Chapter twenty eight

Chapter twenty eight
word count: 535

Stan made up his mind. He was sick of the chase. He needed safe haven, needed a way to make Bud Kramer back off.

"I know your weakness, Buddy boy," he murmured. Bud had a wife. Not many knew it, but Stan stumbled over the information in the clerk's office one day while fishing through personnel files looking for crap on someone else... for a little blackmail. He remembered being in a hurry, tossing through the folders like a mad man before the office assistant returned. And Bud Kramer's file fell right into his fingers. He had a wife. Later, Stan had driven past the Victorian on Skyvue Drive and seen the lady in a wheelchair on the porch, reading.


Jane Kramer had finished her tea and settled in with a good book.

"Ms. Kramer, can I get you anything else?" the housekeeper asked. That lady was a huge woman, with legs as big as hams bulging out below the hem of her dowdy house dress, and worn canvas shoes squeezed on swollen feet, while a bitter smile on her face matched the ensemble.

"No, Patty. You should go home now. You look tired."

"Thanks. I will." The fat lady grabbed her purse from a table and left without a word.

Jane sighed and picked up her book. This one wasn't working out either. They'd have to find another housekeeper soon. Glancing at her watch, she noted Bud would be home. Patty always left a meal warming on the oven. Today's spicy chili aromas made her mouth water. At least the woman was a good cook. She returned to her novel, a good murder mystery.

Stan slipped in the door easily. The housekeeper came out as he mounted the porch steps. He'd smile and spoke.

"I'm Ms. Kramer's cousin, in from Texas. How do you do? Is she in?"

The weary woman eyed him with disdain. "Yeah, just go in. She's right in the living room there." With a limp wave, she took off, anxious to get home to a cold beer and put her feet up.

"Thanks," he said. Thanks for making it so easy, bitch!

His blood pulsed like a rock band gone nuts, discordant themes doing war with one another, slicing through his head. He loved the hunt. The stealth, the surprised victim, the clutch to the throat to silence him. Where was she?

He spied her. Stuck in a wheelchair. This was too easy. Creeping up behind...the clutch...the muffled cry...the knife to her neck.

"Keep quiet and I won't kill you," he hissed in her ear. Her body stiffened. "You're coming with me," he said.

Bud returned home to an empty house. At first, he thought she was asleep. Then he looked in the living room, the bedroom, everywhere. His gut told him. His gut told him something was very wrong. His eyes confirmed it when he saw the knife on the floor. Blood decorated the weapon in a ghastly pattern of death strokes. But the blood was dried. Oh God! Hopefully it wasn't hers. He had to find her. He had to find Jane. But where?