With Cruel Intent (39 page)

central portion of the sectional doors. His

breathing increased and he realized there

was a very real possibility that he would

hyperventilate. The thief momentarily

closed his eyes and tried to calm his fight

or flight response that was screaming for

him to fly. Movement could be heard on

the floor just up the first few stairs.

“No

speaking,

just

walking.

Whoever it is they must be alone,” he

thought.

The gun felt cold in his palm, but

there was no doubt he knew how to use it,

and the pepper spray, damn..., the pepper

spray! He had meant to test it that morning

before heading out, but had forgotten in the

rush to get this job over with. Hopefully it

would function normally. The gun really

had to be a last resort, but he could not

allow anyone to identify him regardless of

the cost.

More movement, then the delicate

sound of scraping on the hardwood floor

above, followed by a dog whining. “Oh

no, this can’t be happening!” he thought,

trying desperately to keep from peeing his

pants. He could hear the dog moving

about, growling lowly, panting and letting

out the occasional little bark. At least it

didn’t sound like a big dog; perhaps he’d

be able to handle it if it were pint sized.

“Rascal, what are you doing in

there? Come here, come to mommy,” a

woman could be heard saying.

“Maybe she’ll go shopping or

something before she notices what’s going

on,” Lester thought. Then he realized that

when she went from the kitchen to the car,

it will be obvious that they’d been broken

into. “Oh please, just go into your

bedroom, close the door and have a nap.”

The dog continued to run about on

the main floor, making some disturbing

sounds but not going into full pursuit

mode. “Rascal, for heaven’s sake, come to

mommy. Wanna treat, wanna treat?

Mommy's got a treat for you. Come on

boy, come and get it,” she said, trying to

convince the animal to join her on the

upper level.

“What is she doing up there?”

He listened ever so closely for

anything that would give him a clue.

Nothing came, other than her footsteps

directly above him and the sound of the

dog finally joining her for his treat.

“Good boy, good boy,” she

exclaimed, in a strange baby like voice.

Whatever she was doing, the

noises he was hearing drifting down from

the upper level led him to believe that she

was going from room to room. But why,

and finally he could hear her making her

way down the upper stairs, stopping

briefly on the main level. He readied the

spray and the gun, his left foot flat on the

floor and his right knee down, foot back,

ready to push him forward in an attack

posture. The sound of her steps could be

heard coming down the stairs directly at

him, the dog leading the way. He held his

breath, suddenly realizing that he needed

something to disguise his face. On the

floor scattered among the few dirty

clothing items was a pair of women’s

underwear. He looked for something more

suitable but there was no time, it would be

a second before the dog was at the door.

He moved the spray to the right hand,

along with the gun, holding them

awkwardly while he stretched the granny

panties over his head, leaving one eye

exposed so he could see where he was

shooting or running. The spray was

quickly returned to the left hand and he

assumed the previous posture again.

“Rascal, what has gotten into you

today? You little monster,” she teasingly

said.

The dog stopped at the door

behind which he knelt. He could see the

mutt through the slats in the dim light of

the basement. Rascal tilted his head and

lifted his nose into the air, letting out a

bark before moving to the door, and

smelling along the small gap at the bottom.

“Rascal, I know what’s in there,

and no, you can’t chew up another pair of

mommy’s panties. You’ve already ruined

two pair this week.”

He could now see the slender

woman standing behind the dog, a laundry

basket held with one hand, pressing the

edge of the basket against her hip to hold

it in place. “Come on, get out of the way

so I can get this stuff in the wash,” she

insisted.

Lester slowly moved his position

as far to his left as possible without

making a sound. He kept his eyes on the

woman and could see her set the basket

down to her right and reach for the bi-fold

handle that would uncover the appliances.

He tried to make himself invisible,

lowering himself as close to the floor as

possible, without losing his ability to

strike. Suddenly the door slid open,

exposing the washer and dryer, but

leaving him somewhat in the dark. Rascal

was protesting loudly now and the woman

continued to explain why he couldn’t get

at her panties.

“If only she knew.” He couldn’t

help but find some humor in what this must

look like from the dog’s perspective.

The panty covered thief held his

breath, watching her load the washer

inches away from the gun pointed at her,

just behind the closed door. Suddenly, the

woman reached through the narrow

opening, to the side of the dryer, in an

effort to pull the detergent from the shelf

above Lester. Her elbow was mere inches

from his shoulder but he remained stone

still, she was unable to reach, and she

retracted her arm, pushing the small dog

out of the way with her foot in the same

instant. He could see her body moving to

his left, placing her directly in front of

him, her hand reaching for the knob that

would expose his hiding place. Never

before had he felt so alive. Every muscle

taut, nerves raw, his senses in overdrive

and his fingers tight against the triggers.

Rascal continued to whine and yap,

snapping at her slipper covered feet. She

momentarily withdrew her hand from the

knob and scooped up the small dog in her

right, cuddling him close to her breast, and

pulled the door open with her left.

Lester burst from the closet, panty

on his head, screaming like a madman and

pulling the trigger at point blank range on

both the woman and Rascal. The woman

fell backwards, landing in a heap in the

laundry basket, the dog firmly pulled to

her chest, pepper spray burning their eyes,

nasal passages and mouth, making it

difficult to breath but not keeping her from

screaming at the top of her lungs. The

sprayer leaned in closer to make sure he

gave them both a liberal application of the

pepper mixture, covering his own face

with a bent inner arm in an attempt to

avoid himself being overcome. The

woman remained in the basket, her legs

kicking wildly, hoping to take the

attackers feet out from underneath him but

being ineffective. With her free left hand

she swung at Lester, her eyes squeezed

shut, and unable to connect with any of the

pathetic blows.

Satisfied that they were out of

commission for a few minutes, he issued a

verbal

warning,

“Don’t

leave

the

basement for 10 minutes or I’ll come back

and finish the job!” He repeated it a

second time, screaming above her

hysteria, to get his point across.

He ran up the stairs, also feeling

some of the effects of the spray that had

drifted into his own eyes. Fighting to see

his way out the back, he grabbed the

pillowcase and backpack, stuffing the gun

and pepper spray into the open mouth of

the bag, and dashed for the fence and the

motorcycle beyond. At first he ran in the

wrong direction, the sounds of the woman

still fresh in his ears and unsure if it was

his memory or if she was still screaming

that loudly. He stopped, knelt down and

looked around to get his bearings, wiping

his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

Remembering where the Yamaha was

hidden, he ran for it, jumping over the low

brush and pulling the backpack around his

shoulders as he went. Upon reaching the

bike he undid a couple of buttons at the

top of his shirt, stuffed the few items and

the pillowcase inside, slammed the helmet

down on his head and lifted the bike from

the dirt. A quick kick of the starter and he

was on his way back down the tracks and

the path to a paved road.

“Faster, faster!” he told himself,

“she’ll be on the phone by now, faster,

faster!”

He rode like Steve McQueen, in a

race for his life, until he got to the

blacktop where he knew he would have to

regain his cool and not draw attention to

himself. In the distance he could hear

sirens screaming toward him, but he

fought the urge to accelerate and start

going cross-country. Alternating red and

blue lights were flashing dead ahead and

coming at a breakneck speed.

“Keep it together! Damn it Lester,

keep it together!” He commanded himself,

his right hand itching to crank up the

rpm’s.

The Sheriff’s vehicle raced past

him, not giving him a second look, he spun

his head around and watched the lights

become smaller as the car hurled down

the road. Lester saw before he heard it,

the brake lights on the squad car suddenly

lit up, the screeching of the tires barely

audible over the sound of his own bike,

but undeniable that he’d been made. The

Sheriff’s unit desperately tried to stop and

turn around, sending the vehicle into a

broad slide and landing it in a ditch, dust

and smoke covering the scene and for a

moment blinding the driver. Breland

cussed, rocking the transmission from

reverse to drive, and back again, in an

effort to work the car out of the

predicament he’d put it in.

Lester didn’t wait around to see if

the deputy was really after him or not. He

downshifted, increased the torque and left

a trail of rubber, as he high tailed it for

home and the safety it would provide.

“Felix better be pretty damn

happy,” he said, thinking of the .38 in his

pack and how much he’d love to use it on

the Chicago gangster right about now.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Iggy pulled his sunglasses down

on the end of his nose, peering over the

top to see if it improved his ability to see

down the country lane. He looked at his

watch, having to extend his arm as far as

he could to read the time.

“Should have spent the few extra

bucks and got the bifocal,” he said, to

himself. “Where are these guys? I’ve got

to be back at the office in a couple of

hours.”

At the conclusion of their last

clandestine meeting they had agreed to

meet one final time before sending their

hired thief in for his ultimate mission.

With the past outings paying off better than

they had anticipated, it was time to move

their agenda along. Iggy had waited a long

time to get his hands on some big money;

the eight years had eaten away at him,

slowly killing him inside with nothing

really to show for it, other than less hair

and more fat. He had to admit that Jeremy

had been good to him, advancing him a

little here and a little there, but not any of

the big money that had been promised him

from the outset.

“That stupid, greedy Beverly

Davis,” the thought repeated itself in his

mind in various slurs and slanders. “If

she’d only been reasonable at the outset,

I’d be laying on the beach, margarita in