Dark Luck (A Suspense Thriller) (12 page)

After examining the face and the hands of the corpse,
he pulled a towel from the bar and began wiping the blood off the knife. Of
course, he could wash the knife under the faucet, but there was a reason he
didn’t want to do it. As he finished cleaning the blade, he noticed that there
was blood on his palms. For a second, he was frightened he had inadvertently
cut himself. He quickly wiped his hands and was relieved to find that his hands
were fine. He dropped the stained towel on the woman’s body and fixed his eyes
on a dark brown fleshy stain the size of a quarter on the wall above the tub. A
narrow translucent streak of blood was coming down from the stain all the way
to the brim of the tub. He had a hunch the stain was a piece of the woman's
brain.

Damn, it had to be her brain! It had splashed out of
her skull—like a piece of flesh out of a crushed melon—and was the best gift
for the man, who was impatiently twirling the knife now. Yes, she was dead,
there could be no doubt about it. She was dead at last.

He caught himself thinking that he didn't feel the
specialness of the moment at all, that the situation lacked solemnity, which
ought to be present in something very few people had done.

No, it didn’t feel special.

He froze and listened to his senses, which, as though
by order, started the roll call: he was hot because the air in the room was
still far from cooling down; his thigh muscles were aching a little—he had
overstrained them when he’d been wrestling this bitch; the smell of the steam,
heavy and enveloping, distressed him; his buttocks felt uncomfortable resting
upon the brim of the tub; thick beads of sweat were rolling down his forehead,
and he probably looked like a marathon runner at the end of the run. He was
thirsty. He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. A few moments later,
he decided he wasn’t thirsty; however, he could use some fresh air. The smell
of the steam was irritating him because it was clouding his brain.

The woman didn't move, which gave him reassurance as he
was still skeptical about the success of his plan. For the final check-up, he
felt the woman's carotid artery and was satisfied to find no pulse (it didn’t
take an expert in carotid arteries to determine if an artery was dead). He
heaved a sigh of relief, having realized that the hardest part was behind him.
If he had managed to pull that off, he would be able to handle the remaining
hurdles, of which there would be plenty in the next few hours.

He looked ten minutes back into the past, at the moment
when he’d been strangling the woman. One thing worried him: had she pretended
to be dead or had she genuinely blacked out? Had she tried to fool him? After
pondering for a minute or so, he came to a conclusion that the woman had
attempted to trick him and had almost succeeded at that. Yes, she was a cunning
bitch. He would do the same thing under similar circumstances. Well, she should
have played dead a bit longer.

His nostrils expanded in indignation, the air blowing
out of his nose noisily. He turned to the corpse and knitted his brows. She had
almost duped him!

Then the dream ended.

4.

Sh-h-h-h-h-h... He listened to the dead silence that
surrounded him and then suddenly realized that he was in somebody else’s house.
He was not at home, that was the point. And he couldn't recall who he was
visiting. Was it his friend’s place? It was certainly not his house; he had a
larger bedroom, which also featured a charming brass chandelier. He didn’t
remember what the chandelier looked like but was confident that it was there.
How many lamps did his bedroom chandelier have? Six? Five? Seven? Its design
was quite elaborate, if memory served him right. It was exquisite. Or was he imagining
it? He could be wrong about the nitty-gritty details, but one thing was clear:
there was some sort of lighting fixture hanging from the ceiling in his
bedroom. The ceiling he was staring at right now sported an austere fluorescent
lamp—actually, several of them. It could be a motel room. Do they have
fluorescent lamps in motels? Or was it an office building? 

That woman had said she was going to get the doctor,
right? It would be safe to guess that he was in the hospital. Why was he in the
hospital? There must be something wrong with him. He could be dying. Dying?
This idea scared him, but he felt too exhausted to dwell on his fears at the
moment. He was too tired to think about anything at all.  

Was it possible to be too tired to think? Obviously, it
was. He closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep.

5.

An hour later—according to his internal clock, it was
at least one hour—he heard a man's voice:

“Mister Fowler, can you hear me?”

He opened his eyes to make sure that the man was
addressing him. He was right: the man in a white coat—he saw his chest and
shoulders and managed to determine that the stranger was wearing a doctor’s
coat—was looking at him with obvious curiosity and appeared to be speaking to
him.

“Yes,” he muttered. He could keep silent, of course,
since the man had asked a certain Mister Fowler and he had no idea who it was.
However, out of politeness, he didn’t want to keep this man in limbo with
regard to his ability to hear him. “Yes, I can hear you.”

The man exchanged glances with someone, probably with
that woman who had been here an hour ago. Or maybe a day ago? Or had he seen
her in one of his dreams?

By the way, what day was today? Saturday? Monday?

“Mister Fowler, I'm Doctor Raynolds,” said the man,
studying his face. “How are you feeling? Do you have trouble talking?”

Dammit, something was wrong! Something was terribly
wrong!

He hurried to send signals from his brain to every limb
of his body, checking whether any part of him was paralyzed. He received
encouraging results, but he didn’t know if he could trust them. He was able to
feel his legs, his feet, his arms, and his hands. Evidently, all of his
extremities were in their places. What was going on? What should he do now?
Something had happened to him, but what was it?

He had to do something. He had already wasted too much
time.

“Who are you?” he asked the man in the white coat.
Responses began flowing in from all over his body—his thighs, his stomach, his
shoulders, his crotch, his chest—providing him with more information about his
condition. It seemed that at least ninety percent of his body was more or less
intact, which certainly have him comfort. “What happened to me?”

A horrible, horrible thing happened, pal.

A spark of pain burst in the back of his head and
started to stretch out its tentacles to his shoulders, chest, and feet,
prickling his flesh along the way. Pain. He wanted to pull his head out of the
cloud of pain, but was unable to do it.

“I'm Doctor Raynolds. You're in the hospital,” said the
man in the white coat, smiling. His face suddenly went out of focus; an
unrestrained anxiety overwhelmed Frank and continued to grow and solidify.
“You’ve been in a car crash, Mister Fowler. It happened two days ago.”

Yes, finally some light had been shed! Now it all made
sense: he had been in an accident and ended up in the hospital.

Damn, his mind was slipping away through a crack in his
head. It was moving fast; he had to catch it. He couldn’t afford to lose it.

He exerted himself to drive away the pain and clutch at
his runaway mind. The pain resisted, and all his attempts to get rid of it
failed in the end. It stayed inside his head, torso, and arms, but,
fortunately, it was less intense than before. But he did succeed in keeping his
mind from falling into the abyss, which was a good enough consolation to him. 

“How are you feeling, Mister Fowler?” asked Raynolds.
“Is anything bothering you right now?”

It was strange—when the doctor had asked if anything
was bothering him, the pain vanished like the flame blown off a candle. Smart
pain. It was hiding from the doctor.

“No. I’m feeling... okay,” muttered the man named
Fowler. “What accident?”

Accident. Accident... Where had it happened? People die
in accidents. And lose arms or legs. And die. Yes, they die.

He didn’t want to die. He had realized with an amazing
clarity that he desperately wanted to live.

“You were in a car accident on Interstate 90 a few days
ago,” said Raynolds. “Thankfully, you've sustained no life-threatening
injuries. As for the head trauma, we’ve already taken care of it.” He flashed a
radiant smile, and this time the man named Fowler saw his smile, which abated
his anxiety a bit. “You're in a good shape, Mister Fowler. You are recovering,
trust me.” The doctor’s hand lowered on the right hand of the man in bed.

“What exactly happened to me? Is anything broken? Am I
paralyzed?”

“You’ve had a brain concussion and a minor skull
fracture. Your body has been bruised, but no bones are broken. And from what
I’ve observed so far, there are no signs of paralysis. You are on your way to
recovery, Mister Fowler. Everything's going to be fine.”

Wife. His wife.

What about his wife? A wife? And what day was it?
Monday?

“Are you feeling any pain, Mister Fowler?”

Head. Head... Hurt. No, it didn’t hurt. And his wife?
And daughter? What daughter?

Or son? Did he have a son?

“What happened to me?” he muttered, vaguely realizing
that he had already asked this question. He was staring at Raynolds' chin since
looking in the doctor’s eyes somehow made him uneasy.

Wife. Daughter. Or son? Car accident? Why now? Why
him? 

“You lost control of your car and crashed into a
highway wall on Interstate 90. You were the only person in the car. No one else
was hurt in that crash.” Raynolds smiled again, providing him with one more
dose of confidence that everything would be fine. “You're in the Buffalo city
hospital, Mister Fowler. Would you like to see your relatives?”

Relatives. Relatives, relatives, relatives—an echo
rolled across his mind. Did he want to see his relatives? What relatives?

“Your sister-in-law was here.” Raynolds looked at the
woman standing to the left of Fowler.

A nurse. It must be a nurse, the man in bed thought.

“On Monday,” the woman prompted.

“Yes, she was here on Monday.” Raynolds nodded. “And
your brother visited you, too.” He glanced at the nurse, perhaps checking if
she had anything to add. 

Sister-in-law was here. What sister-in-law? How the
hell had he gotten in that damn car crash? Was it the universe’s way of saying
‘fuck you’ to him? Why now? Why him?

“You are going to be fine, Frank.”

He was going to be fine. Hopefully, it wasn’t just a
stock phrase meant to calm him down. He felt almost no pain now. The pain
remained cunning and kept hiding whenever the doctor was present. 

People lose arms and legs in car accidents. They become
crippled for the rest of their lives. What else could you lose in a car crash?
Ears? Teeth?

He closed his eyes and pondered the fact that thinking
could be very hard. He felt as if he were running up a down escalator. Now it
was time to stop resisting and fall asleep. He should fall asleep. There was no
need for him to keep racking his brain.

Wife. Daughter.

Wife. Daughter. Sister-in-law.

What was his name again?

Chapter 2.

JUDY

1.

Nine days before Frank Fowler had gone into a coma,
Judy Timmons took the last morning run of her life. Of course, when she left
her apartment, she had no idea that she would never have another chance to go
jogging and that she would end her day in a stranger’s basement, tied up and
drugged.  

Judy was a twenty-five-year old bachelorette with a
plan. While all of her female friends were in a rush to get married—and some of
them had already managed to do it twice—she had chosen a more judicious
approach. Judy was on a mission to find a successful husband with a net worth
of at least eight figures, and she had enough fortitude to stick to the plan.
You see, she was one of those rare people who were able to learn from others’
mistakes and had no desire to waste her life on some loser with hot physique
and forty thousand dollars in credit card debt. 

Judy worked for a medium size advertising agency and
routinely met men matching her ideal when she participated in campaign pitches
for her employer’s clients. She knew that snatching her dream husband was only
a matter of time, and meanwhile, she was doing her best to stay in shape.
Morning jogging was major part of her fitness regimen. She religiously ran two
miles every weekday and five miles on Saturdays and Sundays, deviating from the
schedule only when she was sick. Judy considered running in the open air the
real deal and rarely used the treadmill at home (it would be too much of a
hassle to run in a hard rain or a snowstorm, you know).

On the last Saturday of her life, Judy woke up at half
past eight in the morning and left her apartment for her regular five-mile run
around a quarter past nine. She was unaware she only had fifty five hours to
live. 

2.

There was another benefit to jogging besides a slim
sexy figure: it reduced the risk of a heart disease, which was nothing to
sneeze at. Judy was a long-term thinker and a healthy heart occupied one of the
top positions on her priority list.

As she ran down the street, in the cool shade of
poplars rustling in the wind, she was thinking about her beautiful legs, which
could be seen in all their glory since she was wearing short shorts. Every man,
woman, and child in close vicinity had an opportunity to observe her
spectacular calves and thighs, and some of them might have developed a habit of
watching her run through their neighborhood every morning.

Judy used to envy those fit girls on the cheerleader
squad during her high school years, but now she who was the object of envy of
countless females and this fact made her proud. She had already noticed four XL
sized women shoot jealous looks at her in the last ten minutes. By the way, one
or two of them might have been lesbians, not that it mattered. There would be a
dozen more by the time she finished this run. 

As Judy scanned through her mp3 playlist, searching for
a song suiting her mood, she felt a stare from a cute thirtyish guy that was
watering his lawn with a hose. Their eyes met, and Judy smiled at the man,
feeling her self-esteem swell one notch. She quite enjoyed male attention and
was not ashamed to admit that.  

When Coldplay’s Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall began to
play in her earphones, Judy slowed down to even out her breathing. Breath
in—breath out, breath in—breath out. Her mind was clear and serene. She thought
about Ted Wiley, her sex buddy, who was coming over her place tonight. She was
looking forward to his visit because Ted made love like no one else she knew;
he also had a large penis, an integral part of his charm if you asked Judy. By
the way, Ted was a big fan of Coldplay, although he had never listened to them
in front of his jock friends. 

Judy glanced around, ascertaining her location. She was
about a mile and half from home. As usual, she intended to make a left turn a
block from here and run another mile before turning left again. The rest of the
route depended on whether she would want to drop by the grocery store.   

Picking up speed, she noticed a grey Nissan Sentra
parked on the side of the street a hundred feet ahead. The hood of the car was
open; a man in a brown jacket and black jeans was standing by the left front
fender, with his arms crossed. As Judy got closer to the Sentra, she had a
sudden attack of curiosity and slowed down in order to take a better peek at
what had happened to the car. Besides, she felt like giving this unfortunate
guy an opportunity to marvel at her athletic body. Let him cheer up a bit. 

Judy had prepared to run past the man with all the
grace she could muster when he motioned her to stop. She was in no hurry, so
she decided to grant the fellow a minute of her time. Once she pulled the
earphones out of her ears, the man said, smiling, “Excuse me, could you please
do me a quick favor? I need someone to turn on the ignition. I would much
appreciate it if you could do that for me.”

“Okay,” said Judy. Considering that the man looked
clean and sane and had a positive, non-creepy vibe about him, she saw no harm
in helping him out. Besides, this good deed was going to net her a few easy
Karma points. 

“Thank you so much! I owe you one.” The man opened the
door, letting Judy take the driver's seat. 

“Tell me when.” Judy glanced at her watch. She had
logged sixteen minutes of running this morning so far. Half an hour from now
she would be home, taking a nice long shower. Judy loved the way her skin felt
and smelled after the lavender body wash she had been using since February and
couldn’t wait to get into the shower cabin.

“Just a second, Miss,” the man said from behind the
hood. Moments later he appeared by the driver’s door. “I’m sorry, I forgot
something.” The man clumsily reached towards the glove compartment, causing
Judy to jam herself into the back of her seat. “Just one second.” With these
words, he pulled a white handkerchief out of his right jacket pocket and
quickly pressed it to Judy's nose and mouth.

Breath in—breath out, breath in—breath out. Just when
Judy Timmons had finally realized that she was being kidnapped, she fell
asleep, all thanks to the chloroform that soaked the hanky.  

3.

The girl would wake up a few hours later, but at the
moment she was lying in the back seat of the car, with a brown fleece blanket
thrown over her. All rear windows of the Nissan were tinted, which made the
woman’s presence even more inconspicuous: the man, who turned out to have only
been pretending to have a car trouble, had always tried to minimize risk as
much as possible.

As the man picked up the syringe filled with a
sedative, he thought about the inequality between men and women that had caused
him to put up this charade: Kelly would have never had to use chloroform to get
a man in her bedroom. Yeah, those guys had followed her like dogs follow a
bone. Well, even Josephine, who was far from being a spring chicken, could
score a man without breaking a sweat.

The man carefully stuck the needle of the syringe into
Judy’s left arm and pushed the plunger. He needed Judy to stay fast asleep for
at least two hours so that he could bring her to the end destination without
any drama. The car was a rental, and the last thing he wanted was to have its
interior damaged by a frightened woman trying to escape. The man strived to be
meticulous when it came to leaving no evidence behind. He had rented a clean
car from Avis, and he would return a clean car. This was one of the unwritten
rules of kidnapping. In case any blood was spilled, the man had put plastic
sheets on the back seat and the floor. Fortunately, the chloroform had knocked
his target out in seconds, and the sheets had not had to serve their purpose
this time around. He figured the chick must have been out of breath and had
inhaled a lot of ether very quickly.

The man tossed the empty syringe into the duffel bag on
the front passenger seat and started the car. So far, so good. As usual.

He had rented the Sentra the night before and was going
to return it the next morning: he planned to take the car to the carwash later
today and have it thoroughly steam cleaned and vacuumed. As he stepped on the
gas pedal, he thought about the HIV express testing kit sitting inside his bag.
A fun idea had been circulating in his head since the woman had fallen asleep:
what if he screwed this hot chick before Tony had his way with her? It wasn’t
like one quick fuck would ruin her vagina for Tony, you know. The test was
necessary because the man wanted to skip the condom and didn’t feel like
contracting AIDS; he could test her while she was asleep to save time. Would he
wait for the woman to wake up before having sex with her? He hadn’t decided
yet; both options had their own charm. 

As he turned into a major street, the man noted with
satisfaction that his trick hadn’t caused any interest with the neighborhood
residents, half of whom must still be in their bedrooms, waking up, yawning,
scratching themselves, taking a shower, and doing other things people typically
do on a lazy Saturday morning. And why would there be any interest? Nothing
extraordinary had happened. A young woman stopped to chat to some guy in a
Kia—or was it a Toyota?—and then continued to run. People had more important
stuff to care about on weekends than some random jogger. 

By his estimate, he was twenty five minutes away from
his final destination. He certainly could have gotten there faster, but he
intended to drive the limit in order to avoid the risk of being pulled over by
a cop. He was in no hurry, so he could take his sweet time 

The man smirked. This chick must be a big fan of
healthy lifestyle; he personally preferred to sleep in on weekends as did the
absolute majority of people he knew. What he liked about runners was the fact
that you were almost guaranteed to meet one if you waited long enough on a
quiet residential street. The man was highly pleased to have laid his hands on
such a hot piece of ass. Today had to be his lucky day.     

Yeah, this girl shouldn't have talked to a stranger.
Had she forgotten what her momma had taught her? If she hadn’t tried to be a
good Samaritan, she would have been home now, gulping some tasteless health
shake. As they say, no good deed goes unpunished. In this chick’s case the
punishment happened to be rape, death, and, possibly, dismemberment.    

Staring dreamily at the road, the man pictured himself
carrying the woman from the garage to the basement. The thought of being alone
with the girl in a sound-proof location quickly gave him an intense erection.
He seemed to have made up his mind: he would fuck her while she was asleep.
There was something irresistible to him about having sex with a woman in an
unconscious state; he couldn’t put his finger on what it was exactly.

His cell-phone vibrated twice, informing him that he
had received a new text. After checking the message, he looked in the rear view
mirror and saw a police cruiser pulling into his lane right behind him. He
nodded with satisfaction: his escort had finally arrived.