CRIMINAL BEHAVIOR
                                                    By
                                            Cara Swann
                                  
Reader Response to: authoress1@juno.com
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Index Of Stories

Crime Of Passion......A young man finds his dream girl but it turns out she has more in mind than passion

Vengeance Is Mine....When a woman's fiancé is murdered, she vows to get revenge but at what cost?

Midnight Marauder...An aspiring, unpublished author cleverly plots his way to financial independence in order to write, but finds himself in deep trouble when he turns reality into fiction
 
Say Anything, But Don't Say Goodbye...An abusive wife eventually finds a way of escape from her nightmarish marriage but will it work?

Room Number 13.......An independent young woman finds herself the target of a twisted psychopath



               Crime Of Passion

Christ, Greg thought, he didn't want to go to this ritzy New Year's Eve shindig, but his brother had insisted! It was bad enough to have lost his job at the car dealership, no other mechanic's position in sight, but then to be reminded of Harrison's stupendous success as a banker  -- it was humiliating!

Greg roared up to the high-rise apartment building and parked in the underground garage, thinking it was colder than the dickens too; he'd had to bundle up in a thick parka since the Mustang's heater didn't work. He'd just about frozen to death on the drive from Beaker --a small town thirty miles south of Little Rock, Arkansas where he'd been forced to return to his parents until he could get employment.

He stepped out, slammed the car door, hurried across the parking area to the elevator. Soon he was inside, feeling his stomach lurch as the ride upward began. Then his thoughts turned sour: If only he'd not always been upstaged by his older brother Harrison! Only twenty-six, the guy was a fucking cover story for financial magazines: single, the proverbial eligible bachelor, good-looking and...well, just about everything Greg himself was not.

Nervously, Greg examined his fingernails to see if all the grease had been scrubbed clean; he was nothing but a simple grease-monkey, and felt like a worm around Harrison. If only he wasn't so short, stocky and riddled with self-doubts; blond, yeah, like Harrison, but the glasses ruined what looks he did have, Greg feared.

The doors slid open, and Greg stiffly walked down the hallway; he could hear laughter, loud music and dreaded it all. At the apartment door, he buzzed and it literally burst open; a blond girl shouted, "Come in, and join the fun!"

Greg couldn't see through the crowd; the place was jammed, and he edged his way inside, shyly slinking along the wall. The apartment was lavishly decorated; Harrison had hired a top-dollar interior designer, and although Greg didn't know beans about decor, he had been impressed by the sleek modern look of glass and shiny chromelike tables, mirrors, low-slung furniture, plush carpeting.

"Hey, there's my brother!" Harrison shouted, parting the crowd like the red sea, and grabbing Greg in a bear hug.

God, was this really necessary? Greg winced, embarrassed, and squirmed away. "Good to see you, Harrison." He realized everyone was decked out in their fancy duds, and his jeans were conspicuously inappropriate.

"How's the folks?"

"Fine, I guess." Greg shot a look around at the expectant faces, now turned toward them.

"Hey Gregory, how about a drink? A couple of hours, and it'll be the beginning of a new year! Right people?"

A clamor went up, and several cheered, "Right!" 

Greg eased into the small kitchenette, and Harrison followed, asking, "Any prospects on a job, sport?" 

"No, not yet."

"I can get you work, if you'll let me," Harrison smugly said.

"Sure, you know all about mechanics, huh?" Greg snapped sarcastically.

"Look, I have some contacts in the industry, at the bank. I could ask around."

Greg felt his face burn like a raging fire. "Thanks but no thanks," he said tightly.

"Who's this, Harrison?" said a young gorgeous brunette walking over to them, smiling brightly.

"My brother. Gregory Martin meet Maureen Porter..." Harrison began, but was interrupted by a man yelling, "Where's the scotch, old boy?"

Greg stared at the woman; she was incredibly beautiful, tall, slender, a luscious long-haired brunette, dark, deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, full lips and a pouty petulance that surely suggested annoyance with Harrison's departure.

"Uh, I'm Greg, good to meet you."

She smiled widely, and her white, perfect teeth flashed. She said, "Hi Greg. You don't resemble your brother."

"Really," he replied, heavy on the sarcasm.

"You're much better looking." She winked, and leaned in close to him. "And he's such an asshole, isn't he?"

"You noticed, huh?" Greg got a whiff of her expensive perfume, and had to steady himself.

"Yes, it's obvious...if you know what I mean?" Suddenly she lifted her drink and whispered huskily, "Here's to the new year, won't you join me in a toast?"

Greg was beginning to think maybe the party wasn't going to be a total loss; he followed her out into the dim room, over to the bar, watching her red slinky, sequined gown dazzle in the shimmering lamplight as it molded to her sexy shape.

At the bar she asked, "What do you drink?"

"Uh, a Coors will be fine."

"One Coors," she ordered, taking his hand and asking, "Aren't you staying?"

"Huh?"

Laughing, she began to gently remove his parka; he'd forgotten it completely.

As she started across the room, she said, "I'll just put it in the bedroom, if that's okay?"

He nodded mutely.

Harrison came up behind him, and whispered urgently, "Greg, I wanted to tell you about Maureen..."

Greg abruptly turned to see a tight grimace on Harrison's face. Irked, Greg got the Coors and said flatly, "Save it, okay?"

"Look, Greg, she's trouble..."

"Please spare me! Christ, do I look like an idiot? I can take care of myself!" Greg took a deep swallow of beer, and wondered if Harrison was jealous; it would serve him right, the arrogant bastard!

Maureen waltzed back to the bar, and looked pointedly at Harrison, saying, "Shouldn't you tend to the guests?"

Shrugging, he headed through the crowd, stopping near the kitchen to speak with an older man who was teetering on the brink of drunkenness, nearly falling off a barstool.

"That will get rid of him, I hope." Maureen turned her dark, sparkling eyes on Greg and said, "It's you I'm interested in, honey."

Greg was familiar with the southern accent of Arkansas natives, but found her husky voice a sultry, enticing drawl. He gulped the remainder of his beer, and  asked, "Uh, why?"

"You're different. These pretentious assholes here are really predictable, boring actually." She pulled him to his feet, maneuvered them into a quiet corner and whispered. "Why don't we blow this place, sugar?"

He found his voice quavering, "Are you sure?"

Maureen ran a hand through her long, wavy hair and touched his face softly. "You are intriguing, and I want to know you better. It's so noisy here, stuffy; I need some air and well..." she laughed, a throaty sound. "If you have a car, we could go for a drive."

"Sure." Greg was drunk from her nearness. She kissed him on the cheek, murmured, "Wait here, I'll get our coats."

Jesus, he thought, watching her disappear into the bedroom, this was turning into a winner! Only later, in the car as they were driving through the city lights, did he remember he only had ten bucks to his name.

Maureen was fiddling with the heater switch, saying, "Brrr, it's cold, turn on the heater, sugar."

He looked at her white fur cape, and the flimsy dress underneath, grimaced and said, "I'm sorry, it's broken."

"Oh it is...hmmm." She reached a hand to him, touching his arm lightly. "I could snuggle with you, but this console is between us."

A shiver went up his spine, and it wasn't from the dire cold. "Maybe we better go somewhere, get warm."

"How about we just drive around a little, then maybe go to my place."

"You live in Little Rock?"

"Yes, an apartment, but I sometimes stay with my parents." She pulled the cape closer, shrugged. "Although they aren't too happy with me around. In fact, they tried to..."

"What?" Greg had noticed the bitter tone, and glanced at her pinched face.

"Never mind." She smiled, looking up seductively at him. "I was wondering what you do?"

"I'm uh, a mechanic, out of work right now though," he said, embarrassed.

"Well, well, well...not a big shot like your brother?"

"He's successful, yeah. Mom and dad never let me forget it either." Greg couldn't conceal his hurt; for too long he'd lived in the shadow of his brother's prosperity.

"You know, I think Harrison is a smug asshole, real swelled head. I never dated him, and..."

"Oh? What were you doing at the party?"

"My apartment is down the hall, actually. No one invited me, I just dropped in." She grinned catlike, her face all cunning slyness.

"I see. Uh, you mean you and Harrison didn't ever date?" Greg found this surprising; his brother rarely missed such temptation right under his nose.

"No. I've seen him around the building, though, and know about his life, his job through my parents who bank at..."

"My mom and dad live in Beaker, not rich but were able to put Harrison through college. They didn't want me to skip it either, but I always loved mechanical work, so I went to the local trade school, learned my skills, got a job and been on my own since. At least until I was laid off recently."

"My parents are snobs, inherited wealth." She gave a disdainful snort. "But you'd think they earned it, the way they hold onto the purse strings."

"Uh, you single?" Greg suddenly asked, remembering she had not mentioned her past.

A brief sultry chuckle, and she declared, "Certainly am honey! Twenty and free as the wind!"

"Me too. I mean I'm twenty-two, single."

She fingered her collar, grinning. "How perfect for us."

Greg had been driving aimlessly around the city, going from one interstate connection to the next, watching the city lights, the traffic, the near-deserted streets off to the sides, but asked, "Any particular destination?"

"You got any money?"

Taken off-guard, Greg blurted, "Not much."

"You know, I think you're different, real daring, bold.  Not like your up-tight brother." Maureen placed a hand against his cheek, leaning over to whisper, "Am I right?"

"Uh, well..." Greg was puzzled, and confused further by her suggestive touch.

"Let's drive down into Riverfront Park, stop and talk, okay?"

Greg took an off-ramp, weaving through the historic district of downtown Little Rock, noticing the Old State House, its Greek Revival architecture spooky in muted lights. He drove into the park, slowing and winding along the landscaped area, seeing the murky rippling Arkansas River waters beyond the land, stopping at a pavilion. "Geez, this place is deserted tonight."

"Perfect to be alone," she sighed.

Greg still had his hand on the gearshift, and she put hers over it. "Sugar, you are special."

He didn't reply, thinking of the only other relationship he'd had: his high school sweetheart, Mary, and her inability to settle for a grease monkey when someone richer and better came along. "How so?"

She stroked his hand. "You're smart, smarter than Harrison." Her eyes went to the park. "Oh look, it's so pretty here, the brick walkways, fountains, benches...let's walk along the river."

The chill wind swept over them as they got out, and they immediately snuggled into one another's warmth, heading along the bricked walkway. She held his hand tightly, and kept pointing to the river, laughing huskily and pressing suggestively against him.

Finally she pulled him toward the pavilion, hurrying into the dimly lit shelter as she pointed at the pictorial display of history explaining the origin of "little rock" as a chosen name for the city.

Greg was spellbound, watching her exuberant gestures, her flushed face; she was glowing, beautiful, and he felt himself becoming aroused. He asked, "Aren't you freezing?"

She scooted into his arms, enfolding them around her and gushing, "No, not here with you like this."

He looked into her face, and she lifted her eyes to his; they found each other's lips, and she murmured, "You are special because I know you will help me, honey."

He pulled back, almost unable to speak. "Help you?"

"Yes, won't you?" She put her arms around him tightly, pressing her body into his, and he could feel the fullness of her breasts, his arousal deepening.

"Won't you?" She murmured, removing his glasses, kissing him openly now, her mouth inviting and provocative.

He heard himself say, "Anything you ask."

Momentarily, they were back in the Mustang, roaring out of the park, onto the interstate, him shifting through the gears recklessly. "So what do you want of me? I've got no money, no job..."

"I tell you what honey, let's find a place to rob." She looked at him calmly, quietly.

"Rob! You're kidding!" He was aghast; surely she wasn't serious.

"I'm not joking. See, this is New Year's Eve, lots of liquor stores have done their best business, cash-on-hand, and all we got to do is walk in there and take it."

"But robbery, my God, it's..."

She leaned over, touched his face. "Was I wrong about you? I thought you were smart, daring, more adventurous than Harrison."

Greg heard the strongly implied threat; it was more than he could endure. Here he'd found this dynamite woman, sexy and promising him the kind of passion he'd only dreamed about and all he had to do was...  "But what if we get caught?"

"We won't, you'll see." Maureen opened her purse, rummaged around inside, and came out with a small handgun. "Hardly any heroes when this is in their face."

"Jesus! Where'd you get that thing?" Greg was shocked, and yet as she moved in closer and stroked his thigh, he felt more stimulated than he'd ever been. He didn't know if it was the danger or what, but he was definitely in lust.

"I'll give you directions. I know a perfect place to hit." Her voice was deadly calm, almost detached, and Greg wondered if she'd done this before?

He followed her lead, and wound through the city until they pulled up in front of a seedy-looking liquor store. It was a nasty, rundown area, but oddly deserted at this late hour --probably because everyone was partying, celebrating the new year's arrival.

"What now?" he asked nervously, eyeing the trash-littered street.

"You go in, I stay here. I'll drive, so we're out of here fast when you exit."

"But ..."

Maureen placed the gun in his hand, and wet her lips as she said, "Then later, we'll both have money and plenty of time together." She glanced at her watch. "Five minutes till midnight, a great way to bring in the new year!"

"But what do I do inside?" He fidgeted, holding the gun awkwardly.

"There's just the one guy in there, no sweat. Use your smarts, honey."

He put the gun inside his belt, pulling the parka over it, and got out. The place was empty, no customers; he walked briskly inside, and went immediately to the counter, jerked out the gun and shouted, "Give me the money, and no one will get hurt!"

The young guy, a hulking, muscular dude, didn't say a word, simply got out the cash and handed it over, raising his arms high afterward as Greg backed out the doorway, ran to the car and jumped inside. As he handed Maureen the gun, she suddenly opened her door, and slipped out.

Greg didn't know what was happening; he heard gun-fire, the 'pop, pop, pop' that sounded more like a child's cap pistol than the real thing. He looked out the windshield, and saw that another car had pulled in, the young girl probably witnessing everything...but now, she was slumped over the steering wheel, and the windshield was shattered. God...had Maureen shot her? 

Flushed and wild-eyed, Maureen slid back inside, tossed the gun onto the seat, put the car in gear as she snarled, "Damn kid, should mind her own business. Had no right to be here, shouldn't have been. But I took care of her, I sure did! Don't want witnesses."

Greg was stunned, and felt like someone had just hit him hard in the gut. He picked up the gun, looking at it incredulously...he couldn't believe what had happened!

They sped away, Maureen driving like a bat out of hell, laughing hysterically; she mastered the gears like a pro, and they hit the interstate at breakneck speed.

Greg was clutching the loose money, about to count it when he heard a shrieking siren.

Maureen exclaimed, "Oh shit, the law! Shit! Shit! Shit! I bet someone heard the gun-fire, damn!"

"Now what?" Greg blurted, paralyzed.

The blue flashing lights got closer, and Maureen slowed, said, "He's got us cold!"

Greg had the gun in one hand, the cash in the other, as the cop strode to the car, his revolver in hand, shouting, "Get out of the car!"

To Greg's utter astonishment, Maureen jumped out and burst into tears, begging, "Officer, help me! This boy made me go along with him, please, please help me!"

Shocked, Greg dropped the gun and belatedly realized he was the biggest fool of the new year.

                                             *  *  *  *

Several days later, Greg awoke in jail, his mouth dry and fuzzy. He sat on the steel bunk, despondent.

When he was called for a visit, Greg almost didn't go, but decided he should. In the bleak visiting room, he saw Harrison, his head hanging low.

As they sat facing each other, Harrison asked, "Why? For god's sake, why Gregory?"

"You'd never believe me if I told you," Greg said, bitterness and shame in his voice.

"I told you she was trouble..."

"Shit, do you think I believed you?"

"No, you never do. I wish we could get along but now you're in the worst possible position."

"Maybe, but surely we can prove she was in on the whole thing?" Greg studied Harrison closely, shocked by his haggard face, the genuine caring now evident, but too late to do him any good. "God, she murdered that...innocent girl! I still can't believe...that Maureen did that! Surely we can prove her part in all this?"

"No, we can't. See...Maureen, she has psychological problems. Her parents had her in an institution last year for about a month, diagnosed as a clever psychopath."

"But that's proof right there!"

Harrison stood, shaking his head. "She's never been caught in a crime, although her parents suspected her before. And they aren't going to be co-operative either, she's their only child. They're protective." He grimaced. "Gregory, I don't know how to tell you this, but the boy at the liquor store?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"Apparently, he's involved with Maureen, and is willing to testify that you held the gun on her during that robbery. And that YOU were the one who killed the young girl."

Greg looked across the room, but all he saw was endless steel bars, gray walls and his future fading to black, hearing Maureen's seductive whisper, "Here's to the new year...won't you join me?"

                                                 The End
    +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++





                  Vengeance Is Mine

Like a slow-motion nightmare Christina Taylor had watched in horror as her fiancé, Patrick King, was murdered in cold blood. She'd vowed that day, ten years ago, to exact revenge -- and now the time had arrived to do just that.

Christina had suffered the agony of seeing the only man she loved gunned down by a ruthless thug who'd been accidentally interrupted in the act of robbing a liquor store. Patrick had unfortunately walked into the path of the thug as he was fleeing the store. The momentary eye contact (certain to later identify the unmasked face) had prompted the shotgun blast that killed him. Christina was in their car across the street,  and saw it through disbelieving eyes.

But oh, it had been true, yes. Fortunately, others nearby had witnessed the crime too, therefore Christina was spared having to testify at the trial of Douglas Cole after he was apprehended. The jury found him guilty, and he was subsequently sentenced to the death penalty, carted off to Alabama's Holman Prison.

At first, Christina thought it was over, that Cole would be executed, and thereby justice served. But as the years passed, she kept reliving the nightmare every time Cole's lawyer filed another appeal, another attempt to get him life in prison instead of the original death penalty. And it got harder each time; Christina followed the case, watched the newspapers and gradually became obsessed with vengeful feelings.

All her life Christina had been a good, law-abiding citizen; she'd grown up on a rural Alabama farm, had high ethical and moral convictions, priding herself on being fair, decent and caring. Her parents had been Baptists, and she'd believed in God, prayed against evil -- but evil had found her, destroyed the happiness she'd known with Patrick.

They'd met at a church picnic, and Patrick had been the perfect love: sandy-haired, blue-eyed, classically handsome at twenty-three, about to graduate from Auburn University as a Veterinarian. He was friendly, outgoing and shared Christian's religious and moral beliefs. They both wanted children someday.

Christina recalled her joy when they went on their first date, a car ride through the countryside, and how she'd told Patrick about her job as a pre-school teacher, and her love of children.

He'd smiled, and said sincerely, "You'd make a wonderful mother, Christy."

The courtship was a brief six months, but her parents wholeheartedly approved of their engagement. A lovely wedding was planned for spring, and they'd been in Birmingham shopping when Patrick was killed.

Although Christina was only twenty at the time, she'd loved Patrick with a deep, abiding love -- and afterward, she seemed unable to meet a man even remotely as wonderful. A beautiful young woman, she'd had opportunities --but it almost seemed that every time she even considered a serious relationship, Douglas Cole would be in the news again, and the nightmare would start all over again, ending any thoughts of marriage.

So now at thirty, Christina was bitter and angry, intent that Douglas would suffer what she had long ago. And it didn't look as if he'd be executed for at least another year or more.

That would give her time, yes.

Christina began devoting extra attention to her looks; she was slender, tall and had stylish straight-cut, chin-length chestnut hair which emphasized her big, brown eyes and ivory complexion. She experimented with makeup, developed a sexy, alluring appearance through tight, clingy dresses, then made a few provocative pictures with her own camera.

One night, after she'd closed the kindergarten she now owned, Christina sat down at home and wrote a warm, kind letter to Douglas Cole, enclosing the pictures. She didn't have to wait long for a reply; he wrote back immediately, enthusiastic about a correspondence with her. If he'd ever known about her and Patrick (and it was doubtful, she thought, since her name had not been mentioned at the trial even though she'd been sitting anxiously in the back of the courtroom) he didn't recognize her now,  as evidenced by his exuberant letter.

Curiously, she read his words over and over, trying to fathom a man who felt no remorse, who seemed so alive and willing to jump at the chance to write a female. How easily he forgot that he'd taken Patrick's life, and should be suffering now instead of looking for solace through letters!

Christina allowed her anger and frustration to vent through a good physical workout, doing her usual aerobics and damning him with each laborious exertion. When she finished, she sat down and calmed herself, slowly growing pensive.

Then Christina wrote Douglas again, making several drafts, revising and cutting until she had exactly the right enticement on paper.

It would take time, but she had the plan down cold, and it wouldn't fail -- it couldn't!

                                           *  *  *  *  

That first visit was formidable. Christina had never been inside a prison, and the experience was shattering. All the strict procedures, the harsh metallic grating noise of steel-barred doors, sullen inmates glaring at her, suspicious guards watchful when at last she and Cole sat facing one another.

She was not unfamiliar with Douglas Cole; he was a short, wiry man of forty now, swarthy and vaguely weasel-like. The beady black eyes over his hooked nose were unflinching, and his tight grin was smug but he did say politely, "Glad to see you, Christina."

Christina forced a sexy smile, gushing, "I just had to see you Doug!"

"Sure, our letters been gettin kinda hot, huh?" He grinned, showing the edge of sharp, small teeth, yellowed from cigarette nicotine.

She swallowed her disgust, said, "Uh, about your, uh..."

"Date with Yellow Mama?"

"Yellow Mama...?"

"Man, that's what we call it here on death row. That big yellow mama waitin to put us down." He snickered, an ugly, brutal sound.

This was proving more difficult than Christina had anticipated. She glanced at a hefty guard who was staring intently at them, then looked directly at Douglas. "Maybe you won't ever go to the chair?"

"Right, and them mothers is gonna let me live? No way babe!"

"I mean, your appeals and all..." Christina edged nearer, and softly said, "We could have a future if your sentence was commuted to life."

"Yeah, but like, the lawyer don't got much hope."

"I'm sorry. I know you regret what happened."

He grimaced, frowned hard and said gruffly, "Just one of them things, chance you take in crime."

"But I'm sure you didn't mean to kill that man."

He looked off toward the guard, turned back and said flatly, "The asshole coulda put the finger on me, you know?"

She was appalled at his blatant remark, had to lower her eyes lest he see her disgust and anger. "There were other witnesses too."

"Hey babe, you didn't come here to talk about all that." He paused, adding suspiciously, "Or did you?"

She felt his piercing black eyes on her, fought the revulsion, said sweetly, "No, I came because I'm in love with you."

"Yeah, babe...we got a good thing going."

And so it went throughout the next nine months, Christina writing constant letters, having phone conversations with Douglas and visiting him when possible. He was increasingly ardent, expressing his arousal in letters, almost unable to keep his hands off her on visits, and slowly, oh so slowly, she was getting him to the place she wanted him to be -- in love, desiring her desperately and tortured with pent-up, unfulfilled lust. Every time Douglas told her how he ached with longing, how he wanted her sexually, how badly he needed her and how all this was agony for him, made him realize what he was missing, it sent a secretive flush of retribution through Christina, and spurred her onward.

No one knew what she was doing; her parents thought she was visiting a friend in south Alabama on her trips to Holman Prison. Her friends knew she had grown remote, distant and disinterested in them, and her usual activities -- but she closed them out if they asked questions.

In late autumn, Cole's last appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court was turned down; an execution date was set for November. Christina talked to him by phone, feigned sympathy, told him she would visit as often as possible before the execution date. And she did, each time exacting more and more anguish from him...taunting him with passion he could never possess. Always touching him often, almost incurring the wrath of the guards, or just teasing him with sexy talk of "what-could-have-been" between them as lovers.

Then the final visit, two days before his execution. She visited, and it was intensely emotional. He blinked his watery eyes, saying, "Damnit, I ain't never wanted a woman like I want you!"

At this point, Christina let her false front fall away, and she coolly looked at him, a faint smile on her face. "Is that so?" As she'd known, he did have feelings; and she'd played on that, mostly arousing his lustful needs, then leaving him in a fever of agonized longing.

"You know it babe!" He glanced at her, seemed puzzled.

"It sure is horrible to lose someone you love, to want someone you can never have, isn't it?"

He detected the callous tone of voice and searched her composed face. "Yeah, damn right."

"I know exactly how you feel, because it's how I felt when you shot my fiancé, Patrick King," she whispered viciously.

Stunned, Douglas shook his head, unable to grasp what she was saying. "Huh?"

"I said, you killed my fiancé, Patrick." Christina grinned smugly, her brown eyes riveted on his ashen face.

"But what the hell? What's all this been about...?" Douglas seemed to shrink before her, visibly shaken.

She laughed aloud, and one of the guards peered anxiously toward them. "Oh yes, what's it all been about? I'll tell you, you little weasel! I wanted to torture you before you were killed, show you exactly how I've felt ever since you robbed me of the only man I'll ever love!"

"Shit, you for real?" Douglas glared at her, incredulous.

Christina jumped up, toppling over the plastic chair, the sound echoing in the bleak visiting room. "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord! Yeah, all mine now! I hope you burn in hell forever, for what you did to Patrick!"

She pivoted on her heel, stalked away as Douglas stared after her, muttering, "I'll just be goddamned."

                               *  *  *  *  

The warden stood before Douglas, who was strapped securely in the bright yellow electric chair. A solemn, pained expression was etched on the warden's face as he finished reading the death warrant, and then asked, "Do you have any last words, Douglas?"

The guards looked at him expectantly, and Douglas said in a low, quavering voice, "Let justice be served."

The warden signaled for the black hood to be placed over Douglas's head.

So quiet now and dark, the last moments of his life. The guards left the room, only a short interval until switches were thrown, a surge of 1,850 volts of electricity sending Douglas Cole into eternity. 
                           *  *  *  *  

Christina heard about Cole's execution on the early morning news; she sighed with relief, and satisfaction. Now, she thought, at last her life would return to normal. Maybe someday she could even learn to love again, have a family...

The doorbell rang, and she went to the front door, pausing to pull her bathrobe tightly about her.

Christina opened the door to see an unkempt man slouching on the small porch. He asked curtly, "You Christina Taylor?"

"Yes, what do you want?"

The man suddenly jerked a pistol from beneath his jacket, and pointed it at her chest, saying quickly, "Doug said to tell you he hopes you burn in hell along with him!"

The fatal shot erupted, ending the peaceful morning stillness, the man running fast, his footsteps pounding as he rounded the house, jumped into his car and sped away while Christina lay dying.

                                      The End
             ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Midnight Marauder


Sinclair first saw the old man at a quaint country store.  It was his second trip away from the rustic mill house and his mind was fully occupied with trivial details; his supplies were dwindling.

Standing at the counter, Sinclair brushed off his sophisticated herringbone sportcoat, reaching for his wallet.         

A sharp voice declared, "Sonny, ain't I seen you afore?"

Sinclair peered through his wire-rimmed spectacles, studying the gaunt-featured old man.  He was wearing DeeCee denim overalls and chewing a wad of tobacco, pausing to spit unceremoniously into a nearby spittoon. His weathered face was somehow disturbing; maybe it was the keen-eyed stare that seemed to peer beyond surface appearance that upset him, but Sinclair definitely felt ill at ease.

He answered, "Yes, you may have.  I came in once for groceries."

The old man scratched his thick grey hair.  "Reckon that must be it.  Shore look like a feller I once knowed hereabouts."

Sinclair glanced at the price of his groceries on an out-dated cash register and opened his leather wallet. "Well sir, it couldn't have been me. I only moved into the mill house about a month ago."

"Shore, sorry sonny.  If'n you don't mind my askin, what's your name?"  His piercing stare became veiled, almost furtive.

"Sinclair Brewster.  I'm living in the remodeled old mill out on Echo Hollow Road."

"Musta cost a fortune to fix up, that old mill's been there forever."

"Yes sir, it did.  But I want it for privacy -- I'm a writer."  The last words were spoken with a rush of pride and fearsome dedication.

The old man shook his head.  "Ain't no writers hereabouts, don't reckon. I'm Coot...Coot Hinkle and me and my wife, Marybelle, run this here store and cafe.  Hope you do business with us.  We'll treat you right."

Sinclair had already sized up the country store and found it a necessity, but did not wish to be overly friendly. He was, after all, a writer and needed his solitude for writing. Too many snoops in a small rural place like Piney Grove. He smiled, giving a flash of brilliant white teeth, hoping his owlish eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles presented a scholarly face.

Coot spat again and said, "Glad to know you, Sinclair. Come again, any time. And, don't mind sayin, you oughta try some of Marybelle's cookin, real down-home southern victuals..."

"Thanks Mr. Hinkle."

"Shucks, call me Coot, everybody does."  He took the bills from Sinclair and made change, handing it back and then beginning to sack up the groceries.

Sinclair, his studious gaze missing nothing, thought he saw a quirk of the old man's mouth, a slight twitch, nothing more.  But it was enough to make him uncomfortable.

Coot finished sacking the groceries and shoved them toward Sinclair.  "Here you are sonny."  He frowned, scratched his chin and spat again.  "Dang if'n you don't look like Saul Matson, same skinny bean pole and those queer eyes..."

Sinclair flinched at the description; he had always been displeased with his reedy frame, angular, thin face and watery-blue bug eyes. He'd never wanted to be macho, but nevertheless, he stiffened and said, "Sorry, but I'm Sinclair Brewster...aspiring writer."

Coot grinned, almost a sly smile. "Good luck sonny. And come again, soon."

Sinclair said he'd be back when his supplies ran low and went out to climb into his snazzy Ferrari. He never even glanced back or he would have seen Coot's shrewd eyes and suspicious frown.

                                        *  *  *  *

Sinclair enjoyed his trip in the late afternoon sunset.  North Alabama backroads traversed the rolling hills, and he sped along the twisted two-lane blacktops recklessly.  November had robbed the trees of their autumn plumage but he didn't mind the bleak landscape.

Ten miles down the highway, he swung onto a dirt road and dust clouds rose behind him.  He loved the remote, secluded road bordered by gangling pines. A national forest was only minutes away and he thought again of his expert cunning in choosing this isolated area for his retreat.

Within moments, he pulled into the sparse clearing near his home.  Rustic cedar siding had greatly improved the old mill; rocked pillars formed a hollow underneath, and the nearby creek fed into its tunneled cavity.  Once an original mill for corn grinding, dating back to the late l8OOs, it had been neglected and crumbling with age. But now, thanks to the renovation crew he'd hired,  it had become a cozy cottage.

He grabbed the grocery sacks, and hurried across the clearing, climbed a steep wooden stairway.  It led to the second floor, a long-ago center of activity, which had been stripped of ancient milling equipment.  Now, entering the cavernous interior, Sinclair had to smile.  Open-beams in the ceiling, polished hardwood floors and antique pine furniture had given the place a facelift. Two walls were entirely glass, overlooking the swift-flowing creek. His wide oak desk and computer occupied one corner,  the other two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases holding a wide variety of reading and research material. Glove-brown leather sofa and loungers were a comfort feature, as were the tiny kitchenette, small simply-furnished bedroom and bath.  It was sufficient, and suited him quite nicely.

After putting away the groceries, Sinclair sat down to his computer and stared at the blank screen for a long time.  He was determined to be a writer, no matter how many rejections he might have to endure.  It was all a process, something every writer had to undergo -- walking through the fire of rejection before acceptance, publication.

Finally, Sinclair switched off the computer and went to gaze absently out at deep, thick woods surrounding his land -- ten acres. He had worked hard for this place, harder than anyone could imagine!  It hadn't come easy, but then, nothing ever did.

The old man, Coot. Could he be a problem? Saying Sinclair resembled someone, was that just curiosity and nit-picking? A way to find out his name and location? Or did Coot really know someone who resembled him?

Whatever, it didn't sound good. Sinclair walked quickly into the small bedroom and opened a dresser drawer, searching through his folded clothes and finding the .38 Special revolver.  He took it out and looked it over carefully, assuring himself it was insurance against the unknown.

Shrugging, he replaced it and sighed deeply.  He certainly hoped Coot wasn't the nosy type.

                                        *  *  *  * 

Several days later, Sinclair was busily raking leaves when he saw dust rising behind the rural mail carrier's car. It was near noon, Sinclair was exhausted and he leaned wearily on his rake, watching the car pull close to his mailbox. A shouted, "Mornin" from the dapper man inside the car, and then he circled around and headed back up the road.  Living at the road's dead end was a plus factor, in Sinclair's estimation. He walked briskly to the box and anxiously peered inside.

Crestfallen, he jerked a large brown envelope out of the box and slapped it against his leg.  There was no mistaking his return address in familiar laser print; it was a rejection.  He felt a sharp stab of failure, heated embarrassment and ducked his head.  Hopefully, this would be his last rejection; he felt confident the novel-in-progress was a winner.

Turning toward the mill house, he didn't hear the approach of a patrol car. When the horn honked, he jumped with surprise and looked up the road.  His eyes went cold and his thin lips tightened imperceptibly. Quickly, he improvised a winning smile and headed to the roadside.

"Mornin son," a deep-voiced, gruff-looking man called from inside the car.

Sinclair leaned down to look calmly at the two deputies in the patrol car. One was young, but ruggedly built; the other was older, but similarly rugged. Both were staring with unabashed curiosity at him.

"Good morning officers," Sinclair said, his winning smile proudly displayed.

"We're just on routine patrol, thought we'd stop by, see if you ever have any trouble out this way?" asked the older, Dick Tracy lookalike. 

The young, square-jawed deputy added,  "Yeah, it's isolated out here. Thought you might want us to patrol by here regularly, sort of keep away trespassers?"

"That's very considerate of you officers. Luckily I haven't had any problems yet."  Sinclair paused for dramatic effect, then shoved up his spectacles.  "I suppose there's always a first time though. I do appreciate your offer, but so far, I'm fine."

The young deputy asked, "Haven't been here long, have you?"

"About a month, though the mill house has been under renovation for six months. My name's Sinclair Brewster, I'm from Wisconsin."  Sinclair felt edgy, tense and willed his mind into a state of calm, a trick he'd picked up from transcendental meditation.

"Well, my name's Pete Dodson, and this young kid is Jerome Dayton.  We usually patrol this section, so if you ever have any problems just give us a call at the Trenton County Sheriff's Department."

"Thank you, I will."  Sinclair had self-consciously tucked the rejected manuscript under his arm.  He saw both men's eyes riveted to it and said hastily,  "Just the usual writer's blues, rejection."

Jerome smiled and nodded.  "I've heard it's a tough racket. Good luck."

Sinclair felt a jolt of electric anger: What would these two rednecks know about the plight of a struggling artist? They couldn't have any idea about the dire financial straits one endured until profitable publication. But he faked nonchalance, saying, "Thanks, I need all the luck I can get."  Forcing a tight smile, he watched as they drove away.

Inside the patrol car, Pete said coldly, "He's smooth, but he's our boy."

                                  *  *  *  *

Coot grinned and spat.  "Sonny, ain't no call to git so mad.  Those old boys don't mean no harm.  Saul's wanted for non-support and that's about as low as a feller round these here parts can git."

Sinclair clenched his jaw and his face went white. "And you thought I was this miserable Saul, a simple-minded idiot too worthless to support my own family?"

"Here now, ain't no use flyin off the handle.  Like I says, it was jest our mistake."

"I'm glad to hear you admit that. I'm a writer and furthermore, a native of Wisconsin. Surely my northern accent would rule out me being this, this Saul?"

"Shore, it was our fault. Course, if'n you'd been Saul, coulda lived up north, picked up the yankee accent. Jest that you look like him in some ways -- that build, those eyes."  Coot spat and downed his head with humility.

Sinclair straightened and brushed off his navy lambswool sweater.  "I'm relieved to have it all settled. I figured those officers were up to more than routine patrol."

"Like I says, I'm sorry I set 'em on you.  Let me offer a free meal to right things?"

"No thanks, I'm in a rush.  Have to write, you know. Anyway, I'm glad you realize I'm not this Saul character. I just want some privacy and time to write.  That's why I moved to this rural Alabama area; Piney Grove is perfect -- slow, quiet and unobtrusive."  He flashed a chilling grin, saying, "Or, at least, I hope it's unobtrusive."  Wordlessly, he turned and stalked outside to his idling Ferrari.

Coot heard the screech of tires and pursed his lips, reflecting that Sinclair Brewster was very astute.

                                        *  *  *  *

Sinclair placed the last sheet of his completed novel manuscript into a box. Now he had to get it in the mail tomorrow. He'd worked diligently for the past three weeks, anxious to speed it along. Clearly, if accepted, this would sell.

In the meantime, he planned to rewrite the rejected short story.  Since the upsetting incident with the deputies, his mind was often preoccupied.  He'd accurately guessed the deputies were prying into his past, but luckily they would find nothing incriminating. He had covered all bases; he had relentlessly prepared this idyllic paradise for writing.  Nothing could go wrong; he'd worked too hard for this safe space.

Sitting at the computer, he rolled his head forward, rubbing his temples and massaging his shoulders. It had been a long, tiring day. He was glad the novel was finished.  Now, if he could only revise the short story.

He sat staring dreamily out at the dimming twilight hovering over the deep woods.  It was so inspirational here; the natural environment, the peace, the quiet.  It was exactly like he'd planned, except for the brief snare with Coot.  What an old fool he was! But history had proven there was no fool like an old fool; Sinclair just hoped the idiot didn't try to interfere with his life again. There was to be no more interruptions; he had to get on with his life's work, writing.

With renewed determination, Sinclair began to type, the words coming fast, easy and gracefully.

Hours passed; the ornamental clock struck midnight when he finally switched off the computer.  Trudging to the small bedroom, he slipped off his spectacles and rubbed his weary eyes.  When he looked at the bankbook by his bedside, he grinned with satisfaction.  He had more money than he'd ever need, thanks to his wily ways. Yes indeed, he'd arranged the perfect set-up for writing; time, space and ample financial provisions until he could sell his work.  And as long as he remained totally calm and collected, nothing could ever tumble his kingdom.

The key was to be cool.

                          *  *  *  *

The next morning, Sinclair saw the familiar patrol car pull into the clearing; he was staring out the windows, and had a good view of the two husky officers as they walked toward the mill house.  

As Sinclair inspected his faded jeans and slouchy sweatshirt, he grimaced. Always meticulous, he hated to be caught looking less than nattily attired. When the knock came on the door, he was prepared and opened it quickly, smiling a dazzling white flash of teeth.  "Officers, what's the problem?"

"Mind if we come in?"  Pete Dodson frowned darkly, his steely eyes glued to Sinclair.

"No, of course not.  Come in."  He moved back, making a wide gesture with his arms.  "Have a seat, won't you?"

Both men hesitated inside the door, not willing to intrude any farther into the elaborately refurbished interior.  They eyed the miraculously restored mill with awe and disbelief.  Finally Jerome whistled.  "Must've cost a fortune to make this old place look so nice!"

Sinclair wanted to grin with pride but instead said humbly, "I hired a crew known for superb craftsmanship, woodworking, carpentry..."

Pete cleared his throat gruffly.  "Well, the reason we're here..."  He paused, looked outside to the deep woods and then said, "We want you to come into the department, sort of clear up this mess about Saul."

"Now see here!"  Sinclair burst out, forgetting his resolve to be calm.

Pete held up a brawny hand.  "It's strictly off the record, something we're asking you to do voluntarily.  A way to clear yourself and settle this matter of identity."

"I am Sinclair Brewster, and I can prove it in any number of ways: birth certificate, social security card, credit cards, bank accounts..."

"Yes, but this would be doing us a favor.  We really want Saul's ex-wife to see we're trying to locate the man. Saul was a lowdown skunk and she's hot on his trail.  We just want to get her off our backs."

Jerome enthused, "0l Saul's probably halfway across the country by now, but his ex-wife is still going strong. She's heard of you, thinks we're not doing our job."

Pete studied Sinclair's defiant face a moment.  Then he walked to the wall of glass, his broad back to the men. "Son, it sure would help us out."

Reluctantly, Sinclair said, "Well, I suppose if it will help.  But, I don't mind telling you I think this is absurd!" Struggling to calm himself, he finally said, "Let's go, I have work to do later today."

He knew it was all a matter of staying calm in the face of tremendous pressure.  These officers had no idea who they were asking to do them a favor.  Imagine, him helping the law!  What an incredible twist of fate!

                                    *  *  *  *

It was late afternoon when the officers brought Sinclair back to Piney Grove.  They whipped in at Coot Hinkle's country store.

Sinclair sat in the backseat, his face a mask of calm disguise.  It had been a tense session for him; but the ex-wife was contrite when she saw her foolish behavior. All in all, the officers had congratulated him on helping convince the woman of their continuing pursuit of Saul Matson.

Now, seeing the two deputies turn to him and ask, "Want a coke?" he nodded and smiled.  Sinclair was finding the deception and diabolical situation almost deliciously wicked.

When they were inside the cluttered store, Coot yelled from behind the counter, "Glad to see you boys.  Say, ain't you proud I told you bout Sinclair here?"

The two deputies nodded and grinned, but their faces seemed to be set in granite.  

Sinclair noticed the slight twitch of Coot's mouth again and wondered why there was suddenly a suffocating atmosphere about the room.  He tugged at his sweatshirt and mumbled, "I'll take that coke now."

Coot leaned down behind the counter and when he straightened up, he was clutching a large brown box. "Looks like I got some good reading here."

Sinclair's mouth went dry and he licked his lips nervously.  "I didn't know you liked to read Coot."  His voice was sour with sarcasm.

Coot held up the box and Sinclair could clearly make out his recently addressed manuscript to a New York publisher. He knew now why the atmosphere was suddenly oppressive -- Coot had somehow gotten hold of his novel manuscript. Quickly he reassured himself that the novel was certainly no problem, and said, "Fiction, entirely fiction. That's what I write, you know."

Pete stepped forward and said, "We suspected you were the one, but didn't know until we intercepted the manuscript. Part of your mistake was in writing down your real crimes as fiction; but your biggest mistake was in not covering your tracks. Our man Coot here has the goods on you."

Coot then held up a black bundle of clothing, grinning arrogantly, the final and absolute evidence. Sinclair felt his face go hot, and realized his mistake in not burning the outfit sooner, instead of tossing it in the bag of fallen leaves he'd raked up, intending to set fire to it all.

He saw two men come from the back of the store, and they had Feds written all over them, so it was no surprise when they pulled out badges and barked, "FBI!"

The two deputies smirked, and the agents thanked them for their help.

Sinclair crumpled into a wasted man; he knew it was all over, irrevocably over.

                                   *  *  *  *

Sitting in his federal prison cell, doing a twenty year stretch for bank robbery, Sinclair often reflected on where the flaw in his plan had been. Was it merely in writing down his criminal spree accurately, but as fiction? Or was it his criminal alter-ego demanding recognition? 

The fact that his book eventually became a bestseller was some compensation, but he felt a sense of failure. After all, his plan had been to use the stolen loot from those interstate bank robberies as financial solvency until he successfully published.

Who would have thought the FBI had him pegged? Coming from an impoverished background and being a college dropout with few employable skills, Sinclair had devised a lucrative criminal career to tide him over the lean years of a beginning writer's struggle to publish. 

He'd successfully robbed banks in Milwaukee, Chicago, Indianapolis, Columbus and Cleveland. Each time he'd used the same M.O. -- black ski mask, black coveralls, black boots, a sawed-off shotgun and the two-car switch method of getaway. He signed the holdup notes as "Midnight Marauder" -- ironically the title of his novel! No one had ever been harmed and after clever laundering of bills, clean money flowed into a fund for his writing retreat.  Since he had previously been a clean-cut young man, he saw no need to establish false identity.  Sinclair had simply ceased his criminal career as abruptly as he began it. In fact, he'd had no intentions of ever robbing another bank.

The whole operation had worked so beautifully, he couldn't resist writing it down as an intriguing fictional crime novel. And he'd figured if there ever was a connection made between the real bank robberies and his novel, he'd say it was merely coincidence.

Sitting in his prison cell, Sinclair supposed he'd never get over his incurable need to tell a good story, whatever the cost.  He turned back to his manual typewriter and began clicking away, the noise echoing down the long corridor of cells. Then he paused, put in earplugs and thought that at least he hadn't lost out completely -- there were fascinating stories inside the walls, and a 6' x 9' cell could be conducive to creativity.

                                                   The End

          +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++




                   Say Anything, But Don't Say Good-bye




I 
Monte Dollar. He blew into my life like a tornado, and went out the same way. What happened in between is history -- but maybe it's worth repeating, just so others can know how it feels to lose yourself, over and over, drowning in love. And all it comes down to at the end is loss, loss of yourself and the man you love.

(1.)  The year was 1982. I, Marie Cheney, was at my senior prom. Paper streamers,  strobe lights, laughter and a loud, lousy band; kids dancing, spiked punch and a too-stuffy gym full of celebration.

I saw Monte Dollar that night for the first time. My date, Paul Watson, was joking with Karen my best friend, but I sat silently at our table, staring at the tall, thin boy who slouched in the doorway, looking oddly out of place.

And yet. And yet he also looked vulnerable, almost like a little boy lost. His faded jeans and black shirt were skin tight, molding his body, a perfect physique. Nothing was missed by me -- the longish raven hair, surly lips in a half sneer with a dangling cigarette. He stared back, hypnotizing me.

Paul saw my mesmerized eyes, and commented, "I wonder what Monte Dollar is doing here? He flunked out last year, and I heard he was fast becoming a cheap drunk."

"Yeah, he's a creep all right," Tommy affirmed, grabbing Karen's hand and pulling her out to the dance floor.

I had only been at Eleventon High School for my senior year, and had never set eyes on Monte Dollar. My folks were both career Army material, and I was lucky to be anywhere an entire year.

Monte Dollar flipped his cigarette down, casually crushed it under his heel, and then looked directly at me.

Paul asked, "Wanna dance?"

"Uh, not now. How about more punch?" My eyes were locked into Monte's.

Paul left and I got to my feet. It was crazy (a word that popped up often in relation to me and Monte) but I felt magnetically drawn to Monte Dollar.

He smoothed a black curl from his forehead as I approached, then moved from the doorway into the dark night outside.

I followed, almost trancelike.

He didn't speak, only slumped against the building.

I was nervous but managed to say,  "Hi. I'm Marie Cheney and I..."

"What? Thought I might want to dance?" He snickered derisively, but his voice was pure velvet.

"Uh..." I stammered, going silent.

He swung around, his height dwarfing my petite frame, and put a firm grip on my shoulders. "Hey little girl, don't you know I'm bad news?"

Now I could see his face in the gym lights. I felt weak, looking into those denim-blue eyes -- like I was melting butter. The dark curl was back on his forehead, and he swiped it away distractedly.

"Don't," I said impulsively, reaching to touch the boyish curl of hair.

He caught my hand and for just a brief second, held it to his face. Then he pivoted away from me and said, "Go back to the prom, little girl."

I watched him leave, stalking across the wide empty yard. But when I rejoined the group, I still felt his touch, saw his surly grin, and heard that velvet voice.

Later, Paul told me Monte Dollar was a lost cause; the son of drunks...brutal, abusive parents, both of whom had perished in a car wreck. A bad egg, Paul confirmed.

And I knew he was probably right -- but the lostness in Monte's denim-blue eyes haunted me in my dreams.


(2.)  Of course, I saw Monte again -- only it was several months later. I'd taken a secretarial position after high school, and gotten my own apartment. My folks were on the move again, and as an only child, I'd decided to put down roots in Eleventon, Georgia.

I was driving home one afternoon in late October, enjoying the brilliant colored fall leaves, when I saw a male hitchhiker. At first, I ignored him --but then as I came closer, my heart leaped crazily. It was Monte Dollar; no one could mistake his tall, lean build and cocky walk, his cool, nonchalant demeanor.

I pulled my VW off the road, and motioned to him. For one terrible moment, he hesitated; but then, he opened the car door and slid inside.  He grinned and said, "I just need a ride to the next gas station."

I nodded, holding my breath. He didn't remember me.

I drove off, disappointed but wondering why.

The ride was short, and I pulled into a small Texaco station. "Here you are," I mumbled.

"Thanks," he said, opening the door.

I felt my heart pound with expectation as he walked around to my side, leaned in the window and grinned. His eyes searched mine as though he saw something even I was unaware of. "I do remember you, little girl. Remember you, dreamed of you...hell, you been with me since that prom night."

I was stunned, unable to speak.

He continued, "And damn if you don't come along, fall right into my life again."

His voice was deep, smooth with a velvet quality that reminded me of Elvis Presley. I gulped and said, "Uh, I...I remember you too." My shyness was legendary, and now it held me captive.

He stood, stretched his arms overhead and squinted at the dusty Texaco building. "Better get to a phone and call a wrecker."

"Car trouble?" I asked.

"Yeah, you could say that. I lost it in a curve last night, didn't even know where I was when I woke up in the floorboard this afternoon."

I could see he was hung-over, a bristly beard shadowing his face, his eyes bleak and bloodshot. 

I blurted out, "I could probably drive you home."

He leaned against my car. "Are you sure you want a no-good like me hanging around?"

I looked at him then, and all I saw was the little boy lost. I thought he needed someone to care, a sheltering warmth, love, kindness. Suddenly my heart ached deeply, the pain swelling painfully inside me. I said softly, "Get in, I want you in my life."


(3.)  And so it began. 

I took Monte to my apartment and felt as though I'd died and gone to heaven.

Monte Dollar needed me.

He was innocently needy, never pushy. From the first, I was the one who insisted he stay in my spare bedroom after he confessed to being homeless. I cooked special meals, and he ate ravenously. I bought him decent clothes, and his rough-edged, haggard look mellowed out, made him appear healthy.

I nurtured, and he accepted.

Weeks passed, and I had lost all interest in Paul who was away at college anyway and only a letter-boyfriend.

At night, sometimes I'd tiptoe into his bedroom and secretly look at Monte. He'd be lying on his back, long arms thrown off the narrow bed, the curly lock of hair on his forehead. l'd stand there, almost afraid to breathe for fear I'd awaken and it would all be a dream.

Best of all, Monte had been stone-cold sober since the day he came to my apartment.

One day I bumped into Karen and Tommy; they were engaged, and planning to marry at Christmas. Karen insisted I have lunch with them, and since no excuse came to mind, I agreed.

They were deeply in love, happily planning a secure financial future with all the conservative conventions. We ate a quick pizza, and afterward, Tommy returned to work at his dad's insurance office.

Being Saturday, Karen and I shopped all afternoon. When we were ready to part, she instead suggested dropping by my apartment for a beer -- to unwind and share as friends.

I could hardly refuse, but tensed up at thoughts of her seeing Monte. Strangely though, he wasn't there -- but Karen was no dummy. She spied the razor and shaving cream in my bathroom, then Monte's dirty clothing in the hamper.

"What gives?" She bluntly questioned, staring daggers at me.

I felt a hot blush of discomfort and tried halfheartedly to lie, but finally blurted out all the details.

Karen was aghast; she asked shrilly, "Have you lost your mind? I knew Monte all through school, and he's a hopeless case, just like his parents!"

"You don't know that!" I screamed, wildly defensive. After all, I was protective of Monte!  "He hasn't had a drop of liquor since he's been here!"

"Are you two sleeping together?"

The words cut me deeply; tears stabbed my eyes and I blinked them away furiously. "No!

"Well, thank God! At least you aren't in love with him,"  Karen concluded.

She then proceeded to lecture me thoroughly about how impossible Monte was -- how totally, irrevocably he was locked into a downhill, destitute existence.

While I wanted to argue, I didn't. What was the use? She didn't understand Monte like I did; Karen didn't know what he needed, but I did.

When she finally left, I was exhausted and upset about our friendship. Karen would never accept what I was now slowly realizing: I was falling in love with Monte Dollar! 

Monte didn't come back for a week, and I thought I'd go out of my mind with worry. I couldn't eat, slept only a few hours before dawn, and my job was taking a backseat to it all. Fortunately, the boss was compassionate and told me to go home Thursday night, and take a long weekend.

Monte staggered in before daylight Friday, looking like a tramp. His clothing was soiled and sour, like his breath, and those denim-blue eyes were bloodshot and bleary.

Without a word, he looked at me sadly, solemnly and then big tears leaked from his eyes. I was furious, but those eyes! Oh God, I ran to him and for the first time, I hugged him, kissing his face, softly wiping away his tears.

Monte finally put his arms around me, and his velvet voice choked in his throat as he said, "I saw you and Karen that day, coming up the sidewalk. I knew she hated me, and I couldn't let her see me here. It would have hurt you!"

My heart bled for him and I pulled him down onto the old, faded sofa. We sat there, and I said, "Don't you realize you are more, much more important to me than Karen ever will be?"

He remained silent, eyes downcast.

"Oh, Monte..." my voice broke and I felt helpless to express the depth of my love in that moment.

He kept staring, disbelief written in his furrowed brow.  The curl was wiped away from his forehead, and I caught his hand; he pressed a soft gentle kiss on my fingers.

We looked into each other's eyes; love speaks its own language.

He went to shower, and then slept all day. That night Monte took me to a nice, but inexpensive restaurant. He had money, not much, but enough for the modest meal of "hamburger steak."

With candlelight and wine, the food was of no concern. We saw only one another. Later we strolled leisurely down the street, walking back to my apartment. And I knew, I just knew this was the beginning.

Monte, his velvet voice crooning, told me of his hard life, his brutal, abusive parents, and what he thought of as his doomed future -- until he met me.

"Honey, oh honey Marie...with your beauty, those tender brown eyes, that long, long chestnut hair...you made me love you," he whispered into my ear.

I was aching with love I never knew existed, my heart, my soul; I was swept away on a current of joyous glory.

Monte asked hesitantly, "Marie, could you ever love me?"

I had never been aggressive, but I said firmly, "Yes, and I want to now."

He stood and gently lifted me in his arms, carrying me to the bed. And oh, he was so tender, so ardent but hesitant, so eager but afraid -- and his patience in pleasing me, as a virgin, was a sweet, endearing but searing sensual experience.

We showered together, and made love over and over all night, as though we'd never, ever get enough of this paradise.

Dawn lit the bedroom, a pale, pale pink promise washing over us. Monte asked, "Will you marry me?"

"Yes," I sighed, convinced I was the luckiest, happiest girl alive.


II 
(1.)  We had a simple wedding, just a trip to a justice of the peace. My folks had been unable to attend, but sent a big fat check as a wedding present. Monte had friends in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and suggested we drive there for a honeymoon weekend.

It was beautiful, the fall leaves cloaking mountains of Chattanooga in dazzling, dizzying contrasted colors. We saw Lookout Mountain, rode the incline train and stayed in a quaint old house that rented rooms to tourist. I kept thinking I'd fallen into a romance novel -- my favorite reading material.

Sunday, Monte located his two buddies, and we dropped by their apartment. Both guys were struggling musicians, and struck me as shiftless. They offered us some pot, but I refused. Monte's eyes revealed a gleam of anticipation, but he quickly hid it.

Later, after we made love in the afternoon, Monte seemed restless. He paced around, helping me pack our suitcase.

We loaded the VW, and started through Chattanooga after dark. Monte drove slowly, being uncommonly quiet. Unexpectedly, he pulled into a small, deserted park and stopped.

"What's wrong?" I questioned.

He looked at me, his face drawn, tense and sad. "I almost dread going back to Eleventon...all I got there are bad memories."

I understood; no one in Eleventon would ever give him a chance. The town judged  him by his parents. Suddenly I exclaimed, "Why go back there anyway?"

He sighed deeply, shrugged. "Your job, the apartment..."

"Sure, but I could find another job and it wouldn't take long to pack my stuff into a U-Haul."

Monte groaned, his arms reaching for me. "You'd do that for me? Move away..."

"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you Monte. Besides, I've lived all over the world, so it's no big deal." 

I felt his grateful embrace, and denied the tiny pain in my heart. Moving would be difficult; I wanted roots. But we could start over fresh somewhere, and grow our own roots, together.

(2.)  And that's what we did -- choosing as our new home, Chattanooga, since we'd been so happy there. It wasn't difficult to adjust -- we found a cozy apartment in an older house, the landlady beaming at newlyweds. My job search was fruitful, landing me in a lawyer's office as clerk to the legal secretary, Juanita Wisener. Monte got a part-time spot as a gas station attendant, something he vowed to improve on.

We settled into a quiet routine, happy and content -- or so I thought. About six months later, Monte didn't come home from work one night. He did sometimes 'rap' with his two musician friends (Bobby and Joe); they had a trio in which Monte contributed as a country music singer. However, Monte had never performed in public -- just improvised for his friends.

I'd heard Monte sing, and realized he had talent; his velvet voice was a cross between Elvis Presley and Mac Davis, maybe even tinged with a little Waylon Jennings. That crooning touch was unique, and I'd dared encourage him; but he'd professed stage fright, and seemed too insecure for performing.

Anyway, I phoned Bobby, and got no answer. By midnight I was in a frenzy, walking the floor in panic. A car screeched to a halt outside, and then boisterous male voices erupted. Pounding on the door, and then Joe's twangy voice, "Open up Marie!"

I saw Mrs. Hyatt's kitchen light come on; our landlady was caring, but also nosy. I hurriedly jerked open the door and saw Monte draped between Bobby and Joe.

They struggled inside, depositing a drunk, incoherent Monte on the sofa. I was too relieved for anger, and rushed to Monte, smoothing away his dark, disheveled hair from a blotched, whiskey-flushed face.

"What on earth is going on?" I demanded from Bobby and Joe.

They shuffled their feet around, looking everywhere but at me.

"Uh, Marie...it ain't our fault. Monte, he's got a big problem..."

"Don't start that business about Monte's drinking! He's been sober almost a year, so what is this?" 

Joe grunted and shifted his bloodshot eyes over me. "Monte done it. He got up there at the joint, and laid out a song."

"Yeah, them gals was creaming their pants when he sung that old Waylon Jennings song, 'Rambling Man.'"

I stared at them hard, then said, "Help me get Monte to bed, and then tell me how he got like this."

We managed to settle Monte, and the boys told me the whole story. After a couple of sets, the club had offered the trio a permanent spot on weekends. They'd all celebrated with a drink, only Monte didn't stop with just one --he never did.

After they left, I sat alone pondering the situation. I knew Monte was a talented singer, but couldn't ignore his alcoholism. To be in bars, clubs and booze-filled places while performing was a dangerous risk...but maybe AA could be the answer?


(3.) "Oh Monte, please," I implored, gazing into his anger-burned blue eyes.

"No way Marie! I'm not a drunk, and damn sure ain't joining a bunch of bums to...to..." He jumped to his feet, balling his hands into clenched fists. "You're just jealous cause I got a gig!"

I couldn't believe this irate, insulting stranger was my Monte! What happened to the vulnerable boy I married?

He was suffused with righteous indignation, and started pacing restlessly. "I need to get out of this, this little box!"

"Box? I thought you wanted a home, and now it's just a...a..."  Tears threatened, and I swallowed to keep my voice from breaking. "Monte, please, AA has helped others...it's no shame to seek help."

In a flash, he lashed out and slapped my face; I reeled from the blow, falling back onto the sofa.

He growled, "Leave it be, I'm not a drunk!"

With that, he wheeled around and stalked out the door.

I didn't see him again for a week, during which time I veered between disbelief, grief, hate, love and finally, denial. Monte had hit me, but it was only because I provoked him. Maybe I deserved it?

Oh Monte came back -- yes indeed. He was dressed well, clean jeans and checked shirt, cowboy boots and hat. When I opened the door that Sunday morning, my heart melted all over again. There he stood, the unruly black curl on his forehead, a twinkle in his denim-blue eyes and a contrite smile curving his surly lips. He lowered his head, saying, "Marie I'm sorry for what I did. I, I...miss you honey." 

Suddenly he produced a beautiful, fragrant bunch of red roses, holding them out to me as a peace offering. A boyish grin lit his face, and I opened my arms to him.

We spent that Sunday making love, over and over, all forgiven and forgotten. Monte could melt me with his love, his passion -- his neediness too. I was sinking into a kind of quicksand; Monte Dollar was a grasping, engulfing, mesmerizing wave I was riding down into my own surrender of self.

(4.)  A year passed, and Monte's weekend gigs turned into week long stints at rundown, lowdown dives. The trio was dubbed, "The Dollar Blues" -- Bobby and Joe taking backup roles as instrumentalists, reluctantly allowing Monte top billing as the singer. Monte had the charisma, the oozing charm that brought women in by the droves.

I sat at home alone most of the time; Juanita came over to keep me company sometimes. She was in her 30s, single and lonely, so we built an easy friendship.

My folks visited during our second Christmas; Monte was a big hit with them, but of course, he was sober, and exuded that boyish charm, winning both when he sang daddy's favorite country song, Merle Haggard's "Okie From Muskogee."

I occasionally watched Monte perform but it always made me anxious. Without fail, he topped off each set with a rolled joint and vodka. Most nights, he slipped in so late I never saw him smashed, but the times I did were horrible. He'd hit me several times when I'd mentioned AA, and once he even knocked me down. That brought a rash of nerves and fear -- but I eventually rationalized it away.

Oh sure, I knew it was wrong but Monte still had a deep, deep need for me. Sometimes he'd be sad, so blue...and he'd lie in my arms, crying, sobbing about his past, the misery he'd suffered from abusive parents. Once he confessed his dad had held him in a clinch, a knife to his throat.

I mean, no wonder Monte was mixed up, sometimes losing control. But I knew I could help him, even without therapy or AA. He just needed my love, like he so often told me.

That spring, Monte had an offer in Nashville. It was another low-class honky tonk, but being in "Music City"  made it tempting. The night he told me, I got sick...sick at heart. Was this going to end up as a traveling stint? I wanted roots, one place for all time! That had always been my dream, to settle down in one place. But the excitement in Monte's blue eyes, dancing with hope, made me weak. I fell under Monte's spell, weaving his web of hypnotic sexual rapture.

He left, stayed gone two weeks, and returned for me. I quit my job, telling Juanita the news. She seemed sad -- and later I found out why.

I had been busy running errands, getting all the loose ends of our move tied up, and dropped by Juanita's apartment to say a final farewell. After ringing her doorbell several times, I turned to leave. Suddenly I heard music...and it was Monte's velvet voice accompanying it! 
I slipped around to a window, and peeked inside.

Monte was crooning to Juanita, both of them stark naked in bed!

Something snapped in me; I ran to the front door and when I discovered it was locked, I went to the back door. I got in and walked quietly down the hall, and then boldly flung open the bedroom door, making a dramatic entrance.

Monte was drunk, and Juanita was nibbling on his ear; she looked up at me, frozen in shock.

Then to my utter horror, I burst into a torrent of tears. Shaking madly, I crumpled to the floor, mumbling, "How...how long has this been going on?"

Juanita recovered enough to throw a sheet over Monte, and wrap one around herself. "Oh God Marie, what are you doing here!"

Monte moved awkwardly, drunkenly to gaze at me sadly. "My Marie," he managed to say. And then he fell back, out of it altogether.

I jumped up and ran, ran, ran, hysterically wondering what was happening to my life? I was numb for the several days Monte stayed away. By the time he returned, I was heavily into denial (my ever-constant companion of late).

Oddly, Monte and I never mentioned the incident; we couldn't discuss his affairs, even though I had long been aware of his many admiring female fans. I told myself that it was Juanita's fault, that she'd betrayed me. Monte had been dead drunk, and I used that as an excuse for his behavior.

(5.) We moved to Nashville, Bobby and Joe our only known friends. At first, we rented a room in a boarding house. The band was earning only a meager sum, so I looked for work. But I didn't find anything. Worse, the gig was going sour within a few weeks. Bobby and Joe apparently tired of Monte's popularity at their expense, and walked out on him.

Alone, Monte was lost, as always. He sang a few nights with other backup bands, but quickly faded. Within two months, we were penniless in Nashville, having sold our furniture for cash flow.

I wanted desperately to return to Chattanooga -- and yet the sordid memory of my trusted friend's betrayal was a bitter barrier. I just seemed lost myself, and this somehow angered Monte.

One morning we awoke and didn't even have money to eat breakfast. Monte was in a raunchy mood, and snapped at me a few times, then left the cheap room we'd taken in a fleabag hotel.

I sat in that stark room all day, finally realizing we would soon be on the street, homeless. I was a wreck, thin and nervous, a pale shadow of my former self.

Monte came in that night roaring drunk -- but he also was enraged. I'd never seen this side of him; he was furious, and cursing.

I tried to soothe him, but my actions only served to provoke him. He flung his lanky frame on the shabby bed, cursing, "Godamn this shit!"

I lay down near him, and suddenly he leaped atop me. Almost in a frenzy, he jerked my blouse hard, then ripped it off me. His wild eyes chained me, and he tore off my pants.

Rape was a word that ricocheted through my mind as he savagely, brutally forced me into sex; and when I resisted, he slapped me repeatedly.

Afterward, Monte fell off me and I was whimpering; he then towered over me, still enflamed. I wanted to hide, but he frantically seized me, throwing me bodily against a wall.

The last thing I heard was his rage-choked voice: "I'm going to kill you, bitch!" 
                                
                                  *  *  *  *

 "Marie, Marie..." the male voice prodded, "are you..."

"She's unconscious," a crisp, precise female voice declared.

I drifted in dark doom, somewhere beyond hope, going under, under...unable to fight. 

                                 *  *  *  *

Sharp pinpricks of stars lit my deep dark, and gradually I pried open my eyes.

The dazzling sunlight forced me to blink, over and over, and then I slowly focused on the room: white, and antiseptic-clean. Hospital.

"Oh honey Marie," a sob, a choked muffled cry and then Monte came into view.

I'd seen Monte at his best and his worst, but here stood a man clearly wasted. He was unshaven, bleary-eyed and groaning, moaning in a guttural, agonized voice.

I slowly moved my lips but words didn't come out, only another moan like Monte's.

A nurse appeared, bending over, touching my forehead. "Mrs. Dollar, you've had a bad fall and were unconscious. Can you hear me?"

I nodded, my mind wrapped in fuzziness: A bad fall?

By the time I was dismissed from the hospital, I'd finally accepted my dire situation. I was an abused wife! Somehow, I had to get away from Monte. But HOW?

It wasn't as if I didn't love him -- I DID! With all my heart. Before I could ever escape my situation surely I'd have to stop loving Monte Dollar? Oh, I pleaded with him about AA, and he promised to attend meetings. In fact, he'd even gotten a job as a mechanic, and found another decent two-room apartment.

I had hope, and besides Monte had sworn it would never happen again, that he'd lost control because of our financial problems and his inability to find work. I believed every word he uttered...because I wanted to believe him. 

The first night I was out of the hospital, Monte clung  to me desperately, begging, "Oh my honey Marie, I need you so bad. You're my world, the only one who ever believed in me..."

Later, he made sweet, sweet love to me, and then sang, 'Are You Lonesome Tonight,' ending it with tears.

How could I deny Monte another chance?


III 
(1.)  The following summer in Nashville was a roller-coaster ride; Monte peaked and bottomed-out so often I lost track. My emotions simmered like the hot city streets -- bottled up steam, unable to escape.

I managed to get hired as a check-out clerk in a downtown grocery; my meager salary kept the wolf from the door, but little else. Monte would bring in money when sober and working, then beg on streets for a drink when he was hooked on booze again. All the while, I grew more restless, reckless and rattled.

The nasty scenes were countless and continuous: a drunken, mean Monte slapping me around. Then a sober, controlled, contrite Monte -- a vulnerable "little boy lost" pleading on bended knee.

I admit candidly I was a fool. Everyone who came in contact with us sooner or later took me aside and pointed out my idiocy. And deep down, I agreed with their wise counsel. But then I'd look into those denim-blue eyes, wipe away the errant lock of hair on Monte's forehead, and drown in his promises. He'd melt me like a flame held to a candle, and my reasoning was nothing more than a puddle of wax at his feet.

One night in late August, Monte got a spot at a little dive downtown. He insisted I come down and watch; a new group in town had invited him as their singer.

Reluctantly, I dressed in my only good yellow linen dress, and caught a taxi. Actually, I was surprised by the place -- it was rather charming, a real hard-core country music smoky cavern, but clean and well-managed. A neon sign proclaimed, DAD'S TAVERN.

When I sat down near the small stage up front, Monte came from the back and brought me a tall, frothy beer. He was completely straight, but hyper. Monte always got stage fright.

I sat there and listened to Monte's velvet-Elvis voice croon for over an hour. The band was perhaps the best backup ever; they had a unique sound which enhanced Monte's talent.

He ended the set with an old Mickey Gilley song, 'Stand By Me,'   and he sang it directly to me, as though we were all alone. His charismatic persona was overwhelming; I wasn't the only woman who longed to be in his arms. But I was the only one who got to be later that night.

You see, when Monte was high-rolling he was like a spring dream and any woman would surrender willingly. And that special magnetic magic was worth all the down times, cause I always knew they would return.

Or so I thought so.

(2.) It was a tough winter; Monte lost his sparkle and hit the skids real bad. Once he didn't come home for a whole month, and I finally found him at the city's homeless shelter.

God, what a mess he was! Foul breath and foul looks -- hair past his chin, all down on his forehead, a scraggly beard and soiled, unwashed clothes.

I took him home naturally, and got him off the booze and on his feet...fortunately in time for Christmas. My folks visited, and somehow Monte and I convinced them everything was fine with us. My dad did keep teasing me about having a baby, and mom's eyes shone with expectation. But I knew only a moron would get pregnant in such a marriage. I merely grinned mysteriously at their hints.

Somehow, that topic must have sent Monte into another black spin. The afternoon my folks left, he went out and brought back liquor, lots of it. He proceeded to drink, drink and drink, almost falling into a stupor. I kept quiet, not daring to provoke him.

Around ten, he fell asleep; I went to bed. Then he woke me during the early morning hours, and he was crying, his voice sad and hurt.

"Honey Marie, I'm still no good for you. Can't give you kids..." He lay beside me, his sobs deep and tortured.

I tried to reassure him, but he said, "Don't you get it Marie? All those people in Eleventon were right about me. I'm just like my rotten folks!"

"No, you're not!" I began, but he rolled over and silenced me with a kiss.

"Yes I am, but you are the only love, the only joy in my life. I wouldn't want to live without you Marie."

Then he wove that sensual spell around me, and we spent the next day enraptured by sex and our powerful erotic attraction to each other.

(3.) By the next fall that night seemed like a faraway dream. We were both unemployed and living in a city shelter.

Monte had been drunk so long I'd forgotten him sober; I'd lost my job, and couldn't find work. We were at rock bottom.

Or so I thought.

But the blackest time came in winter. I tried to leave Monte, and after an especially brutal beating in front of the other shelter people,  was admitted to a home for abused wives. I didn't want to leave Monte, but the lady at 'Safe Haven,' Mrs. Ramsey, convinced me I had to -- for both our sakes.

I missed Monte, especially his neediness, his dependence...but with daily counseling, I was gaining some perspective. I felt a bit of my self-esteem returning. Maybe my life could be restored alone, I thought.

Then Monte found me. Brandishing a switch-blade knife, he burst into the home, and threatened to cut a woman's throat if I didn't go with him.

So it was sealed -- our fate. I went with him, and he told me, "Marie, say anything, but don't say good-bye."


IV 
(1.) There was no denying our relationship had changed now; I felt more captive, confined. Oh, Monte made a big show of apology, feigning regret about his violent threat at the shelter. But I sensed we were walking a tightrope, and the slightest imbalance would result in catastrophe.

Monte got a singing gig from midnight till dawn -- a rough honky tonk outside Nashville. However, it paid steady, so we rented a room at an old motel that had been turned into apartments. The main highway lost its traffic when an interstate bypassed the area, so this motel was forced out of business.

Spring blossomed, but the beauty of nature did little to enhance the sordid motel room. I was cooped up during the days while Monte slept; but sometimes I'd take a walk outdoors.

It was on one of these walks through the nearby woods that I met Max Brenton. He was around thirty, an avid nature lover and hiker: our paths crossed by accident. Somehow, we got to talking and spent the entire afternoon together. Mostly our conversation was general, about spring beauty, nature -- nothing personal. I found myself relaxing for the first time in months.

Max was personable and outgoing; he was, I suppose, handsome in a wholesome,  blonde all-American way. He told me he'd been divorced a couple of years -- his wife was a career gal, ambitious to advance in the PR field. She'd left him for a promotion in California. I thought he looked sad, but also not the brooding, melancholy type. He cheered me up, and yet I never confided my own marital problems.

Over the next few weeks, the afternoon walks became meetings, and turned into a nice escape for me. I liked Max, I really did -- but there was no spark of physical attraction on my part, although he did flirt with me, which helped my self-esteem.

One day we were sharing a friendly chat, Max sitting on a fallen tree limb, and me on my favorite big rock near the creek, when a crashing sound interrupted us. Max halted in mid-sentence and looked around. Suddenly Monte came tearing through the woods like a wild bear on the loose, cursing loudly. He made straight for me, jerking me to my feet and slapping my face with a resounding whack! Max leaped to my defense, pulling Monte off me and grabbing him in a dead-lock.

"You asshole! This is my wife" Monte growled, twisting and kicking.

Max let go of him, stunned. He paled slightly and asked, "Marie, are you married?"

"Yes," I mumbled, shamed.

Max stood his ground though, saying, "Well you have no right to hit Marie, even as her husband."

Monte was seething, his face flushed and furious. He exclaimed hotly, "Let's go Marie!"

I dreaded what was ahead, but I certainly had brought it on myself.

Max pleaded for me not to go, but I put him off by saying. "Good-bye Max. It's been nice knowing you, but we won't be seeing each other again."

Sure enough, Monte beat me within an inch of my life. He had turned into a violent, dangerous man -- someone I feared. For good measure, he tied me to a chair, and gave me a stiff, uncompromising lecture.

"Marie, you make me crazy sometimes! Hell, I don't like having to do this, but it's your fault. You are my wife dammit, and I ain't putting up with no shit!"

I couldn't speak. My mouth was too swollen from the blows; my eyes were tiny slits in black circles.

"You married me honey Marie, and it's a lifetime deal! You ain't saying good-bye to me!"

He left me tied in the chair, and I spent a tortured night while he was gone singing. What would become of us? Although I'd never really wanted to leave Monte, I was now aware I couldn't. His implied threat of killing me held sway through those miserable hours.

By daylight, I had cultivated a sense of urgency. Somehow, some way I had to get away from Monte before one, or both of us, wound up dead.

(2.) The prime consideration was how?  How could I leave Monte, and rid myself of his hold on me?

I'm sure I wasn't the first woman stuck in this mess; domestic violence had come out of the closet, and former abused wives, husbands, children, sat on TV talk shows discussing their harrowing ordeals as if immune to the insidious violence again.

But I was different -- I had practically asked for such a predicament by luring and marrying Monte! Hadn't I been warned by Karen, Tommy and many others in Georgia? My stupidity was only surpassed by my gullibility, I was trapped!

And then one day the answer came like a flashfire in my mind: I would have to kill Monte before he could kill me. It was the only way, the only out.

So, I set about working on a plan. Immediately I realized lots of abused wives got off scot-free after killing their husbands in self-defense, and hadn't lots of people been witness to my abuse at the hands of Monte?

I thought about it so much Monte finally started questioning me about my silences -- as if he thought I might be going off the beam. But I pacified him before he got wound up enough to beat me again.

Monte wasn't unappealing; quite the contrary, when sober he was the same 'little boy lost' I'd fallen for. He'd even surprise me occasionally with sweet, tender gestures -- like buying me roses or singing a romantic song to me and then making love so passionately that I lost all murderous ideas.

Of course, then would come his falling, failing mood, resulting in another beating, and I'd be all fired up again. Finally, Monte did something that pushed me over the brink and into action.

It was my mom's visit that done it. She came to our hovel that summer and was appalled. She saw clearly what had recently transpired; I was all black and blue, and she went white with fury. Vowing to take me away, mom marched down to the dive where Monte was singing and gave him a piece of her mind. Monte, all tanked up from the booze and flirtatious women, just ignored her completely. But later when he got home, all hell broke loose.

Mom was asleep on the sofa, and Monte crept in, two floozy women crawling all over him. He locked me in our bedroom, tying me to the bedposts. Then he proceeded to parade those women in front of mom, and even forced her to watch them have sex. Mom left the next morning, threatening to return with my dad. I knew I had to prevent their involvement, so I put my long-labored plan into action.

(3.) My only financial assets were a wedding ring, and a gold locket my parents gave me for Christmas. All my other jewelry had been hocked, and so I took these two items to a pawn shop in Nashville -- a long, hot bus trip both ways. The sleazy owner looked suspicious when I wanted to work out a trade: my two pieces of jewelry for a .22 caliber handgun.

I finally convinced the old guy I was afraid of burglars, since my husband had divorced me. He bought that bill of goods, but then as easy as it is to get a firearm, I probably should have just walked into a gun store. I did want the gun without waiting, so the pawn shop was my best bet.

I held the gun that night, getting the feel for it. I loaded it and would have target practiced, except for fear of arousing attention. All night I stayed awake, getting up my courage. By daylight, I was ready. Only Monte didn't come home, and I was thwarted again.

That afternoon, I phoned my mom out in California and told her I'd be flying out to join them soon. At least that stalled my folks' involvement.

Midnight then. I dressed in faded, tight jeans and flimsy t-shirt...a sure way to provoke Monte. 

Around 2:00 AM I sauntered into the smoky, noisy beer joint. Monte was crooning an old Ricky Nelson favorite, 'Garden Party.' He saw me instantly, locking eyes. I walked seductively through the hazy room, finally settling at an empty table near the front. Monte ended the song, lit a cigarette and nonchantly pushed the black curl from his forehead. He winked, at me, and began, 'Are You Lonesome Tonight,' his velvet voice enveloping me.

For one split second, I melted inside: How could I kill Monte? I was still in love with him! And yet, as I sat there I became aware of several young girls giving Monte blatant come-ons. It nauseated me, and I ordered a drink -- for courage.

As the waitress set my beer down, a guy slid into the empty chair. "Hi ya sweety. You alone?"

I saw Monte stiffen, almost losing the beat; this was going to be easier than I thought. The young guy began chatting, and I played up to him. 

Monte clenched his jaw: a muscle tensed in his throat.

I laughed, joked and teased the young man, but when he requested I join him later, I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Sorry, but I'm married."

He nodded, and left quietly. I'm sure it looked to Monte as if we were arranging a rendezvous.

You see, Monte was constantly accusing me of infidelity -- whether out of his own low self-esteem or out of guilt at his own affairs, I didn't know.

Anyway, when Monte sang the last note of his set, he hurried to join me. "Marie," he exploded, "what in the hell are you doing?"

"Oh, just payback time I guess," I replied tartly.

His denim-blue eyes widened in shock; I'd never dared to deliberately provoke him before.

"How does it feel?" I asked.

Monte narrowed his eyes, and said between clenched teeth, "You're asking for it!"

I stood and he jerked me back down: I stood again, and it brought him to his feet, snarling, "Now you're gonna get it, bitch!"

The booze and my provocative behavior had worked -- he came at me like an unleashed tiger, and everyone in that bar saw it.

I fumbled in my purse. Pulling out the gun, I yelled, "Stop or I'll shoot!"

People ducked and some screamed.

Monte had a momentary flash of disbelief on his face, but kept right on coming at me, probably convinced I'd never shoot him.

But I did, over and over and over....


V

Yes, Monte died. I'll never forget his stricken, sickened blue eyes -- full of disbelief and finally, betrayal.

Yes, I had the perfect alibi -- a bar of full of people who saw Monte lunge for me, and my self-defense with the gun.

Yes, the cops were understanding.

Yes, the DA wanted to go light on me, probation only.

But, you see, I couldn't carry out my final part of the plan: to go free.

I'd plotted and planned, and so I confessed to premeditated murder.

Why?

Because I brought it on myself -- and I took an easy out. I killed Monte in cold blood,  and I deserve this life sentence in prison.

Sometimes it's lonely in here, but I cope.

After all, the only man I'll ever love is dead. There's no reason for me to be free.

And I, Marie Cheney-Dollar, asked for all this...

Didn't I?

                                The End
       ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++



             Room Number 13


I lit up a Virginia Slim cigarette and feigned nonchalance, glancing up in my rearview mirror. The beatup Impala was still two cars behind me on the interstate, swinging over to pass rapidly. As it zoomed by, I felt a flash of irritation.

I had been noticing for the past fifty miles that the Impala had alternated back and forth, passing sometimes, then slowing and lingering behind my Mustang as though playing a game of cat-and-mouse. Frankly, it was disturbing!

I was not a seasoned traveler, and this trip from Atlanta -- my one and only childhood home -- to Jacksonville, Florida, was not an everyday occurrence. I had recently been transferred to a fast food chain restaurant as manager down in Jacksonville. Much to my parents' dismay, I'd jumped at the chance to move further south; being a lifelong resident of good old Atlanta was not advancing my career ambitions.

Unfortunately, I'd been stuck as an assistant manager for months and wasn't about to give up my chance at advancement. Someday, God willing, I wanted to be the owner of a nationwide chain; but that was much too premature now -- I couldn't expect to leap from junior college management graduate to nationwide entrepreneur overnight! And, at twenty-two, I had lots of time to grow.

I saw the Impala slowing up ahead and began to tense. Sure enough, it eased along at a snail's pace, forcing several cars ahead of me to pass. Soon, I was passing it too. I had already noticed the good-looking hunk driving, but he didn't attract me. No, I was determined to be a career girl first, and wife last -- if ever! Anyway, I sped past and didn't even glance in his direction.

The afternoon wore on interminably; it was a long boring drive down Interstate 75 across the countryside of south Georgia. I had the CD player blasting out some Madonna, the air conditioner keeping me cool and my brain was busy contemplating the new position when I realized the Impala had pulled a disappearing act. It was nowhere in sight, and I was immensely relieved.

Later, I saw a sign that proclaimed the next reststop a few miles away. I was tiring but wanted to make Valdosta by dark. Traffic was light, as it was middle of the week and late August. Holidays were the real killers on interstates.

My stomach was beginning to growl and outdo Madonna; I was afraid I'd never make my goal without a quick snack. Leaving home shortly before noon, without lunch, hadn't been such a bright idea.

By five o'clock I was regretting I didn't make the last reststop my destination for a brief snack. Instead, I saw a sign announcing the exit for a town called Swansong. The name alone was intriguing, and I was partial to small southern towns; I found them quaint and nostalgic.

I whipped my Mustang onto the ramp and gazed at the rustic landscape; I was certainly off-course by heading east on a winding country road, but the two-lane blacktop was picturesque with fenced cattle pastures, peanut, soybean and corn fields, an occasional white match-box house. I drove slowly, savoring the farmland and peaceful interlude. Entering Swansong I smiled with pleasure -- although I did find it oddly deserted.

I slowed and drove along the main drag, which consisted of typical places -- drugs stores, post office, department stores and a monstrous paper mill. The rancid scent seeped in through my air conditioner, and I was sorry this place contaminated the clean countryside.

The empty streets amazed me. Braking, I sat still, looking at the little town which seemed dead. But then I realized it was after five and many had closed shop for the day. Southerners were not known for the busy-bee lives; sleepy hamlets like this existed everywhere in the South.

My stomach growled angrily, and I glanced around, looking for a place to grab a snack. The only sign of activity was near a cafe in the middle of Main Street. I drove down the wide boulevard and parked in front. It was rather homey, with a canopy over the sidewalk, yellow-checked curtains in the windows, and a list of homecooked specialties. I decided to eat an early dinner and then just keep driving until I made Jacksonville, even it was midnight when I arrived.

Outside, I smoothed my wrinkled chambray pants and blouse. I figured my mussed short brown hair and faded cosmetics would have to suffice, and went into the dim, cozy cafe.

Inside, delicious scents wafted from the back; soon a robust lady came out and invited me to be seated at a table. I was the only customer! It was a fine meal, much like my own mom's homecooking. While eating, I felt a sharp stab of homesickness, but quickly cast it aside. I had to reach out and find success sooner or later!

Back in my Mustang, I felt a growing anxiety to be on my way. I couldn't believe it when my car wouldn't start! I pumped the gas pedal, listening carefully. But not even a murmur came from the motor; it seemed to have died while I was in the diner!

I looked around again and was struck by the forlorn emptiness. An old ratty jalopy crept up the street, a plum of black smoke trailing behind it. I was tempted to flag it down but knew that was an impulsive thing to do. Apparently the town wasn't even large enough to warrant a police station!

I saw the robust lady peering out her cafe window and then she walked to the door. Her eyebrows lifted archly and she called, "Having trouble honey?"

I stuck my head out the window. "Yeah, car won't start! Could I use your phone, maybe call a service station?"

She motioned with her flabby arm. "Come on back inside, we'll work out something."

I hurried back to the cafe and gushed, "I'm really in a jam! I wanted to get to Jacksonville by midnight."

"No need to get excited. Sam is just down the street, around the corner. His service station will be open till eight."

"That's great!"

She made a call and in no time a disgruntled guy showed up to check out my car. He peered under the hood and shook his head. "Fraid it'll be morning fore I can git 'er fixed." He was now fiddling with some loose wires and making grunts of discouragement.

I surveyed his slouchy, grimy coveralls and assumed he was on the level. Or even if dishonest, he seemed to be the only mechanic in town.

Finally he straightened and looked me dead in the eyes. "Miss, you'll have to wait overnight. Sorry, but it's the only way."

"Oh no! What's wrong?"

"Ain't sure, kinda strange, these loose wires and all..."

"I'm in a hurry! I can't stay here!"

"Say, don't get all bent out of shape. Place down the street just off the corner Vine Avenue. Old historic mansion turned into a hotel. You can stay there tonight, I'll do some checking into this...." He shook his head, holding snarled wiring in his hands, a puzzled frown on his face.

Then I saw him glance toward the robust lady, and they exchanged a furtive look, a tight grimace on both their faces. And there was a strange look in their eyes, almost a pained, sightless stare at something which seemed mutually acknowledged between them.

I groaned with aggravation but reluctantly said, "Well, if you're sure you can't fix it, I guess I'll go to the hotel."

"Yeah, Miss. Gotta see if'n these wires...they's cut up bad. Ain't no quick way, need to sort it out." He spat a stream of tobacco juice, and I turned away, heading for my car trunk. I pulled out a small suitcase and told them I appreciated the help. Sam assured me he'd contact me first thing next morning.

I trudged up the sidewalk, heading for Vine Avenue. It was cooling down, and I walked slowly, studying outdated buildings. At the end of Main Street, I crossed to Vine Avenue. It was steady uphill walking, but finally I saw the hotel perched on a high knoll. Truly, it gave me the creeps! A vast, sprawling three-story mansion, it seemed to loom darkly on the horizon. Mighty oaks swept low in front of it, obscuring the main thrust of the massive structure.

I approached it warily but had to keep up a fast pace because twilight was deepening into dusky dark. I crossed the yard, fragrant flowering of magnolia trees staggering me with heady aroma.

Stopping at the wrought iron gate, I read a neatly lettered carved wood sign: HARBINGER HOUSE.

I walked to the wide porch and looked at awesome doric columns, sweeping verandas and other features of the grand antebellum architecture blended with elaborate Victorian touches. Only a dim glow shone in an arched doorway entrance.

I rang a bell beside the thick oaken door and heard footsteps approaching. An elderly lady with a friendly face greeted me with a welcoming smile. She ushered me inside the lavishly furnished interior, but I was already feeling ill-prepared for my overnight stay in this creepy place!

In the shadowy parlor, I glimpsed an elderly man, quite dignified in his wine-colored smoking jacket. He had gray hair and mustache, his lips clamped over a pipe, and rose from a golden velvet divan and came forward, smiling graciously. "Good evening my dear. Have you come for a room?"

I stammered, "Er, um, I guess so. My car broke down in town and I..."

The lady stepped forward, extending her hand. "Welcome to Harbinger House. I'm Peggy Winthrop and this is my husband, Eugene. We just moved here recently and are renovating this place, so don't mind the clutter."

She beamed an infectious smile, and I returned her warmth, shaking her hand politely.

"Thanks, I'm sure I won't mind the uh..." I cast my eyes down, unable to utter another syllable. I was seized with an uncanny sensation, a prickly finger of fear running up my spine. The awesome interior was overwhelming, but I saw no evidence of renovation.

"Because of our work, we only have one room available. Actually, it hasn't even been touched, just cleaned and ready for a guest. The original furniture is still in place," Eugene Winthrop told me.

Peggy Winthrop sighed and said, "We're trying desperately to get the second floor in shape for guests. I'm afraid most of this here downstairs is basically as we found it."

She made a wide gesture with her arms, indicating the downstairs, which consisted of several open rooms with high ceilings, ponderous antique furniture and dark, thick velvet drapery over the many long, narrow windows. It was oppressive, an atmosphere of decay and darkness, and I lowered my eyes to the faded, threadbare oriental rug, unable to reply.

She concluded, "Oh well, don't mind me. Now, what is your name? You certainly are a cute little thing!"

Oh no, I thought, here we go again! How many, many times had I heard that word -- cute? It was a curse, mainly because my petite, pert looks made me appear helpless and too fragile. Nevertheless, I forced a bright smile. "My name's Delena Carden, I'm from Atlanta. I was on my way to Jacksonville, where I'm to be the new manager of..."

"Manager!" Eugene erupted, chuckling. "My, my you don't look old enough to be a manager!"

I smiled politely again, feeling my false cheer about to evaporate. "Yes, well, I am. And, this trouble with my car will cause a delay!"

"Did Sam look at your car?" Eugene walked to a nearby table. "He's honest if rather slow and befuddled." He tapped his pipe ashes into an ashtray.

"Yes, said he'd have it ready tomorrow. Something to do with wiring."

"If you wish, you can call to your new location and explain about the delay." Peggy was moving slowly to what served as a register counter --a rolltop desk of rich, glowing mahogany. She lifted the top and began digging through a stack of ledgers, finally putting one out and saying, "Here, if you'll sign, I can give you the key to Room 13."

"Room 13?" I questioned, puzzled and spooked by the symbolic unlucky number. "I thought you said the rooms weren't finished."

"No, they're not. But we've numbered them all and that's the one you can have for the night -- the one which remains as it always has been."

"Yes, my dear," Eugene added hastily, "it's quite comfortable and reasonably priced. Just ten dollars for the night."

I nodded, feeling silly. "That'll be fine."

"Have you had a meal yet?"

Peggy offered me a pen and the ledger. I signed in and told them I'd already eaten at the town cafe, so they gave me the key to Room 13.

"Now dear, if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask."

Eugene smiled placidly, and I accompanied him to the narrow, winding stairway leading to the second floor. He gazed at me a long moment, finally saying, "We've had the most peculiar time getting settled here. Peggy and I moved from Detroit down here hoping to spend our retirement running this splendid old mansion as a bed-and-breakfast establishment. Bring in a bit of cash income, enjoy the regional environment. However, it seems the realtor who sold us this place neglected to mention the reputation of our property."

"Reputation?" I asked, bewildered. "Seems there was...hmm, how shall I put it? Ah, a most unsavory event here years ago and, well, it left a stigma that gave rise to tall tales..." he trailed off absently, gazing sightlessly up the stairway.

Clearing his throat at last, he said, "Never mind, dear. Local folklore, no doubt. Now you go on to the room and remember, if you need anything, anything at all, just let us know."

I climbed the steep polished wood stairs uneasily, feeling a quirky sixth sense of premonition. The odd look that passed between the robust lady and Sam flashed into my mind. Were they thinking about the unsavory events in Harbinger House when they sent me here?

What had I gotten myself into, stranded in this god-forsaken place?

Upstairs I had to let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit hallway. It was cluttered with construction tools, shreds of torn wallpaper, bits and pieces of plaster, a layer of sawdust over everything.

Gingerly, I walked along, looking at each broad, closed door lining the hallway. A number was tentatively lettered on makeshift signs of cardboard above every door. I passed a dozen doors and then saw it, ROOM 13. It was especially prominent because it was at the dead end of the hallway.

I slipped my key into the lock and pushed open the heavy door. The enormous wallpapered room was illuminated by grayish dusk filtering through sheer curtains at the floor-length balcony windows.

I went to the nearest lamp, a cumbersome antique thing with gold fringe trimming a white shade. Flipping the switch, mellow light flooded the room, and I gasped at the magnificent furniture, probably original antiques from an earlier century, although I was not knowledgeable about such things. A gleaming dark wood four-poster canopy bed dominated the area, with matching dresser, wardrobe, beside tables and a waist-high trunk.

I tossed my suitcase down on the hardwood floor and gratefully flopped onto the soft bed, needing some rest. Closing my eyes, I drifted lazily into a half-drowsy state, tired from the day's disappointments.

                              *  *  *  *

I came awake with a start, realizing I'd dosed off, unable to discern what had awakened me from my nap. Instantly my eyes fell on a gilt-framed portrait above the dresser. It was a woman who looked remarkably like myself!

I sat up, shaking my head, raking my hands through my short brown hair. The woman's portrait was striking; her deep brown eyes seemed to focus relentlessly upon mine. I shuddered at the uncanny feeling of being watched, and got up, grabbing my suitcase and searching for a gown inside it.

When I looked at my watch, I saw it was only nine o'clock, but decided to turn in for the night anyway. What choice did I have? Out of idle curiosity, I walked over to the balcony windows, pulling back the sheer curtains. I could see the balcony was not very wide, and I looked down below, into the sloping yard. I saw the thick-leafed magnolia trees, neat flower gardens and the narrow driveway snaking along the side of the mansion, a line of lamp-posts providing an eerie yellowish glow over the area.

I let my eyes wander along the driveway, over the grounds...then I gasped with shock! A battered Impala was parked off to the side of the driveway, half-hidden underneath the low-slung limbs of an oak tree!

At that instant, a booming thunder-roll bellowed out of the lightning-streaked sky. I jumped as if slapped, and began to shake with fright. What was that car doing here? Without doubt, it was the same beatup Impala that led the tag with me on the interstate earlier; I'd never forget that sickly shade of green, the battered dents on the hood, a peculiar bent, warped left front fender!

I was shaking badly now and slumped down at a small desk. A radio was on the desk, and I snapped it on, lowering the volume. Anything to divert my attention, to distract my frantic thoughts of the Impala!

A long, lonesome country ballad was being whined in a nasal-twang by a singer, and it didn't help improve my shattered feelings. I wondered if perhaps I was mistaken? Could there be two Impalas with those same identifying scars?

I was trying to recall every feature of the Impala, trying to decide if both cars were exactly identical when an announcer cut into the song: "We interrupt this program to bring you an update on the earlier escape at Reidsville State Prison. The three prisoners who escaped are still at large and considered dangerous. If anyone should see these men, please do not, repeat DO NOT take action yourself. Call the authorities at once, dial 911, and wait for help. These men were all serving life sentences for murder. They are described as...."

I felt my pulse racing, couldn't bear to hear another word, and snapped off the radio. Dangerous convicts on the loose and me only fifty miles from the state prison! It was too much, the last straw, and I had to get out of the room, talk to the Winthrops.

I left the room, and the hallway seemed darker, more shadowy than before as I made my way to the stairs. I could faintly hear voices below and hurried down to the parlor.

When I stepped into the room, there was an immediate silence. And I saw why -- a broad-shouldered man had his back to me as he stood at the window, the Winthrops apparently having been silenced by my presence. I saw they were staring at me from where they sat on the divan, their faces set in stone.

"Excuse me," I said, "but I wanted to make that call now to..."

My words ceased as the man turned to face me squarely: he was the handsome hunk who'd passed me in the beatup Impala, no mistake! I was speechless, paralyzed with indecision.

Peggy placed a hand on Eugene's sleeve as he said, "My dear, this is...a long lost resident of Swansong. He's just back from California and needs a place to stay."

I stared at the young man who was incredibly good looking: he had wavy blond hair, sea-blue eyes and, as he smiled, a perfect set of white, even teeth. His imposing athletic build was emphasized by the white shirt and trousers he wore; muscular, tall, but somehow menacing.

He crossed the parlor and took my hand. "I'm Frank Cole, and I used to live here. I mean, in Swansong. I guess you beat me to the only room."

I swallowed hard and continued to stare like an idiot. He obviously didn't remember our earlier encounter, or he was keeping cool if he did. I withdrew my hand and said, "I'm Delena Carden, and I had to stay overnight because my car broke down.

"Oh really? Too bad." He turned and I thought he looked harshly at the Winthrops as he said, "I suppose I'll just have to find another place to stay."

They nodded eagerly, almost too eagerly, I thought. But then, maybe my imagination was working overtime!

He paced around the parlor, rubbing his forehead distractedly. Finally Frank said, "Maybe I could just use one of the upstairs rooms like it is. The mess won't bother me."

No one spoke.

"I mean, I've come a long ways, and I'm dead tired."

Peggy Winthrop clutched Eugene's sleeve nervously. I watched them and my unease grew with each second. I coughed and said, "If I could just use the phone now."

Eugene grimaced. "My dear, I'm afraid that isn't possible. The lightning must've damaged the lines, our phone isn't working."

"Oh." I dropped my eyes from Frank's steady gaze and turned toward the doorway. "Guess I'd better be turning in then. Thanks anyway."

I wanted to mention the escaped convicts, but that quirky sixth sense told me not to broach the subject in this tense atmosphere.

As I headed out the doorway, Frank called, "Have a good sleep and nice meeting you."

I didn't reply, mainly because I felt he was still playing that weird game of dodge-and-chase with me! I didn't know who he was or what he was up to, but certainly I was convinced he was the one who'd unnerved me on the interstate.

Back in my room, I locked the door and changed into my gown. Soon I was ensconced in bed, but low rumbling thunder kept me awake. When I heard the heavy footsteps ascending the stairway, I began to tremble. Sure enough, there was a light knocking at my door and then Frank's smooth voice, "Delena, could I talk to you a minute?"

"I'm already in bed," I yelled, hoping to get rid of him. Could he be trying to put the moves on me --- maybe having seen me somewhere before and wanting to date me? Or was he one of those psycho-stalkers who pursued women all over the country, despite being flatly rejected?

"Okay, sorry. I just, uh...well, never mind."

I heard his footsteps growing fainter as he went back down the hallway and descended the stairs. I curled up under the covers and tried to sleep. But troublesome thoughts kept me awake a long time, until at last exhaustion won out.

The reflection of a blue blaze of lightning streaked across polished hardwood floors as I awoke to the sound of a wildly vicious thunderstorm. Scraping tree limbs against the mansion and torrential rain brought me to my feet. I crept across the darkened room, trying to reach the lamp. But when I tired to turn it on, there was no light -- probably a power outage caused by the lightning.

Another clap of thunder jerked me across the floor to the balcony windows. Down below, the stormy onslaught twisted oak and magnolia limbs as though they were willow reeds.

I shuddered and started back to bed when I heard a shrill scream, followed by loud shouts and gruff voices raised in pitched battle. But the continuous booming of thunder drowned out what I thought to be a loud argument -- maybe the Winthrops were trying to get rid of that creep and he was giving them a hard time?

Yet when the thunder abruptly ended, the house was eerily silent, and I had a sudden uncanny premonition of impending danger, that cold chill that runs up your spine, tingles your scalp with a foreboding sixth sense. I frantically looked around the room, seeking an escape, a way out of this enclosed space. I knew I couldn't get away through the balcony; it was a long drop to the ground.

My eyes fell on the cumbersome antique wardrobe, and I ran to it, thinking it would at least hide me should that fend come upstairs after me next! What on earth had he done to the Winthrops? As I crawled into the small space inside the wardrobe, I wondered if the guy had already left? Was my over-active imagination creating danger where none existed?

Just as I pulled the doors shut, concealing myself inside the wardrobe, I heard heavy footsteps advancing down the hallway, then loud pounding on the bedroom door as a harsh voice yelled, "Let me in! Do you hear me, MOTHER? I said open this door!"

I felt sick with fear and knew I'd been right, that creep was after me! There was a hacking, banging noise, then a splitting, splintering sound as the rap, rap, rapping continued unabated. The loud crash must have been the door giving way for I heard him scream in triumphant exultation: "I'm back MOTHER! Back, do you hear?"

The footsteps resounded in the high-ceilinged bedroom, coming closer and closer to where I was hidden in the wardrobe, holding my breath and cringing with fear. If he opened the door...

"MOTHER, oh MOTHER dear! Here I am, your little boy returned, home again! Come out, come out...wherever you are!"

Muffled wicked snickers, and more of the little boy whine, "MOTHER, I came back just to see you. Just YOU! Don't you wanna see me too?"

The footsteps came even closer, he had to be standing right in front of the wardrobe! And then I felt the shaking begin, he had to be tilting the wardrobe off the floor, his struggling grunts punctuated by angry words: "I'll get you, I'll get you MOTHER!"

I wanted to scream, to do something...but I knew if I made a sound, he would know for sure I was inside! It felt like he was still struggling with the wardrobe, but then suddenly it hit the floor, causing me to bang my head hard against the wooden back.

I heard another man's voice, a booming command: "Put it down, Frank! Put the ax down or I'll shoot!"

I was feeling woozy, my head spinning, and I felt like I might faint...

There was scuffling noises, a bang, crash and then the man/boy whined, "But my MOTHER is here! I saw her today, on the interstate and then later, HERE! I've come back, back to finish what I started!"

More footsteps, men's voices mingling and one saying, "Where's the girl? Eugene said she was here right before he passed out."

Another male sternly ordered, "Hold still, damnit Frank! Hold still or you'll cause me to hurt you with these cuffs!"

Relieved that it sounded as if everything was under control, I slowly pushed open the door, weak with nervous exhaustion and as I got out, tried to stand, my head spun crazily and all I saw was the wide chest of a uniformed deputy sheriff just as everything went black.

                          *  *  *  *

Later, much later when I'd regained consciousness, the state troopers and deputy sheriff explained what had happened. Frank Cole had once lived in that mansion with his mentally unbalanced mother! He was searching for her, the mother whose portrait I'd seen on the wall and who bore a remarkable resemblance to myself. Frank had murdered his mother long ago, and was one of the escaped convicts from the prison break earlier that day.

Apparently, Frank had seen me on the interstate and followed me to the mansion. He was triggered into a flashback, and perhaps began to slowly return to that bleak past tragedy when we spoke in the parlor. Then he'd tumbled back into the maniacal rage caused by a childhood spent wretchedly alone and at the mercy of his mother's insanity. 

I don't think I could have comprehended the depth of his rage, his vengeful wrath if the deputy hadn't explained how badly Frank was abused by his mother, tortured and locked up in Room Number 13!

Fortunately, the Winthrops survived, though both had been beaten by Frank before he came after me. And luckily, the officers got there just in the nick of time to prevent another murder! This was due to the mechanic's call to the authorities when he heard of the prison escape, having been puzzled about why my car had been tampered with. Frank had done that while I was eating in the diner.

One thing for sure, I plan to stick to reststops and big cities in the future when I travel, stay away from sleepy little southern hamlets that may harbor haunted past histories!


                         ...The End...