With Cruel Intent (3 page)

day and the children as they jumped into

the fountain only to find that the water was

much colder than they had anticipated. Her

life perhaps was taking a turn for the

better as she thought about her new job

and home, as it was.

Miss Caroline Carmichael was a

direct descendant of Jefferson Davis of

Civil War fame, she was Southern through

and through. In her late sixties, she was

prim and proper but ran Caroline’s Bed

and Breakfast with an iron fist. Insisting

that everyone get up and to the breakfast

table by 7:00 a.m. “Because there would

be nothing to eat any later.” Her home,

now business, had been handed down

from generation to generation and she was

the sole heir after her brother had passed

away the previous year from pneumonia,

but she was quite sure it was the smuggled

Cuban cigars that killed him. Never

married, Caroline preferred to spend her

days fussing over her guests and making

‘good’ food. Her fruit salad was the talk

of the town or at least to hear her tell it, it

was.

“You know the secret is to slice

the apples just so and to add a bit of

walnut.” She had given this little gem

away to Blanche on their first night

together around the dinner table.

The house really was very nice

with all the Southern charm one might

expect from an older Georgian style home.

Large front porch complete with swing for

two, bedrooms with canopy beds and

large

mahogany

headboards.

Only

drawback was the one bathroom per three

rooms so some sort of schedule was

available unless you could negotiate a

better deal with the other guests. At the

moment the B&B was not full, just too hot

for most people to do any traveling.

Blanche thought the rooms were certainly

reasonable and were available either by

the day or month. Blanche had decided to

give her a month's rent in anticipation that

she could find a condo or something more

suited to her lifestyle.

As long as the food was good, the

neighbors quiet and the bus not too far

away it would do nicely for now. As she

pushed her tongue under the bread lodged

on the roof of her mouth and carefully

wiped at the corners with a small napkin,

that had been thoughtfully included in her

bag, she had to admit, most likely, this

was by far the best peanut butter sandwich

she had ever eaten.

CHAPTER TWO

Overhead the flag rippled in the

wind as he surged forward; keeping his

balance, step after step, getting closer to

home and safety. His rifle slung over his

shoulder must have weighed a hundred

pounds and was gaining weight with each

labored footstep. Images of Sarah by the

fire knitting, her beaming face changing

with the flames as shadows danced on her

image. Up ahead he could not yet see the

cabin but smoke was rising where the

cabin should be. His heart raced, the

anticipation

of

holding

his

Sarah

overwhelming as he moved, each step

more agonizing than the prior. The battle

had been hard fought but ultimately a

defeat, sending the survivors scattering for

home or worse. His mind’s eye pictured

the reunion with his beautiful bride, her

full breasts crushed to his chest, her arms

pulling him close, their lips desperately

seeking each other, and then he saw it - a

flash of blue from his right, moving

quickly. He parried to his left pulling the

flag down toward the assailant to act as a

weapon and shield but it was too late. He

felt the tip of the blade enter his ribs,

burning and sharp. Blood trickled from his

lip as he fell, his face pressed against the

cold earth and in the distance he could

hear his Sarah calling...

“Seymour, Mr. Wood,” a pause,

“Mr. Wood, are you with us? Will

someone nudge Seymour so he can join the

discussion?” the instructor said.

Seymour quickly jumped to life

following the jab in the ribs from a well-

aimed pencil. His sun bleached, course

hair matted a little closer to the left side of

his head where he’d had it pressed against

the desktop. The corner of his mouth was

moist but thankfully no saliva was running

down his chin. Laughter filled the room as

the battle weary soldier realized what had

happened.

“Mr. Wood, are you with us

now?”

“Oh yeah, Mrs. Wild, I’m really

sorry,” somewhat slurring his words, as

he tried to regain his consciousness.

“Okay good, let‘s move along.

Who can tell me what it was about Ted

Bundy that made him so successful as a

serial killer? Anyone have an idea?” she

said moving back to the whiteboard,

marker in hand.

Seymour Wood, 24, although

awake, still didn’t have his mind in the

game. The long hours helping his mom run

their small farm, days taking summer

courses and the occasional night at the

library were taking their toll. He had to

admit the little power nap he’d just had

did make him feel better and as he tried to

insert himself into the discussion he could

feel his second wind kicking in. He really

was enjoying the classes he’d selected for

the condensed summer schedule. Only two

years into his major, he was a few years

older than most of the other students, but

the years following his dad’s death had

been spent just trying to make ends meet

and keeping the family farm from

bankruptcy. Things were a bit better now.

His mother had found a hired hand that

was reliable and able to lighten the load,

which freed up the time Seymour needed

to begin his education. Criminology had

always been of particular interest to

Seymour. Old Dragnet and Hawaii Five-0

reruns, CSI, and others had filled his

young mind with images of busting down

doors, high-speed chases and the 'collar'.

Ultimately he wanted to work with

the FBI, CIA or GBI, but was happy just

to have the part time job with the local

library for now. Great job for a student,

quiet, not much to do once the books were

shelved and the tables and chairs

straightened. He even managed to get a

few hours every shift to work on his

studies. Looking at his watch he mentally

calculated how many hours he had before

work and what he had to get done before

then.

The balance of the class period

lapsed without any further incidents.

Seymour stood and stretched his frame,

bending right then left and a couple toe

touches for good measure just to get the

kinks out. He stood six feet tall, was not

overly muscular but toned, with sleek,

well-defined muscles; his dad said he was

‘wiry’. Hours on the basketball and

racquetball courts not to mention the

unending hours on the farm slinging bales

and pulling weeds helped to keep his

physique in top form. This had not gone

unnoticed by the young co-eds that blushed

and giggled when they saw him coming

down the hall. Girls had been a bit of an

enigma for Seymour, sure he’d had a few

girlfriends over the years but the

commitment level required in most cases

was more than he could give, so he, for

the most part, just tried to ignore them.

He’d been raised with Southern

gentleman values, respected women, tried

to see them as an equal partner in all

respects, academically, intellectually, and

so on. This was not to say that he did not

find the feminine form appealing, on the

contrary, he had days when he could think

of nothing else, however, he did find it

odd that he often found himself thinking

and

daydreaming

more

about

the

instructors and administrative women

rather than the young, nubile bimbets

bouncing about campus. In either case, he

generally kept his distance in an effort to

focus on his studies, after all tuition was

expensive and his funds were limited.

Seymour was a likable character

and had plenty of friends of both sexes; he

was quick on his feet with always

something witty or insightful to say and

didn’t mind poking fun, even if the finger

was pointed directly at him. He knew

when to have fun and when it was time to

buckle down and get things done. The

teachers had grown fond of Seymour in his

short time at Valdosta University. The

ladies often talked of his charming style

and the tilted grin that sported a small

dimple in his left cheek. Certainly he

would be a catch for any of the young

women on campus but they respected his

choice to put school first, especially

considering the challenges he’d overcome

to get there.

CHAPTER THREE

Blanche was allowed a reprieve

from working the late shift on her first

day, so at 6:30 p.m. she gathered up her

few personal items and left the stately

building in anticipation of a quiet night

curled up with her latest romance novel.

The humidity wasn’t as thick as it had

been at noon so there were couples taking

advantage of the beauty of the day,

walking with fingers interlaced or arms

around one another with the occasionally

wandering hand drifting lower to cup a

rounded bottom. Blanche sighed as she

watched the young lovers move about the

downtown area, wishing she could find

someone who was thoughtful, caring, but

with a hunger to match her own. For now

the daring young World War I pilot

fighting to free the lustful French maiden

from the hands of the barbarian Hun

would have to fill the void. Walking away

from her first day on the job she felt a

sense of both relief and satisfaction.

“I think I’ll do okay here,” she

thought, standing on the sidewalk looking

up and down the street for the closest bus

stop. “Screw it, I’ll walk and enjoy the

evening as well, even if my pilot ace isn’t

here to walk with me.” She turned on her

heels and headed in what she hoped was

the direction of Caroline’s establishment.

Finding herself in a section of

town that could be perceived as unsavory,

to say the least, was not what Blanche had

bargained on. The sun was setting and a

much rowdier crowd was filling the

streets, headed for local bars and eateries.

Her feet ached from the days work and the

miles she’d walked, most likely in the

wrong direction. With cell phone in hand,

she remembered that her service would

not be available until tomorrow at the

earliest so she slipped it back into her

purse just as an old, rusted out impala

with dark windows slowed to almost a

stop and cruised by her, very close to the

curb.

“Lookie here now Missy!” floated

over the breeze in a deep Southern drawl.

Blanche jumped; startled that

someone was behind her. She turned to

see an elderly black man sitting on his

porch, a short stone throw away. “Excuse

me, were you talking to me?”

“Yessiree, ya’ll oughtent be out

here all by yosef. Bad things be happinin’

to a raght pertty little thing like ya’ll if’n

ya ain’t careful,” the older fellow uttered,

from his perch on the porch.

The exact dialog was lost on

Blanche but the message was abundantly

clear. “I’ve been looking for a taxi but

haven’t had much luck.”

He chuckled and shook his head,

“Ya ain’t gonna be findin’ any cabs dis

pawt of town ta night.”

“Great, that’s just great,” she

fumed, scuffing her soles on the rough

concrete like she was five years old again.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a phone