s called Poison) or the smell of death, I could not know, and he could not tell me. But I was satisfied the entity was real. What had happened was not some half conscious wet-dream, although I guess the result was the same. I knew I was up for the day and I went and started coffee before I hit the shower.

As I got soapy and steamy and clean, I thought about the house’s previous occupant. Murdered, Mr. Oliver had said. But he’d never mentioned her name. I thought about possible ways I might find out more and the library came immediately to mind, but then my next thought was, what about the Internet?

When I stepped out of the shower, my eyes automatically went to the mirror, but it was blank. I realized I had been holding my breath, and I let it out with a sigh and a thank you to whatever deity was now in charge of my life.

I made coffee and heated up a couple of Pop-Tarts. I didn’t want to take time for a real breakfast. I had research to do. I turned on my laptop and let it boot up, then started the search engine. To start with, I put in my own address, and to my amazement, that was all it took.

Police were called this morning to 8556 Norway Place on a ‘check welfare’ call, where they discovered the nude body of the resident, Ramona Clark, 41. A detective at the scene said it appeared she had been dead for several days and that she was most likely beaten to death. The detective would make no further comment on this ongoing investigation.

Neighbors stated Ms. Clark lived alone and was employed at Claire’s Boutique in the Westerly Mall. When she failed to appear at her workplace for the second day, employees at the Boutique called police to check on her.

I ran more searches and read about the investigation that really went nowhere right from the start. Ramona had no ex-husband, no boyfriend, no stalkers. She had mostly kept to herself except for vacation trips. She had been on a Mississippi River cruise the previous spring. I looked at the dates on the articles and realized I had moved in one year and one day after she was found murdered.

So, I didn’t know a hell of a lot more that I’d known before, except now she had a name.

7.

As I was paging through more articles, and not learning anything new, my cell phone buzzed and I found a text from Freddie.

Cat got yer tongue?

Nope. How ya doin?

Horny as catshit…

We should do something about that.

Yes WE should. I’ll be off today @ 5

Should I bring wine?

Yes, pls.

K. See you then…

There seemed to be a lot of cat-thoughts in her conversation, but that was okay. I was pretty sure I could deal with Freddie. At least she wouldn’t fade out and disappear on me…

I spent the afternoon napping on my sofa and watching TV. I caught an interesting news story out of Austin about some crazy bastard who was sending bombs to people, and I thought about Ted Kaczynski and Timothy McVeigh. I had some weird shit going on at my house, but at least nobody was trying to blow me up. In fact, the only thing that had happened to me was a pretty messy orgasm—not my first, by any means—and some hair loss, which would grow back.

I walked on down to Freddie’s house after I knew for sure she was home. She came to the door in a bathrobe, her hair still damp from the shower. She smelled wonderful and holding her was amazing. We headed straight for her bedroom and played for an hour, then camped out in the kitchen in our underwear, sipping wine and nibbling whatever we could find in her fridge—grapes, cheese, crackers, part of a summer sausage. We shared kisses while we ate and soon she was in my lap and we were feeding each other and giggling like kids. Soon, we hurriedly shoved things back into the fridge and cabinets and raced back to the bedroom.

By nine o’clock, we were exhausted from love-making and I stayed the night. At around three, I got up to get rid of some wine and when I came back to bed, we had another session and went back to sleep, holding each other. At seven AM, I woke up to Freddie singing off-key in the shower. I went in to join her and we actually behaved ourselves. When we were toweling off, she said, “Well, I guess the honeymoon’s over…”

I was wool-gathering and I said, “Huh?” Clever rejoinder, there.

“We just had a shower together and we didn’t attack each other once.”

“I was almost afraid to after last night.”

She grinned at me and said, “Me, too. Besides, I gotta get to work. I’ve sold two cars this week and I’ve got good leads on two more. This may be a record-breaker.” Then, she looked at me and said, “What happened to your chest? Yer missin’ some hair, there…”

“I…I was thinkin’ about shavin’ it all off…but I didn’t know if you’d like me that way and I lost my nerve.”

“No! Don’t you dare! I like yer furry chest. It tickles me, and I like that.”

“Okay, I’ll leave it alone, then…” I had just told Freddie the first lie of the relationship.

As I left, she had her car keys in hand. I kissed her and patted her ass and said, “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”

“You go rest, old man. I’ll call ya…”

I walked on down to my house and dealt with Snubs, who was frantic with love and had decided to show it by trying to knock me down. He wasn’t missing any meals, but he had sure missed his daddy.

I did house cleaning and a couple maintenance chores until noon and then decided a nap might be a good thing. Instead of curling up on the sofa, I went to bed. Stripped to my shorts and crawled right in. No guilt about it, either. I had worked hard to please my lady and she was right, I needed rest. I dropped off in about three minutes.

An hour later, I was awake. The bed covers had been pulled down and also my shorts, and something invisible was touching me, licking me and sucking me. I was transfixed, both by fear and by pleasure. I could see the slickness of her saliva on me and I could feel everything, but I could not see any part of her. I finally gasped her name.

“Ramona?”

I was rewarded with a pause in the action. I could still feel her hand wrapped around me, and then, very faintly, I could see the darkness of her hair and the shape of one breast. I whispered to her, “I want to see you. All of you. Show me.”

And she began to manifest. That is the only word that I could find to describe it. Very gradually, she began to take form. Her face came first and it was a lovely face. She showed it for only a second or two, then she bent back to her task, taking me back into her mouth. And then I could see her shoulders, her back, the curve of her hip, her shapely white legs, everything.

In another minute, I said, “Can you turn over? Can I do that to you?”

She did not speak. She turned onto her back and pulled her legs up and moved them apart, her toes just barely touching the bed. I moved to her and began nuzzling her, right where a woman loves it the most. She shuddered with pleasure and became even more substantial, and I could smell her sex as well as taste it.

I only performed cunnilingus on her for a minute, because I was afraid she would fade away before I could finish with her. I needn’t have worried. I slipped into her and she locked her legs around me and she urged me deeper. I moved until I was completely on top of her and I held her tightly as she came again and again, raking me with her fingernails and even biting me on my neck and chest. It seemed that her lust was endless, and we continued for quite some time, until finally I could hold off no longer and I fired what seemed like a gallon into her. And, at last, I heard her speak. She said, “Oh, Pete…” and then she was gone. And I had sheets to change…

Forty minutes later the bed was changed, the washer was running and I was getting out of the shower. My cell phone was buzzing on the counter. I checked it and found a text from Freddie:

No nookie tonight. One of the guys called in. Gonna hafta work.

Sell anything?

Not yet, but I think it’s a done deal.

Okay, stay safe.

Okay. Think I’m in trouble.

What? Why?

Think I may be fallin for this guy that lives on my street.

Hmmm…that could be good or bad. We better talk…

K. See ya later.

There was a smile on my face I couldn’t get rid of for a while. I really liked Freddie. But I didn’t know if I was really interested in being in love, or getting hitched or any of that jazz. I’d have to tread lightly, I thought, as I looked myself over in the mirror. The bite marks were fading, and Ramona hadn’t torn me open anywhere that I could see.

8.

I curled up on the sofa with a beer and a bag of jalapeno chips and started watching Forensic Files, with Snubs curled up beside me. Within a half hour, my eyes were heavy and I dozed off. I woke up with Snubs growling, standing beside me and staring at the hallway.

I put my hand on his thick, hard neck and felt him vibrating against me. “What’s goin on, Buddy? Somebody messin around?”

He jumped down and ran down the hall toward the stairs and I got up and followed. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up.

I followed his gaze and saw Ramona, standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. She was naked and very substantial. She beckoned to me. I held up one finger and took Snubs and put him outside. I went back to the stairs and she was gone. I went on upstairs, on the off-chance that she might have stuck around, but it seemed she was gone again.

In the spare bedroom, where there wasn’t even a bed yet, there was a photo album in the middle of the floor. I had never seen it before and I had no idea where it might have been. I was pretty sure I had been everywhere in the house, but apparently not. The album was open to a page near the middle and there were two pictures there, both taken at a park somewhere. Ramona was recognizable in both and in both there was a man with her. I picked up the album and leafed through it. There were lots of family pictures, but throughout the whole thing there were only two pictures with the unknown man in them.

I wondered if she was trying to give me a message. Was this guy the one who killed her? I pulled the pictures out and flipped them over. One was blank on the back. On the other was written in blue ball-point, ‘Me and Luke, 6/16/08’.

So, Luke, who the fuck are you? I kept the pictures and slipped them into my back pocket. To the air in the room, I said, “Thank you, Ramona. I’ll look into this.”

It was going on four when I got to the police station. At the front desk, a crusty old sergeant tried to shine me on, but when I produced retired police ID, he relented and called back to their homicide unit. In a few minutes a florid, slightly overweight cop named Gilmore came out and got me. We went in the back and he offered me coffee. I knew about police station coffee, but I could smell it and it seemed it might be fresh. I tried a cup and it wasn’t half bad. We went to an interview room and took a seat.

Detective First Class Neil Gilmore was one of those deceptively easy-going cops, who seem about to nod off whenever they’re listening to you, but they don’t miss a thing.

“So, what’s this about, Pete?”

“Do you remember a homicide case a bit over a year ago, a woman named Ramona Clark, who was found murdered in her house over on Norway Place?”

“Yeah. You’re the guy who bought the house?”

“Yeah. How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess. Go ahead.”

“I was wondering, one old cop to another, if there have been any leads on the case lately, or if it’s a cold case now?”

“I hate the term cold case, Pete. I stay on these things and as far as I’m concerned any homicide is always an active case, but right now, that one’s in, ah…shall we say, hibernation?”

I pulled the pictures out of my back pocket and handed them to him. He looked them over on both sides and then said, “Well, I’ll be god-damned. Luke Johns. Where the fuck did you get these?”

“I found an old photo album in the house when I was doing some renovations. They were in it, along with a lot of others. He was only in those two shots, though.”

“You know what, Pete? We interviewed this guy and he told us he didn’t know this woman, never met her, etc., and yadda-yadda, and here he is. We can put him with her and we even have the date. You suppose you could bring in the rest of that album?”

“I could do that, or you could have one of the night shift troops come by and get it if ya need it right away.”

“Okay, we’ll do that. The sooner the better, I’d say. Thank you very much, Pete. This may just blow this case wide open…”

I drove home and after calming Snubs down, I trotted upstairs to grab the photo album, so I’d have it handy whenever the cops came to get it. Of course, it was gone. I stood for a moment, completely perplexed, thinking I might have put it somewhere without thinking about it, but no. I was sure I’d left it right there on the floor. Now, I was gonna look like an idiot when the boys in blue dropped by.

Finally, I stood right in the middle of the room and said, “Ramona? The cops were very interested in those pictures and they’d like to see the rest of the album. Where did you hide it, Babe? I need it…Ramona? You really want this guy caught? Yer gonna hafta help me out, here…”  Nothing. Well, shit. Just then, the doorbell rang and Snubs started going ape-shit downstairs. Under my breath, I said, “Fuck!”, and ran down to get the door.

Gilmore had sent a two-man car and I got the dog settled down and asked them inside. One of them said, “Really like what you’ve done with the place…”

I guess I must have registered a quizzical look with him, because he said, “We were on the initial call, when Ms. Clark was found.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I…seem to have misplaced the item they sent ya for. I’m sure I’ll find it in a day or so and I’ll be glad to bring it in, but…”

“Photo album, right?” The younger copper had tilted his hat back and was looking at me a little strangely.

“Yeah, it had a brown cover with some kinda gold strip making a square on the front…”

He reached past me and picked up the album from the kitchen table and said, “Like this one?” His partner was smiling slightly, and I said, “Um, yeah, that’s it. Damn, it’s hell to get old…”

“Okay, we’ll get this right down to the station…” I knew when they got in their car, the laughter would be uproarious.

After they left, I said, more to myself than to Ramona, “You know those guys think I’m an idiot now…”

I walked down the hall and stepped into the bathroom to make some water and saw the mirror. It said, “Get rid of her…” The message was fading, even as I read it. In a moment, it was gone.

Later that night, Ramona came to me in my bed and we did what we had become accustomed to. This time, she was almost gentle, but as she climaxed, she wailed and moaned, and tears fell on my chest. And when I looked into her eyes, I saw the smoldering coals of ancient forest fires and ruined burned cities, and then she closed those smoldering eyes and she was gone. As I was dozing off, I realized there was no mess to clean up. Ramona was growing stronger and more solid, more real all the time.

9.

Days went by and the summer was waning. I continued to see Freddie, but it was like she was on the side, almost like when I was with her, I was cheating on Ramona, whom I lived with, like it or not.

Snubs had gotten so used to her appearances, he didn’t get freaked or even excited anymore. A week after I turned over the photos to the cops, they picked up Luke Johns in Wilmington, Delaware. He waived extradition and they brought him back. He balked at a DNA test and yelled for a lawyer. They got him his lawyer and also a warrant for the DNA. His profile matched that of swabs they had taken of the bite marks on Ramona’s breasts, neck and shoulders. The bite marks had been withheld from the media.

On the advice of his lawyer, he never confessed, but a plea agreement was worked out to keep lethal injection off the table. He got life with no possibility of parole. And I got a call from Detective Gilmore, inviting me to a bash he was throwing at his place for the homicide division. Nothing fancy, beer and brats, come casual, but by all means get your ass over here.