Kizer, Tim Read online

  David squinted at the bag, then cast an eye at Ron--who was already on the porch of the mini mart--then looked at the bag again. What the heck was he waiting for? He reached out his hand between the seats and started patting the bag.

  If there were anything incriminating in the bag, he would not have left it in the car, right?

  Clink. It seemed to David he had just heard a clink. He began squeezing the area of the bag he had patted a moment ago and tried to figure out what the source of the chinking could be. His heart racing, David glanced over his left shoulder to check if Ron had left the store. Even though he had murdered people himself--sometimes with his bare hands--the prospect of getting caught in the act by a crazy serial killer did not cheer him one bit. Thankfully, Ron was still inside the building, and David continued to squeeze the bag. More clinking. He nipped the suspicious end of the bag and jiggled it up and down. Dammit, there was a metallic object in there whose shape was consistent with an outline of a knife! Probably it was two knives: that would explain the clinking. David stretched his hand further and hastily explored the most distant end of the bag. It appeared that there was something solid and oval and as big as a human head. Actually the human head was the first hypothesis that came to his mind.

  But it could hardly be a head. No sane person would carry around such inculpating evidence as a severed head. What if someone accidentally opened the bag? Besides, there was a risk of having blood find its way through the wrapping and soak through the fabric of the bag, which might attract unwelcome attention.

  Four more minutes had passed before Ron returned to the car.

  “Did you make the call?” asked David, starting the Malibu.

  “Yes, I did. We had a good talk. Thanks for the quarters, Dave.” Ron opened his bottle of Pepsi, took a few sips, let his head fall back on the headrest. David said he was welcome and pulled away from the roadside.

  #

  When they drove eight miles past Lodi, David discerned a short strip of buildings a few hundred yards ahead down the freeway and asked if Ron was hungry.

  “Last time I ate was early in the morning, so I think I could use a hamburger,” he said. “If they have a diner there I’m pulling over.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” agreed Ron.

  Before leaving for the diner, Ron picked up his bag.

  “It’s time to change my not-so-fresh shirt,” he explained.

  After scrutinizing the unimpressive menu, David picked a grilled chicken, Ron chose a roast beef, and they both ordered a garden salad and orange juice. David was eating as slowly as he could in order to have more time to collect his thoughts and mull over his plan regarding Ron. The diner was a safe convenient place to relax and stop sweating about an unexpected move on the part of this killer. Of course he had stashed a brand new knife under the driver’s seat but would he be able to grab it when Ron attacked him?

  David could not help smiling. Wasn’t that ironic? Ron, or whatever his real name was, would most likely try to pull the same trick on him as David did on Kevin Conway, the legal owner of this Malibu. Well, Ron was going to be extremely surprised very soon. Yes, he had to step up his efforts: it was about two hours since he had learned Ron’s horrible secret and he had not made much progress yet.

  When they finished their meals, Ron made David put away his wallet and paid the check with his own money. They went to the restroom together: David wanted to relieve himself and Ron to change his shirt. For a moment David regretted he had not taken the knife with him. Then he told himself that he was strong enough to beat off Ron’s assault; after all, he only needed a few seconds to run out of the restroom and call for help. Funny fact: it could be his first lawful murder if he killed Ron in self-defense in the toilet.

  #

  So far so good: he emptied his bladder without an incident. And Ron did exactly what he had planned to do--put on a fresh shirt. Watching his new friend out of the corner of his eye, David let out a small puddle of soap from the dispenser on his left palm and began to turn on the water.

  “I know who you are, David,” Ron said, combing his hair and peeking at David’s reflection in the mirror.

  Without any pause, David continued turning the faucet handle until he was satisfied with the stream of water and started washing his hands.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, rubbing the lather on his palms.

  “I called my friend and asked him to check the registration plate number.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Net Detective software? For thirty bucks you can search DMV’s databases in all states. My friend checked your car’s registration number. It’s not your car. It belongs to Kevin Conway. And he doesn’t live in Oceanside.”

  David cracked a gentle smile as he unhurriedly turned off the water.

  “Well, seems like you only know who I am not,” he said, dawdling over the paper towel dispenser. “You don’t really know who I am.”

  “I figure you not only stole that car, but also killed its owner.” Ron took a small clear plastic sack out of his bag.

  “Why do you think so?”

  David observed Ron open the sack and was surprised to see a fake moustache that Ron extracted out of it.

  “Because I believe you want to kill me too, okay.”

  David shook his head and asked:

  “What makes you think I want to kill you?”

  “You put something in my Pepsi while I was away. Some sleeping drug, right?” Ron spread a little glue over his upper lip and then carefully attached the moustache.

  Now David was surprised. Ron was correct: David had actually put a sedative into Ron’s bottle of Pepsi. And as a matter of fact, he was deeply puzzled at the fact that Ron had not fallen asleep yet.

  “But you’re not asleep, are you?” said David.

  “No, I’m not. When I started feeling sleepy, I took Modafinil. I use it to stay awake for several days straight. It’s a legal drug, okay. They use it in the Army, too.”

  “You’re not an angel yourself. I saw a sketch of your face on TV two hours ago.”

  “Really?” Ron frowned. “Seems like our hopes didn’t come true. That’s sad. Fortunately, I was prepared for such a twist.” He pointed at his moustache. “Now we will go out of the restroom, sit at the table, and wait for my friend Zack. Are you okay with that?”

  David cast an inquiring look at Ron and muttered:

  “Wait?”

  “Yes. And so that you won’t die of boredom I’ll tell you a riveting story about a guy who once upon a time sold auto parts in Southern California. You will like it. And we’ll also discuss how you can save yourself.” Ron zipped the bag. “Before I forgot, here’s an incentive for you to cooperate.” Ron whipped a .22 caliber revolver out of his pants pocket. “It’s small but it works fine. Please be reasonable and don’t try and pull any tricks.”

  “All right.” David marched to the door.

  They left the restroom and, after Ron phoned his friend, occupied a table in the corner furthest from the counter.

  “So what do you think about it?” asked Ron when he was done telling his riveting story. He spoke in a low voice, even though the diner was empty and there was no one to eavesdrop on them.

  “I think that guy got a raw deal,” answered David. “By the way, you said we would discuss my future.” He peered into Ron’s eyes.

  “Yeah, we need to talk about it.” Ron nodded. “All that crap about a wife and a kid and a mother-in-law--was it true?”

  David knitted his eyebrows and answered:

  “Not really. I have a girlfriend. Her name’s Jane.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “In Glendale.”

  “Do you live there too?” asked Ron.

  “I live near Glendale, in Pasadena.”

  “You understand that I’ll verify that information, don’t you?”

  “I have no doubt you will.”

  “Okay. Here’s the de
al: you give us your girlfriend and I forget I ever met you.”

  “Really?” David made sure he did not sound sarcastic. “Is there any guarantee?”

  “No. All I can say to convince you is: we prefer doing it to women, okay. I’m sure you’re not prone to self-sacrifice. You will give her to us, right?”

  After a short pause David answered: “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  “Good. One more thing: why the hell did you steal that car? It’s too dangerous. What if the car was reported stolen?”

  “They are not going to find that guy any time soon.”

  “What about his relatives? They could report him missing by tomorrow morning. Why take an unnecessary risk?”

  “I needed a car. That’s it.” David looked in Ron’s emotionless eyes. “I don’t ask you why you and your friend killed that pregnant woman, do I?”

  “Fair enough. I’m just curious. I would never drive a stolen car for several hours.”

  “I was going to dump it in Sacramento.”

  They were speaking in amiable tones and behaved so courteously that a distant spectator could mistake them for very good friends.

  “After you were done with me?” asked Ron.

  “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”

  Ron flashed a soft smile.

  “I just wanted to explain why we shouldn’t use that Malibu anymore,” he said. “Do you have anything in there that can lead the police to you?”

  “Don’t worry. I never leave traces. By the way, what about that sketch of your face they’re showing on TV? You’re not cautious enough after all.”

  “That was just a ridiculous accident. A glitch. I guess she was just a very lucky girl. But her luck isn’t going to last for ever if you know what I mean.”

  #

  They heard the door open and both turned their heads to see who came in. It was the fourth customer in the thirty five minutes that had passed since Ron had called Zack. David was relieved to see the client was a deputy sheriff: a fit man, probably in his early forties, in aviator sunglasses with dark lenses. He took off his uniform hat, approached the counter, ordered a soda drink and a hamburger, and then parked himself at the nearby table. The rescuing idea exploded in David’s head as he peeked at the deputy chewing the burger. Certainly there was a hope these bastards would let him go after they had laid their hands on Jane, but he hated to gamble with his life. He realized he should hurry.

  “Listen, Ron,” he almost whispered. “I’m too tired of all that. I’ve got nothing to lose anyhow. You will kill me sooner or later, I know it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ron whispered too.

  “Now I’m going to get up and walk out of that door,” said David. “If you want to take a chance you may shoot me, but then you’ll have to shoot the deputy as well.”

  “Don’t be stupid, David. We have an agreement.” Ron’s eyes glared with agitation.

  “He is armed, and there is a probability that he’ll manage to draw his gun and kill you before you kill him. I guess you hate taking unnecessary risks. Good bye and good luck, Ron.”

  David rose from the table and headed for the exit. As he moved he strained his ears to figure out if Ron went after him or released the safety on his gun--he believed his looking back would degrade his newly acquired authority. Fortunately, David did not catch any suspicious sounds from behind his back. As he touched the door handle he heard the deputy sheriff stand up and stride towards the exit. When David put his foot down on the porch, he finally made up his mind. He stepped to the left, waited for the deputy to come out of the doorway, and grabbed him by the elbow.

  “Officer, there is a killer inside the diner,” he said in a low voice.

  “What?” replied the deputy, knitting his eyebrows.

  “He’s wearing blue jeans and a cream shirt. I saw his face on TV this morning. You’ve got to arrest him. Please be careful: he has a gun.”

  The deputy’s right hand pounced on the holster.

  “Wait here,” the deputy said, drawing his pistol. “I’ll go check on him.” He covered the gun with his hat and stepped inside the diner.

  David peered through the door, wasted a few seconds locating the table where he had left Ron, then turned around and jogged towards the Malibu. He figured it would take the deputy at least a couple of minutes to apprehend Ron, so he had time to get in the car and leave. The Malibu had not been reported stolen yet, and if anyone inquired about the car he could always claim that he had borrowed it from Kevin Conway. So he would drive it to the next town, where he would get on a bus or train after thoroughly wiping all his fingerprints from the car’s interior. Yes, the deputy had asked him to wait, but he was not obliged to do so. David fished the car keys out of his pocket. Ron should have confiscated the keys from him.

  Big mistake.

  Could Ron overpower and/or outwit the deputy? He sure could, but David did not care. All he needed was a few minutes to get the heck out of here.

  In the car, David had tried to insert the key into ignition several times before he discovered that there was something inside the key hole that did not let the key in. Then he realized that one detail was missing from the picture outside the diner: there was no sheriff’s office vehicle in the parking lot. Of course, that deputy could be driving his own car on the job today, David would not pay much attention to this fact under different circumstances. He just felt very uncomfortable with the idea that someone had intruded into the Malibu and tampered with the ignition, and suspicions began to rapidly build up in his brain. He lifted his face as he saw out of the corner of his eye somebody stood near the driver’s door. It was the deputy--or should he call him Zack?--who was swinging a pair of handcuffs in the air. David darted a glance to his right and saw a smiling Ron.

  He breathed a heavy sigh. Well, he tried and he lost. Such was life.

  #

  Quite an amazing coincidence, wasn’t it? What were the odds that two serial killers will meet and have a ride in a car? Okay, with any probability, even a tiny one, it was only a matter of time. A while ago he read about a woman in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, who had won one million bucks on a scratch-off ticket two times in one year. There were only five one-million-dollar tickets in that lottery game, and the lady from Bethlehem won two of them. What are the odds of that? Astronomical. He had never won ten bucks on a scratch-off, let alone a million. God works in mysterious ways, folks. Mysterious indeed. The probability existed, and today the number came up. Nothing special.

  Okay, enough talking: he and Zack had some work to do.

  The End

  The following is a sample of Tim Kizer’s horror novel “Days of Vengeance” (about 106,000 words).

  “Days of Vengeance” description:

  With the last six years of his life wiped out of his memory, Frank begins to suspect he may have murdered his wife Kelly, who went missing shortly before the car crash that caused his amnesia. While struggling to remember his wife and the events surrounding her disappearance, Frank is shocked to find out that Kelly's family has the same suspicions as he does.

  As his memories trickle back to him, Frank is still unable to figure out why he has slaughtered his wife. Things take a darker turn when the in-laws give him to understand that they will stop at nothing to make him remember what he has done to their beloved sister.

  Frank's search for answers becomes a fight for survival after he rediscovers that his wife's relatives are a clique of serial kidnappers serving a mysterious one-legged man.

  However, the question still remains: Why are these people so hell-bent on getting hold of Kelly's dead body?

  His options are limited: he either finds his wife--dead or alive--or dies. In his race against time Frank has all the clues to the puzzle, he just has to remember them before it’s too late.

  The novel is currently available on Amazon Kindle for $0.99 at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006SPQRFS.

  Please visit Tim Kizer’s website www.horror-suspense.com for more news.<
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  Tim Kizer

  Days of Vengeance

  Chapter 1.

  DREAM

  1.

  The note read: “Dear Frank, I know you killed your wife, and I can prove it. You are a reasonable person. I’m sure you don’t want to go to prison. All I need is a $20,000 loan. Please think about my request very carefully.”

  But before this, the last six years had been wiped from his memory.

  Then there were darkness and dreams...

  2.

  Owl. Owl. Owl? This word flickered at the edge of his mind for a few seconds and then vanished. Frank somehow knew that it was not the word he’d been trying to recall. His very life depended upon this important word buried deep inside his memory, and he had to fish it out as soon as possible if he didn’t want the one-legged man and his people to cut his throat. He had no idea who the one-legged man was. Sometimes he doubted this man actually existed.

  The word sounded similar to ‘owl.’

  He would give it another shot later. Right now, he would like to focus on something else. Those dreams. Yeah, on those amazingly vivid dreams.

  Frank had been having bizarre dreams while he was in a coma. When he regained his consciousness, he did not remember their contents. As a matter of fact, he was not even sure he’d had any dreams at all.

  Very hard. Really damn hard! It was so hard to open his eyes. To unglue his eyelids, which, as he had begun to suspect, must have been sewn together, otherwise how could one explain the fact that he had been trying to put them in motion for ten minutes now (or maybe ten days), and they had not budged one bit?

  Then two flashes of recollection lit up his mind. First, Frank remembered that there was a steel-plated safe holding a body the one-legged man’s people would love to get back. He had no clue where he’d hidden it. Within seconds, this memory disappeared into the ether.