Scott Wittenburg - The May Day Murders

The path ascended a steep hill for several hundred feet before terminating onto a dirt road. When he reached the road, Stanley stopped long enough to gaze down through a clearing in the trees at the scene below. He wasn’t able to actually spot any of the emergency vehicles but he could see the flashing red and blue lights reflecting off the sides of the mountain, their eerie staccato flashes slicing into the yellow-orange glow of Cindy’s burning Mercedes. He was pleased with himself-he hadn’t been able to foretell whether the car would actually catch fire when it hit and this had been one of the few calculated risks he’d taken on this mission. He had debated on whether or not to install an explosive device that would have ensured that Cindy’s body would end up in cinders but had decided not to take any unnecessary risk. The authorities might well find the device during their investigation and that would have bungled the whole thing. Some details simply had to be left to fate.

Stanley turned and began jogging east on the road. He felt good-in fact he felt excellent. His body was in peak physical condition and at one with the road, the air was crisp and the adrenalin was pumping. Right this moment, he felt like he could take on the whole fucking world and win. In a sense, he was doing just that. With each mission he undertook, the world was getting much closer to discovering the truth: that Stanley Jenkins was not going to be pushed around any more. He was a force to be reckoned with-not the innocuous egghead that everyone thought him to be. Nope, he was a fucking cool dude-just like James Bond. And just like his idol, Stanley Jenkins was leaving behind droves of gorgeous babes in his wake as he encountered his missions-every one of them with broken hearts filled with regret that they hadn’t known sooner that Stanley was not only a cool dude and a master spy, but a super stud as well.

But even James Bond had to retire some day. Bond had in fact retired the day that Ian Fleming, his creator, had died. The reincarnations of Bond since then had only been cheap imitations of the real thing. Sort of the same way that Cindy Fuller had been a cheap imitation of the real thing…

The image of her, the real thing, as a teenage girl flashed through Stanley’s mind for a fleeting moment and he felt his pulse quicken even more. The prospect of returning to his roots and settling down with her in the not too far future heightened his euphoria. She was going to be his light at the end of the tunnel, the one who would appreciate everything he had accomplished. She would be able to see what Stanley Jenkins was all about without having to be told or shown. Because this babe had class-always had and always would. That’s what set her apart from all the rest. He’d known it from the very first time he’d followed her home from school and saw the way she’d strutted her sweet little ass ever so gracefully-with confidence and poise. She didn’t have to flaunt her obvious attributes; they were just there. She knew it and the rest of the world knew it.

But the rest of the world would never know her as Stanley Jenkins did. He knew her intimately-her likes and dislikes, her habits, her routines. He’d watched her many times as she lay in bed at night, her homework swept off to the side, staring at the ceiling and fantasizing about the man of her dreams suddenly coming along and sweeping her off her feet. He had read her diary once, and she’d written that someday she would meet someone who truly understood her and knew all the things to do and say that made her happy. And once she found him, she would do anything in the world for him and never let him go.

Little had she known that she would have to wait this long to realize her dreams. But how could she have known back then that he had already been there for her? It hadn’t been her fault.

It had been his own.

He’d not waited patiently for just the right moment to tell her He’d let that fucking bimbo blow the whole operation.

Stanley Jenkins’ blood began to boil and it took everything he had to compose himself. Patience, he thought. In the not so distant future, there would be no one left to stand in his way.

He spotted the rental car up ahead and a smile returned to his face. We reached the car, unlocked the door and got in, flung the nylon bag of the passenger seat and started the engine. In ten minutes he’d be on the main road and in another fifteen minutes would be on the interstate heading north to Denver. After a late supper and a couple of drinks, he’d crash out at his hotel and be up early the next morning to drive to the airport to catch his flight. By the time he landed at New York’s La Guardia Airport, he would have a good four or five hours to spend sightseeing and taking in all those wonderful things that made New York City such a hip city. That would be his own little treat to himself, by God. On the following day, it would be time to get back to work.

Locating and casing out Sara Hunt’s apartment would be a cinch, but it was going to take a master spy to devise a way of making a date with her that she would truly never be able to forget for the rest of her little life…

As Ann slipped on her shoes, she could still hear Sam‘s self-righteous remark: “I think your newfound independence is going to your head. The world isn’t by any means any safer that it used to be but you seem to think it is.”

She tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away. Who the hell did he think he was anyway-implying that she had suddenly became some sort of irresponsible, wild woman and didn’t know how to look out for herself? And he was pissed off because it was finally beginning to sink in that he’s not around anymore to call the shots and that was a big blow to his male ego. Not to mention the fact that she was seeing another man. She could already sense that Sam was insanely jealous of Jerry Rankin and wished he didn’t exist in her life.

That’s the breaks Sam, she thought to herself with a smug grin. You should have thought about all this before you started fooling around with Shelley The Slut. I have no sympathy for you whatsoever-you’ve brought this all upon yourself.

Ann went over to the mirror to look herself over again. For once, her hair was doing what it was supposed to do. Her makeup didn’t look half bad, either. She eyed her outfit and wondered if perhaps she had gone a little too overboard. She’d boldly chosen to go with the olive green skin tight knit top that she’d purchased at the mall on her way home from the office along with a pair of faded Lee jeans that clung to her legs and hips as if they were painted on. A little too casual for Jerry’s tastes? she wondered. She noticed how the shape of her ample breasts were clearly visible beneath the thin fabric and debated whether or not to put on a bra then promptly decided against it. What the hell, she thought. Even Karen had once told her, if you’ve got it, flaunt it, and she was in just the right kind of mood tonight to do just that.

She was not sure why she felt so lousy all of a sudden, but she did. Maybe it was because Amy was going out of her first real date with a boy tonight and it seemed like only yesterday that she was reading her bedtime stories until she drifted off to sleep. Or maybe it was the fact that Sam was now going out with a woman half his age and it bothered her now just as much as it had the first time she’d caught him red handed screwing around with the bitch. Whatever the case, the feeling was there and the cold reality of her age was beginning to catch up with her. Here she was, nearly 40 years old, divorced, and getting older and less attractive by the day. It wouldn’t be long before she’d lose her figure and no longer be desirable to men. She had never really given it much thought until now, and the reason for that was simple. Until now she had been married and hadn’t had to give a big shit about how she looked to other men.