from the begining...#3 (untitled) - WritingForums.com - Writing Forums, Writing Challenges, Critiques and Help for Writers

Gate · 03-05-2008, 09:00 PM

Zac rose to his feet. His first deliberate movements in almost four and a half hours. His target was on the move.
Lil P had left the big rig. She wasn’t leaving the Circle T, he observed, just as he had predicted to himself. Returning
to his former position, Zac relaxed. Zac knew things always, somehow.
When she came up the street, she did not disappoint. True to her previous pattern, Lil P went straight to the drug
dealers spot. A call from her cell phone while in the bathroom of the Circle T had no doubt brought him. They always
met at the parking lot of the Days Inn on the corner of Trinity Lane and Dickerson Pike. She copped a half ounce of
hard(crack cocaine), continuing on her way, she left the dealers car on foot. She headed south on Dickerson. Walking
without a care, oblivious to the menace which beheld her. Zac followed, like a jungle animal, confident in its power
yet subtle enough to remain in shadow, careful not to reveal its superiority to its prey. Still Zac was barely contained.
Muscles tense, taut, ready to explode in fury. Flesh and blood, bone and sinew, fear and loathing were the elements of life with Zac Cunningham.
Seventy five yards over the hill from the intersection, forty five yards from the jungle beast, Lil P continued south.
Walking her sexy walk, daydreaming of pleasures to come. The last thing she wanted was to attract a “john”.
Unfortunately, her beauty combined with her gait betrayed her. A mid-sized Camry sedan, containing a mid-aged
male as unremarkable as his conveyance, whipped into the lot of the Soap-N-Suds Laundromat, stopping thirty feet in
front of Lil P. The occupant was already anticipating the price for something so divine. Lil P had other ideas and
somewhere she had to be. She crossed in front of the vehicle acting as if it did not exist. The sharp, quick burp of the
Toyotas’ two-tone horn collapsed the house of cards she was constructing. She looked, wincing toward the car, already
seeing the passenger window descending smoothly.
“Hey there, baby girl” mid-aged called. “What’s up with you tonight?” using the latest hip hop movie line.
“Yo dude. Sorry, but I’m not what you think. K?” she came back.
“So how much are we talking here?” he persisted.
“Look, man, no offense, but I’m not a date, okay? So you know, roll on…awh-ite?”
Lil P never burned a bridge if she didn’t have to. Besides, she never knew who might be another Davis.
Like so many who get a closer look at Regina, he was instantly obsessed. He wasn’t done yet.
“Hey, come on girl. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
To show he meant it, he fanned out four one hundred dollar bills.
“So whaddayasay?” he pleaded.
Charles William Bratcher, a middle-aged, middle school principal from Goodlettsville, TN. He made a fatal
mistake while lowering the window. He had pressed both the passenger and drivers side windows down.
Suddenly he felt a quick, sharp burning sensation just beneath his belt line, above the left thigh. As he was turning
his head toward the open window, a curious thought swiftly crossed his consciousness, “Isn’t the appendix on the right
side?”
Inside of a second, Charles received another surprise. A handsome, smiling young man was looking him in the eyes.
“Hey, look sir. We don’t want any trouble, okay?” Zac said pleasantly. He raised up looking over the roof of the
car at Lil P. He smiled and winked at her diverting her attention, while he swiped an eleven-inch, surgically sharp
blade across the “marks” shoulder, cleaning off the dark almost black, fresh blood.
Zac leaned back down, smiling at Mr. Bratcher, who still hadn’t registered what was happening. Charles wasn’t
quite himself. He felt lightheaded as he met the gaze of the smiling young man. He was aware that the eyes weren’t
smiling. Contempt was the only idea Mr. Bratcher could muster to describe the eyes looking back at him. Had he not
been bleeding to death, his senses might have screamed EVIL! To his brain.
In a low, sinister voice, Zac said “If you leave right now, this very second, you might live. Now put the car in drive
and go back that way.” Zac gestured over his left shoulder toward the traffic light, just beyond line-of-sight over the
hill.
Understanding came over the dying mans’ face. He thought the sinking, empty feeling he was experiencing was
fear. It was not fear. The school principal was in shock, his blood pressure plummeting. He punched the gas and
turned quickly onto Dickerson Pike. He was aware now of a lukewarm flood between his legs. A rhythmic pressure
inside his pants. Just over a third volume of his blood was now outside ole Chuckys’ body.
One hundred yards up the street, a cream colored Camry slowly passed through a red light veered right, went over
the curb and hit the corner of White Castle Hamburgers. No damage. The cars airbag ignored the love tap the car had
given the building.
Inside the Camry, Charles William Bratcher stared lifelessly at the dashboard. What he never realized, even as the
last breath was escaping his lungs, was simple…justice had been served.
Lil P was staring dumbfounded at her rescuer. He was tall, good looking and had sent the trick away with just a few
words. She began turning on the charm, “Well, thank you stranger” smiling and adding extra southern drawl. Zac
smiled back “Not a problem, in fact, it was my pleasure.” He replied in as harmless a tone as he possessed.
Lil P closed the gap between them, intentionally looking him up and down in an exaggerated way. Then she bit her
lip. Although he revealed nothing, it was all Zac could do to contain his revulsion.
“I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new to Music City?” she asked.
“ Actually, yeah I am.”
“Hey look, it’s late and I gotta run, but I’ll be around tomorrow. Want to hook up? You know, maybe I can show you some hot spots. Whaddaya say?”
Zac pondered for a moment. He thought for a brief second of severing her head. He held back. He looked at her
coolly and said, “you know somehow I feel we might be seeing each other sooner than you think, Gina.” He then
casually touched his forehead in an informal, friendly salute, turned on his heel and walked away.
Lil P was a little confused. Had she told him her name? She had been up a long time and was coming down hard.
She was never put at a disadvantage. Even more infuriating, had she been dismissed?
Regina Anne Clark did not scare easily, yet, now her neck was tingling as if an electric current was moving through
her. Ginas’ instincts served her well here on the track. She knew to trust them.
Zac was seething. “Why had he done that?” He had shown his hand, veiled as it was. Zac knew things. What he
knew now… his prey had been alerted. No matter how miniscule the revelation, he knew better. His anger with
himself consumed his actions for the next two hours.
What would interest a psychologist was the fact that Zac, having just committed murder, would never think about
that particular act again. Bratcher was simply in his way. Ole Charlie was not part of the plan. Zac dispatched him as
a reflex action. He had automatically assessed the situation as he crept up on the unsuspecting pair. He was so fast and
fluid, Lil P never saw his knife. Zac had spent many hours on his blade, sharpening it , compulsively over and over.
He struck so fast and accurately, Bratcher scarcely felt a thing. Zac took no pleasure, no emotion at all. The man was
between himself and the prey. The prey would bring that bliss he needed. To lose his prey was not an option.
At 3:42 a.m. Lil P turned up Lucy Avenue toward the alley. Before her encounter with the school principal and Zac,
she had been reveling in the whole idea of several hours with Kera. Now, all her alarms were going off. Her highly
perceptive instincts told her to get the hell out of Dodge. Unfortunately, her craving for instant gratification was
stronger. Still, she remained preoccupied by her earlier encounter. Something…something was off. But, what?
Detective Sergeant John Atkins had been asleep on the couch in the common room at downtown Metro when he got
the call. Atkins wasn’t lax or a slacker. He just hadn’t been home since 7:45 a.m. Monday . He was waiting for the
crime scene investigators to identify the young girl. She had been found in a stolen car on Kramden street. Her
murder had been over kill. A straight-forward cut throat. The wound took out both carotid arteries. It was very clean
and very deep. Jaw to jaw. A clump of the girls brown hair had been literally yanked from her head. Apparently.
Someone had reached in the passenger side window, grabbed a handful of hair, then with great force had pulled her head back and down so violently that here neck was broken, completely. There had been no need to slit the pretty teenagers throat.
So, Atkins was sleeping when the call came. Forty seven year old Charlie Bratcher was ready to tell a dead mans
tale. Six calls came in at 3:33 a.m. to 911 dispatcher. The black and whites were on the scene in just over a minute, in
three minutes Metro P.D. were four cars deep. The scene was secure. Detective Atkins caught the call.
Atkins was five foot nine inches, one hundred seventy five pounds of devoted cop. He was brash and crass, but his
squinting eyes could soak up and recall every detail of a homicide scene. After a once over of the Bratcher murder
scene, Atkins stored every detail he could immediately see in the macro world. He ordered three of the uniforms to
secure witnesses and gather their contact information. Two others were to help the scene investigators with processing
evidence. Then he began his own grid inspection. Atkins didn’t care about anything now, but what the perp may have
left behind, besides the obvious dead body. At 4:30 a.m. a slight dew began forming , moisture doesn’t stick to oil like
oil left from a murderers’ hands. Atkins bent to look at the Toyota. Fortuitously, Bratcher was vain about his car . It
was clean. What was of interest to Atkins was the palm prints on the roof of the car. Atkins whistled, a bald man with
surgical gloves and bifocals on the end of his nose, raised his eyes from the passenger floor and looked up at the
detective, over his spectacles and through the drivers window. Atkins raised his eyebrows twice in quick succession
and cast his eyes toward the ceiling. The CSI guy backed out of the car and rose to meet Atkins at the roof.
“I got some partials and three good palms, Carl”. Atkins said while pointing out the prints.
“Yep, looks like you have something. I’ll go get the dryeez . We need to get these before they tow it to the shop”.
Atkins continued his inspection, while Carl went after the print gear. Already, Atkins had noticed some similarities
to a Jane Doe case. Both victims were killed in cars with air, yet, the window was down. Of course, it was late, the
temperature had gone down a lot, still, something was similar. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
The young girl had been found around 4 p.m. Saturday. It was almost 5 a.m. Thursday morning. Four days and
some change. He felt that the murderer must still be in the area, also, whoever did this liked to work up close. Wet
work was the term and very clean. Atkins’ expression was one of intense concentration. He felt a chill run down his
spine. These murders were connected. He had no evidence, no connections. Atkins just felt it. He wrote himself a
mental reminder to call Ric Lay. Ric would want to know.
Ric was up early. An uneasy feeling had been pressing down on him for several days now. A battle was coming
and in the balance would hand the souls of several people, his included. He had been in this same kind of conflict
seven years ago. Those memories kept him up tonight. They were bitter reminiscings. Memories which bore him up
in pain and shame. Ric was a tough educated realist. He knew very few gray areas in his world of black and white.
His world of the real. Ric had known the ethereal, a place that was in conflict all the time with Rics’ comfortable
world. He hated the abstract, even though he could navigate those murky waters expertly. The vague and hidden
dimensions had always called to him. Now that familiar call was upon him. Something wicked had stepped from the
fog onto our plane. He wouldn’t have to tune in at all, this adversary would seek him out. Ric had been the bane of its
existence. They had battled before when Ric was younger, his convictions and faith invincible. Since then, he had
seen more than a man should ever witness. He had seen evil proliferate. He had fought it, at times seemingly to no
avail, but he still believed. God knows… he would need every gram of his belief this time.
Evil had an agenda, an objective. The mission, as always, were souls. A person has choices to make every day.
The best right choice has an advantage and a disadvantage. The advantage is simple, the good, the next best thing for
a person to do is always the first choice. The obvious choice. The disadvantage was, evil got the last word.
Free will, a person can weigh and measure, but sometimes the scale is so corrupt, the moral compass so far off
center that the best choice seems absurdly wrong. The good choice seemingly served no purpose and had no good end.
The last word is a tremendous advantage in the world of obsession. A time of self-serving.
Ric knew this, because he knew a battle raged. Knowledge, maybe too strong a word. His beliefs weren’t
unshakable. Ric was human, but he was also spiritually sensitive. He and Zac were virtually identical in physical
prowess, intelligence and the ability to discern the truth of a situation. Both men knew things, somehow.

Gate · 03-07-2008, 11:35 AM

Advice taken