Shaka lay sleeping at the foot of Ginnie Anderson’s bed as hail hammered the metal roof. The branches of evergreens flailed, but their trunks held firm, as the wind tossed the rain like waves at sea. A big leaf maple groaned, bent under the force, cracked and split down the middle, took out the split rail fence along the property line. Ginnie slept through it, but Shaka raised his head for a moment, then settled back down to sleep.
Outside, Seamus Boyle was freezing. He pulled his wool hat down to cover his neck, then quietly made his way to the kitchen door. He pulled a glass cutter from a small black bag and used it to cut the window glass, returned it to the bag which he left on the ground. He reached through the hole, turned the dead bolt, slowly turned the handle.
Ginnie slept undisturbed, but Shaka lifted his head and let out a low growl. He rose and padded lightly in the direction of the sound.
Boyle waited with his gun drawn, equipped with a silencer. As Shaka entered the kitchen, he shot him squarely in the chest. The big dog dropped to the floor. He twitched a few times, then was still.
Boyle stepped over the body and waited for lightning to illuminate the house, then another half a minute for his eyes to adjust. He moved slowly, more and more frightened and excited as he worked his way to the bedrooms.
The first door was slightly ajar. The trees outside thrashed in the storm and their shadows moved violently across the walls of the room. He saw a shape in the bed, the unmistakable outline of a woman lying on her side.
The second room had ballerinas and bunnies painted on the walls, a child’s bed in the corner. He pulled that door quietly shut.
He returned to the first bedroom and studied the shape on the bed, the rise of the blanket as it hugged the curve of her hips. He thought about Ginnie and how she looked stretching next to the fireplace, her golden hair shining in the firelight, her breasts pushing against her sweater.
He felt the cold sweat of fear as it mingled with anticipation, the excitement of forced sex, the lawlessness of his actions, the power he had over Ginnie as she slept, unaware, only a few feet away.
He moved next to the bed and stood over her. Rainwater fell from his hair onto the comforter only a few inches from her face. Ginnie moved and turned toward him. She looked small and vulnerable, angelic with her golden hair tousled against the white linen.
He reached out to stroke her, then pulled back. He set his gun down quietly on the floor next to the bed and slowly took off his clothes, feeling himself as he did so, building his excitement.
The rain beat hard against the window and the storm roared outside. Ginnie slept.
Naked, he crawled under the covers with Ginnie. She woke immediately and, when she realized it was not Cheryl, she screamed. The noise she made and the way her face contorted startled him. He drew back for just a second.
She jumped from the bed and moved quickly to the nightstand where she stored her gun. He came up behind her and slammed the drawer on her fingers. She howled in pain. He threw her gun into the hallway and pulled her by her hair back to the bed, stuck a sheet into her mouth to muffle her screams.
She was stronger than he expected and he didn’t like being hit. She tried to gouge his eyes and got a knee to his groin. He buckled with the pain and Ginnie broke free, but he caught her at the edge of the bed, slugged her hard in the face. She fell back on the bed and was quiet.
He took a moment to recover, then arranged her hair until she looked angelic again. He liked her like this and raised her nightgown and looked at her. He gingerly touched her breasts, kissed and sucked them and moved his hand along her thighs and up between her legs.
He positioned himself, pushed his way inside her. Each time she gained consciousness, he punched her. Once he came, he rested and then aroused himself again by touching her, by rubbing himself against her. She came to and he hit her hard with the gun. He turned her over and held her down as he took her from the rear. When he was finished, she moved, moaned. Her right hand, reached for the iron headboard.
He covered her head with a pillow, waited for the thunder to roll and pulled the trigger. Another peal of thunder, a second shot. Pillow fibers and her blood splattered onto his thigh. He looked down at it deliberately, went into the bathroom and showered. He dried off and he stepped over Shaka’s body in the kitchen, retrieved the small bag he’d left by the back door and dressed in fresh clothes. Carrying his dirty clothes wrapped in his used towel, he pulled the back door closed behind him.
By sunrise, he was two hundred miles away.
<><><><>
“Sheriff,” said Marsha. “Ginnie didn’t show up for work and my calls are going to voice mail. I checked with Miranda at day care, but she said Ginnie hasn’t dropped off Cheryl or called. That was a big storm last night. Are the lines down or roads out?”
Sheriff Russo hoped Marsha didn't hear the worry he felt as he promised her he’d drive over and check.
A feeling of unease followed him as he parked his patrol vehicle on the street in front of Ginnie’s house, surveyed the scene. A big leaf maple on the side of the property was split in two, its branches splayed across the fence. The little green bungalow stared back vacantly.
He walked slowly up the drive, the gravel crunching under his boots. Shaka should have barked by now, he thought. The big dog would have stood his ground, growling and barking, until Ginnie reassured him it was a friend.
The Sheriff called Ginnie’s number, heard the phone ringing inside. No response. Ginnie will give me hell if I break down her door for no good reason, he thought as he counted the rocks lining the path on the right. He lifted the tenth rock from the light post and recovered the spare key.
He called again. No response, but he heard Cheryl inside. “Mommy?” she asked. “Phone ringing, Mommy.” No response. “Mommy?”
The Sheriff used the key to quickly open the front door. In the living room, he had a direct line of sight to the kitchen, mud room and back door. He saw Shaka’s lifeless form and pulled his gun as his heart sank.
He moaned when he found Ginnie’s body. He checked for vital signs even though he knew it was futile.
Cheryl was not in Ginnie’s room nor under the bed. Gun drawn, the Sheriff moved cautiously down the hall to Cheryl’s room. She was not in her bed nor under it. He checked the closet, the bathroom, and the living room. Nothing.
“Cheryl, honey. It’s Uncle Dave,” he called out gently as he made his way past the dining room table. “Are you here, sweetie?” He listened intently. Nothing. “Cheryl, honey? Where are you?”
He listened. A child’s sniffle. Then crying. He followed the sound back to the kitchen, made his way past Shaka’s body and opened the pantry. Huddled next to a sack of potatoes, in her bunny pajamas and clutching her favorite blue and white check blanket, Cheryl sniffed. “Mommy’s sick,” she said. “Shaka sleeping.”
Sheriff Russo picked up the child, making sure she couldn’t see the dog’s body as he carried her from the house and placed her gently in the passenger seat of his vehicle.
“Mommy’s sick. Shaka sleeping,” she repeated, fingering the sateen edging on her blanket.
The Sheriff leaned against his patrol vehicle and called it in, studying the big leaf maple leaves floating in puddles that reflected the stormy sky.
He waited for backup and child services, crying softly to himself.
<><><><>
The jukebox wailed a country song about love and loneliness. The noise irritated Seamus Boyle. He’d driven east, ten hours, straight through to Montana and his nerves were raw. Images of what he had done blended into a collage of Ginnie standing in her living room, her golden hair shimmering in the firelight. A vision of Ginnie in a long white nightgown, blood dripping from the back of her head, haunted him. He wondered if he’d ever be able to sleep again, but he was sure he’d done the right thing. She was the only one who’d gotten a glimpse into his vehicle with the drones inside, seen the dragon egg roll out, and now she was gone. Threat removed, his life restored.
But still, it was unsettling. He stopped at a drug store for sleeping pills before calling his old military buddy, Skye Westwood.
“Seamus,” said Skye. “It’s great to hear your voice, man. Come right on out to The Ranch.”
Boyle laughed. The Ranch! What a hoot!
He drove along the empty roads to Big Skye Ranch, a leftover from the days when Skye ran an animal sanctuary and dreamed of wilderness filled with herds of bison. Skye had bought some land, in his name, and generated a few donations of cash and land in exchange for tax write offs to a non-profit he established with a few locals—The Foundation for the Preservation of Big Skye Country.
As the organization’s Executive Director, Skye received a small salary, but it wasn’t long before one of the board members complained about unverifiable and rising expenses. There were accusations of drugs being trafficked. Skye lost his temper. “Chill out, man. We’re saving so much beautiful land.”
Skye bucked under the additional oversight the board added so he started saving newsletters marked RETURN TO SENDER, Googling the names, searching obituaries for the deceased. As board members dropped out, he replaced them with dead ones. It wasn’t long before—as the sole living director of a non-profit with a 120 acres and few hundred grand in the bank—Skye could breathe again.
Once a year, to keep his non-profit status and avoid property taxes, Skye invited a dozen city kids to camp on the property and twice a year he published a newsletter which he emailed to his aging mailing list.
Girlfriends came and went, but Skye was now gratefully alone, living quietly on The Ranch, growing psychedelic mushrooms and dope in the old barns, making a modest living and running the cash through his non-profit.
In the living room of the old ranch house, Skye’s old friend Seamus Boyle begged off conversation. “I’ve driven straight through from the Coast,” he said. “I need some sleep, Skye.”
“It’s grand, really grand to have you, bro,” he said, leading him to the spare room.
Boyle patted Skye’s shoulder. “Thanks, man. See ya mañana,” he said, closing the door. He pulled off his smelly clothes and took three sleeping pills, climbed between the flannel sheets and fell into a deep and untroubled sleep.
<><><><>
“A toast,” said Grace as she raised her coffee in their hotel room in Geneva. “A toast to us!”
Jackson clinked his cup against hers and grinned. “To you,” he said. “You were amazing!” He smiled.
Grace beamed with pleasure at the compliment as Jackson’s cellphone rang. He rose to answer it.
“Dave?” he asked, still smiling. “What’s up?” There was silence and then Jackson’s face turned ashen. “What?” he gasped. Silence as the Sheriff spoke. Jackson let out a low moan.
“Jackson?” asked Grace, frightened.
“Cheryl?” Jackson asked the Sheriff. A pause. “Thank God for that,” he said. Another pause. Jackson paced. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll call as soon as we land.” He ended the call and stared blankly straight ahead.
“Ginnie’s dead,” he said, his voice shaking. “Murdered. Brutally, brutally murdered.”
