Siren's Garter: Issue One August 2016 (4 page)

Kevin had more sins than he could
count to get off his chest. Doing so before his wedding to the most
wonderful woman he’d ever met, felt wrong. Like maybe that was
something he should’ve done long ago.

These weren’t simple confessions
for a priest. The real confessions needed to be heard by his
bride.

Elsie thought so much of him, and
did a lot for him. He loved the way her black, curly hair fell
around her strong cheekbones, the way she doted on him and teased
him when he was being lazy.

The sex had been wonderful, too.
Beyond wonderful, the few times they’d been together. Mind blowing,
especially in Paris. She was rough and gentle, quiet and submissive
at times, loud when on top.

A smile involuntarily broke out on
his lips. Kevin’s cock responded to the memories too. He’d been a
little surprised when he woke up clean this morning. He hadn’t
jerked off last night, thinking he might just be with Elsie one
more time, and he wanted to save himself for her. Or perhaps they’d
go through with the wedding after all.

He leaned forward and opened the
laptop, trying to not touch himself on the way. The hotel had free
wi-fi, and it’d be no big deal to find something besides a cooking
show to watch.

Right?

Instead, he opened his email. His
cock instantly went limp.

Biggins, or whatever his name
really was, had replied.

“
MONEY” was the subject line. The
message itself was simple.

Bring it.

Too many sins to explain to a well
intentioned, small town priest.

Elsie would never understand. He
had to get rid of Biggins, the man who never could take a hint. Or
forgive.

Kevin rolled off the couch and
staggered to the bathroom. The plush carpet felt warm and soft
under his feet. He flipped the too bright overhead light, the fan
whizzing on at the same time. The tile floor was cold as
ice.

He whipped it out and pissed.
Mid-stream, somebody knocked at the door.

“
In a minute,” he
mumbled.

The knocker probably didn’t hear
him. Kevin didn’t care. Most of the fluid in his system was water
and ginger ale, sadly. He’d have made a pathetic
alcoholic.

Kevin flicked the last drop off and
flushed the toilet. The visitor knocked again, louder this time,
quicker paced tapping. Kevin washed his hands and face and stumbled
back to the living room.

Knock knock. Knock knock
knock.

“
Okay, okay,” He peered into the
sight hole. Just Brad, his best man. Kevin unchained the door and
flipped the deadbolt.

“
Kev, dude, come on,” said Brad on
the other side of the door. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

Kevin opened the door. Something
about his best man wasn’t right. He was dressed in a blue Hawaiian
shirt and tan cargo shorts. His long brown hair was slicked back
and tied in a ponytail. The guy was fair skinned normally, today he
was pasty, as if he’d seen a ghost.

Brad was a hacker, a damn good one,
but not a spy. He couldn’t keep dirty laundry unless the secret was
somewhere out on cyberspace. He looked about ready to burst with
something.

“
Hey sunshine,” said Kevin.
“What’s wrong?”

“
Dude,” said Brad. “Gertrude wants
to see you.”

Go figure. Was it a law that your
mother-in-law had to be a pain in the ass at the wrong moment?
Likely, she wanted to visit the priest with him, as if she needed
the excuse to go to the church.

“
Can it wait?”

Brad shook his head rapidly, his
eyes glancing to the left.

The blood froze in Kevin’s body.
The warm carpet seemed less comfortable. He shifted to the right,
just enough to see the shadows across the hall.

Not much to be seen. Too many
bright overhead lights. He glanced to the red floral hallway
carpet.

Brad’s shadow was next to another.
One with an out-stretched arm.

“
Whoever’s out there,” said Kevin.
“Show yourself.”

A skinny, well manicured female
hand grasped Brad on the shoulder and pushed him forward. She
pointed a gold plated revolver to his head.

Gertrude!

“
Get in,” she said. “Both of you.
Jesus it’s dark in here. Are you a caveman?”

She kicked the door shut with her
foot. The locking mechanism clicked. The lights flicked on a second
later. Gertrude pointed the gun between the two men.

Kevin opened his mouth, hands held
palms out. He didn’t get the opportunity to say
anything.

“
Can it,” said his future
mother-in-law. Her voice fired like a gunshot. Her hair was braided
and pinned in a tight bun, the same black as Elsie’s but flecked
with silver. She wore a lovely purple sleeveless dress that came to
her knees and six inch open-toed pumps. Over one shoulder was a
Coach purse.

Brad held up a finger. “If I could
intercede.”

“
No,” said Gertrude. “You can’t. I
want to know one thing.”

“
What would that be?” said
Kevin.

“
What is your business with
Biggins?”

Kevin’s arms went numb. His penis
shriveled up inside him. Something about being in his underwear in
front of his fiancee’s mother.

And now that not-so-sweet
mother-in-law knew about Biggins, how was he going to explain it to
Elsie?

Chapter
Three

Elsie turned the blue Honda down on
Summer Avenue, ten blocks from the university campus, down a street
of nothing but ramblers and split-level houses. These weren’t the
pretty, quaint little dollhouses common in the center of
Wenakaga.

The old neighborhood had been built
during a boom, and the city planners must’ve wanted the town to
feel suburban. White picket fences, old oaks taller than the
houses, and neatly trimmed yards completed the everyday American
neighborhood feel.

A flood of memories washed up,
making the saliva in Elsie’s mouth taste bitter. She squinted her
eyes against the sting.

The corner where Elsie and Jane,
her bestest friend at the precious age of seven, sold lemonade one
summer. They made five dollars and closed shop after a
week.

Dale Street, where Elsie walked to
Hawthorne Elementary School. Wind, rain, snow, and sunny days.
Uphill only one way.

The run-down rambler on the corner
of Russet and Summer. When Elsie was young, the man who lived there
was old and cranky and always alone. A real life Boo Radley, but
without the heroic ending. Elsie wondered if he was still alive
somewhere.

Driving though these streets while
wearing only a thin sundress and no lingerie underneath felt
profane. As if Elsie were disrespecting her past by being half
naked.

Nothing to be done about it. And no
time to be sentimental. She just needed a change of clothes before
facing off with Zack.

Eighth house from the corner, on
the left, was a split-level with a brick front and blue painted
cedar on the sides and back. From the street, the faded sunshine
yellow swing-set Elsie used to play on was visible. For whatever
reason, Mother had never torn it down. Nor had she maintained it.
Rust and age had corroded the metal parts, the wooden crossbeams
were now haggard and rotten.

The cute rose and tulip garden in
front, all the flowers perfectly spaced and at the same height, was
flawlessly tended. The lawn was cut a full half inch shorter than
both neighbors.

A black Lincoln Towncar was parked
out front, blocking the mailbox.

The plates were from New
York.

Shit on a stick.

Elsie had insisted on a small
wedding, with only relatives and the closest of friends. Not like
she had many of the latter. Friendship was a luxury in the
corporate spy world.

Mother, surprisingly but
thankfully, hadn’t fought Elsie on that detail. She had dreaded
telling Mom that she wanted a small church wedding, no frills, no
big parties. Mom fought her on the frills, and over the parties.
But less than two dozen or so invitations were sent out.

None of them to New York. The only
people Elsie knew on the east coast were crooked investors and the
politicians they bought. They did not count as friends. Not even
worthy as close acquaintances, despite what the testosterone told
the stuffed suits she seduced for information.

Elsie drove slow in front of the
house. Nobody was following her. No lights were on inside the
house, at least not in front. The screen door was closed shut, and
the drapes were drawn tight.

She looked to the left and to the
right, pretending to be a lost visitor, and drove on. Still
bra-less and panty-less, and without her pistol, Elsie might as
well have been naked. Now she had a decision.

Go inside to get underwear, even
though she was defenseless against this stranger from New
York.

Or confront Zack and get her gun
now, even though she had no desire to do so without proper
clothing. No telling what ideas he might have, seeing her breasts
flopping around under her dress.

Elsie drove a block, turned around,
and slowly came back. She sped up at the house, slammed on the
brakes, and parked three houses down.

She stepped out. The street was new
blacktop, and was blistering hot in the summer sun. Her skin baked.
The little dress clung to her like an obsessive lover. She popped
the trunk.

A sawed-off shotgun was hidden in a
secret compartment and covered in blankets. Elsie wanted to take it
with her. What if her mother was in danger? Too many unknowns. And
carrying a firearm in small town Midwest was a good way to attract
attention from the police.

No explosions this time.

And if Mom was in danger, the
police were just as likely to hinder the rescue. Elsie had seen too
many hostage incidents covered up by the “powers that
be.”

She took out the mace from her
clutch purse, and tossed the bag in the trunk before slamming the
lid.

Elsie strolled down the street,
arranging her keychain into a claw weapon, a key stuck out between
each finger. Not like that would do much good in a fight, but it
was enough to scare away a bad guy. Unless he really wanted to hurt
her.

Wind blew her dress around her
thighs. Walking quickly made the soft cotton material rise up her
legs more.

Astute neighbors were about to get
an eyeful. Elsie didn’t care. She had one priority now.

At the house, she snuck around the
side. To the garage.

She lifted the trashcan lid,
peering inside. Sure enough, Mom still kept the key in plain
sight.

With Dad gone, and her living alone
now, Elsie wished Mom would take better care of herself. She knew
Mom was smarter than this.

Elsie opened the door, and threw
the key on the workbench.

The yellow Mustang was
gone.

Where the hell was her
mother?

She kicked off her sandals. Walking
barefoot across the cool cement floor, Elsie wondered what the hell
she was doing.

Perhaps the Towncar parked out
front had nothing to do with her. Maybe the owners of that car were
visiting the neighbors.

Maybe Elsie had become paranoid of
everything.

But she still didn’t
know.

She swallowed the lump in her
throat. Her heart beat faster, skin prickly and hot, all her senses
in full gear.

The garage smelled like it always
did. Gasoline, fresh cut grass, fertilizer.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness
now. The lawnmower was still in the same corner. So was the
workbench, with tools laying out. Hammer, screwdrivers, wire
cutters.

Elsie tip-toed further inside. She
pressed an ear against the metal door to the house.

Voices were coming from the
kitchen!

A man. He had a deep, baritone
voice. Elsie couldn’t make out the words.

He sounded agitated. On
edge.

Good. She could use that against
him.

Whoever he was.

Elsie quietly tested the doorknob.
Unlocked.

She waited.

Another voice became clear. A
woman’s. Calm, in control, a foreign accent hidden under the
surface. Russian?

The voices moved from the kitchen
to the dining room. Away from the garage, to the front of the
house.

Elsie twisted the knob, hoping the
door didn’t have a squeak.

Just ajar, Elsie peeped in. The
kitchen was crystal clean. Copper pots hung over the island. No
dishes were in the sink.

Muddy footprints marred the white
linoleum. A man’s shoes. At least size fourteen.

She opened the door all the way.
Thankfully, no squeak.

She tip-toed to the island.
Quick.

And set her keys on the formica
counter. Elsie reached up for the biggest pot.