With Cruel Intent (8 page)

(check

batteries)

thin nylon rope

hunting knife - sharpen

gloves (no powder)

new socks

cloth and alcohol

backpack (electrical tape over

metal)

He sat back in his chair, tapping

the side of his jaw with the pencil, “What

else, what else?” he said, closing his eyes

and trying to imagine what was missing

from the first ‘outing’.

He hadn’t thought he would enjoy

it as much as he did, the excitement of

being in someone's home had always been

a thrill but being there while they slept

was ‘magical’. Beyond that, taking their

picture seemed so much more invasive,

exponentially more personal than merely

stealing a few valuable items, getting in

and out as quickly as possible.

Last night had gone better than he

had planned but looking back he knew he

could improve. The information he had

received had been valuable, the layout of

the house was exact, the area dark and

quiet, door had been unlocked - no need to

use the key they had provided, no dogs or

children. He hated little unexpected

surprises in this line of work, but he was

always prepared for such emergencies or

at least he thought he was.

He’d made a career as a burglar

all over Southern Georgia and had

managed to avoid capture thus far, and had

no intention of spending any time behind

bars in the near future. Always waiting for

one big score, a valuable diamond, a gold

brick, anything that would bring big bucks.

Who would have known that his big score

would involve putting on women’s

underwear in the dead of night then taking

pictures of himself as he went. He’d been

instructed only to take the one picture to

be left behind on the pillow but once he

got started he kind of got carried away.

Putting on the clothing was, at

first, odd and uncomfortable but doable; it

was the taking of the pictures that he had

not expected to give him such a rush.

Looking back at the images splayed before

him he reached for his favorite, very

grainy but still enough in focus to make out

what was captured. He stood very close to

the bed, hovering over Thelma, wearing a

black bra with white lace trim, matching

panties, his face very close to hers with

his tongue extended, almost touching the

tip of her nose.

“She would've shit a brick if I’d

left that one on her pillow,” he said aloud,

laughing to himself, then more raucously.

CHAPTER SIX

The short walk from the bus stop

gave Blanche time to put the day’s events

into perspective, she enjoyed the light

breeze, the old homes lining the street and

the sight and sound of fireflies breaking

the darkness before her. Arriving at

Caroline’s well after everyone else had

gone to bed, Blanche entered quietly,

slipping her shoes off at the doorway, and

tiptoed up the stairs to her room.

Squinting, she rummaged through her

purse and finding the old skeleton key

aimed it at the lock, when a hand lightly

squeezed her shoulder. The key dropped

to the floor, ping, ping, ping, as it danced

across the wood, Blanche shrieked,

pulling her purse to her chest and spinning

in the same moment, pressing her back

firmly against the door jam.

“Ms. Carmichael, you ‘bout gave

me a heart attack!”

“Sorry deary, but I wanted to let

you know that you have new neighbors.

The newlyweds were across the hall but

they wanted a room with a view so I had

to move them next to you. Hope you don’t

mind,” she whispered.

“Mind? Why should I mind?”

Blanche replied in a hushed tone, her heart

still thumping in her chest.

“Oh, I don’t know but I didn't’

want you to be upset with me.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m sure it

will be just fine. Can you see my key

anywhere?”

Both looked to the floor and the

shadows cast by the dim hallway lamp.

“Here it is,” Caroline said, after

only a few seconds of looking.

“Thanks, guess I’ll see you in the

morning.”

“Yes, seven sharp, don’t forget.”

“How could I?” the tired librarian

whispered to herself, as she opened the

door and stepped inside, gently closing it

behind her.

Washing her face was a nighttime

ritual that she both loved and hated; loved

the feeling of having a fresh clean face,

free from makeup and the oils that

inevitably cover one’s skin by the end of

the day, but hating the few minutes it took,

especially after a full day. Pulling her hair

back and wrapping the knitted bandana

around her forehead and ears, she grabbed

the cleanser with her left, cotton ball with

her right and began the process of

removing her makeup. The bandana,

although not stylish, was a girl’s best

friend when it came to this process. Holly

had made it for Blanche as a going away

gift, hoping it would make her think of her

best friend each night before bed. It had

worked.

Blanche reflected on the past few

days, realizing she had not even taken the

time to call, only a few hurried texts had

been sent and received.

“I must remember to call her

tomorrow,” Blanche thought, reaching for

her phone and putting a reminder into the

notes.

The job finished and too tired to

shower she removed her clothing, hanging

the slacks in the closet and tossing the

blouse into the pile of dirty laundry.

Reaching behind her back, she unclasped

the bra and let out an audible ‘Ahhh’ as

she laid the garment aside and rubbed

under each breast where the strap had

indented the delicate skin. Neatly folded

and placed at the foot of the bed were her

pajamas. She couldn’t remember leaving

them in that condition, in fact, she was

sure she had quickly taken them off and

thrown them in a heap on the bed before

getting ready earlier in the day.

“That Caroline, she really is a

sweetheart,” Blanche thought.

Slipping the silk over her left then

right arm, pulling the material together to

be buttoned up the front, Blanche closed

her eyes enjoying the silk as it caressed

her body.

“Mmmmm, that does feel good,”

escaped her lips, as she pulled the

bottoms up and made a quick knot in the

drawstring.

Ready for bed, she fluffed the

pillows, pulled the light switch on the end

table lamp illuminating the adjacent space

and lifted the book that would be her

companion for the next hour. ‘
Mandingo
’,

it had practically leapt off the shelf the

morning after meeting Jasper but she was

careful to put the paperback in her purse

without anyone at the library knowing.

The story had captured her imagination;

slaves, helpless white women, strong

black men all set against the background

of the civil war. Blanche pulled her knees

up, her feet flat on the bed, resting the

book between her thighs. Opening the

book to the marker, the story once again

jumped from the pages, drawing her into

its grasp and filling her head with images

of the Old South. Almost holding her

breath in anticipation of what may happen

next she dared not turn the page.... then it

started.

Initially, Blanche thought she must

have been hearing the distant sound of

people arguing. She tried to ignore it,

going back to her book, reading a few

more lines, concentrating on the images

formed in her head, but the incoming

sound seemed to ebb and flow, soft,

muffled then building then dropping off

again. She placed the book on the bed and

listened more intently trying to figure out

where it was coming from. There were

two distinct voices, male and female, but

the exchange didn’t make much sense. She

would periodically pick up a word here

and a word there but nothing that could be

associated with typical dialog. The more

carefully she listened the more concerned

she became, it sounded as if the woman

was being assaulted.

“Should I phone someone or wake

up Caroline?” she thought.

“No, no. No, no. Stop, stop, stop!

Give me a minute!” she heard the female

voice say louder now.

Blanche held her breath. Suddenly,

there was a knock on the wall directly

behind Blanche’s head, startling her and

making her drop ‘
Mandingo
’ to the floor,

then another and another that worked into

an unmistakable rhythm. The words of Ms.

Carmichael immediately came again to

Blanche’s mind, “newlyweds ...moved

next to you...hope you don’t mind.”

“Just lovely!” she said, picking her

book up and climbing back into bed.

Before long the distraction next

door died down, her eyes heavy, she

placed the book aside, turned off the light

and began drifting in and out of

consciousness, her last sarcastic thought

being, “never should have given that

ashtray to Holly.” And she gave up, giving

herself to the fatigue that enveloped her.

Blanche stood between the white

columns that pushed up from the porch

supporting the second story of the

plantation mansion. Ahead she could see

the gardens to the right and left of the

walkway that extended over a hundred

feet before reaching a gate and brick fence

that surrounded the property. Beyond the

fence she could see ten housing structures

also of brick running in a uniform row, but

shielded by large oak trees that dotted the

property. Seeing her, as if from someone

else’s perspective, she was dressed in the

most beautiful gown, orange and cream,

with a necklace of gemstones around her

neck, sparkling in the noonday sun.

The dress was exquisite, made of

multiple layers of taffeta, the inner layers

being a rustic burnt-orange with the outer

shell, having a satin like texture in a

subtle, off white. Her waist was cinched

tight with the assistance of a bone corset

accentuating both her tiny waist and

bountiful bosom. From the waist there

were six runners of orange fabric over the

cream that terminated in a bow six inches

from the bottom of the dress. The lighter

fabric draped over the orange and inside

the runners giving a three-dimensional

look to the dress that was striking.

Between bows the cream taffeta cascaded

down creating folds and a scalloped

border allowing for an orange trim around

the bottom of the dress, reaching the

ground.

The lower half of the dress was

unique and beautiful but it was the top half

that had the Southern Gentlemen on the

porch, and the black butlers staring in

obvious admiration and lust. The sleeves

began a few inches below the roundest

part of her shoulders and only covered a

few inches of each arm. Her neck and

shoulders were completely bare except

for the necklace that shimmered and

reflected light with each slight movement

of her torso. Lace trimmed the fabric at the

top of the dress that rode just above her

shoulder blades in back and dangerously

low in the front. The white of her upper

breasts spilled to overflowing from the

top of the gown, drawing attention from

male and female alike.

Blanche moved about the porch

making small talk and enjoying the

discomfort she was creating amongst the

guests that were there. Other women

moved about within the confines of the

gardens but none ventured beyond the

gate, except to mount a horse drawn

carriage to be escorted from the property

down the long, oak lined lane that led to