Patricia
At one a.m., the traffic was pretty light. Not as light as Vermont at night, of course, when I’d be as likely to run into a moose as run into a car at this hour. But it was less stressful than the drive to the horse rescue stable had been. At least, in terms of who was or was not on my bumper.
Also the kids weren’t in the car for me to worry about. They were tucked in their beds, nice and peaceful, dreaming of horses and Avocate heroes. Tomorrow, I’d take Christina to buy new clothes. I was experiencing feelings I’d never thought I’d feel again. I felt a little guilty about leaving them alone in the house, but it was a safe neighborhood. They were sleeping. And their parents would be home soon, although I could possibly beat them back. If they beat me back, I had an answer to any questions that might arise.
I was just out to fill up the gas tank.
And maybe kill someone.
People might think of me as a serial killer. According to the technical definition, that would fit. After all, I was planning to kill at least three more people, more or less, since I hadn’t made up my mind about Brenda.
My hesitation about killing Brenda, out of a desire to protect Kevin and Christina, didn’t extend to the others on my list.
Still, I was not randomly picking victims. And I was not doing it for kicks.
I started this because Ashley deserved justice, and no one was going to give it to her but me. Yes, her husband David had filed a lawsuit, and maybe Brenda Phillips and the hospital would have to pay some money for letting Ashely die. Maybe Tom Martin would have had to pay if I hadn’t killed him. But, even so, it was just money.
Meanwhile, my baby was dead.
My baby. The baby I’d carried in my body, spent twelve hours in labor to deliver, nursed, taught to read, watched over and loved with every essence of my being as she grew from baby to little girl to woman.
She was dead and for nothing.
I hoped Georgina Crane was at home.
She lived in one of those historic houses from the early 20th century. It was a two-story deal with a front porch and a second-floor balcony and columns, painted yellow and orange, with large oak trees shading the walk.
I could envision her sitting on that porch swing, serving tea and crumpets to her visitors, all the time talking about what a wonderful moral person she was and how much she loved babies.
I drove around the block once, checking for cameras and for people taking strolls. I didn’t see anything aimed at Georgina’s front door, but if the police suspected murder, they’d check traffic cameras to see who’d been in the area.
Nothing in the blocks around her house.
Just in case, the license plate on the Toyota had an unfortunate amount of mud caked onto the last four digits, leaving only two letters visible. Must have happened at the stable.
So the traffic cameras weren’t a big deal.
But it wasn’t that late, not for a big city. Random cars passed me. There could be noisy insomniacs who had nothing better to do than spy on their neighbors.
I’d borrowed Brenda’s gun. I’d sneak it back either when I got home or sometime the next day. From what I’d observed, she didn’t check on it. The gun was more for insurance than anything else, a fallback just in case of something.
My initial plan was to ring the doorbell and hope that despite the hour, Georgina would answer it. She’d see a middle-aged white woman whose car had broken down and whose phone wasn’t charged. That would be the easy way in.
I contemplated alternate plans just in case. Jimmy the lock on the front door? No, too many people have alarm systems. That’s part of the problem in today’s world: everybody’s paranoid. Not like Vermont where half the state doesn’t even bother locking up.
Other alternatives required some gymnastics. I’d noticed that the trees in her yard blocked the view of the back of her house and also offered climbing potential. And, yes, I was quite capable of climbing up a tree.
Also, alarm companies usually didn’t wire upstairs windows.
Once inside, my plan was to make her take a fistful of Benadryl and wait for her to conk out. Then I could turn on the gas burners and let the carbon monoxide finish the job. (I assumed that Georgina wouldn’t have something as politically correct as an electric oven.) Or simply set a fire in her bedroom.
It wasn’t an elaborate plan, even if it was the best I could do on short notice. It wouldn’t have the same emotional satisfaction as shooting her. But it would look like an accident or suicide.
I parked the Toyota across the street from Georgina’s house and waited.
A black Lexus passed. Then a silver Mercedes.
I waited a little longer to be sure that a neighbor wasn’t going to emerge and ask me what the hell I was doing. Meanwhile, I watched the house. After five minutes, I saw the curtains of a window move. Was she up or was someone else there?
The curtain moved again, and then the party responsible pushed onto the windowsill. A cat.
Damn.
Before I turned on the gas or started the fire, I’d have to catch the cat and put it outside. It wasn’t the cat’s fault that it had a terrible person for an owner. Ashley had loved cats. She’d have been really pissed if I killed a cat, even if it was for her.
Still, it wasn’t all that easy to catch a cat. I’ve had cats all my life, and if they don’t want to be caught, they’re not going to be.
So, both ideas were out.
Maybe just force her to down a lot of Benadryl and a lot of alcohol. But I didn’t know what dose would kill, and if she didn’t die, she could describe me.
Maybe I should pack it up for the night and spend a little more time planning. This was an impulse kill, not the planned execution that I preferred, and I risked doing something sloppy.
Nevertheless—I was there, and I had a gun. Get inside and just shoot her. As an extra bonus—the gun belonged to Brenda Phillips if the police ever managed to trace the bullet.
Two birds and all that.
I had just made up my mind when a Lexus drove towards me. In the light of a streetlamp, I saw it was a copper-gold color. The same color as the car I’d seen earlier at the rescue stable.
The car parked across from me, in front of Georgina’s house, and there seemed to be two women inside.
I could have been wrong. The light wasn’t great, and I couldn’t see their faces. Still, it was the same color car. Same heights, from their silhouettes.
I didn’t know who they were or what they were doing, but seeing them was a little unnerving. If it were the same two women, it was a little too much of a coincidence for me to feel comfortable. I had plans for the next few days that did not include going to jail.
I put the Toyota into gear and drove off.