James Heneghan - Fit to kill

The gym wasn’t crowded, which was one of the advantages of coming in the late evening. The music was thumping away as usual. She did her stretches and warm-ups on the mats. Then she moved to the StairMaster and the weight machines. Content with her own thoughts, she seldom talked to anyone. If people spoke to her, she usually nodded, smiled politely and moved away.

Lance was a workaholic. Perhaps that was what had attracted them to each other ten years ago. They had both been studious and hardworking, serious about their futures. Lance now had his own software company. He loved the work. Computers were his passion. And he loved Rusty. At least she was pretty sure he did. And she loved him. She couldn’t see, however, why this should be any reason to spoil her fun.

Sex with Lance had become a habit. Once a week, Saturday or Sunday night, but never both. He climbed on top to have his floppy disk scanned. Then with a few humps and pumps and wriggles of her internal hard drive, she downloaded his deposit, emptying him of his cache, and it was all over for another week.

“Say, would you mind spotting me a set?”

She turned. It was that beautiful muscular man. The one with the skimpy rag of a shirt, who always looked so preoccupied and serious. Doc, everyone called him. She followed behind, admiring his triangular back and firm buns.

He lay on the bench, chest under the barbell and feet on the floor. A position that had the effect of thrusting his lumped crotch into prominent relief. He gripped the bar with both hands and lifted it down over his chest ten times. Then he rattled it back into the rests with a loud groan. He stood and wiped his brow with a towel.

“Thanks.” He held out his hand. “Stanley Blunt. Everyone calls me Doc. Appreciate the spot.”

She ignored the hand. “Rusty Carlson.

You’re quite welcome.”

She was not about to ask him why he was called Doc, because she didn’t want to know. Doc indeed. My god! What a bod! Well endowed in all respects. What would he be like in bed?

She worked out for a little over an hour. Time to go. In the locker room, she peeled off her gloves, washed her hands and glanced in the mirror. Her new black exercise suit looked good on her. Skintight, it made her feel sexy. She had the figure for it, so why not show it off. Had Doc liked what he’d seen? She pulled her tracksuit on over her exercise suit. She never showered at the fitness center, preferring her own bathroom at home. Who knew what kinds of bugs and germs grew to maturity in public showers these days! TB was on the rise again because antibiotics no longer did the job. One would have to be a complete fool to take unnecessary risks. Just last month, Sandra, her health and fitness editor at the magazine, had run an article on the new “hot” diseases, Ebola virus and dengue fever. Their increasing ability to travel by airplane from Africa to North America in a matter of hours. Scary.

Rusty brushed her hair in the mirror, fogged slightly from the excess steam from the shower room. “Rusty” was actually a misnomer. Her hair was auburn, faded a bit now. And really no longer auburn, except for what her hairdresser coaxed from it. Her real name was Lorraine, but nobody had called her that since college. She moved her face closer to the mirror. She was thirty-nine and felt great. Still had her looks. Hadn’t allowed her body to get sloppy. She thought about Bill Murchie and smiled into the mirror. Bill was her secret lover. They were planning to get away for some heavy-duty sex on Saltspring Island this weekend while Lance attended a software conference in San Francisco.

She’d met Bill in the elevator one afternoon riding down from her office on the top floor to the coffee shop on the ground. He was a handsome “suit” who got in at the fifteenth. With the elevator to themselves, he had smiled and introduced himself. He was with the firm of McBay and Katz. Had seen her around and thought she looked like an interesting woman. Could he buy her a coffee?

Soon it was, “Why don’t you stop by my place for a drink on the way home?”

His luxury apartment on Beach Avenue had a fine view of English Bay. Soon she found herself dropping in for a drink on the way home once a week, usually on a Friday, to relax and unwind.

She didn’t love Bill, but he was the best thing to happen to her love life in a long while. This weekend she planned to turn the tables and tie him up for a change. Having all that power over him-what a total turn-on!

She headed for the elevator. With only a few cars in the parking garage, it was deserted and quiet. She slid in behind the wheel, started the car and drove out of the garage. The rain and wind were worse. The street was empty, with the Denman traffic lights swinging wildly in the high wind. She drove into the back lane that led to Lagoon Drive. Almost home.

The lane was dark.

“Stop here!”

The shock of the man’s voice and his breath in her ear caused her to slam her foot on the brake. At the same time she felt, and saw in the rearview mirror, the long blade of a knife at her throat. She swooned with fright. A volcano erupted in her belly covering her thighs in a stream of urine.

“Drive slowly till I tell you to turn.”

She couldn’t move her head without being cut with the knife. There was nobody in the lane. She took her foot off the brake, and the car rolled forward.

The West End killer.

The rain was slanting into the clunking wiper blades, and she was going to die.

No, she wasn’t! Not without a fight. What if she floored the accelerator and sideswiped the concrete wall of an apartment building and then flung herself out the car door? She might be killed, but it was a chance, a risk. She could even race the car, slam it head-on into the side of a building and kill them both. Not a mere risk but almost certain death, ridding the world of a monster.

“Don’t even think of it!” growled the voice behind her.

Her insides turned to custard.

“Drive into the park.”

She did as he ordered, driving slowly past the golf course, thinking furiously. The curb here was high. Beyond the curb there was a wire fence surrounding the golf course. Beyond that was a parking lot. Beyond the parking lot, there was a strip of forest before the drop onto the seawall. If she were going to do something, it would have to be here and now. If she drove into the deserted parking lot, he would tell her to stop and it would be all over for her.

She gathered her courage and stabbed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The powerful BMW leaped forward like an unleashed hound. She jerked the steering wheel. The tires hit the curb hard, but the car kept going, leaping over the curb and crashing into the fence with a scream of tortured metal. The BMW continued forward on the sidewalk, bucking and plunging, dragging chain-link fencing along with it into the parking lot.

The lot was empty. She hung onto the wheel, keeping her foot down on the gas pedal. The car crashed into a concrete divider and came to an abrupt stop. The seat belt held her. Fingers scrabbling, she couldn’t get her door open, couldn’t release the seat belt.

The wind howled.

She turned her head painfully and saw him coming over the seat at her.

The rain drummed steadily on the roof of the car like a dirge.

“Another body this morning.” Jack Wexler’s mournful tones sounded even more mournful over the phone.

“Where?”

“Stanley Park golf course.”

“Jaysus! That’s four.” Casey, just back from his run in the park, was beginning to cool down and couldn’t wait to soak in a hot shower.

“Body discovered at six this morning. Old man out walking his dog on the golf course. His dog was sniffing around something. He went to look. Same as usual, naked torso. Except the animals had been at it. Bit of a mess.”