Dennis Larsen - With Cruel Intent

The tour was brief but informative. The library had been of service to the community for many years and Mrs. Anderson had been the director for more years than she cared to divulge. The working hours would be typical, starting at 8:30 a.m. and closing one half hour beyond the posted closing time. This would allow time to straighten things up in preparation for the next day. The library, however, was open two nights a week until 10:00 p.m. and Blanche would be expected to work those shifts on a regular basis, as she was the newest member of the staff.

“Mrs. Anderson, you indicated in our correspondence that funding was a concern, yet I see so many young people working in the back room today,” she inquired.

“Oh them, they belong to a work study group from the high school. They come in a couple times a week to help sort books and get them back on the shelf for us. Without them we’d be in real trouble. There are only four of us that are actually paid to be here. That’d be you, me, (pointing at herself), Marcus the custodian, I’ll introduce you to him later today, and Seymour. He’s a college student that helps out in the evenings when we need him. I guess that’s about it,” she said, with a shrug of her lace-covered shoulders. “I think today you should spend some time getting to know the layout of the library, what we have available and familiarize yourself with our computer system. I believe you said you had used something similar in your last position.”

Blanche began to say yes, but was cut off and sent on her way with a flick of Ester’s hand and calling over her shoulder, “Let me know if you have any questions. I’ll be re-stamping all the books that came in this morning.” The next couple of hours just flew by as she inspected the rows of books and wandered the library from top to bottom. She noted that a steady stream of patrons had come and gone with some older people settled into the cozy chairs either reading the paper or sleeping, in some cases. At 3:00 p.m. she excused herself and informed Ester that she'd be back in half an hour after she'd finished her lunch.

As she exited the building and descended the yellow highlighted steps she could hear children laughing and playing, she followed the direction of the noise. Turning the corner on Wilson Drive she could see a group of small children running and playing in and near a fountain. Water sprayed from the white, marble fountain that graced the center of the vibrant little park, arching high into the air coming back to earth in a torrent of splashes at the base. Trusting parents sat idly by talking in small clusters as the children welcomed the cool water on their heads and tanned bodies.

“Just the place for lunch,” she thought. Sitting on the edge of a nearby fountain, Blanche opened the brown paper bag she had hidden away in her purse and pulled out the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that her landlady, Mrs. Carmichael, had made for her that morning, insisting that the homemade jam would be the best she had ever tasted. The spray from the fountain felt good as it acted to nullify some of the humidity. Blanche sat and enjoyed the beauty of the day and the children as they jumped into the fountain only to find that the water was much colder than they had anticipated. Her life perhaps was taking a turn for the better as she thought about her new job and home, as it was.

Miss Caroline Carmichael was a direct descendant of Jefferson Davis of Civil War fame, she was Southern through and through. In her late sixties, she was prim and proper but ran Caroline’s Bed and Breakfast with an iron fist. Insisting that everyone get up and to the breakfast table by 7:00 a.m. “Because there would be nothing to eat any later.” Her home, now business, had been handed down from generation to generation and she was the sole heir after her brother had passed away the previous year from pneumonia, but she was quite sure it was the smuggled Cuban cigars that killed him. Never married, Caroline preferred to spend her days fussing over her guests and making ‘good’ food. Her fruit salad was the talk of the town or at least to hear her tell it, it was.

“You know the secret is to slice the apples just so and to add a bit of walnut.” She had given this little gem away to Blanche on their first night together around the dinner table.

The house really was very nice with all the Southern charm one might expect from an older Georgian style home. Large front porch complete with swing for two, bedrooms with canopy beds and large mahogany headboards. Only drawback was the one bathroom per three rooms so some sort of schedule was available unless you could negotiate a better deal with the other guests. At the moment the B amp;B was not full, just too hot for most people to do any traveling. Blanche thought the rooms were certainly reasonable and were available either by the day or month. Blanche had decided to give her a month's rent in anticipation that she could find a condo or something more suited to her lifestyle.

As long as the food was good, the neighbors quiet and the bus not too far away it would do nicely for now. As she pushed her tongue under the bread lodged on the roof of her mouth and carefully wiped at the corners with a small napkin, that had been thoughtfully included in her bag, she had to admit, most likely, this was by far the best peanut butter sandwich she had ever eaten.

Overhead the flag rippled in the wind as he surged forward; keeping his balance, step after step, getting closer to home and safety. His rifle slung over his shoulder must have weighed a hundred pounds and was gaining weight with each labored footstep. Images of Sarah by the fire knitting, her beaming face changing with the flames as shadows danced on her image. Up ahead he could not yet see the cabin but smoke was rising where the cabin should be. His heart raced, the anticipation of holding his Sarah overwhelming as he moved, each step more agonizing than the prior. The battle had been hard fought but ultimately a defeat, sending the survivors scattering for home or worse. His mind’s eye pictured the reunion with his beautiful bride, her full breasts crushed to his chest, her arms pulling him close, their lips desperately seeking each other, and then he saw it — a flash of blue from his right, moving quickly. He parried to his left pulling the flag down toward the assailant to act as a weapon and shield but it was too late. He felt the tip of the blade enter his ribs, burning and sharp. Blood trickled from his lip as he fell, his face pressed against the cold earth and in the distance he could hear his Sarah calling…

“Seymour, Mr. Wood,” a pause, “Mr. Wood, are you with us? Will someone nudge Seymour so he can join the discussion?” the instructor said.

Seymour quickly jumped to life following the jab in the ribs from a well-aimed pencil. His sun bleached, course hair matted a little closer to the left side of his head where he’d had it pressed against the desktop. The corner of his mouth was moist but thankfully no saliva was running down his chin. Laughter filled the room as the battle weary soldier realized what had happened.

“Mr. Wood, are you with us now?”

“Oh yeah, Mrs. Wild, I’m really sorry,” somewhat slurring his words, as he tried to regain his consciousness.

“Okay good, let‘s move along. Who can tell me what it was about Ted Bundy that made him so successful as a serial killer? Anyone have an idea?” she said moving back to the whiteboard, marker in hand.

Seymour Wood, 24, although awake, still didn’t have his mind in the game. The long hours helping his mom run their small farm, days taking summer courses and the occasional night at the library were taking their toll. He had to admit the little power nap he’d just had did make him feel better and as he tried to insert himself into the discussion he could feel his second wind kicking in. He really was enjoying the classes he’d selected for the condensed summer schedule. Only two years into his major, he was a few years older than most of the other students, but the years following his dad’s death had been spent just trying to make ends meet and keeping the family farm from bankruptcy. Things were a bit better now. His mother had found a hired hand that was reliable and able to lighten the load, which freed up the time Seymour needed to begin his education. Criminology had always been of particular interest to Seymour. Old Dragnet and Hawaii Five-0 reruns, CSI, and others had filled his young mind with images of busting down doors, high-speed chases and the 'collar'.