"White, Pamela - The Perfect Murder" - читать интересную книгу автора (White Pamela)

THE PERFECT MURDER
By
Pamela White

I knelt down to get a better look under the old workbench in the cellar. That's where Serena said the safe would be, hidden back in the shadows. I peered into the dark, disregarding the dirt floor in the old home's cellar and what it would do to my pantyhosed knees. Stretching, reaching, I grasped it with both hands and tugged. Bit by bit, the small fireproof safe scooted forward under my determined efforts. It was extremely heavy just as Serena had warned me. I could lift it. For her I could do anything.

"So you are the famous Kelly Pointer," a male's voice sneered from the doorway of the cellar.

I jumped to my feet, fought the dizziness I felt in my head, and focused at the man with the gun.

"How nice of you to agree to steal my safe for the lovely Serena. Get real. Serena's not going to get her way this time." Waving the small gun in hypnotizing arcs, he moved forward one step, then another into the small storage room of the large cellar. I knew nothing about guns, but it looked real enough to me. From what Serena confessed about her marriage, this husband of hers, this big, bad Brock Evans was practiced in violence against women.

I stared at the still moving gun, forgetting to breathe. I had no doubt he meant to kill me right there in that filthy cellar.

"Stupid bitch, get out of my house. If you or Serena try to get back in here to steal MY safe again, I'll use this." More gestures with the gun. More menacing steps toward me.

I couldn't speak. Visions of Serena being slapped around by Brock, of being picked up and slammed into walls, of being threatened with the exact same gun filled my mind. My consciousness shut down. I moved away from the hiding place of the safe and started retreating. Instinctively, I wanted to flee, but Brock hindered access to the door. He stalked closer. The terror I felt run down my spine as I backed into the solid stone wall was nearly complete.

Nowhere to run.

It was time to fight.

My compassion for Serena came from my own experience. Summer weekends with my grandfather involved hours in the hunting camp through the woods, far from the watchfulness of my parents and grandmother. He had guns too, so the truth went untold until my family was gone, and I found my way to a therapist. Part of my "recovery" included a self-defense class. The goal was self-empowerment. The result was simply to cement my belief that the sickos in the world would find me sooner or later.

My urge for flight stymied by limitations of my situation, I reached behind and to my side hopelessly searching for a weapon. If I was going to die, at least it would be in battle. Victims no more and all that.

My hand swept behind me along the wall, and felt, of all things, a bat. Perfect. Brock had moved in closer, his anger at my continued presence mounting. Did he really think I was going to run past him while he waved that, that deadly thing in his hand?

I tried to remember my self-defense lessons. Grasp the weapon (the bat) at the end. Use the leverage. As in the all-American game, swing the bat. Make contact with the ball (or the bad guy). Hit a home run.

Suddenly, before he could figure out what I was doing, I brought forth the bat with one hand, grabbed on with my other one and swung straight for his ribs. Aim to maim. My eyes closed involuntarily as I yelled out my war cry, "Never Again!"

The force of contact jarred my entire body; I tried to swing the bat back for another defensive whack but it wouldn't budge. My eyes flew open. I'm not sure if they understood what they saw. Brock, with his soundless mouth opening and closing, began to sink to the floor, as if he was melting. I let go of the object I was holding, still attached to the dying man. Shocked to the core, I realized it wasn't a baseball bat. It was a genuine galvanized steel tipped, top of the line, lifetime guarantee, garden rake.

Didn't they have a gardener? Why would this thing be down here in the cellar? The incongruity of my concern over the presence of this tool versus the fact that a man was dying, probably dead at my feet, by my hands, didn't occur to me. Tools should be in the tool shed. For that matter, why was I not surprised about the presence of a bat. That is, when I thought the rake was a bat.

I hadn't thought, I saw that now. I had reacted. A very bad way to live your life, I had learned in my group therapy sessions. Very bad, indeed.

With my hands quaking, I reached toward Brock's body. It was true, just like they say. It was obvious that the life had leaked out of him in the few seconds since I punctured any number of vital organs in our contretemps.

I had to focus on Serena now. My poor Serena. She had hated and left her husband, but it would still be a loss for her, I was sure. Then it hit me. Murder in the first degree. Here I was sheltering this man's wife while she fought for her share in the marital assets during the nasty divorce. I probably hated him more than she did, I was in his home, ostensibly to steal a safe with all their combined legal documents. He may have surprised me, but what if the police thought that I hid in the cellar until he came down so I could kill him? What if they thought Serena was in on it?

I had to protect her, and hope against all hope that I could protect myself at the same time. It was a cold night, and I still had my gloves on from the drive over. I had let myself in with a key, and gone straight to the cellar. Serena also wanted me to pick up her clothes and jewelry, but the safe was most urgent. She had stressed that over and over while we were making the plans for my trip to the Evans home.

I walked into the adjoining room scanning the shelves of paints, brushes and mineral spirits. Latex gloves. I pulled a pair on over my own gloves. I had never read a detective novel all the way through, nor was I interested in police dramas. Did I need extra gloves, anyway? What other things besides fingerprints could be used to identify criminals. DNA? What if I left hair? Could that be tested? Or was that just science fiction still?

Don't react, stand back and think, I reminded myself. I still wasn't breathing normally, but I gave myself a mental shake. I can't face all the errors I might be making.

One thing at a time.