Bryan Smith: Queen Of Blood

It had happened in this neighborhood. And the perpetrators had not been caught. They were still out there.

Somewhere.

THUMP-THUMP.

And this stupid fucking door didn’t have a peephole. Fuck. His hand still on the doorknob, Chad looked at Allyson. “Maybe you should get a phone, be ready to speed-dial 911.”

Allyson nodded and hurried out of the room. She came running back a moment later, a slim, silver cell phone clutched in one slightly trembling hand. Chad flashed her a reassuring smile and shifted his attention back to the door as the most insistent knock yet rattled the thick slab of wood in its frame.

Chad cleared his throat and made his voice loud, projecting it the way a stage actor would:“You can stop knocking, asshole! Who are you and what the hell do you want?”

The knocking stopped. Chad held his breath and sensed Allyson doing the same. Then he heard a very dim, muffled sigh. A tired sound. A weary sound.

Chad frowned. There was something faintly familiar about it.

Something- Chad ’s hand closed around the doorknob and yanked the door open. Allyson let out a gasp of surprise, but Chad barely heard it.

He gaped at the figure standing on the darkened front porch for nearly a full minute before managing to say, “Oh…shit…” Then he broke into a broad grin. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.” He stepped back and waved a hand toward the interior of the house. “Come on in, man.”

The dark figure stepped forward into the light. The wryest of smiles touched the very edges of his mouth. He looked better than the last time Chad had seen him, years ago. Leaner and less haggard. The bushy mane of gray-flecked brown hair had been shorn to a longish shag. He looked especially great for a man in his early sixties.

Chad shut the door as the man stepped into the house. “Christ, Jim, I can’t believe how good you look. Last time I saw you-”

The man Chad had once known as Lazarus shrugged. “Being an unrepentant sinner is a well-documented course to a healthier life.”

Chad ’s grin remained in place as he turned to introduce his friend to Allyson. “Hey, honey, this is the man I’ve told you about-” His grin faltered as he registered her sullen expression. “Honey-?”

“I don’t care who the fuck this is.” Sullen, nothing. She was fuming. “We were in the middle of a nice, quiet dinner. I can’t believe you’re inviting this person in, regardless of who the fuck he is.”

“Honey, I’m sorry, but-”

“Whatever.” Allyson brushed past him and yanked the door open again. Her face was a tight mask of controlled fury as she turned toward him. “You boys catch up. Jerk each other off. Whatever, I don’t fucking care. I’m going for a walk.”

She stepped outside and slammed the door behind her.

Chad gaped in disbelief at the door for a long moment. He’d never seen Allyson so angry about anything. He understood her frustration about the interruption. He still felt some of that, too, a rippling undercurrent of unspent sexual energy. But storming off like this-well, it seemed a bit out of proportion.

Jim cleared his throat. “Sorry to cause you trouble, friend. But there are things we need to talk about.”

Chad turned and looked at his friend, a ghost of the faded grin returning to his face. “Okay, but I think I need a drink now.”

Chad led the way to the living room and the liquor cabinet.

Allyson waited until she was two blocks from the house before flipping open her cell phone and punching in the number she’d memorized so many months ago. She held it to her ear and listened as it rang and rang.

She cursed as she counted a tenth ring and considered hanging up. But she couldn’t do that. The time had come and she couldn’t afford to turn back now. She made herself wait some more and her patience paid off as the phone was at last answered on the twentieth ring.

A tired male voice said, “Yes?”

Allyson snapped at the man: “What the fuck took so long?”

A pause. Then:“Who is this?”

“This is Allyson fucking Vanover. You recognize that name, don’t you?” Her voice was shrill, rendered almost brittle from the combination of fear and anger coursing through her. There was another strong emotion at work, as well, one she couldn’t afford to think about, not if she meant to see this through. “After all, you’re the reason I’m in fucking Atlanta, remember?”

The man sighed. “Of course. I do remember. I told you-”

“You told me to call this number only if I had news. This is the first time I’ve called, but trust me, the news is big.”

The man’s attitude changed immediately. His voice resonated with eagerness as he said, “Do you mean-”

“Yes.” Allyson paused. She allowed a final pang of regret to pierce her deeply. Then she made herself say, “The man you’ve been looking for, the one you told me to keep an eye out for…he’s here.”

“Excellent. Are you still at the same location?”

Allyson hesitated only a moment, regret stilling her tongue a second longer than necessary. But she knew it was too late for second thoughts. The wheels had been set in motion. Regardless of what she said from this moment forward, there was nothing she could do stop it.

“Yes. It’s the fourth house on the left on Jacobsen Avenue. 505 Jacobsen Avenue.” Her hand was shaking. She forced it still. “There’s a late-model silver Porsche parked on the road in front of the house. Your people won’t be able to miss it.”

“Good. You’ve done very well, Allyson.” Soft laughter issued from the other end, wherever that was. Allyson had Googled the number, but there was no record for it, nor any other indication of its origin. Which was kind of spooky, but it figured. “And as previously agreed, you’ll be handsomely rewarded.”

“I better be.” She forced a toughness into her voice she didn’t feel. “That money better hit my account by the end of business tomorrow.”

More soft laughter. “Oh, it shall. All one hundred thousand. And remind me, that would be your secret account, correct? The one Mr. Robbins doesn’t know about?”

Allyson closed her eyes. “Yes. That one.”

“The money will be there by the appointed deadline, rest assured. You’ll want to be well out of town by then.”

“You can count on that.”

“Good.” A sigh. “We can consider our business closed, then. You will never speak of this to anyone, of course.”

Allyson’s eyes fluttered open. Two kids were playing with a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee two houses down. Somewhere a dog was barking. Through a window of the house to her immediate right she could see the warm glow of a television. She imagined a family gathered around the box, enjoying their evening’s familiar and comforting entertainment. Though part of her was loathe to admit it, she had come to appreciate that a life in the suburbs could be a good, perhaps even blissful one.

She snapped the phone shut without another word and turned back toward home.

Ms. Wickman smiled at the boy on the floor. His name was Terry. His dead sister’s name had been Sherry. Such unimaginative parents. No wonder, then, that the siblings had crumbled so predictably through the course of the evening’s long and bloody festivities. Refugees from the shallow end of the gene pool, these children. Not that it mattered. Ms. Wickman had a slight preference for more intelligent victims, but in the end she was an equal opportunity sadist.

This Terry had a blandly handsome face, though its handsomeness was offset somewhat by a pudginess she found distasteful. He stared up at her with wide, pleading eyes. Snot dribbled from his nostrils. A large red welt on his left cheek further marred his bland good looks. His bleeding lower lip trembled uncontrollably.