Dennis Larsen - With Cruel Intent

Miles away, as the three collaborators were meeting outside of Washington D.C., a very groggy Katherine Criddle was awaking from her sleep. Stirring from a wonderful dream filled with friends from years past and dancing her heart out with both legs present was just too good to give up, but looking at the clock she realized she couldn’t waste the day laying in bed. Weighing which she needed more, a warm shower or breakfast, the need to use the bathroom helped her decide and she swung her legs to the side of the bed, reached down and picked up her prosthetic and with a ‘CHKKK CHKKK’ clicked the artificial leg into place.

She staggered to the bathroom, splashed some cold water on her face in an effort to wake up, still half thinking about the ‘foxy’ guys vying for her attention. The pellets of hot water felt good, she stood with her head under the forceful stream using both hands against the wall of the shower to steady her, the water running down her back and into the waiting drain. Once she was awake enough to finish the job she quickly ran the bar of soap over her smooth skin and washed her hair, lingering under the flow for a few more minutes as the conditioner worked its magic, then she turned the faucet off and twisted the excess water from her hair and used her hands as squeegees to push the water from her body and into the tub.

Toweling off, she could see her reflection in the mirror, not quite what she remembered from the dream but still happy with the way she looked at 50. Things were moving a little bit south on her but could be worse, a lot worse. Didn’t take much imagination to see what was happening to most of the people her age so she was thankful for the God-given looks and genetics that had come her way. She wrapped the cotton towel around her breasts, creating an enhanced cleavage and tipped her head to one side, as she looked at her reflection.

“Yeah,” she thought, “I still got it!” and blew herself an exaggerated kiss into the mirror.

Katie ran a brush quickly through her hair, enough to remove most of the snarls, before she browsed through her closet for the day’s attire. The forecast had called for another warm day with afternoon showers, the usual for August. An aquamarine short sleeve shirt caught her eye, which she matched with a light pair of gingham slacks. She seldom wore shorts, even when the weather called for it, due to the appearance of her prosthetic and the looks that it brought her way, especially from the children. She pulled a white tank over her wet head, reached into each cup of her pushup bra and adjusted herself accordingly, before pulling on the slacks and slipping the shirt around her shoulders.

Without much in store for the day, other than work later in the afternoon for a short shift, she had concluded to avoid the yard work that needed to be done and make a trip into town to check out the farmers market and try to meet some friends for a late lunch. Ms. Criddle was not one to leave chores undone but she just had a feeling this was going to be a very special day and she didn’t want a few menial chores to get in her way of capitalizing on what the day may offer.

“First things first,” she thought. “I’ll grab a quick bite then run down to the gas station, fill up, wash the ‘stang; then head to town. I wonder if that good looking Russell, at the hardware store, would be up for a visit from the hottest babe in town?” her thoughts drifted, as she opened her bedroom door and ambled toward the kitchen.

“He’s probably pretty lonely since his divorce was finalized, could use some female companionship and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Oh yeah, I’ll be stopping by there today and…,” then aloud, but not fully registering the import of what stood before her, “What in the….,” and then it hit her. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!” she screamed, turning circles in the kitchen, unsure where to go or what to do, but her stomach forced the issue sending her running for the kitchen sink where she vomited up the remains of her dinner the night before.

She stood at the sink, spitting, mind reeling, unsure of what to do next. “Think, think!” she told herself, “don’t panic, get a grip!” The distressed widow slowly turned to take in the horror that was her kitchen. There before her was the kitchen table with all six chairs arranged in a pyramid on top of the table, balanced perfectly. She stepped to the backdoor to see if it was securely locked. It was. She carefully walked around the table as not to disturb the structure but to get a closer look, still in shock that someone or something had been in her home and had done such a thing. As she ringed the table, she spotted something nestled between the legs of two chairs a bit higher than she could reach. It appeared to be a small piece of paper or perhaps a photograph.

“Dear God, what’s happening?” she whispered, tears staining her blouse. Katie finally got enough of a grip on her emotions that she realized she needed to call the authorities. “The phone, where did I leave that damn phone?” questioning herself out loud. The sound of her voice seemed to offer some degree of comfort and safety. Her mind shot scenarios at her faster than she could compute them but one stood out more than the others. “What if he’s still in the house? WHAT IF HE’S STILL IN THE HOUSE!”

“Got to get the police and get out of here,” she continued to talk to herself. She suddenly remembered seeing the phone near the sink after she’d showered. Without hesitating she quickly made her way back to her bedroom, peering into the laundry room and spare bedroom as she passed, hoping not to see anything out of the ordinary, and she didn’t. The phone was next to the sink as she had thought. Rapidly she dialed 911 and waited trying to contain her breathing, feeling a bit light headed.

There was an answer at the other end, “9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?”

Now whispering as not to alert an intruder if he was, in fact, still inside the home, “Someone broke into my house and I’m not sure if he’s still here, son of a bitch stacked my chairs on my table,” Katie slowly started back down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Excuse me, he did what?” the operator seated inside the Lowndes County Sheriff’s Office inquired.

“He piled my kitchen chairs on the table like a pyramid thingy. I need some help, please send somebody!”

“I’ve got officers responding; please confirm your address for me, okay. Stay on the line, don’t do anything but stay on the phone with me. Is he still in the house?” she asked firmly.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t dare look around. What do I do if he’s here?” tearfully whispered the terrified woman back into the receiver.

“Listen to me, is this Katherine Criddle?” no reply. “Katherine, you with me, don’t leave the phone, are you with me?” the operator said forcefully, trying to keep the victim’s attention.

“Yeah, I’m here, I’m so scared, please help me, please send somebody!” she sobbed into the phone; tears running incessantly down her cherry cheeks.

“Okay Katherine, I want you to get out of the house, can you do that? I want you to get to the front door and get out of there and wait for the officers in the street. You hear me? Get out of there now!”

“Okay, okay I can see the front door from here,” she said, moving toward the living room and her escape.

“No, No, No! Please no! Why me? I… I… I ……” Screaming,then silence. The 911 operator listened. Nothing.

“Katherine! Mrs. Criddle what’s happened? Can you hear me?” She pressed her ear firmly to the headset, trying to draw any possible response from the petrified woman. Then she heard it, very faint, very light, but the unmistakable sound of someone breathing, almost snoring, coming from within the living room of 412 Big Buck Circle.