Allan Leverone - Postcards from the Apocalypse

Debra was newly single, living off the support payments of her bond-trader ex-husband, who was slaving away down in Boston’s financial district. She had nothing to do and wasn’t one to spend her days lazing around the house; at least not by herself and not fully clothed.

After we had hooked up, I began to obsess over the fantasy of arranging Marion’s permanent removal from the otherwise happy picture of Debra and me. Divorce was out of the question—my salary as a postal supervisor would not to be enough to hold Debra’s attention for long. It was absolutely imperative that I inherit Marion’s trust fund; the one established by her rich daddy years ago that would disappear forever if I divorced his little girl.

Being cautious by nature, I considered and then discarded numerous methods of disposal before settling on the perfect plan. It was foolproof—I would be hundreds of miles away when poor unfortunate Marion took her final breath!

An avid distance runner, Debra had struck up an odd friendship with my Marion, despite our affair. They ran together constantly, a situation I was never comfortable with until I figured out how to use it to my advantage. I managed to wrangle a business trip to Philadelphia on the very day of the local 5K Fun Run, which Deb and Marion were planning on competing in together.

The morning of the race, I awoke while Marion was still sleeping and packed a bag for my two-day trip. Before walking out to the garage, I sprinkled a dose of specially customized powder lightly over the soles of Marion’s running shoes.

The mixture was composed of ordinary talcum powder laced with arsenic, which my research had informed me is water-soluble. Shortly after starting the race, Marion’s entire body, including her feet, would begin to sweat in the warm weather. The perspiration would then soak through her light socks, mix with my deadly concoction, and be absorbed through her open pores into her bloodstream.

Marion would suffer greatly for a short time, unfortunately, but before rescue personnel or anyone else would be able to react, she would succumb, leaving Debra and I free to get on with our lives. I would avoid any suspicion, being nowhere near the scene of the tragedy. I congratulated myself on planning the perfect crime as I boarded my flight at Logan Airport.

Later, as the plane began its’ descent into Philly, I realized the starting time for the Fun Run was approaching and decided to give Marion a call. Sure, I had to eliminate her, but that didn’t mean I felt good about it.

She surprised me by answering her cell on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Hello, Marion; ready for the race?”

“Oh, hi honey, not exactly. You wouldn’t believe what that silly goose Debra did!”

I checked my impatience and asked, “What did she do?” After all, this was the last time I would ever have to listen to her ramble on.

“The crazy girl drove all the way down here before realizing she had forgotten her running shoes!”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, but I solved the problem. I lent her mine. She was much more excited about the race than me, anyway.”

My heart stuttered and I shouted, “What? Where’s Debra now?” Annoyed passengers glared at me.

“I have no idea,” she replied. “We got separated in the crowd, but I’ll find her after the race. Enjoy your trip, honey; I’ll be waiting when you get back.”

As someone who is rapidly approaching middle age—I’m 51 and some people would say I’ve already left middle age in the dust—I often marvel at how much things have changed since I was a kid. Personal computers, cell phones, the Internet, HDTV, frozen pizza that’s actually edible, all of these things have been developed over my lifetime. I began to wonder what it would be like to walk out of prison after serving, say, a forty year stretch. How could you even begin to adjust to the changes in the world? This story is the result, about a man sent away for murder who wants nothing more than to reunite with the girl he left behind so long ago. “Independence Day” first appeared in the July/August 2008 issue of Crime and Suspense and I’m very proud to say was a finalist for a 2009 Derringer Award for Best Short Story.

Chris Milton’s personal Independence Day started out like any other. A bland prison breakfast followed by some quiet reading time, an hour of exercising in the yard, another bland prison lunch, and then a trip to the courthouse in his cheap, well-worn suit. He had been to so many pointless parole hearings over the last several decades that they all seemed to run together in his mind. He certainly didn’t expect this one to be any different.

Right from the start, though, this one was different. The warden of the Concord Penitentiary, who had been there almost as long as Chris had, spoke on his behalf, something he had never done before, saying, “Mr. Milton has been a model prisoner all these years and has earned a second chance to make something out of his life.”

Next up was the superintendent of the prison motor pool, testifying as to how much money Chris had saved the taxpayers of the great state of New Hampshire with his automotive maintenance skills. “Our vehicles are lasting forty percent longer, and are worth twenty percent more at the end of their useful lives, than they were before Mr. Milton started working with them. Frankly, I hate to lose him, but I believe he will be able to make a significant contribution to society in the job he has waiting for him at Caulfield’s Garage in his home town of Compton if his parole is approved.”

Chris could feel his threadbare shirt sticking to his skin where it pressed against the hard-backed wooden chair as he started to sweat. He had never so much as sniffed a successful parole hearing before, and he could scarcely believe this stroke of good fortune as he sensed the tide turning his way. He knew it was still touch-and-go as to whether the board would approve his parole – they were extremely reluctant to release convicted murderers back into society in this law-and-order state, even if the circumstances of the murder conviction were somewhat muddled, as was the case with Chris.

The sun beat down on Reservoir Road, thick and heavy and unrelenting in the summer of 1968. More than a mile away, at the far end of the road, the brand-new red brick reservoir maintenance building shimmered in the heat radiating off the newly-paved blacktop. Kids lined the mile-long route in groups of two and three, anxious to participate, if only vicariously, in the excitement and danger of illegal street racing on the arrow-straight access road.

Out of a car radio blared the Beach Boys, sounding tinny and strangely high-pitched, singing in harmony about a little deuce coupe, as the DJ announced breathlessly that Jan and Dean would be up next, right after a short break. “Be sure to keep the dial right here for our rock and roll special, running through the entire 1968 Independence Day holiday!”

At the makeshift starting line, Nikki Littlefield pleaded with her older brother to be allowed to race. “I know I just got my license, but I can do this, please Jimmy, let me try.” Heads turned and every male eye checked out the long, tanned legs, petite body and jet-black hair of the girl causing the commotion.

“Forget it,” Jimmy Littlefield answered gruffly, but out of the gathering crowd walked Chris Milton, eighteen, long-haired, trouble in engineer boots. “She can drive my car,” he said with a smirk, staring down Jimmy Littlefield and his small group of clean-cut Compton friends.

Jimmy started to argue but Chris cut him off. “I told you, punk, she could drive my car. She has a license and I have a car and that’s the end of it, so do yourself a favor and shut your freakin’ mouth.” Jimmy reddened with anger but stopped talking.