Dennis Larsen - With Cruel Intent

“Rascal, what has gotten into you today? You little monster,” she teasingly said.

The dog stopped at the door behind which he knelt. He could see the mutt through the slats in the dim light of the basement. Rascal tilted his head and lifted his nose into the air, letting out a bark before moving to the door, and smelling along the small gap at the bottom.

“Rascal, I know what’s in there, and no, you can’t chew up another pair of mommy’s panties. You’ve already ruined two pair this week.”

He could now see the slender woman standing behind the dog, a laundry basket held with one hand, pressing the edge of the basket against her hip to hold it in place. “Come on, get out of the way so I can get this stuff in the wash,” she insisted.

Lester slowly moved his position as far to his left as possible without making a sound. He kept his eyes on the woman and could see her set the basket down to her right and reach for the bi-fold handle that would uncover the appliances. He tried to make himself invisible, lowering himself as close to the floor as possible, without losing his ability to strike. Suddenly the door slid open, exposing the washer and dryer, but leaving him somewhat in the dark. Rascal was protesting loudly now and the woman continued to explain why he couldn’t get at her panties.

“If only she knew.” He couldn’t help but find some humor in what this must look like from the dog’s perspective.

The panty covered thief held his breath, watching her load the washer inches away from the gun pointed at her, just behind the closed door. Suddenly, the woman reached through the narrow opening, to the side of the dryer, in an effort to pull the detergent from the shelf above Lester. Her elbow was mere inches from his shoulder but he remained stone still, she was unable to reach, and she retracted her arm, pushing the small dog out of the way with her foot in the same instant. He could see her body moving to his left, placing her directly in front of him, her hand reaching for the knob that would expose his hiding place. Never before had he felt so alive. Every muscle taut, nerves raw, his senses in overdrive and his fingers tight against the triggers. Rascal continued to whine and yap, snapping at her slipper covered feet. She momentarily withdrew her hand from the knob and scooped up the small dog in her right, cuddling him close to her breast, and pulled the door open with her left.

Lester burst from the closet, panty on his head, screaming like a madman and pulling the trigger at point blank range on both the woman and Rascal. The woman fell backwards, landing in a heap in the laundry basket, the dog firmly pulled to her chest, pepper spray burning their eyes, nasal passages and mouth, making it difficult to breath but not keeping her from screaming at the top of her lungs. The sprayer leaned in closer to make sure he gave them both a liberal application of the pepper mixture, covering his own face with a bent inner arm in an attempt to avoid himself being overcome. The woman remained in the basket, her legs kicking wildly, hoping to take the attackers feet out from underneath him but being ineffective. With her free left hand she swung at Lester, her eyes squeezed shut, and unable to connect with any of the pathetic blows.

Satisfied that they were out of commission for a few minutes, he issued a verbal warning, “Don’t leave the basement for 10 minutes or I’ll come back and finish the job!” He repeated it a second time, screaming above her hysteria, to get his point across.

He ran up the stairs, also feeling some of the effects of the spray that had drifted into his own eyes. Fighting to see his way out the back, he grabbed the pillowcase and backpack, stuffing the gun and pepper spray into the open mouth of the bag, and dashed for the fence and the motorcycle beyond. At first he ran in the wrong direction, the sounds of the woman still fresh in his ears and unsure if it was his memory or if she was still screaming that loudly. He stopped, knelt down and looked around to get his bearings, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Remembering where the Yamaha was hidden, he ran for it, jumping over the low brush and pulling the backpack around his shoulders as he went. Upon reaching the bike he undid a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt, stuffed the few items and the pillowcase inside, slammed the helmet down on his head and lifted the bike from the dirt. A quick kick of the starter and he was on his way back down the tracks and the path to a paved road.

“Faster, faster!” he told himself, “she’ll be on the phone by now, faster, faster!”

He rode like Steve McQueen, in a race for his life, until he got to the blacktop where he knew he would have to regain his cool and not draw attention to himself. In the distance he could hear sirens screaming toward him, but he fought the urge to accelerate and start going cross-country. Alternating red and blue lights were flashing dead ahead and coming at a breakneck speed.

“Keep it together! Damn it Lester, keep it together!” He commanded himself, his right hand itching to crank up the rpm’s.

The Sheriff’s vehicle raced past him, not giving him a second look, he spun his head around and watched the lights become smaller as the car hurled down the road. Lester saw before he heard it, the brake lights on the squad car suddenly lit up, the screeching of the tires barely audible over the sound of his own bike, but undeniable that he’d been made. The Sheriff’s unit desperately tried to stop and turn around, sending the vehicle into a broad slide and landing it in a ditch, dust and smoke covering the scene and for a moment blinding the driver. Breland cussed, rocking the transmission from reverse to drive, and back again, in an effort to work the car out of the predicament he’d put it in.

Lester didn’t wait around to see if the deputy was really after him or not. He downshifted, increased the torque and left a trail of rubber, as he high tailed it for home and the safety it would provide.

“Felix better be pretty damn happy,” he said, thinking of the.38 in his pack and how much he’d love to use it on the Chicago gangster right about now.

Iggy pulled his sunglasses down on the end of his nose, peering over the top to see if it improved his ability to see down the country lane. He looked at his watch, having to extend his arm as far as he could to read the time.

“Should have spent the few extra bucks and got the bifocal,” he said, to himself. “Where are these guys? I’ve got to be back at the office in a couple of hours.”

At the conclusion of their last clandestine meeting they had agreed to meet one final time before sending their hired thief in for his ultimate mission. With the past outings paying off better than they had anticipated, it was time to move their agenda along. Iggy had waited a long time to get his hands on some big money; the eight years had eaten away at him, slowly killing him inside with nothing really to show for it, other than less hair and more fat. He had to admit that Jeremy had been good to him, advancing him a little here and a little there, but not any of the big money that had been promised him from the outset.

“That stupid, greedy Beverly Davis,” the thought repeated itself in his mind in various slurs and slanders. “If she’d only been reasonable at the outset, I’d be laying on the beach, margarita in hand and some Caribbean hooker massaging my neck.”

Different scenarios had played out in his imagination over the past eight years, each complete with beautiful women, exotic locations and lots and lots of money. When Jeremy’s dad passed away it looked like cooler heads were going to prevail, and Beverly would concede and see the will as overreaching and unfair, in light of only a two-year marriage. In an attempt to avoid years in court and numerous parties contesting the will, Jeremy had his attorneys draft an offer to his stepmother with a cash settlement without having to liquidate the estate. He had thought it more than fair and Ignatius had agreed. The will would have been settled, leaving all the assets, or at least most of them intact. Jeremy would have to sell off some of the smaller holdings to come up with the five million he had offered, but after the way they had bonded in the Atlanta hospital, he felt it very generous.