Richard Daniels stared
out the window and watched the girl die.
He felt neither fear nor
disgust as the bearded attacker shook her free of his impaling blade.
His eyes revealed no horror as they watched the assailant strip
everything of value from her. His heart never leapt. He never
gasped. He knew and accepted the fact that death’s prey was often
young. He never even heard her scream, not that it would have
mattered. He was focused more on the bay. There should be more
boats, he thought, with taller sails and brighter colors. The
gruesome murder needed better contrast. He considered the matter
further. She was a nameless girl slain by a nameless man for nothing
more than the rings on her fingers and the chain about her neck.
That was how it was in this part of town. Nameless faces, nameless
streets, but the bay…the bay was called Cathryn’s.
Odd that his mind tarried
on the girl, he thought. There were other things that demanded his
attention, things far more important than nameless faces. But he
couldn’t help it. How ironic it would be if her name, like the
bay, had been Cathryn. Again, he decided it didn’t matter. The
girl wasn’t important. The attacker wasn’t important. They were
merely diversions, welcome reminders of life on this side of the bay.
They distracted him from pondering the bay and what lay past its
northern shore. Woe to any man who places his last dream in the
hands of a woman. Yet he had done just that and was beyond regret.
She would be his salvation. He would make sure of it. He couldn’t
bear the thought of eliminating her. He had eliminated far too many
already. Another glance at the girl caused him to sigh--and the sigh
left his breath on the glass.
Streaking it with a wipe
of his hand, he watched three boats ride the salty breeze into the
bay. Proud sails stood on tall masts, rainbows of color splashed on
white. They were late, he thought. They should have been there when
the girl was robbed and murdered. He decided her name was Cathryn.
No one would be able to tell him otherwise. And he liked the name.
She still lay on the curb. Blood oozed through her white blouse and
trickled onto the concrete. Her attacker had already fled. Cathryn
was pretty, he decided. Although a little late to notice, he
thought. He would like to have seen how the wind caught her chestnut
hair, how the cool air colored her cheeks, how her topaz skirt
ruffled and folded as she walked. It was a pity she had to die so
young. He would like to have been able to get to know her. He
sighed again. These streets were not for young girls--especially
girls alone. Where had she been going? It couldn’t have been far.
Again, he decided it didn’t matter and shrugged.
“Want me to warm that
up for you, Mr. Daniels?” the waitress asked.
He nodded and slid his
mug toward her as he answered, “Please. And it’s Richard.”
She refilled his coffee
with a forced smile and scurried off to another table where she
lapsed again into her mantra. The coffee smelled strong, so strong
it drew his eyes away from her short skirt. He hated coffee that had
sat too long on a hot burner. It made it too bitter. Sugar wouldn’t
do. Bitter was better than bittersweet. He frowned as he sipped.
The apple pie would help. He still had several bites left. He
stabbed it with a fork, dirty long before he used it, and stuffed a
chunk into his mouth. He nodded in satisfaction. There was
bittersweet and then there was bitter and sweet. He definitely
preferred the latter. He turned his gaze back to Cathryn as he
chewed and wondered if she would have agreed.
Someone should go to her,
he thought. Even in this part of town a girl shouldn’t be left to
rot on the side of the street. But the few passersby who paid more
than a curious glance just stared and walked past her. Not even a
gawking crowd had bothered to gather. Scenes like this were far too
common on this side of the bay for that. Getting home was more
important than satisfying morbid curiosity. Should any stop and
linger, they too might join her on the curb, another lump rising from
the pavement for indifferent pedestrians to sidestep.
“Too bitter for you Mr.
Daniels?” The red-haired waitress stood beside his table shredding
a stick of gum with coffeepot in hand. “It gets that way
sometimes.”
“It’s Richard,” he
answered, and added, “and the coffee’s okay.”
She squinted and gave him
a dubious stare. “You sure, Mr. Daniels? I saw that look on your
face a moment ago. Looked like a face drinking bitter coffee to me.”
He returned her stare.
“I suppose it is a bit more bitter than I like, but I’ll manage.”
Her stare grew into a
scowl and her mouth reached a truce with her gum. “I bet you will,
Mr. Daniels. I bet you will.” She radiated ripples of chill as
she and her pot disappeared behind kitchen doors.
“You shouldn’t upset
her like that.”
Richard found the man who
had addressed him sitting two booths closer to the door and facing
him with a frown worthy of a protective brother. Richard raised his
brows. “Wasn’t aware I had.”
“I guess there’s a
lot you’re not aware of.”
“I’m not sure I
follow.”
“For a man holding all
the cards, you sure don’t know what’s in your hand.”
Richard studied the man.
He decided his name was Boris. He tilted his head giving him silent
permission to vent his view.
Boris twisted his face in
disdain. He spoke tight words through a tight sneer. “Take Rosie
in there…you think she really cares if your coffee’s bitter? You
think her sorry boss pays her enough to care? Or do you think her
heart’s all butterflies and roses? Look around you man. For the
love of God, look out there in the street! A girl’s knifed down so
she won’t kick or scream when she’s robbed. The last thing she
sees is cracked concrete rushing up to meet her. And you sit there
sipping coffee, playing niceties with a waitress who has no choice
but to try and survive this godforsaken deathtrap. It’s a living
hell for every last one of us--except for you. This city’s rank,
man. The stench is enough to strangle you. It’s like bile burning
the back of your throat.”
Boris surveyed the café
and Richard followed his gaze. The eyes of all the patrons were
watching. The buzz of conversation was muted. Clanking silverware
now hung suspended between mouths and plates, and a twinge of
uneasiness churned in Richard’s stomach. He considered the burly,
outspoken man. Was he just someone who happened in for a bite? No,
he wouldn’t know Rosie if that were the case. But seeing no
indication of more, Richard also dismissed the possibility of a
relationship between the two. Just a regular, he decided. Someone
who frequented the café. Someone who frequented the neighborhood’s
horrors.
Richard gave Boris a
level stare. “It’s necessary,” he stated simply.
Boris’ bushy brows
rose. “Necessary? Necessary!” He turned to the patrons
transfixed on their exchange. “He says it’s necessary! The
whole south side of Cathryn’s Bay is God’s own cesspool and the
man says it’s necessary!” He fixed his fiery scowl back on
Richard. “You have no idea what it’s like! You created this
mess! You orchestrate our lives! It’s you who should pay! Not
us!”
Silent onlookers began
murmuring, their pitch a rising, disgruntled buzz. Richard felt
their emotion. He could do that. He could determine what anyone
felt…or thought. It was an ability uniquely his. He just wished
these people could think for themselves at times. Having to do it
for them was as much chore as delight. He put the thought aside and
looked again at Cathryn. He longed to see the woman from across the
bay.
Boris continued ranting.
“Your little heroine isn’t coming, man. She’s fed up, too.
You think she really wants to take on this whole damn city by
herself? You think she’s grateful? You’re the one she’d like
to see behind bars! How can you know her so intimately and still put
her through all this?”
“Detective Jessica Tate
is everything,” Richard answered. “Without her, I have no life.
Without her, you have no life. You will endure…as she endures.”
Boris stood from the
booth. “No, I won’t. I refuse to…endure…like this! It’s
over! You’ll not profit from our misery any longer! Maybe I can’t
just whip out a pen and change our destinies, but I can whip out this
and change yours!” He reached behind his back and pulled out a
pistol. He began firing indiscriminately. The patrons screamed and
ducked behind tables and booths. Some were quick. Some weren’t.
Boris didn’t care. With a single bullet remaining, he pointed the
weapon at Richard and fired.
Richard closed his eyes
as he rubbed his chest. The mood was set. His mind contained
everything it needed. He took a deep breath and sipped his coffee.
Its rich flavor was perfect. Pulling a pen from his shirt pocket he
began writing.
“Timothy Slate stared
out the window and watched the girl die.”
