Retribution (13 page)

Too many changes too fast. And tomorrow, a date with Roger. Was it really a date? No, they were meeting to go running together, just as friends did.

But as unexplained jitters became her bed partner, she flipped on the lamp and grabbed her Bible. Was this another premonition?

10

Blood coated his hands. Blood from the others; justified, each one. He fingered the garrote in his pocket. They were old friends, but it had been a long time since he had needed it. Baggy running shorts, not his usual choice but perfect for today, hid the bulge. Fingers caressed the smooth wood and followed the curl of the thin wire as he stood at the edge of the parking lot waiting for his last assignment.

How many times had he needed this silent weapon? Six? Seven? Instructed in its use by his father-in-law, the older man had also dictated its use.

After the first time, the nightmares started, but the financial compensation helped make up for the loss of sleep. By the fourth assignment, the victims no longer resurrected in his dreams.

The knowledge that his indebtedness to his partner was about to end bubbled like a cool fountain at the end of a long, forced hike. But mingled with this excitement. The acknowledgment that his freedom depended on today's success created a negative tension that battled against the premature euphoria.

Three cars hummed by the park but none stopped. No one would be able to describe the man hunched over in the picnic area if, indeed, anyone had even seen him. He rubbed his hands back and forth across the skin on his legs.

Lillian pulled her vehicle into the empty parking lot.

He took a deep swig of water to moisten his dry mouth and walked to the parking area. He smiled as she exited her car.

Dressed in smart-looking gray running shorts and a matching knit top trimmed in lavender, and paired with top-of-the-line running shoes, she could have been posing for a fashion magazine rather than running a race for her life.

He, however, had dressed for obscurity, having learned the art of blending in, of being invisible while in plain sight. Black nylon shorts and a purple Darlington High School t-shirt made him look like a hundred other runners in the area.

He had never failed to complete an assignment, not once, and today would not destroy this record.

~*~

“Where's your car?” Lillian asked. The morning sun felt warm on her face, so unlike cold Ohio. A run in the open air seemed like heaven after months of being stuck inside.

“I don't live far, so I left it at home. After the office, I changed and jogged here. Ready for some exercise?”

“As ready as I'll ever be.” The jitters she had felt last night returned and she shrugged them off.

Roger's muscles bulged from beneath the sleeves of the cotton shirt as he tossed an empty water bottle into the trash.

With his protection, no one could be safer than she. Besides, what could happen in a quaint little place like Darlington?

He stood waiting under a shelter a few yards from the parking lot. A map of the trails was tacked in place on a bulletin board. From the parking area, two mulch-covered paths led into the tree-shrouded park. Roger pointed to the right-hand arrow. “Let's start here. We can jog to the farther side of the park and then wind back on this left-hand trail.” He traced the route on the map. “Did you bring water with you?”

“I left it in the car. I usually don't run with anything except my cell phone for emergencies.” She bent over and stretched her hamstrings. “Lately, I've spent most of my time running on a treadmill. It feels good to be outside again.” Yes, it felt good to be away from the staring eyes and threat of someone hurling a rock at her every time she left the house. The pine-scented air also held a hint of something floral, even in October. Again, her nerves sent shivers up her spine and she tried to ignore them. Old habits must be unlearned; she was safe here. No need for this level of self-preservation. She smiled at Roger. “Ready?”

He took the lead, his feet making soft muffled thuds on the mulch, barely disturbing the sounds of birds and the hum or bugs around them.

She followed closely behind him.

“Let me know if I'm setting a good pace for you.” He glanced back. “I can speed up or slow down.”

“So far this is great.”

As they rounded the corner, the road disappeared.

Surrounded by nature grown wild, she began to relax, and she allowed her long stride to move her forward.

The morning sun filtered through the limbs, creating patches of light and dark. A squirrel skittered up a tree, its nails biting into the bark as it reached the first branch and then darted along a limb that grew increasingly narrower. It jumped onto the next limb, its body flying as it arched across space. Somehow, the creature knew not to creep along the floor of the swamp where certain death lurked.

Trina had told her that snakes, foxes, and the occasional alligator all lived under the protection of the twisting undergrowth. The paths provided safety, but if she strayed from the path…

A hollow echo replaced their soft plodding footfalls as they ran across the wooden planks of the first bridge. Then back to mulch. The two-mile marker showed on the right.

“Why don't you lead for awhile?” Roger asked as he moved to the side of the trail. “You set the pace you want.”

She jogged toward him, feeling like a child at an amusement park. “This is an amazing place. I had no idea all of this was back here. From the road it looks so small.” She chuckled as she passed him, wondering what he had in that pocket that caused him to keep checking to make sure it was still there. Bulky enough to bulge beneath his shorts, it had to be uncomfortable. That's why she always ran as unencumbered as possible.

Loblolly pine, hickory, cedar and oak trees fought for space as they towered toward the sky. Knees from Cyprus filled the wet areas. Dozens of varieties of ferns spread their fans in a kaleidoscope of green, completely hiding the floor of the swamp. The occasional spider web connected one fern to another, its massive span trapping small insects and bits of forest litter.

“Does anyone ever get off these paths?” she called over her shoulder. “Trina said there are snakes.”

“Snakes and a lot of other things better left alone. Smart people stay on the paths.”

The smell of damp loam and stagnant water mingled with the scent of her sweat.

Feet pounded.

They were alone.

Tightness gripped her throat as though her inner sense had detected a hidden danger. Listening for sounds from the underbrush, she heard nothing but the rustle of leaves and her own panting breath, but her nerves continued to ping in response to an unseen adversary. Her jitters had to be from the unfamiliarity of freedom. It had been a long time since she had been able to run in a public place and not fear at least public taunting. She pushed the pace slightly, hoping to leave her concerns behind.

~*~

“I hope you will have a pleasant stay, Mr. and Mrs. Dillon.” Trina placed a tray with coffee and warm muffins on the porch table. “I usually serve guests iced tea and cookies, but it's so early in the morning, I'm glad I thought to ask you about coffee.” She poured two steaming cup. “Don't feel as if you have to sit outside if you're cold. You're welcome to use any of the downstairs rooms.”

Mr. Dillon grinned. “What, you don't think love can keep us warm?” He pulled his wife closer to him on the swing. “By the way, thank you for allowing our early arrival. We're celebrating our forty-fifth next week, so we wanted to get away for a few days.”

“Forty-five years. That seems like a long time to me.” Did she even know anyone who had been married that long? Not from lack of love, but both her mother and Sandra's husband were dead. Maybe she and Ted would be able to reach that milestone, but it seemed a long way off.

“It will go faster than you think,” said Mrs. Dillon, petite and smartly dressed in mauve slacks and a matching sweater. “I couldn't help notice you are expecting.”

“Kind of hard to miss.” Trina patted her expanding belly. “I'm due January seventeenth, but I hear first babies are often late.”

Mrs. Dillon's smile warmed her face, soft wrinkles flowing from her eyes and accenting her lips. “Take care of yourself, honey.”

The front door swung open. “I've taken your luggage up to your room,” Ted said. “Anything else I can do for you folks?”

Trina looked at her husband and blinked. His face still wore a smile, but his eyebrows were pulled together in a tight knot above his nose. What had happened in the past ten minutes to make him so tense? She bunched her hands at her sides, anxious to leave her new guests and get Ted alone.

“The two of you have been more than gracious,” Mr. Dillon said.

“Well, if you need anything, we're around.” Trina pushed Ted back into the house.

After pulling him to the kitchen and then glancing back toward the porch, she looked up into his face. “What's wrong?”

“I have that feeling again.” Ted shook his head. “It just came over me, all of a sudden when I was carrying the Dillons' suitcases upstairs.”

“God's telling you to pray? Do you think it has anything to do with the Dillons?”

“I don't know.” He looked deeply into Trina's troubled eyes. “I know you need me to help you right now. New guests and all…it's just that…the urgency is so strong.” Ted glanced toward the parlor, his favorite place to pray, and then back to Trina.

This was one of the reasons she loved him: his deep faith in God, and his special gift of prayer. She didn't understand it, but she didn't need to. “Go, pray. The Dillons shouldn't need much until tomorrow morning, and I can always get Dad to help if something comes up.”

Ted's prayer vigils could last five minutes or five hours. Again he glanced toward the parlor, anxious to meet with God.

“Go, I'll be fine.”

Ted started down the hall and then turned. “Where is your dad, anyway?”

“He's at Sandra's helping her plant fall flowers.”

Trina doubted Ted heard her as his lanky legs had already taken him around the corner to the family parlor. She tiptoed in his direction and found him on his knees in front of the couch. Over the course of his intercession, he may move from the couch to the chair, or even prostrate himself on the floor, stand with his arms raised, or fold himself into a ball. Love for her husband filled her, and she brushed away the tears as she pulled the parlor doors closed.

~*~

From his position behind her, Roger watched Lillian run.

Damp tendrils of sandy-colored hair clung to her neck while ringlets danced with each measured footfall. So much like Medusa, with her head of writhing snakes.

With each measured step, the bottom-dwelling monster that lived within him awakened. Lillian shrank to nothing more than prey, the source of his hunt. Any hint of humanity, any indication of remorse for his behavior disappeared. Shadows deepened. Nefarious spectators only he could detect hid in preparation for the show.

Roger batted against the gnats. Even the breeze held its breath against what was to come. Time was running out. His heart pounded. His anticipation grew.

They reached the last raised wooden bridge before circling back toward the front of the park.

“Aahh, muscle cramp,” he muttered loudly.

Lillian turned. “Are you all right?”

“Just need a breather for a minute and the cramp'll pass.” He stopped and massaged his leg, while concentrating on his breathing, centered his focus on the task ahead.

Lillian placed her hands on her knees. “I am totally winded anyway.”

Do it now. Hit while her strength has been used for the run
.

He took a slow, deep breath. Had he missed any detail? No one had seen him as he had waited. The call from his cell phone to the bed and breakfast would help to establish his alibi. He would claim no knowledge of Lillian's whereabouts. The police would find her car, but not her body. Anything dumped in the thick undergrowth would remain hidden until the January frost, assuming there would be a winter frost. And by then the body would be decomposed, most likely her bones carted off by wandering creatures.

Lillian leaned against the wooden railing, her face lifted to the sun, neck extended, eyes closed. A faint smile shaped her lips.

With muscles as taut as the garrote held between his hands, he strained to discern any approaching footsteps.

The chorus of swamp bugs sang encouragement. Trickling water played back-up to their song.

His beating heart lent the solidifying percussion. The symphony of death. He positioned himself directly behind her and stretched the garrote, feeling the vibrating twang of the wire penetrate through the wooden handles. The taste of blood filled his mouth.

~*~

Fear crashed into Bill like storm waves pounding over the sand. His breath came in small gasps as the spade fell between his knees. He pressed his hands to his chest. The terror left as quickly as it had come, leaving him momentarily disoriented. As thought returned, he jumped from the ground, his heart racing as he scanned the yard.

Next door, the golden retriever, heavy with her pregnancy, barked from the back porch.

A car whined in the distance and he stiffened. Looking for a weapon, he grabbed the hoe, clutching the handle tightly in his hand. A white truck passed, its driver male. The beat of the radio's bass vibrated against Bill's skin.

He scanned the area again, trying to quell the unease that clung to his back. She had to be here. One minute he had been happily planting pansies and marigolds. The next minute, fear had overwhelmed him, and a name had sounded in his head over and over:
Lillian.

Since her arrival, he had been aware of a sense of danger cloaking her. Some days, the presence wafted like a scent on the wind and then disappears into nothingness. Other times, the vibrations of fear thrummed the very air around her. But he had never been overcome with visceral sickness like this. Something was different.