Cache a Predator Read online

  Cache a Predator

  Weidenbenner, Michelle

  Random Publishing (2013)

  * * *

  M. Weidenbenner

  Cache a Predator

  Copyright 2013 by M. Weidenbenner

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please direct requests to [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Cathy Helms, http://www.avalongraphics.org

  Photographers for the cover are: Elena Elisseeva (Dark Forest) and Miroslava Lipa (Girl Crying) and Scott M. Liddell from Morguefile.com (Girl on the Bridge), www.scottliddell.net.

  Published by M. Weidenbenner, LLC

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-9894049-0-7

  Acknowledgements

  This book wouldn’t have been possible without the support of my number one fan, my dad. He bounced edits back and forth about the plot, cheered me on, listened to my frustrations, and brainstormed titles.

  Mom, on the other hand, gave me the imagination gene. Without that I wouldn’t be the dreamer, creator, and emotionally caring person I am today. Mom taught me that anything is possible in America if you want it badly enough.

  A huge thanks to Susanne Lakin, my developmental editor and encourager. Even when she critiqued the bare bones of this manuscript she saw the possibilities, knew how to draw the critical elements out, and pushed me to write the best story I could.

  Thank you to my beta readers: Paul, Steve, and Tom St.Germain, Brenda Mangan, Benji Ganz, Jim Seibold, Marty Baker, Mary Clemens, Tracy Helms, and my blog partner, Robin McClure.

  Thank you to Paul St.Germain, my brother, for being the best word-of-mouth marketer a writer could have. Without his enthusiasm for this project the doubt devil sitting on my shoulder would have talked me out of publishing this beast.

  Thank you Tom St.Germain, my youngest brother, for giving me the best compliment a reader could give—that the story brought tears to his eyes. When a writer can move a reader to tears, we celebrate.

  To Steve St.Germain, my other brother, (I have five) thank you for your edits and your confidence in the story and in keeping true to the body part.

  Thank you to Dan St.Germain, my first subscriber to my blog, RANDOM WRITING RANTS, for your support in seeing the big picture of what an author must do in this ever-changing industry.

  Thank you to Mark St.Germain, my oldest brother, for believing in me.

  Thanks also to the following team: Sergeant Chad Hill of the Kosciusko County Sheriff’s office for discussing crime scenes with me; John Sadler, Kosciusko Deputy Coroner, for describing a #22 scalpel, rosette key, an H-loader, a mausoleum, and what happens to an embalmed body; Michael Trobec, MD, who taught me about tourniquets, chloroform, and Ketamine, and how to slice a body part; Araceli Grant for giving me the insight to our CPS, Dr. Denise Fraser-Vaselakos, Illinois licensed clinical psychologist and writer, who helped me understand the foster care system.

  For my writer’s group: Robin McClure, Monica Caples, Karrah Creamer, and Tanya Satoski. Thank you for sharing your talent and your enthusiasm over this project, for brainstorming, critiquing, editing, and creating never-ending pseudo-names. You give me an outlet for my craziness, a place where I feel free to be me, where I can imagine colorful stories and heroic characters.

  Thank you to my children and grandchildren who refrain from rolling their eyes when I talk about my stories.

  Finally, thank you to my number one encourager—my husband and best friend, for reminding me, “It’s only fiction, Michelle,” when I cry for my characters.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  About the Author

  “Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime.” Herbert Ward

  Chapter One

  Death was like a low-pressure system. It could occur in any season, causing storms in people so great it changed them. I saw it happen to Father when Mom died years ago.

  It happened to me several weeks ago. Death caused a tornado that swirled in my head, making me braver than I’d ever been. It scared me because I had to leave my house to do something, in the dark. I didn’t want to, but I needed to prove that I was not a coward or a freak.

  I clamped my teeth together and stomped my foot. I would not be called a sissy anymore. I’d show everyone. People would finally like me. And maybe they would thank me.

  I dressed for the first job in black pants, a hoodie, and latex gloves, then paced in my doorway. Did I forget anything? No. I tapped my backpack and closed my eyes, picturing my supplies. The scalpel, syringes, needles, rubber bands, and baggies were in place. I counted, one, two, three, four. Yep, they were all there, each in their spot. I glanced across the room. Yes, I’d put the surgical books back on the shelf in alphabetical order.

  The video played in my head, over and over again. Slice, mutilate.

  Go, just go!

  My heart beat fast like the train rolling on the tracks in the distance. It was just before midnight. I climbed into my truck and headed for Sheridan Street across town, past the sign “Welcome to Hursey Lake, Indiana.” After parking, I entered the graveyard exactly where I’d planned. Streetlights threw shadows onto the tombstones.

  Hurry and get it done. Then you can play hide-the-cache.

  My heart jumped like a ball in a gaming machine. It was the storm.

  I kept my head down and hitched over the short iron fence, summer’s humidity following me in rivulets of perspiration down my back. The sky’s moon hid behind thick clouds, making it dark, but I’d memorized the map.

  My feet shuffled in rhythm on the pavement, past the markers for Sarah Jane Miller, Jerome Streeter, Mabel Hudson, and so many others. I counted their stones as I passed them. There were 989 dead people present.

  A dim light illuminated the mausoleum at the east end of the park, guiding me, like a spotlight on a stage. I moved toward the light.

  Large tombstone shadows hovered over the smaller ones. Some stones were made of marble, but others were smaller, chipped, and decorated with flowers that had faded from the sun. The way they were lined in rows, with husbands and wives side by side and children lying near their parents, made it look like a village, like shadows of square people hiding and watching without emotion. Like me.

  They were my audience. They wouldn’t make me look them in the eye.

  Overgrown red petunias crept over the edges of the sidewalk, and the smell of cut grass lingered in the air.

  The windowed door to the mauso
leum was locked. I dropped my shoulder and slid the bag off my back. After unzipping it, I reached in for the picklock. It dangled from its circular key chain, clinking as the metal brushed against the other keys. I picked at the lock. The first one was too big. My breathing quickened, and I could feel the blood pumping in my neck. I tried the next. And the next. Finally, the fourth one fit. Open, open. I twisted and turned the lock.

  Score. Dr. Spear had taught me that word.

  I slipped inside. My adrenaline raced. The body was so close. After closing the door, I clicked on my headband flashlight. Shadows danced across the tile floor and the granite-faced crypts as I moved my head from side to side.

  I paused, rocking back and forth, remembering that night. I was eight and hiding in the toolshed. It had been dark, and the dirt floor smelled like cat pee. He was after me. My legs ached from being cramped for so long. He waved a flashlight back and forth across the floor behind old boards and tools. The light stopped on my foot. “I see you! Get the hell out of there, or I’m coming in after you, you chicken shit.”

  Stop rocking! Take deep breaths like Doc Spear showed you. Concentrate on the job. That was another time. You’re in control now.

  Yes, I was in control.

  The room was clean and smelled of floor wax. Square-faced crypts lined two walls. The one in the center, two drawers from the top, was the one I needed. It was him.

  After setting the backpack on the floor, I hurried to the closet at the far end of the room and wheeled out the hydraulic lift. Its wheels squeaked and rattled across the floor like they had when they’d put him in.

  Kneeling in front of the crypt, I dug through my backpack until I found the rolled towel. Inside was the rosette key, the #22 retractable scalpel, a plastic bag for the body part, and the casket key. I reached for the rosette key first and poked the tool into the holes of the granite face until they clicked. One by one, I unlocked all four bolts and placed the supplies on the towel in front of the crypt.

  Gripping the edges of the granite, I pulled the heavy stone out, sweat beads creeping down my temples. After maneuvering the block onto the towel, I slid it across the floor and out of the way.

  As I positioned the lift, I rehearsed my steps: slice and save. No need to tourniquet this one, no vascular pressure. The movie played in my head over and over again. Fast forward, Rewind. Slice and save.

  This would be better than when I put dog poo in his dinner, and spat in his coffee thermos. Taking a hold of the casket’s end, I rolled the wooden coffin toward me, out of the chute, and onto the lift. As it rolled toward me, my heartbeat drummed louder in my ears. The box slid over the scattered BBs rolling in the bottom of the drawer, clattering.

  A car’s horn honked far in the distance. I glanced out into the cemetery, skimming the grounds. The dead slept. The voice in my head shouted.

  Do it!

  Moving back to the towel, I gathered the casket key, the scalpel, and the bag and faced the front of the coffin, placing the tools at my feet. I was ready to open the lid. I paused. What would he look like?

  What did it matter? What was I waiting for?

  One square hole was positioned at each end. I reached for the casket crank and inserted it into the left hole and turned, then the right.

  Hopefully his eyes would be closed. If they were open I’d stare at his forehead—like I had before.

  I lifted the top half first. The lid squeaked. My heart thumped tight. Holding my breath, I took one quick look, and dropped the lid.

  Thud!

  My stomach lurched. A white furry mold had grown over his graying skin. He was uglier than before. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and a red striped tie. His hands rested on his middle, holding a rosary. What a joke.

  Too bad he couldn’t watch me now.

  Don’t look at his face.

  My eyelid twitched as I lifted the lid again and set the corner hinge to a locked position. Then I lifted the bottom half of the casket, avoiding his eyes, and set the lock there too.

  When I unfastened the belt around his trousers, the belt buckle clinked and my fingers trembled. Clumsily, I undid the button at the top. Stooping over him, I yanked his pants down to his thighs, exposing his nakedness. I bounced on my toes and laughed. Loud. My heart thumped in my ears, keeping rhythm. He was shriveled. I clapped and laughed again, the deep sound muffling off the room’s walls.

  I reached for the scalpel and the bag and deployed the blade, lifted his dick, and sliced with one quick movement. Aaaargh.

  In one fluid motion it was gone and in my gloved hand. My head spun like when I twirled in circles. I felt light, almost numb.

  All he had left was a stub.

  I giggled like a child and held the flesh up for the tombstone people to see. “Look!”

  With a smile, I placed it in the bag and pinched my fingers along the top, sealing it shut.

  After retracting the blade, I set it on the towel, opened the backpack, and took out the sealed container. I placed the plastic bag inside, secured the lid, and placed it in the backpack.

  Laughing, I moved back to the body, pulled up his pants, buttoned the top, and fastened his belt. The laugh started low in my belly and escalated into a high-pitched wail as memories of him touching me, damaging me, came flooding back. Years of pent up anger boiled inside me. He’d dragged me out of the toolshed and into the house. I’d kicked and curled into a ball, but still he came at me.

  Now, grunting, I balled my hands into fists and beat his chest.

  Thud.

  Again.

  Thud. Again and again until my fists burned. I inhaled and exhaled deeply, then released the hinges of the casket and dropped each lid with a bang, suddenly in a hurry.

  Who’s the big man now?

  After locking the coffin, I rolled it back into place, slid the granite face across the floor and lifted it to the opening. The anger gave me strength.

  The casket clanked and clattered back into place. I scooped the rosette key from the towel and refastened the hardware. An opera sang in my head, the singers’ voices getting louder and louder, keeping rhythm with my heartbeat.

  Gathering my supplies, I put everything back into their place in the backpack, wheeled the lift back into the closet, took out the antibacterial wipes in my bag, and wiped down the floor. I flung the pack over my shoulder and onto my back, then glanced around the room. No mess.

  Once outside, I shone the flashlight on the lock and left it the same way I found it.

  When that was complete, I flipped my flashlight off and began my trek to the cache site, counting the rows and stones. The drums of the concert played their final beats, and my mind went quiet. I glanced at my watch. I was on time.

  There was much to do. I needed to keep to my schedule. I shuffled out of the cemetery, mumbling in rhythm. Find. The. Cache. Box. Bury. The. Stub. Find the cache box. Bury the stub. Find the cache box. Bury the stub.

  #

  The night’s darkness surrounded Jake as he stumbled up the porch stairs of his rented bungalow on Ditch Road in Hursey Lake. He mumbled under his breath. “Damn broken boards. Shit-ass landlord doesn’t fix a pissant thing.”

  He reached out in front of him, waving his hand in the air, searching for the door handle. “Should have left the blasted light on.” His fingernail clinked on the metal knob. He turned it, murmuring under his breath, “At least I left the sucker unlocked.”

  He pushed the door open, practically falling into the living room. After he flipped on the lights, he headed to the bathroom, relieved himself, then crossed the hall to his bedroom—a small room with one window. Beer bottles cluttered the dresser. Dirty clothes lay in heaps, scattered on the floor. Photos of naked girls flashed on his computer screen saver.

  He chuckled. “Too drunk to get it up now.”

  The room spun as he sat on the edge of the bed and bent to pull off his jeans. His foot caught in the pant leg. He kicked it and fell backward onto the pillow, laughing. Trying to focus, he p
ulled the other leg out and threw his jeans onto the floor. He closed his eyes, welcoming sleep’s abandon. It didn’t take long.

  Sometime later, he stirred at a sound in the room, but his eyes, too heavy to open, remained shut. He didn’t care about the sound. It was probably his imagination. He allowed himself to drift again until something soft and damp fell onto his face, covering his eyes, nose, and mouth.

  His eyes flew open. Who was there? But he couldn’t see the intruder. Gasping, he tried to sit, clawing at the hands of the attacker, struggling to rip the fabric from his face. But hands stronger than his held it in place. Sucking air, he breathed in the only thing he could—the cloth’s sweet sickly scent. Desperate for fresh air but finding none, he succumbed to unconsciousness.

  When Jake finally woke, the light of a new day had trickled into his room, spilling its brightness across his face. But he didn’t notice. The searing, burning pain in his groin demanded all his attention. His hands groped between his legs. What the hell? Sticky blood covered his fingertips. Moaning, he turned his head and vomited on the pillow.

  He tried to sit, blinking the blurriness out of his eyes. The room spun. He looked down.

  His pecker was gone.

  In its place was a short fleshy stub, the end clamped shut with knotted rubber strip. Blood had pooled around him, soaking the bedspread.

  The walls of the room echoed with his screams before he passed out.

  Chapter Two

  No morning felt the same without Quinn tickling his ear, the breath of her tiny voice saying, “Wake up, Daddy.”

  Brett stared at the ceiling. A leaky faucet dripped, gnawing at his nerves. He needed to get up and get going, but without his daughter, he dawdled. It was like the air didn’t move. The empty apartment reminded him of how alone he was and how unfair the courts had been.

  What kind of screwed-up justice system did he work for anyway? He knew the answer: a system that sided with mothers—even addict mothers.

  He needed to let it go, but worry had a mind of its own. His fists clenched. Quinn wasn’t safe with Ali, but the judge only saw a hot-tempered man, not a drug-addicted mother. Of course he was ticked—what father wouldn’t be at a mother who neglected her child?