Reality of Prose

All Works on this page
Copyright ©2000 Thomas Rutherford

All works on this page are fictional. The characters portrayed herein are not intended to represent any person, either living or dead. Any similarities therefore are strictly coincidental.


I N D E X

Short Story #1:
Eight Glorious Months 		Short Story #2:
The Mystery of Small Creek
Short Story #3:
She Died Before My Eyes 		Short Story #4:
The Broken Glass Murders
Short Story #5:
Hitchhikers of the Night 		Short Story #6:
It Happened at the Lake


EIGHT GLORIOUS MONTHS

A Short Story
by

Thomas E. Rutherford

I'm sitting by the pool this morning sipping my first cup of coffee and listening to the birds coming to life. My family is out of town visiting relatives. I have the entire day to myself. As I seem to do more and more these days, I think back to those eight months that forever defined my life.

I can still see Sergeant J.D. Welch as plainly today as I could twenty-five years ago in that distant jungle. He stood six feet two, weighed 180 pounds and looked like the Marines you see on recruiting posters.

Sergeant Welch dominated his universe. He didn't just enter a room as you or I would, he projected himself into it in such a way that you often felt his presence before you ever saw him.

He was military bearing personified--the kind of man who would have fit in on any battlefield throughout the ages. He reminded me then of my concept of the ancient Aryan warriors. His blond hair was always cut to Marine Corps standards. He had piercing blue eyes. Those eyes. They were icy, deadly, and seemed to pierce your very soul while they held you hypnotized with even a single glance.

I was a sniper on his team and, because I was a corporal, his assistant team leader--not that he ever needed an assistant. The other members of our team were Lance Corporal Jacobs, the other sniper; Private First Class Harris, our radio man and my spotter; and Private First Class Marks, who was Jacobs's spotter.

The four of us had been together for several months with Third Recon on Okinawa, Japan, before joining Sergeant Welch in Thailand. We knew the Corps' illustrious history and many military customs. We knew how to kill a man in almost every way conceivable. But with the fall of Saigon during our first month on Okinawa, it didn't look like we would ever need those life-taking skills.

That all changed with our transfer to Thailand where we were assigned to a special unit commanded by a Marine lieutenant colonel who was under operational control of the CIA. We became warriors fighting another undeclared war against enemies who were not our country's enemies. But we were fighting under our country's orders to help eradicate the drug trade routes that crisscrossed the mountainous, triple-canopied Thai countryside.

I suppose, looking back now, that we were the precursors of the "Just Say No To Drugs" era of the upcoming decade in the United States. At the time, everything we did seemed so right. Now it all seems so wrong.

We arrived in Bangkok by commercial air and were met by some really seedy-looking civilians decked out in jungle fatigues. They rushed us aboard an even seedier looking Huey UH-1N helicopter. After a forty-minute flight we rapidly dropped out of the midday sky into a small clearing on the backside of nowhere.

Lieutenant Colonel Marlin, our new commander, met us at the edge of the clearing. Our orientation lasted the entire three or four minutes it took him to guide us to a moldy canvas tent covered with camouflage netting.

He motioned toward the tent with a sweep of his right hand, "Gentlemen, this is your new home. Your team leader, Sergeant Welch, will be back in camp around 1700 hours. Until then, get settled in. Sergeant Welch will stop by later this evening and get you squared away."

"Sir," Marks began, "what will be doing here and..."

"Private, save your questions for Sergeant Welch. Like I said, he'll be by later to get you squared away." With that, Lieutenant Colonel Marlin turned sharply, tripped over a vine, and stumbled back up the path he had just led us down.

It wasn't until later that day when we met Sergeant Welch that we discovered he would be our real commander. I'll never forget that first meeting. Have you ever experienced something so profound that it became etched on your brain forever--in complete detail? That's how I'm able to remember so vividly our first meeting with Sergeant Welch (the blue-eyed son of the devil as we called him among ourselves).

We had stowed our gear and were cleaning our weapons (Marines always clean their weapons when they have nothing else to do and often times when they do) when as one we all looked towards the door. Standing there, in silhouette, was the most ominous specter I have ever seen. None of us had heard or seen his approach, but there he was, standing inside the doorway of our modest tent.

For several seconds, or maybe for an eternity, we stared at this glaring apparition. I swear his blue eyes were ablaze there in that dark, shadowy doorway. Finally, moving like some kind of lithe, predatory cat, he stepped purposefully to the center of the tent. This creature didn't walk as much as he seemed to just flow from one position to another.

"Marines," his voice, though very low, seemed to reverberate throughout our small tent, "I am Sergeant Welch, your team leader. For the next two weeks, that's fourteen days, I will be training you and you WILL be learning. What will you be learning? You WILL be learning to KILL, to eradicate, to destroy. But the most important lesson you WILL learn is to do exactly WHAT I tell you, WHEN I tell you, and HOW I tell you. You had best enjoy your rest tonight. It's the last you'll get here. We start training at 0300."

I don't know if any of us really saw him leave the tent. One minute he was there and the next, well the next, he was simply gone.

During the following eight months we became very successful assassins. But I think now that back then we were merely extensions of Sergeant Welch. I believe we were nothing more to him than tools of destruction. Much like the grenades, rifle, and other weapons he used to accomplish his assigned missions.

But during those eight months we were warriors and we were the best. Sergeant Welch continually pounded that into our heads. But if we were the best, then he was the best of the best.

The Marine Corps had taught us how to kill but Sergeant J.D. Welch had transformed that knowledge into skill. He made us killers and we worshipped him much as the ancient Greeks must have worshipped their warrior gods. He was invincible. He was our team leader, our mentor, but he was much, much more. We idolized him, emulated him, and would have followed him down to the very depths of hell. Hell is where he belongs and I hope he's there now--suffering for betraying us.

I only knew Sergeant Welch for that eight short months, but those months were my entire life. Those eight months, eight glorious months, were the only time in my life that I felt truly alive.

During our short eternity together we also became as intimate with Sergeant Welch as I suspect anyone could have ever become. We found out he was from Texas, had served three tours with Marine Recon in Nam, and that, well, that was about the extent of our knowledge of this magnificent, cold-blooded killing machine.

The CIA operatives would brief us before each mission. They would give us a picture and a description of the "target" we were to "exterminate." These guys never used words like "kill" and "people" in the same sentence. It was always "targets" and "exterminations." Funny I should remember that now. It was the jargon of the time--a holdover from the old Operation Phoenix in Viet Nam I suppose.

Sitting here by the pool now, I can't help thinking about all the "people" who never got a chance to do what I'm doing now. People we killed. Call it duty if you want, but now it just seems like sanctioned murder--especially that last fatal mission we were assigned. We had the usual pre-mission briefings. We each followed our little rituals: a quick letter home; one last equipment check; sharpening an already razor-sharp combat knife; or simply just a few minutes of quiet contemplation. Sergeant Welch, as always, was the first off the helicopter at our landing zone. We fanned out to form a perimeter as our airborne taxi stuttered off into the pre-dawn sky. Moving silently we formed into a loose formation and began working our way down into one of the most beautiful valleys I had ever seen.

By nightfall we were miles away from our initial entry site into this lustrous jungle. Each of us slept lightly, if at all, for several hours while taking turns at guard duty. We then moved about a mile to our ambush position overlooking a narrow trail. The trail followed the banks of the river that wound its way through the valley floor like some gigantic serpent. Our "target" was a renegade Laotian general who was supposedly in charge of a major faction involved in the Thai drug trade. Intelligence reports placed him moving along this trail with a huge drug shipment. We were to "exterminate" him and then escape and evade ("E and E" in Recon jargon) to a nearby landing zone for pick-up.

We waited five days before finally sighting movement along the trail below us. During those five days, Sergeant Welch had quietly briefed us on a mission change. He said we were to not only "exterminate" the renegade general, but to wipe out his whole entourage as well. We asked no questions and none were expected.

By the time the group below us came into full view, we had already identified the Laotian through our scopes. There were fifteen armed men with him and thirty bearers carrying the drugs in canvas bags. These bags were strung from twin bamboo poles with each pair of bearers supporting the poles on each shoulder and slightly swinging the bags between them as they walked. They looked like litter bearers carrying the dead and wounded off the field of battle.

The five of us opened fire simultaneously and in seconds there were dead and dying everywhere on that trail. Then Sergeant Welch broke mission protocol, jumped to his feet, and ran screaming down the mountainside in a one-man assault. We were paralyzed by the unexpectedness of his action for several seconds. Then each of us joined in the raid, screaming like banshees while shooting, running and jumping down that mountainside.

By the time we reached the trailside, Sergeant Welch was going from body to body. He was systematically slashing each one's throat--dead and dying alike. Again, without question, we joined in and helped him complete this gruesome task. Finally, when all the dead were dead and all the dying were dead, we stood in that blood-soaked clearing looking around at the devastation we had created.

We had simply done what Marines are trained to do--hadn't we? We had killed and killed with efficiency.

"Marines, this is combat," announced Sergeant Welch. "There ain't no rules in combat. You simply kill the other guy so HE can die for HIS country. Kind of gives meaning to his otherwise pitiful existence, you know,"

"Sergeant," Marks began, "why now? We've been on all these missions where we just whack some guy at a thousand yards and high tail it out of the country. Why did they finally decide we should come out here and zap everybody?"

"Very good, Marks," Sergeant Welch said while lighting the cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. "THEY didn't finally decide. They would NEVER decide. That's what cost us Viet Nam. Gentlemen, what you seen here today, hell, what you did here today, was a genuine crime--a massacre. Punishable under the Uniform Code of Military Justice."

"Yeah, right," Jacobs snarled. "These are the bad guys. We couldn't E and E after the "extermination" and they attacked us. We just had to off all of 'em. It's been done before."

"Maybe," Welch said, as the cigarette smoke spiraled in front of his face, "and then again, maybe not. You see, what I didn't tell you jokers is that this is our last mission. This was the big one--our last hurrah. I just thought we ought to do it right."

"What do you mean, our last mission?" I asked. "Is this some kind of sick joke? What the hell are you talking about, Sergeant?"

"Edwards, do I look like the kind of individual who would play a sick joke?" he answered. "I MEAN this was our LAST MISSION! I have orders. They're discharging me at the first of the month. I didn't make the promotion list and it was my last try." "Yeah, but what about the rest of us?" I asked. "We're still going to be here, pulling missions, with or without you." "You think so, Edwards? You think you could lead this team? You couldn't lead a starving dog with a steak tied around your neck." Sergeant Welch let this soak in while looking around at the other team members. "And what about you idiots? You think any of you could lead this team? I'm the team leader. It's what I'm good at. But the Corps, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that I'd be better off working in some factory back home instead of doing what I've spent my whole life doing. They're getting rid of me because I didn't go to some faggoty leadership school. I've got more leadership in my little finger than they can teach at their leadership academies."

Sergeant Welch pulled his .45 caliber automatic from his ever-present shoulder holster, rose, stepped in front of me, and placed the weapon between my eyes. "Edwards, I've decided to take you guys out with me. I created you. This is all there is now. There ain't nothing else. Without this," he motioned to the bodies all around us, "there ain't no reason to live." "Sergeant, what the hell are you doing?" Marks asked.

Sergeant Welch swung on Marks placing the weapon to his face. "Marks, ten minutes ago you were a big bad, lean mean, fighting machine. Is that a whine I hear in your voice? Tell me that ain't a whine, boy."

I don't know where I got the strength to defy him. But defy him I did. I raised my rifle and emptied the magazine into Sergeant Welch's body. Twenty-three rounds at point blank range and he was still on his feet, turning my way with the pistol coming to bear on me. Just as he was completing his slow motion turn, all hell broke loose. Marks, Jacobs and Harris all emptied their rifles into his body.

Our warrior-god was no more. He was dead. As dead as the druggies he now lay bleeding among. We stood in that clearing for an eternity, shocked, dazed, incoherent. I don't know what affected us the most. Was it the realization of what we had just done or the realization that Sergeant Welch was just a man after all? He had seemed bigger than life while he was alive. But now, in death, he was just, just dead.

Why he did it, I'll never know, but Jacobs bent over our fallen leader, picked up his pistol from the ground beside him, and handed it to me. I ejected the magazine and opened the slide--it was empty. Why? Again, for one final time, we had done exactly what Sergeant Welch had expected of us.

Those dangerous blue eyes fill my mind for an instant, rekindling my hate and admiration for the man. Then they slowly fade to the rippling blue water of my pool.

Sergeant Welch, I can't take your missions anymore. I left you rotting in that Thailand jungle. Why won't you let me lead the rest of my life in peace? I'll be joining you in hell soon enough. But then again, patience with fools was not one of Sergeant Welch's strong suits.

I use the index finger of my left hand to trace his initials "J.D.W." on the .45 caliber pistol I grasp in my right hand. Then carefully I slide it back into the small, canvas military medical bag beside my chair. I can't do it. Not yet, anyway.

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THE MYSTERY OF SMALL CREEK

A Short Story
by

Thomas E. Rutherford

Small Creek is just another small old railroad town that's seen better days. The city limit sign records the population at 1,350. But if that's the case there's about 500 folks hiding out somewhere.

Sure our little town is kind of a backwoods, sleepy-hollow place. Life here would be boring to big city folks and probably even to lots of small city folks too. That's not to say we ain't had our share of mysteries, crimes and excitement. Just that those kinds of things are somewhat rare around here.

We have a weekly newspaper and most often the biggest news in it is when someone dies, gets married, goes off to college or the service, or there' a sale down at the hardware store. Course everyone in town knows about all this long before the paper comes out. But seeing those things in print kind of finalizes them. And, I guess most folks clip out certain items for their scrap books and such. Although I do doubt there's many scrap books in Small Creek with clippings about the sales down at the hardware store.

Anyway, before I went to rambling on I was going to tell you about one of our little town's mysteries. Matter of fact it made the front page of the state newspaper down there in Little Rock. That's how big a deal it was. Now that, I know for a fact, was clipped out and posted in a whole bunch of scrapbooks hereabouts. I've seen several of them when they were dragged out to verify a particular fact about this event.

The whole thing centered around old Harvey Easter. Now old Harvey wasn't much of a fisherman but he sure liked to fish. He wasn't much of a plumber either but he sure liked charging them high prices for the little bit of plumbing he was called on to do. You see, most folks here do their own plumbing, carpentering, limb trimming and such. But every now and then someone would get into a fix with a clogged pipe and they would reach for their pocketbook and, if there was enough money inside, then they would call old Harvey.

Harvey didn't need much in the way of money. He came here with enough money to buy his little frame house and the city lot it sets on. Once during a card game he let it slip that his granddaddy had died and left him enough money to buy the house and furnish it. So all old Harvey had to do was work just enough to buy groceries and pay his utility bills every month. At the prices he charged, about one job a month was usually enough to carry him and the missus through that month. That didn't leave much for the nicer things in life, but then, old Harvey's needs were pretty basic.

Now Harvey's missus, that's another story altogether. She was one mean-mouthed, nagging woman. That mouth woke up nagging on Harvey and anyone else within earshot and never let up until it started snoring again at night. Course I'm not one to judge and the thing with old Harvey and his missus is kind of like the chicken and the egg. Don't know if she nagged so much cause Harvey spent so much time fishing and so little time earning a living, or, if Harvey was like he was on a count of her nagging.

You see the Easters weren't from these parts. They were newcomers--moved here from up north about twenty or so years ago. That woman came here a nagging and I reckon she left here a nagging.

Anyway, back to the big Small Creek mystery and how old Harvey figured into it. You see there's a bunch of us gets together and plays poker every Saturday night. There's me and Jake Sims, Charlie Williams, Jimmy Bentley, John Benham, and of course, old Harvey played with us up until last year. But we finally dealt old Harvey plumb out of our game. But, I'm getting ahead of my story so we'll come back to that in a little while.

The six of us all got together at a different house every week for our Saturday night poker games. All our wives made themselves scarce during poker night if it was at their house. All, that is, except old Harvey's wife. She'd traipse right into the kitchen, which is where we always played at his house, and commence to nagging Harvey about not spilling beer on her fresh-mopped floor or her family heirloom, brought from Europe by her ancestors, butcher block table. That table was the only piece of furniture the Easters brought with them when they moved here. She'd go on about opening the windows if we were going to be smoking and continue nagging on and on and on for about ten or fifteen minutes. Once she got all this out of her system she'd go on to wherever it was she went and kind of keep quiet.

Every now and then she'd think of something she needed from the kitchen and in she'd come. She'd look around in the drawers and such like she had lost something she just couldn't do without. She'd remind us every time she came in about the beer spilling and opening the windows and then off she'd go again.

Every time she'd leave the room, old Harvey would just shrug his shoulders, roll his eyes and mutter, "That woman." I always got the impression he thought of her and her ways kind of like most folks regard a mild winter cold--an irritation you couldn't do much about but to tolerate it.

This had gone on the entire time Harvey had been a member of our roving poker game. But then one night, a little more than a year ago, we all showed up at Harvey's house on a Saturday night to play cards and old Harvey led us into the house and out to the kitchen. The first thing we noticed was how quiet the kitchen, the whole house for that matter, was. There were stains all over the kitchen floor and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. I think it was Jake who finally asked Harvey was the missus sick.

Harvey said he didn't know how the missus was cause she was gone. Been gone since Monday he told us. Said she told him, just like she always does, that if he didn't find some work Monday and leave off his fishing for that day he'd come home to a mighty empty house that night.

Well, as is normal for old Harvey, he ignored her and went on fishing. When he came in about dark he said, she was gone without leaving a note or anything. I have to say it seemed odd to deal the opening hand of that game around Harvey's kitchen table without hearing any of that nagging we had all grown so use to hearing. What with just menfolk in the house we kind of cut loose and did quite a bit more drinking, cussing and smoking than usual.

Now normally, with womenfolk and sometimes kids in the house, we stick to several beers apiece. But seeing as how we were in a stag situation for the night, Charlie spied a half-gallon of bourbon on top of Harvey's refrigerator. He asked Harvey if he minded if he made himself a mixed drink with a shot of that bourbon and some of the two-liter soft drink in the refrigerator. Harvey, looking intently at his freshly dealt hand, nodded and said for him to help himself.

Now Charlie wasn't the steadiest fellow around to start with and with more than a few beers already under his belt... Well, first he dropped the glass he had gotten down from the cabinet over the sink. After cleaning up all the broken pieces he could find, he got another glass. Opening the freezer, Harvey had one of those side-by-side jobs, Charlie took the whole ice bin out and set it on the counter top. He managed to fill his glass with ice but when he tried to put the ice bin back in the freezer it slipped from his hand and spilled all over the floor. Bending over to pick up the spilled ice, Charlie staggered upright with something in his right hand. It was a quart freezer bag, sort of frosted over so you couldn't really make out what was in it. Charlie, being closer to the bag than the rest of us however, knew at once what was in the bag and threw it away like you would sling a spider off your hand.

He gave out a kind of gagging noise and lurched back against the counter, grabbing behind him with both hands to hold himself up. Not knowing what was in the bag, or why Charlie was reacting the way he was, we just sat stunned for several seconds until Charlie finally yelled out that there was a hand in that freezer bag--A HUMAN HAND!

Figuring Charlie had maybe had a little too much to drink already I suggested he go lie down on the sofa for a little while. This while I was getting up from my seat and bending over to retrieve the bag he had thrown nearly under my side of the table. When I got a good look at that bag, I nearly fainted. Inside it was a curled up, human hand--sort of looked like a grotesque crab or something.

I just sat hunched over that bag with my own hand nearly touching it for several more seconds. Then I straightened up and looked at Jake. Jake's the county sheriff, in case I hadn't already told you that.

I looked Jake in the eyes and told him there really is a human hand in that bag. Jake, thinking me and Charlie were putting one over on him like we've been known to do, told me to ask it if it wanted to take Charlie's place in the poker game. With that, I bent down again and picked up that bag and flopped it right down on the table in front of Jake. He just sat there looking at that hand just like Charlie and I done. After several seconds he slowly brought his gaze up to old Harvey and in a lot calmer voice than I could have managed, asked him why that hand was in that bag in his freezer and whose was it. Harvey never said a word, just sat there looking at Jake like nothing had happened.

It was Jake who first voiced what had, I'm sure, occurred to all of us at almost the same instant. Jake asked Harvey if that was his wife's hand and if it was, where was the rest of her. Harvey still just sat there calmly looking at Jake and never saying a word. Jake told us all to just stay put where we were and not to move or touch anything else. He got up without ever taking his eyes off Harvey and went over to the phone which hung by the kitchen doorway on the wall. He called his office and told the dispatcher to send Johnny Simmons, that's the deputy who was on duty that night, and to call in Jerry Garner, his criminal investigator. I guess the dispatcher asked him what was going on, but all Jake said was to send them two on over to Harvey Easter's house cause we got us situation over here. Then he hung up that bright yellow phone with the twisted cord and just stood there looking at Harvey like he was a space alien or something.

It was probably a good ten minutes before Simmons and Garner got there, but it seemed like a whole lot longer than that--what with no one moving or saying anything. Before they arrived, Harvey just sat there and stared at a spot on the wall that was directly behind where Jake had originally been sitting. Though I don't think Harvey was actually seeing that wall, or a spot or anything else the rest of us could see. All this time, Jake stood in the doorway staring at Harvey, Me, Charlie, Jimmy and John sat there kinda stunned, gazing back and forth at the two of them.

When his deputies finally arrived, Jake was all business. He read Harvey his rights and asked us to go on home. As we were getting into our cars, Simmons led Harvey out of the house in cuffs and put him in the back seat of his patrol car.

By the next morning it was all over town that Harvey had killed his wife, cut off her hand and put it on ice in his freezer. Only thing no one could agree on was what he had done with the rest of her. Jake and his crew, along with the state crime lab boys, had gone over every square inch of Harvey's house more than a few times. They apparently hadn't found anything else, or if they had, weren't telling.

We were all sure that Harvey had maybe gotten tired of the tongue lashings his missus had been giving him for years and done away with her. Each of us tried to talk to Jake and find out what was going on, but he wasn't having any of it. Jake can be truly tight lipped and professional when it comes to his sheriffin' duties. I went to bed that Sunday night after the discovery of the hand not knowing anymore than I had last night when we had left Harvey's. Nothing, that is except what I had heard in the rumor mill that kept up a steady outpour around our little town.

The next morning at the coffee shop, Lila's, where we all gathered each morning before work, we were surprised to learn that Harvey had been released on bail. Sara Jean, the night dispatcher at the sheriff's office, had just come off duty and said that Harvey left the jail at 6 a.m. this morning going home, or so she supposed. Seems his brother, none of us even knew he had a brother, got some hotshot lawyer from up north to get some other in-state hotshot lawyer from over in the city to represent Harvey.

The upshot of it was that the sheriff's office didn't have any real proof that a crime had been committed. Another surprise for us was when Sara Jean told us that the hand Charlie had found in Harvey's freezer definitely didn't belong to Missus Easter. Seems Harvey's lawyer had finally gotten him to talk and that Harvey claimed to have found the hand in Miller Creek, one of his favorite fishing spots. Says he put it in his sandwich bag after he had eaten lunch and brought it home, put it on ice and meant to give it to Jake but had forgotten all about, what with his wife leaving him and all.

She said Jake and the whole bunch of them who had gone through Harvey's house was out at Miller's Creek to see what they could find there. Jake may be tight-lipped, but Sara Jean, now there's a talker. Anywhere else she would probably be fired on the spot for divulging information crucial to an investigation, but not in Small Creek. Besides she had been a dispatcher before most folks in this town were old enough to drive I reckon. And on top of that she was one of the most well-liked people in town.

Throughout the week Sara Jean kept us up-to-date on the latest from the sheriff's office and we saw very little of Jake. It was Thursday before we got anymore fuel for the rumor mill that always cranked up at our morning coffee shop gatherings. Bill Stanley, who works down at the hardware store for old Larry Helton, came in later than most just like he always does. You see, Helton don't like to get up early so Bill has to open up for him and then takes a break when Helton finally gets in to work.

Helton's Dad built that hardware store and, let me tell you, he was some character. Opened that store at sunrise and didn't close it till sunset every day of the week but Sunday. Helton Junior, that's Larry who inherited if from the old man several years ago, is a character of a different sort. Leans toward the lazy side if you ask me. But, well, I guess I better let you draw your own opinion on that.

Now as I was saying, Bill told us that Harvey had been in the hardware store right before closing yesterday and had bought a chest-type freezer. Wanted a hasp installed on it and then had bought a top-of-the-line padlock to lock it up with. Bill said that Kenny... that's Kenny Davis who's the delivery boy and odd-job man for the store. His Dad, James Davis, worked for old man Helton many a year and Kenny just sort of took up where he left off. Good kid in his own way. Sorta slow-like, but steady. Gets the job done if you know what I mean, but has to be told just how to do it step-by-step. Anyway, Kenny was out delivering the freezer to Harvey's house even as Bill was telling us about it that morning.

Now that piece of information set everyone off on a whole new line of thinking. What would Harvey want with a new chest-type freezer when he already had the side-by-side? And especially why would he want a lock installed on it? Irma, the waitress at Lila's who always had an opinion about everything, seemed to think that the new freezer would be just the thing to keep a body in, or maybe a whole bunch of severed hands. That sentiment was shared by several others in the coffee shop and since no one else could think of any other reason for Harvey to buy a locking, chest-type freezer, we all left there that morning planning to keep our doors locked that night. Sara Jean said she was going to let the sheriff know about the freezer. She felt Jake ought to go over to Harvey's and find out more about the freezer and Harvey's plans for it.

Well, the next morning Sara Jean came in all miffed at Jake because he told her to mind her own business and that it wasn't a crime for a man to buy a new freezer, lock or no lock. She said maybe Jake would take information like this more seriously if Harvey wasn't one of the "poker posse" as we were known down at the coffee shop. Me and Charlie tried to assure her that Jake knew what he was doing and, friend or no friend, he would do his job as he saw fit. Course Sara Jean wasn't having none of that. She said that was just like men to take up for one another. Then she up and sashayed out the door, leaving just as miffed at us as she was at Jake.

Turns out that Kenny, the hardware store delivery boy, was the last person to see old Harvey alive. That Saturday night, the very next one after the hand was found, was the first time in years we didn't all get together to play poker. It was Tuesday of the next week when Jake went to Harvey's house to ask him a few more questions.

When Jake got to Harvey's place, the front door was standing wide open. There were muddy footprints all over the small front porch and right on into the house all the way to the kitchen. The mud had been there a while too, Jake told us later. He said that mud had dried to a hard crust. Well Jake followed the footprints right into the kitchen and saw that the new freezer was covered in mud too. It was also smeared with something that looked like dried blood. Jake went over to the phone and seeing it was still working, called his day-time dispatcher, Debbie. Now Debbie is another newcomer to these parts. Her parents moved here when she was three and she's been working at the sheriff's office now for about four years, ever since she graduated from high school. Anyway, as I was saying, Jake got a hold of Debbie on the phone and had her send out Jerry Garner and another deputy.

When they got there, they cut the lock off the new freezer. There inside it, frosted up like a winter pumpkin, was old Harvey, minus his left hand. He was just sort of curled up in the bottom of the freezer. When they finally got through doing all their crime busting stuff and taking all their pictures and such, they lifted him up out of there. Frozen to his clothes were three more severed left hands and four more were found in the bottom of the freezer--none of them Harvey's. We learned later on that all the hands belonged to women and one of them belonged to Missus Easter. It had that well-known burn scar on the back of it that Missus Easter got when she was a kid, or so she said, growing up in the country. Seems she was stoking the fire one morning and fell on that hot stove and her hand stuck to the red hot iron belly of that stove. Leastwise that's the story she always tells, well, told that is, whenever she caught someone gawking at it.

Sara Jean filled us all in on these facts the following Wednesday morning at the coffee shop. Irma was all proud of herself for having been the first one to come up with the idea that the freezer would be perfect to put a body or a bunch of hands into. She was especially proud that both had been found in it. Never mind that she had poured old Harvey his first cup of coffee every weekday morning, and some weekend mornings too, for the past bunch of years.

Sara Jean figured maybe the sheriff would do better to listen to her sagely advice in the future. What none of us thought of, until Charlie brought it up, was how Harvey's body ended up locked inside that freezer. It would be kind of hard for a man to cut off his own left hand, kill himself, stuff his own body in the freezer, and then lock it from the outside while he was laying dead inside.

Jake and the state criminal investigators finally suspended their investigation into Harvey's death, the hands and Harvey's missus. The had reached a dead end. Now all of this happened just before Thanksgiving last year and it was still being talked about come April of this year when Hayes Edwards, the soybean farmer over in the south end of the county, found a human skull when he was plowing one of his fields. Hayes was more than a might upset when he had to call off farming about forty acres of prime bottom land while investigators commenced to digging around and finding more and more body parts--almost all of them intact and all of them missing their left hand. But the strangest find of all was when Jake recognized what was left of the dress and apron on one of the corpses--that of Missus Easter. What made it so strange was what was found inside the pocket of that rotting apron--Harvey's left hand and the keys to that freezer he ended up inside.

That was nearly nine months ago and to this day no one has been able to figure out what really happened in these parts. Was old Harvey the killer? If he was, how did he do that trick of getting inside that freezer dead and locking it from the outside? Was it some kind of serial killer with a strange sense of humor? Was old Harvey the killer and then the ghost of his dead wife came back and did him in? Or, as lots of us speculate down at the coffee shop every morning, is the killer still walking right here among us? No one knows. But, I'll tell you this much for a fact. Folks around her have taken to locking their doors at night--every night. Something we used to never do in these parts before all this mess cropped up.

As for the poker games, well we missed that one night, but we're back on schedule. Haven't found anyone to take old Harvey's place, but then old Harvey wasn't much of a poker player anyway. Small Creek's city limit sign still boasts a population of 1,350 and we know for sure it's two less than that. Well, leastwise it was until you and your missus there bought the old Easter house and moved here. You've touched it up right nice too. It's good to see it being lived in again after setting empty so long. Well, reckon I better get on down the road and get busy putting that fence up for old Sam Peeples. He's got the place next to yours over yonder. He raises cattle and sheep. He's also been known to raise a little dickens when he's drinking, but all in all, he's a likable sort. Just yesterday morning he was in the coffee shop telling us how he guessed he had really messed up. Got drunk one too many times I reckon. Says his wife up and left him like she's threatened to do all these years if he didn't quit drinking. I'll tell you, you won't catch me taking any look inside his freezer. No sir. I'm going to do his fencing and collect my pay from him at the coffee shop when I'm all done. I don't want to go through that mess again.

Well, like I said, guess I better get on over there and get busy. Daylight's burning. Coffee's on at seven every morning at Lila's if you like it strong. Reckon I'll see you there in the morning if you care to join us. By the way, you ever play any poker?


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SHE DIED BEFORE MY EYES

A Short Story
by

Thomas E. Rutherford

I saw a murder last week. A murder that never happened. I know it never happened because the victim is standing three feet in front of me at this very moment. The murderer is right there beside her, laughing and talking to her. Both are apparently very much in love and enjoying even this small minute of life in the check-out lane of Jerry’s Grocery.

She’s wearing the same blue shirt and faded jeans she was wearing last week when her tall, muscular companion killed her. He held her head under water for nearly fifteen minutes and choked the life out of her. She fought, I’ll give her that. She thrashed and splashed, but finally lay completely still in the creek behind Grassy Lake..

This happened just twenty feet away and ten feet below my deer stand. I watched the whole thing tensely, white knuckles gripping my bow to my camouflaged chest. Sitting there in a state of shock--not sure what to do, sweat pouring off my body and dropping to the ground below..

I don’t remember climbing down from the deer stand. I don’t even remember the walk from the woods, or the drive home--just waking the next morning in another cold sweat with the vision of her death fresh in my mind..

They leave the store together. I check out with the handful of groceries I had come for. Leaving the store, I see them drive off in a small sports car. Following closely behind, why I don’t know, I trail them for miles until they pull into the drive of a nice brick home just off the small country road south of town..

Maybe I’m really losing it. I just don’t know what’s real anymore. I know the guy killed her. I saw it. But then, I saw them together in the store today too. No way a dead woman could be that cheerful. Stop it! Get yourself together! You know you’re losing it..

My mind tries rationalizing my thoughts. Tries to make sense of it all. But, all I can think of is the dead girl lying in the creek and then seeing her alive again. No way this can be real. No way!.

At work that day I do my job like a mindless zombie. Just keep labelling the boxes and stacking them for the lift. Labelling and stacking for what seems like an eternity..

Stopping for gas on the way home, I see them again. Driving by, in a different car this time, as I pull from the station. Can’t help it. I must follow them. I’m compelled to follow them again. This time they drive to the other side of town and stop at a nice two-story colonial home on one of the nicer streets. She waits in the car until he comes around and opens the door for her. I’m parked a block down the street watching. She’s still wearing the same blue shirt and faded jeans. They hold hands and walk to the house. He lets go of her hand and unlocks the door to the house. They disappear through the doorway, closing the solid wood, white, front door..

Later, I’m driving around the same part of town for what seems like hours--still trying to make sense of her death and seeming rebirth. I can’t get the sight of her long, beautiful, blonde hair and magnificent figure out of my mind. The blue shirt and jeans accentuate the country girl image she exudes so casually. Why is she doing this to me? Why didn’t she just stay dead? Why did she want to die in front of me anyway? Something strange is happening in my world. I see her and the guy everywhere I go, everywhere I look. I even see them in my dreams. The more I see her, the more familiar she becomes, a ghost from my not so distant past. Or maybe a ghost from days long past. I just don’t know anymore..

I woke up sweating and screaming the second night after I had first seen the resurrected dead girl. The dream was more than a nightmare. It was reality. I was a teenager again. The girl in the blue shirt and faded jeans was walking beside me as we left the high school. We were talking and laughing..

Then the tall, muscular guy was there, only without the mustache and looking younger too. She broke off from me and walked over to him. He took her by the hand and led her away from me. I followed at a distance for several blocks and then turned around and made my way home. Home? Where was my home? Everywhere I turned nothing was familiar. I was a stranger in a strange town. Every street I turned down had the same houses, same people, same trees, same dogs and cats..

Then the dream world blurred and I was sitting back in the deer stand, ten feet up in the fork of the old oak tree with the wind blowing lightly through the dying leaves. Looking down, there she was again, dying at the hands of the killer..

That’s when the dream world and my world collided, with me falling, falling, falling still yet, to the bed I awoke in with the sweat pouring off my body in rivers and my scream filling the room..

I lay on the bed looking at the ceiling. My dream world and this world clashing within my brain--making me remember things long forgotten. Things that happened fifteen years ago when I was still a very happy-go-lucky high school student. The girl who died last week had died back then also. Her body was found in a drainage ditch by the park. She had been choked to death..

But, there’s more. She was my neighbor. Her name was Jenny. She and I had grown up together and had been best of friends, kind of brother-sister type friends until we reached puberty and then we had become more. We never really dated, but we had been intimate. Visiting each other on warm summer days while our parents worked. Doing more than visiting. It had been like we were destined to grow up together and experience life together. The first time we realized that there was more to being male and female than just holding hands, we stayed away from each other for weeks. I guess we were both afraid of the feelings that were stirring for the first time in our young lives..

Then one night she had tapped on my bedroom window after midnight and we began a regular tradition. We spent countless nights together that summer--her last summer alive. Towards the end of summer she had started dating other guys, lots of other guys. And eventually, by the time school started back, she sort of had a thing for the tall, muscular kid, Ron, that was his name, Ron. After Jenny’s death, Ron had disappeared. Everyone assumed he had killed her and then skipped out..

Now, I think he’s back and, and, what? Killing every Jenny in town. Owning several homes, cars and involved with several women looking remarkably like Jenny. Come on, even a crazy would have trouble believing that. But something is going on. Got to go back to the woods. Back to Grassy Lake. See if her body is still there. See if it was ever there. Give myself a shot of reality and put this whole nightmare into some sort of perspective. Got to go now..

Fumbling with my keys, I finally get my jeep started and just as the sun gives a pink hue to the morning sky, I pull into the little logging road beside Grassy Lake. Running through the woods, my heart pounding to keep up with the demands I’m placing on my body, I see the oak tree and the deer stand. I stop and stare. Wondering if I have the courage to go closer and look down into the creek for her body. Will it still be there? Was it ever there? Was, or is, it Jenny? Why am I here? I take a couple of steps. Then a couple more. Just a few more feet to go..

Come on, you can do it. Just a few more steps. Then I’ll know. Know what? Whether I’m crazy or not? If the body’s there, then who have I been seeing everywhere and more importantly why? If it’s not there then why did I think it was there to begin with? What did I really see from my deer stand--or, did I see anything? Was I even here last week?.

Two more steps and I can see her blonde hair floating in the shallow water, whipped gently by the running creek. One more step and I can see her spread prone lying face down in the clear, swirling, creek water. Next to her is the tall, muscular guy also face-down with an arrow protruding from the small of his back. My arrow? No. This one is a small crossbow shaft. I use a compound bow with a thirty-two inch arrow. This one looks to be only about fourteen inches long. The pattern on the arrow is unfamiliar. It’s got white tape wrapped around its green shaft giving it a perverse candy-cane look..

I climb down the creek bank. Something’s written on the white tape. I edge closer, closer. There’s something written in red on the tape. "JENNY’S DEAD." That’s what’s written there. The grim little message is repeated around and around the arrow’s shaft..

I do not own a crossbow. I have never seen an arrow like this. But I did see this dead guy murder the girl in the blue shirt and I do know who Jenny is. I slip and slide climbing the creek bank. Running and wheezing and crying, I make it back to my jeep. I sit behind the wheel for what seems like hours . What do I do? How do I explain to anyone that I saw this girl murdered a week ago and didn’t report it?.

What about the guy? He was alive the last time I saw him, or was he? How do I explain why I was here today? If I don’t report this, then there is surely enough evidence to lead them to me when, and if, the bodies are found..

I stumble through the next few days ignoring her and her blue shirt and faded jeans. Ignoring her companion’s smiling face and all the different vehicles they seem to possess. They’re everywhere. If I go into a store--they’re there. If I turn on the TV--they’re there. In my dreams, at work, in traffic--they’re always there. Always smiling. Always in love..

Every morning as I shave, I’m starting to see him, starting to become him? No, that’s crazy. I’m crazy. This can’t be happening to me. I’ve got to get help. People are starting to ignore me. No one calls anymore. I don’t get mail anymore, not even junk mail. I pick up the phone to call out for pizza. It’s dead. Just like her--a lifeless thing that doesn’t respond. Just a useless thing that no longer has a function. No longer has a purpose. Replacing the receiver, I try to remember if I paid the bill this month. Not sure..

I’ve got to find out why they’re doing this. What they’re doing. I’ll follow them again today and confront them. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Got to get my life back on track. Life? What is my life? I have no family. Or do I? I have no friends, none that I can think of anyway. When was the last time I worked? Yesterday? Today? Last week? Did I ever work? I don’t know where reality ends and this nightmare begins..

There has to be a beginning, a middle and an end. There has to be. I learned that much in college from Professor, Professor what’s his name. Or did I? Where did I go to college? Did I go to college? Who’s Jenny? She’s important to what’s happening. She has to be. But who is she? Where is she?.

What day is it? For that matter, what year is it? There are a dozen newspapers in my driveway. Maybe reading them will jolt me back to the present--back to reality. Maybe I’m back inside my nightmare again. Nothing looks familiar in the newspapers. I’ve scanned several already and nothing means anything to me. Nothing. Not the news, the obits, only the cartoons have a familiar quality. Finally, a picture on the front page of the next to last one I unroll. The girl in the blue shirt and faded jeans and her companion in what appears to be a wedding photo take up almost a quarter of the front page. I freeze as I read the headline:.

“DOUBLE MURDERS SHOCK COMMUNITY”.

I read the article slowly, digesting it in shock. The girl’s name is Jennifer Roland. Her and her husband’s bodies were discovered two days ago (the paper said one day ago and this is yesterday’s edition) in their rural home by Robin Crandall, Jennifer’s sister. Jennifer, Jenny?.

The husband, Glenn, was found in the living room. He had apparently been killed by a crossbow. He was shot in the back. Jennifer’s body was found in the bathtub facedown in the water. She had been choked to death. A police spokesman said they had no suspects yet and the matter was still under investigation..

I don’t know how long I sat and looked at their picture on the front page of that paper. Then, in a trance, I opened today’s newspaper. There are two pictures on the front page. Both of couples. Both are the girl in the blue shirt and faded jeans and her companion . No, that’s not right. They look like them, but it’s not them. Maybe it is. Right at this minute I’m even more unsure of what is and what isn’t than I have ever been. Then I focus on the huge headline at the top of the page:.

“CROSSBOW CHOKER STALKS COMMUNITY,
NEW DEATH COUNT NOW STANDS AT SIX”.

Quickly, I look for names. Neither woman is named Jennifer, Jenny, or anything close to that. The first is Glenda Peters, the second is Julie Thompson. Glenda’s husband is George and Julie’s is Ray..

Both women share a striking resemblance to the previous victim and all three could be the Jenny I remember from so many years ago. The two latest victims both had long blonde hair and both were about the same height and build, according to the article. The reporter notes that both women were found, as was Jennifer Roland, facedown in a full bathtub of water..

Both had been choked. Both of their husbands had been shot in the back with a crossbow. Police are looking for a black, late-model jeep that had been seen in each couple’s neighborhood several times prior to their deaths..

My jeep? I had been there. These are the people I followed. These are the people I saw in the woods. Did I kill them? Are they really dead? Are all these women Jenny? Are all the guys Ron? I need help. I need to know what’s going on. Have I become some kind of serial killer? There are huge gaps in my memory like I’ve blacked out or something..

Could I be doing these horrible things and blocking them from my memory. Am I possessed? I’m feeling faint, weakening. The wind is blowing colder and colder. The tree is creaking from the cold gusts blowing through its limbs. Someone is standing over Jenny’s body. He’s coming toward me now. He’s, he’s ... Wait. What’s this? Another newspaper. I've read them all, even today’s. Can barely open it. Getting weaker. It’s got tomorrow’s date on it! There’s my picture on the front page. There’s Jenny and Ron too. Read the headline! Read it!.

“CROSSBOW CHOKER’S VICTIMS NOW AT NINE.
COMMUNITY GRIPPED BY REIGN OF TERROR”.

Read it. Read it quick. Passing out. Can’t keep my head up. So much pain. Eyes won’t stay focused. There. There. I can make out the words again. .

It reports that Jim and Gloria Welsh were found dead in the woods behind Grassy Lake by hunters. Gloria was facedown in the creek. Her blue shirt and jeans had been torn nearly off her body. She had been choked to death. Her husband was facedown beside her and had, like this week's other victims, apparently been shot in the back by a crossbow..

Just yards away, Eddie Graves’ (that’s me!) body was found in a deer stand. He had what looked like a crossbow arrow through his right shoulder and another through his upper thigh. Both had pinned him to the tree and the deer stand. Blood had pooled under the stand and it appears that death was not instantaneous. Initial reports indicate he may have bled to death over a period of anywhere from several hours to several days. The Welsh couple had been dead at least a week and possibly longer. It’s likely that Graves died anywhere from a few hours to several days after their deaths..

No! No way! I’m not dead! Can’t be dead! I’m here in my house. Sitting in the floor of my living room in the dark. Electricity’s off. Phone’s dead. No one comes by anymore. No one calls. No one’s home? Yes! No! I’m here! I’ve got to be here. I can’t be just another victim. I’m alive! I’m a part of this. I just can’t be....

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THE BROKEN GLASS MURDERS

A Short Story
by

Thomas E. Rutherford

It's Saturday morning, just a normal, plain, Saturday morning. The kids are watching cartoons in the living room. I know they are because when I woke up just moments ago, I could hear their laughter and the zany sounds of Purple Pig and the Pirates, their favorite show.

I can hear my wife in the kitchen cooking breakfast. Ahhh, the smell of bacon frying and coffee brewing. What a way to wake up. I stretch and reach for a cigarette to clear the cobwebs from my brain and kick start my lungs. Just as my hand closes on the cigarette pack on the nightstand by the bed, I remember something--something I can't quite put my finger on. It's the sort of thing that happens when you walk into a room you have never been inside of before in your entire life. Then a flash of familiarity hits you suddenly and you know instantly everything there is to know about the room.

That's how I felt just moments ago when my hand closed on that cigarette pack. It's as if, as if I... A crash from the living room brings me to my senses. Jumping from the bed I rush into the room and see my youngest son standing over my most prized possession, a glass from an Oriental bar I had picked up while in the Marines in the 1970s. That glass. A reminder of many nights out drinking with my fellow Marines. Those were the days.

Before I can stop myself, I have my little two-year-old son by the throat, choking the life out of him. Killing him for the broken glass. A glass I had used to win a bourbon drinking contest in the bar Mitsu on Okinawa.

As suddenly as it had grabbed my, the anger subsides. Leaving me holding Michael limply around the throat. His eyes are wide with terror.

"Daddy, don't hurt me, please don't hurt me anymore," he sputters between gasps for air and sobs.

Just then, my wife rushes in, sees what has happened and grabs Michael from me. "What are you doing to our son? It's just a glass! This," she points to Michael, "this is our flesh and blood, YOUR SON!" she screams.

"You're crazy, you know that! CRAZY! Get out of this house! You almost killed our son for breaking some stupid jerk of a glass that you won by proving what a man you were because you could get drunker than your buddies! Well, this is the last time you will ever lay a hand on our kids! GET OUT! Get out now or I'm calling the police! I never want to see you again!"

Before I can stop myself, I grab a lamp from the end table. A heavy brass lamp with an eagle for the base. I just can't stop myself. If only Helen would stop screaming at me.

"Walter! What are you doing? Put the lamp down! PUT IT DOWN AND GET OUT OF HER, WALTER! NO, WALTER, NO, NO, NO...."

I bring the lamp back, swing it as hard as I can and hit Helen in the head. The blood gushes from her forehead and she falls in slow motion to the floor. She just falls, falls and seems to keep falling for an eternity. Kind of like those slow motion replays you see when you watch football games on television.

Once she's on the floor, I begin kicking her and screaming and kicking her some more and beating her with the lamp. I'm going crazy, got to stop before I hurt my family... got to stop. Stop! STOP!!! NO, keep swinging! They broke your glass! I'm confused, voices in my mind keep urging me to stop, keep going... keep going... stop.... finish it.... keep going.....

Then it's over. I'm sitting in the middle of the floor with the lamp in my hand. I look around at the wreckage in our once beautiful living room.

"Helen, you and the kids ought to take more pride in our belongings than this. Helen you're supposed to be setting an example for the kids to grow up by. Just look at you, you're getting blood all over the carpet we just put down. You know blood stains are going to be hard to get out.

"Michael, this is all your fault, you broke Daddy's favorite glass. How many times have I told you not to play with it? How many times? Answer Daddy. Don't just lay there looking at me like your mother's doing.

"Helen, kids, this is Daddy. Come on now, quit playing games with me. It's not funny. Michael come here. Daddy has to punish you for breaking the glass. Helen, let go of his arm. You know they'll never learn to mind if you always take up for them and coddle them.

"Someone's at the door. Helen, take the kids into the bedroom, they're a mess. Can't have company seeing them like that. You need to clean yourself up too. You've got something all over your face and your dress. Okay, stay there and play your silly games. I'll get the door and see who it is.

"Yes gentlemen, may I help you?" I ask the two clean-cut police officers as I open the door.

"Watch it, Mike!" the sandy haired one on the left yells to his companion as they both pull their revolvers from their holsters. "He's got a weapon!"

I drop the bloody lamp and the sandy haired policeman screams at me to lie face down on the floor with my hands on the back of my head. The other officer steps around me and I hear him making gagging noises. I hope he's alright. It's bad enough that Helen and the kids have made such a mess of the living room, but I sure don't want some stranger, not even a police officer, getting sick and throwing all over the carpet.

"It's a mess in here, blood everywhere. Call an ambulance and a forensics team. I'll cover this guy," he yells to the sandy haired officer standing over me.

"What's going on here," I demand. "Michael just broke a glass I was very proud of and I am going to punish him for it. In fact, I'm going to punish all of them. Just look at the mess they've made of the living room. They..."

"Shut up. Don't move an inch or I'll shoot," the officer yells as he cuffs my hands behind my back and drags me to my feet.

"Sarge, he finally done it," the sandy haired officer tells the desk sergeant as he leads me handcuffed into the station house. "We've arrested this character for alleged multiple homicide for the beating deaths of his wife and kids. His old lady used to call every Friday night and ask us to send someone out to pick him up. Then she would drop the assault charges against him for beating her. But this time, this time he killed them, Sarge. It looks like they were put through a meat grinder. God, what a mess!"

********************

"Warden," began warden's assistant Jackie Johnson. "We had a death on the Row last night. James, Walter James. He apparently died during the night. He seems to have died in a fit of anger or apoplexy or something. The body has already been turned over for an autopsy. We should have the results back by this afternoon."

"Okay. Let me know when the report comes in Johnson."

Looking up the James file, the warden reads the reason for his conviction, sentence and subsequent placement on Death Row. James was convicted on each of four counts of second degree murder for the beating deaths of his wife, his two sons and his daughter.

The warden remembers the James case as soon as he sees the fist page in the file. James contended throughtout his trial that his family was out to get him. That they were only playing a game. The state had had a hard ime getting him convicted and downplaying and insanity plea. As a matter of fact, it was just two years ago yesterday that James had beaten the life out of every member of his family.

********************

It's Saturday morning, just a normal, plain, Saturday morning. The kids are watching cartoons in the living room. I know they are because when I woke up just moments ago, I could hear their laughter and the zany sounds of Purple Pig and the Pirates, their favorite show.

I can hear my wife in the kitchen cooking breakfast...

********************

"Sir, that autopsy report on James is in," Johnson reports from the doorway of the warden's office. "Warden, I forgot to mention this earlier, but there was a broken glass on the floor of James' cell when we found him. It was some type of shot glass or something. It had some kind of Oriental inscription on it."

"Impossible, Johnson. You know the prisoners on Death Row are not allowed to have anything, let alone glass objects, in their cells."

"Yessir, I'm aware of that, and we haven't found out how it got in there. It's not really important anyway. The autopsy report states he died of natural causes. A blood vessel ruptured in his brain. Oh, there is one other thing. Another inmate swears he heard a kid screaming and could smell something burning, something like bacon or something. He swears that was around 3 a.m. this morning. That's about the time they think James died."

"Johnson, about the glass--dispose of it. Do not mention it in any reports. Just forget about it. The important thing is that James died and saved the state the cost of his execution."

"Yessir, but what about the inmate I mentioned?"

"Just forget it. If the inmates on the Row aren't seeing God, they're seeing their victims appearing in their cells and giving them full pardons and demanding their release. So file the autopsy and your report with me by 2 p.m. and just forget it."

"Yessir."

********************

It's Saturday morning, just a normal, plain, Saturday morning. The kids are watching cartoons in the living room. I know they are because when I woke up just moments ago, I could hear their laughter and the zany sounds of Purple Pig and the Pirates, their favorite show.

I can hear my wife in the kitchen cooking breakfast--she's always cooking breakfast. Ahhh, the smell of bacon frying and coffee brewing. What a way to wake up. I stretch and reach for a cigarette to clear the cobwebs from my brain and kick start my lungs. Just as my hand closes on the cigarette pack on the nightstand by the bed, I remember something...



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HITCHHIKERS OF THE NIGHT

A Short Story
by

Thomas E. Rutherford

October 1983


It was 11 p.m. and I was driving east on Interstate 30 headed into Arkansas from Texas. About three miles into Arkansas I spotted a hitchhiker on my side of the freeway. With about 300 hundred miles of nearly non-stop driving under my belt and a busted radio, I decided to pull over and offer a ride.

To my surprise, the hitchhiker was quite an attractive middle-aged lady with long, flowing blonde hair.

"Care for a ride?" I asked.

"Sure. My name's Amanda, Mandy if you like," she answered as she began climbing into my beat up old sedan.

After she got settled into the passenger seat, we rode five or six miles in complete silence. I spent the time studying her out of the corner of my eye. I noted she ws dressed rather skimpily for hitchhiking--a fact that should have been apparent at once, but for some strange reason was not.

She was about my height, five-foot-six, and filed out her denim cutoffs and matching halter top quite well. A glance down her sinewy, golden legs, as we passed under an overhead light, revealed a pair of tan sandals. Not what you would call "walking shoes."

Unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I asked, "Where you headed?"

"Oh, I don't know. Nowhere in particular. Just traveling, I guess. How about yourself?"

"Savannah. I'm going there for a job interview."

"I've never been there," she said. "That's on the gulf coast isn't it?"

"Yeah. Just south of South Carolina."

"Like a little company? To Savannah, I mean," she asked.

"I guess so. Driving by myself has been pretty rough and I've only been on the road about seven hours. I don't mean to pry, but you don't seem to be prepared for a trip. The clothes you're wearing, no luggage, it doesn't add up."

"Very observant, uh, I don't know your name. Mind telling me what I can call you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Ed. Ed Farnes."

"Well, Ed. You don't mind if I like to travel light do you? It does make it easier to get around. Besides I have no need for anything than what I've got with me at the moment."

"Suit yourself Mandy. Like I said, I didn't mean to pry. I was just curious is all."

We talked, mostly small talk, until we were well into Mississippi--now driving on U.S. Highway 82. Coming into a small town, she asked, "You planning on driving straight through to Savannah?"

"No, I thought I would get a motel room in Montgomery and just sleep until I wake up."

"Sounds good. But why wait until we get to Montgomery? I mean, there's a motel over there on the right at the next light. Why don't we get a room there. You've given me a ride and I'd like to show you what I can give you in return."

Not knowing what to say, but knowing that what she offered sounded very good, I pulled into the motel parking lot.

"Be right back," I said as I got out and headed for the office. I'll never forget the number to that small town motel room, A-3. For the life of me I cannot remember the name of the motel, but I'll never forget that room number. I sure didn't know when I fitted the key into that door and unlocked the room, that I was unlocking the way to a whole new life. Not a better life by any means, but a new one all the same.

Once inside, she came to me and the next thing I knew, we were embraced upon the dingy linen of the room's tiny bed. All of a sudden she broke free and said, "Why don't you take a shower and freshen up for what's to come?"

"O,O,Okay," I stammered and headed into the small restroom to take the fastest shower of my life. Finishing the shower and clad only in a towel I returned to the bed to find her already under the covers. Her denim attire draped over a nearby chair.

"Turn out the lights and join me," she invited in a low, deep-throated purr.

I have absolutely no recollection of what happened from the time I crawled under those sheets until I awoke the following afternoon. Mandy was gone when I groggily sat up in the bed. It was as if she had never been there at all.

I hastily dressed and staggered out into the early afternoon sunlight. I walked past my car and continued on past the motel office to the busy street. I never made it to Savannah, I have no job, and now I have no car, nothing. Nothing, that is, but what I'm wearing. I still don't remember happened from the time I got into bed with Mandy until I woke up the next day. But I do know that for the last five months I've been inside various motel rooms since then with countless women--women who have picked me up as I hitchhiked to nowhere in particular.

Ah, here comes another car. I see the headlights cutting through the night as it nears the top of that hill. Maybe, just maybe, I'll be lucky this time. It's been three weeks now and I desperately need to renew the waning life force that thirstily roams the arteries and veins of my body. I can feel a distinct ache in my teeth. An ache that can only be sated by sinking them into the soft flesh of a woman's neck.

You see, I've joined the legion of those mystical beings--the living dead. But I'm no ordinary vampire. No, I'm one of those special beings who is truly immortal and fears nothing. Crosses, holy water, sunlight, wooden stakes, none of these have any affect on me. I'm a hitchhiking homeless vampire of the highway. Though the sunlight doesn't affect me, I prefer to do my hunting at night.

So, the next time you see a hitchhiker at night and feel unusually compelled to stop remember what I've just related. It might be one of "us" wanting to give you a new life. Not a better life, but a new one all the same.



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IT HAPPENED AT THE LAKE

A Short Story
by

Thomas E. Rutherford

July 1983


The warm, summer breeze drifts silently across the moonlit waters of the mountain lake to the campfire where two silent figures sit staring at the stars. The heavens are full this night. There are millions of brightly lit celestial beings creating an awesome panorama.

Jack and Judith Machis are sitting side-by-side, each lost deep in thought as their campfire slowly dwindles to glowing embers. The forest is filled with the night sounds of countless creatures creating a soul-soothing symphony.

Why did it have to happen to me, muses Jack silently to himself. It seems that whenever a man feels he's sitting on top of the world, someone or something comes along and knocks him to his knees. Only three weeks I was a rising executive in one of the largest banks in the United States. I was fired when a quarterly audit revealed a minor shortage from my branch office. They fired me because someone had to get the axe and I was the branch manager. I couldn't explain the loss, so it was 'Goodbye, Jack!'

Judith breaks the quiet, "Honey, why the frown. Are you still brooding about losing your job? I thought we came on this vacation so we could leave all that behind."

"I know, I know. But it seems so unfair. Another year and I would have been in line for a promotion. You're right though. I guess I haven't been too easy to live with the past few weeks. I promise, I'll forget about the bank and the rest of our problems. Besides, you are so right. That is why we planned this trip. To just get away from it all. When we leave here it'll be the beginning of a whole new life, and hopefully, a better one."

"Jack, let's turn in early tonight so we can get up and do some fishing before sunrise."

"Okay, you go ahead, I'm going to listen to the news on the radio before turning in." Jack is listening to the radio when, as he reaches for another beer, he catches sight of a falling star. Only this "falling star" is unlike any he has ever seen. It is slowly coming "down to earth" on the far side of the lake.

"Guess we'll take the boat over tomorrow and see if we can find where it hit," Jack says quietly to himself. Finishing his beer he heads for the tent and lays down beside his already sleeping wife.

The following morning the Machis' finish their early morning fishing venture. Jack had caught five nice size crappie and Judith had taken four. As they are heading back to camp in the boat, Jack remembers the falling star. "Oh yeah, I meant to tell you--after you turned in last night, a good-sized meteor or something fell out of the sky and apparently hit somewhere on the other side of the lake. I thought you might be interested in going over and seeing if we could find where it came down."

"Hey, what if it's one of those UFOs that have been sighted in this area? There might even be little green men running through the woods now trying to find somebody to eat for breakfast," laughs Judith.

"Okay, cut the clowning. I just thought it might be interesting to see something that fell from the heavens."

"Lighten up, Jack. You've GOT to learn to laugh again."

"You're right. So, what do you say? Want to go looking for those little green men?"

"Sure, why not. Let me grab my camera and binoculars and I'll race you to the boat."

Jack picked up his backpack and poured water over the small campfire until it was a sizzling, smoking bed of damp coals. He had just set the fire bucket down when Judith came out of the tent, walked over nonchalantly and slapped him on the back and took off at breakneck speed for the boat. Jack caught up with her when she was about ten feet from the boat but instead of passing her, he slowed and let her beat him into the boat.

"Okay," she said. "Since I won the race, you get to work the oars. Maybe that'll teach you not to throw any more races and actually give it all you've got when we compete."

"You don't ever stop," complained Jack. "Can't you ever be satisfied with the way things turn out, even if I did throw the race. I'm not saying I did throw it, but if I did, then I did it because I love you and not because I think you're inferior or any of that other politically correct crap."

"Just get in the boat and paddle and I won't mention it again."

"Thank heavens for small favors," Jack replied wistfully.

The lake was still, the sky was a beautiful blue with billowy clouds floating westward, and the distant shore looked peacful with its greenery and wild flowers waving gently in the very mild breeze.

As the boat neared the landing spot Jack had guided for Judith turned around in the boat to look where they would be going ashore.

"It's really quiet


>>>>> MORE TO COME <<<<<


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