Wellfleet, Cape Cod
The lone woman worked with a fury at her computer in the rear of the dark warehouse, lit only by a single, harsh fluorescent lamp that hung suspended by two rusty chains over her desk. The rest of the damp, humid chamber was shrouded in musty shadows. Bits of odd machinery and pallets loaded with various-sized crates littered the concrete floor. The woman seemed nervous and kept looking back over her shoulder as if she were expecting someone. She’d shiver and stop typing every so often to peer back into the darkness, shading her eyes with her hand. Then, after a moment, she’d return to her screen and resume working. The only company she had was music from an oldies radio station that cut into the heavy silence. The dark-clad figure found the door to the warehouse unlocked, as he knew it would be, and entered through the loading bay without a sound, closing the metal door softly behind him. The front 2 Tom Rieber half of the huge room was pitch black and he paused to let his eyes adjust and his senses tune in to his surroundings. The intruder smelled the musty air from the August humidity inside the old warehouse along with the fishy smell from the small marshy harbor outside. He glanced at his black diver’s watch confirming that it was 8:15 p.m.—well after closing time. He had to be done with this by 8:30 and he knew going in that no variations from the plan would be acceptable. Every detail had been carefully timed and planned. So far all was going according to schedule. He heard the steady tapping of the woman’s fingers flying across the keyboard and the soft music coming from her radio somewhere in the back by her desk. He had parked across the lot at the busy restaurant and patiently watched everyone else leave as he had many times before. He was very thorough at his little game. He was the hunter, patiently stalking, and she was the unknowing prey—the lion and the lamb. Nothing was left to chance. He had become totally absorbed into the role and it excited him beyond expectation, creating a high that money couldn’t buy. The intruder even knew that the woman’s partner, Shawn, was blissfully working on his second or third cocktail by now and would never consider going back to the office. The man smiled and thought to himself, “He’d better have a good time tonight because tomorrow’s gonna be a whole different story.” He advanced slowly and could see the back of the woman’s head bathed in a harsh pool of light from the overhead fixture. She had long, fierce black curls that cascaded down the middle of her back. She was short but well-built and had a deep, natural color. She wore a turquoise tank top and white shorts, which accented her skin and her well-defined body. He had no doubt that she had to die. It was just a shame that’s all. He had seen her face a lot lately, even as he slept, and he would wake up sweating with his heart pounding wildly, gasping for breath. He had even fantasized about being with her many times. Finally, she belonged to him and the union soon would be complete. This was a test and he knew it. Part of him wanted to turn around and forget this whole thing. She hadn’t seen him yet. But no—it was too late. He was committed and had no choice but to follow through and do it right. He felt his hands sweating inside thick leather gloves as he crept forward slowly and silently in his black rubber-soled shoes to where she sat at her computer terminal. He watched her sitting straight and noted the strong lines of her jaw as she concentrated on the screen before her. He continued to inch forward blending in with the shadows around him. He picked his way around a large packing crate and was almost in plain view. She would see him if she turned. She was only about ten feet away now. The announcer on the radio was telling of more sweltering heat to come. He swallowed hard, reached back, and found the butt of the large revolver that was tucked into his waistband in the small of his back. Just as he tightened his fingers around the smooth butt, his foot struck an object that was lying on the darkened floor in front of him, making a loud metallic clatter on the cement. “Shit!” He exclaimed loudly, startling himself as well as the woman. He fought the impulse to run. The woman whirled around in her chair and looked straight at him, startled and scared. Her eyes were large and round, and her mouth was open, ready to scream. “What the . . . You scared the hell out of me!” She sighed and then smiled at him nervously, but with obvious relief. “Hang on a sec. I’ll be right with you, OK? I just want to finish what I’m working on. It’ll only take a minute.” He nodded as she turned back to her screen, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. She didn’t appear to notice or question his thick gloves or dark clothes. He felt a moment of uncertainty. She didn’t seem so bad, he thought, and boy she really was a looker! His heart was racing and his mouth was dry. He’d heard that she was always pissed off at somebody. But she was nice to him now. Were they wrong? Could be. He smiled his best smile and reached down to pick up the object that so rudely announced his arrival. “Take your time,” he answered her thickly, trying to be casual as the heavy revolver dug into his back. Heart racing, he tasted the cocaine in the back of his throat. Maybe he shouldn’t have done any till this was over. Oh well, it was too late now and nobody would know! Plus, he loved the warm surge of ecstasy the cocaine gave him, deep in his belly. He stared at the object in his hand and almost laughed aloud when he saw that it was a golf club. All the planning in the world just went to hell in one second because of a stupid golf club—a game for the fat and lazy. He studied the club for a brief moment and noted the detail as if to ease his anxiety. It had a long chrome shaft with a wedge on one end and a rubber grip on the other. The number 9 was stamped on the wedge end. He hefted the club and tossed it back against his right shoulder, smiled, and walked towards her, much the same way a soldier marched with a rifle. She’d already turned back to the computer and was totally absorbed in her typing when he came up behind her. The scream froze in her throat when she saw the reflection of the steel shaft descending in an arc towards her head on the screen in front of her . . . a fraction of a second, and a lifetime, too late. He watched with a mix of fascination and horror as he buried the club into the dark mass of curls. He’d never hurt anyone before. Not like this anyway. It was like an out-of-body experience in which he was the spectator. The club partially deflected off her arm when she raised it to ward off the blow. But it still landed hard against her skull sending her sprawling sideways out of her chair and onto the cement floor. He knew she must at least be dazed because he heard a nasty-sounding crack when her head hit the floor. Her eyes rolled back and her mouth stayed open. Now he just wanted to get out of there fast, but he knew he had to finish the job he had started. She had seen his face and could identify him. How could he have gotten involved in this nightmare? “Why?” he looked up and asked God aloud. God chose not to answer him. The attacker looked down at the club and saw that the wedge was covered with blood and some of her now-sticky black hair, and then he stared at her. She wasn’t moving, and he didn’t see her breathing. There was a large gash just above her right ear that was open, bleeding, and very ugly. There was a stirring deep in his loins and he felt a hot rush of excitement. He raised the club over his head, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then stopped himself. She was already dead, he thought. He watched her prone, lifeless figure. There was no sign of breathing and he wasn’t about to touch her. She looked dead all right and that was good enough for him. He glanced down at his watch. 8:23 p.m. He felt weak and sick to his stomach. It was way too late now! He knew he had to keep a level head or else he would go to jail for the rest of his life. He just prayed it would all be worth the risk. He checked himself and saw blood splattered on his pants and shoes. He would get rid of these clothes tonight. He leaned the bloody club against a nearby desk, picked up the phone with his gloved hand, and punched out a memorized phone number. He knew that he had done what he came to do, even though it didn’t go exactly as they had planned. He put the receiver to his ear and listened as it rang once, and then again. He heard a click and then silence. He spoke softly into the receiver, and quickly hung up, not expecting a reply. He stared down at her motionless body once more and shrugged his shoulders. He did what needed to be done. No time for regrets now. He picked up the bloodied club and headed out of the warehouse the same way he came in. He looked at his watch and noted that it was 8:26 p.m. His mind raced. She wasn’t supposed to die by a golf club! Now what to do with the club? He told himself to stay calm over and over. He was aware of his own breathing and heard a loud thumping that he realized came from his own heart. All he had to do was to get out of there without incident, and he was home free. He pushed open the metal door a crack, looked outside, and scanned the large lot carefully. There was the usual activity at the restaurant next door and nobody seemed to be looking his way with any interest. The front half of the old building was an art co-op that had been there for years and was closed for the evening. The only car parked next to the building was the woman’s black Acura. This was a normal sight because she always worked late. He slipped out the door, pulled it closed behind him, and then leaned the bloody golf club against the door. He smiled to himself thinking that this was a true stroke of genius. The next person to go into the building would have to touch the club and leave their prints. In the semi-darkness the blood and hair on the other end wasn’t visible so at first glance, the club wouldn’t seem too out of place-just careless. The man smiled again knowing that his prints would not be found. He felt the .357 Smith & Wesson Combat Magnum in the small of his back that he was supposed to have used on her, but things happened a little too fast. He didn’t want to toss the gun as he was instructed to do, because he didn’t use it on the woman. He decided to hang on to it until he could figure out what to do with it, besides it might come in handy and it was a nice gun. But it was not something he wanted to get caught with. The gun already had a history and with a little diligence, it might somehow be traced back to him. He took one last look around the parking lot and, 8 Tom Rieber satisfied that he was unobserved, went around the side of the building, and disappeared quietly into the night. He didn’t see the darkened patrol car parked in the shadows near the restaurant.
