1 SECRETS KEPT, DEC 15, 1995
He
waited and watched, unmoving and unobserved.
No
fishermen lingered on the water. No navigation lights revealed boats underway
or at anchor. No voices carried over the water to disclose anyone drift
fishing, and no dock lights bragged of catches being cleaned.
Other
than waves slapping against the shoreline, the lake lay quiet. Battened against
December’s cold and dampness, all lakeside residents had darkened their homes
for sleep. Snappish weather ruled the land and water.
Reassured
no lakeside neighbors would see him, he tried Teri Moderow’s front and back
doors. Locked.
His
gloved hand raised a hammer but hesitated, shaking. “No, too loud,” he
whispered to himself. He laid
the hammer on the doormat and instead extracted a key from beneath a nearby
ceramic frog. Following an almost inaudible click of the deadbolt, he
reinserted the key into the frog’s glazed belly and picked up the hammer.
Inside,
the house lay in dark, cave-like silence except for the hum of the kitchen refrigerator.
In a few moments, it shuddered to a stop, causing the watcher, who now feared
the quiet, to remove his shoes. Muffled, his socked feet began a cautious
advance toward the bedroom.
He was
committed. He knew the way. He was the killerman.
Snuggled
and secure, Teri Moderow’s subconscious mind perceived the creaking boards and
sibilant shuffling of feet but ignored the disruption. Only the house settling.
Still asleep, her brain processed the sounds into a dream: just weird noises
from that kid in my sixth period class.
An
alien odor crept into her bedroom, a sudden difference that conflicted with the
room’s usual homey scent. However, her dream refused to break from its
framework—must be that tall boy, third row near the front, his clothes always
smelling like the outdoors. In the depth of her sleep, her subconscious
dismissed both sounds and scents.
The
near-silent feet slid across the bedroom floor. A more alert person might have
detected the shushing hiss, the threat of the creeping intruder who violated
the varnished boards’ tongue-and-groove joints.
He
moved closer. Teri’s sleeping breaths masked both the sound and disturbance to
the room’s air; she felt nothing more than the tickle of a strand of hair as it
lightly touched her forehead, and she dreamed of a small spider—less than a
pencil-dot of a creature—as it would have explored the scope of her face.
Even if
her conscious mind had alerted to the phoofing movement of the socks, she would
have dismissed the sound as wind slipping through the thousands of small wire
squares on the window screens. She registered nothing unusual. Her subconscious
mind remained calm, knowing she had closed the windows in anticipation of the
cold night.
She lay
beneath her bed-covers, her face and body illuminated by a faint bathroom
nightlight. The intruder stood next to the bed, swaying in time with her
breathing. From the bathroom, a hint of scented soap floated into the bedroom.
But the scent soon faded, as if making a fearful retreat.
The
killerman uttered no cry of warning, nothing but an internal thought:
self-preservation, secrets kept. His arm rose. As the hammer reached its
apogee, a floorboard creaked beneath the killer’s shifting weight. Teri blinked
briefly awake, as the tool slammed into her head with a crunching churck.
Her
brain registered a brief burst of stars, and a pool of blood oozed upon her
pillow. She was dead.
Killerman’s
hands were stiff, but that was understandable; murder is a cold business. When
he left Marston for Teri’s house shortly after midnight, the pleasant,
radio-voiced announcer had reported, “Folks, it’s nippy out there: moonless,
thirty-two degrees with ninety-two percent humidity, and a seven mile per hour
wind out of the Northwest.”
He
shivered. Nippy. That guy should be out here. Feels like twenty degrees to me.
A balmy calm with fog would be better.
Gloom
pervaded his mind. Here I am, numb to the bone while my wife’s vacationing with
her college roommate in Sarasota. In eight or nine hours she’ll be baking in
the sunshine at the beach, and then she’ll call me at lunch saying, “Oh, Honey,
by the time I come home, I’ll be as red as a lobster.”
Christmas
lobster. With a groan, he continued his task: hefting Teri’s corpse through her
back door and the attached screen porch. Balancing her body on one arm, he
unlocked and turned the knob and struggled outside.
Another
groan. Gotta get this done; Santa is coming. His brain registered no disharmony
juggling homicide, beach envy, and Christmas dinner with the in-laws.
He had
it planned: Teri Moderow’s burial at sea behind her house, splash and good-bye.
But the
sea was only Little Green Lake, Big Green’s smaller, poorer cousin:
twenty-eight feet of water versus more than two hundred.
The
bigger lake would have been a better option, but he found the logistics
daunting.
What
about the boats? Drive there with one, two, or none?
Use her
car or mine? Then steal a boat?
The
prospect scared him. It was tough enough commanding a two-boat flotilla on the
shoreline behind Teri’s house, never mind trying to navigate the bigger lake’s
7,300 acres in the dead of night.
What
would he say if he were discovered? “Oh, hello, Officer. What am I doing in
this boat? Oh, just piping my mistress over the side. She was a Pisces.”
He
shook his head. Nah. Wouldn’t work; cops are too left brained to buy that.
A few
days earlier, Teri had threatened to scuttle the launching. He was about to
close her garage door when she said, “Oh, Sweetie, you know I love you, but I
don’t want a rusty jon boat next to my car.”
That
jon boat—he couldn’t dispose of her body without it. Fortunately,
extemporaneous lying was his specialty. “Sweetheart, this is for us. My wife
said the boat has to go.”
Teri
cocked her head, thrusting her chin forward in armored disbelief.
He
parried. “It’s only temporary; I sold it to a neighbor but he’s out of town
until the new year. It’s a surprise for his kid. Am I a great salesman or
what?”
Still
unconvinced, and again showing more of her worrisome backbone, she balked at
the accessories he wanted to pile in the garage: cement blocks and a length of
heavy wire fencing. “And what’s all this stuff?” she asked. “Is your neighbor’s
kid going into marine construction?”
“Nooo.”
Her attitude had surprised him; he hadn’t rehearsed for such resistance. “Look,
making . . . making a life for the two of us means I have to keep peace at
home. I promised my wife a fire pit.”
Teri’s
BS sensor was flashing. “But why store it here? And last week you said
something about building a birdbath. I told you on Thursday that True Value had
one for about $30.” She squared on him, her nostrils flared, a woman ready to
charge.
Christ,
he thought, this is irksome. I might as well be at home!
“Teri,
Sweety, I know this is inconvenient, but all this stuff will be out of here
before the weekend is over. And I’ve arranged a surprise, an even better one
for you.”
She
succumbed. She was in love, and love could overwhelm rational doubt.
He
decided to use the jon boat although he’d first considered a more traditional
burial. Burial was logical. But where?
His
mind again chewed through the options:
In the
woods? No. Too many tree roots, tough digging.
A
farmer’s field? Too exposed.
A
cemetery, maybe before somebody’s casket goes in. Hmm.
It’s
never this difficult on TV.
Need an
empty gravesite with dirt piled up at the side, so digging it a little deeper
won’t be noticed. Bah! That won’t work; today isn’t like the old days when
strong backs named Herman and August might have hand-shoveled the hole.
He
shook his head. No cemetery burial for you, Teri. Today they dig neat six-foot
holes with a backhoe and carry off the excess dirt in a trailer. Yup. Burial at
sea is your only option. You told me you like boats.
A surge
of satisfaction coursed through his mind. Didn’t I promise her a surprise?
Indeed, she would have been surprised—if she hadn’t died almost instantly from
his whacking hammer.
His
efficiency pleased him. In less than fifteen minutes, he dragged the boat to
her back door, transferred her body, loaded the twenty cement blocks and
wire—enough to guarantee she’d never rise to the surface—and pulled the load to
the shoreline. Man, he thought, I’ve got to start going to the gym. Thank God
for that crust of snow.
From
the side yard of her neighbors’ house, he borrowed a sixteen-foot aluminum
canoe. What a stroke of luck, he thought; gotta give those people a big hug
when they come back next spring. The neighbors spent winters in Florida and paid a
local firm to plow their driveway after every snowfall. Plowing gave the house
a lived-in look and left no questionable tire tracks from the road to his car.
Earlier
recon told him the canoe was not chained and its paddles were stored beneath
the hull. He first tried to carry it on his head and shoulders but twice rammed
the seventy-five pound load headlong into a tree.
“Yow!
Damn dark out here.”
He
checked; no one heard his stumbling curse, but his efforts left him
light-headed and twitchy-muscled. Homicide cover-up was exhausting. Wait, he
remembered, the canoe bottom is already scratched; I’ll just drag it to the jon
boat. Daytime melting and coming snows would soon erase all evidence of the
canoe’s role in her body’s disposal.
Loaded
with more than 900 pounds of blocks, Teri’s body and wire, the gunwales or top
edges of the jon boat’s hull barely cleared the water. He nudged the windward
gunwale with a canoe paddle, and water splashed into the boat. What do you
think, Teri, will this bucket make it to the deep part of the lake? You’re
carrying a lot of dead weight. “Heh-heh-heh.” Pleased, he allowed himself to
laugh aloud.
He
first attempted to tow the boat with the canoe, but he’d barely dropped onto
the canoe’s rear seat when the bow popped two feet out of the water and caught
the wind like an oversized sail. It swung around until it bumped against the
shoreline, unaffected by his barrage of expletives or frantic paddling.
He
scanned the shoreline, fearful his inept seamanship had been observed. To his
ear, the slapping waves sounded like derisive laughter. He fought back his
fear. “Cackle all you want, Teri. Tonight, you’re going in the drink.”
Composure
regained, he tried paddling from the center of the canoe but couldn’t control
its heading. The canoe invariably turned downwind and fell behind the jon boat.
Raging in frustration, he flailed at the water with a paddle.
In
desperation, he paddled from the bow but still made no headway. The canoe’s
stern rose and fell like a weak spring, fighting against the jon boat’s greater
mass.
After
several stumbling trips back into the house, he managed to line the canoe’s
bottom with various protective throw rugs and transfer eight of the cement
blocks from the jon boat. This raised the jon boat’s freeboard enough so he
could get in it and safely row to the deepest part of the lake. Gotta be
careful, he thought, drowning is not part of my plan.
Her
corpse lay between the wire mesh and the cement blocks. After spewing more
expletives involving boats and smashed fingers, he undid enough wire to
relocate her corpse so he could avoid sitting on any soft body parts. God, what
if something pops and squirts on my clothes? I still have to drive home.
Ultimately,
he repositioned her body toward the stern and sat between her legs. “Gee,
Honey, brings back memories, doesn’t it? Hey, it was good for me.” He easily compartmentalized
his past relationship with Teri from the gruesome nature of his task.
But
even for Killerman, the journey grew nightmarishly macabre as he rowed the jon
boat with Teri’s body. He mumbled, “Sorry, Babe, only option.” Teri remained
silent.
Finally,
by using residential lights and dimly shaped landmarks along the shore, he
located the deepest part of the lake. The deed was almost done. Using Teri’s
bedside flashlight, he carefully moved the eight cement blocks back into the
jon boat, and after resecuring her body and the blocks with the fencing, he
scrambled into the canoe and punched holes through the jon boat’s bottom with a
hammer and screwdriver. Nighty-night, Honey.
He
expected geysers of water to shoot from the holes but was surprised when the
initial spouting soon subsided into gradually expanding pools that filled the
boat. In a series of quick motions, he detached the towing line and offered his
own last words: “Can’t have you pull me down with you. Nah-uh.” He watched
without emotion as the jon boat sank from sight.
Numbed
through, he paddled back to Teri’s and returned the canoe where he found it.
Gotta love those neighbors, he thought.
At four
A.M., after remaking Teri’s bed with the new mattress cover, pillows, and
sheets he had purchased with cash in Madison, he completed the final
blood-splatter cleanup and stumbled to his car.
Driving
down the lake road, he cranked up the heater. “So long, Teri. Glad today is
Saturday. Wife’s away, I can sleep in.”
Copyright Richard Schram, 2017. See Amazon for additional preview text.
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