the room with exit, but that was all, no Lester or Blanche. Backing up he moved around to the front door, felt the knob and confirmed that it was unlocked.
“Here goes nothing,” he thought, turning the knob he stepped inside the small living room.
His system on full alert, he scanned the room and slowly moved to the hallway, the barrel of the.50 caliber rifle leading the way. He looked before stepping into the hall and slowly searched the entire premises, not finding anyone at home and no sign that Blanche had ever been there.
At the end of the path that led from the house to the old fishing shed, an agitated Lester stood within the shelter, pointing the knife blade at Blanche. She was tied to an old rocker that his dad used when fishing from the banks of the river. A strip of duct tape covered her mouth; tears ran from her eyes, wild with fear. Lester laid out his plans for their future and the move to California. She listened in disbelief. The Stalker closed the distance between them, putting his left arm around her and as he’d done before, took in the smell of the beauty, his face very close to hers. She struggled to get away causing him to hold her all the tighter. With his cheek against hers he looked down to see the swelling of her breasts under the button-up cotton shirt she wore. He brought the knife to the first button and with a skilled flick of the blade sent the button bouncing across the wooden floor. He slowly moved the knife down the front of her, caressing her skin as it moved. The second button joined the first on the floor.
“Virginia May, dear, I’ve got some business to attend to then I’ll come back and we’ll finish this little game. What do you think of that?” he whispered into her ear, kissing it lightly.
Blanche did her best to head-butt the creep but he withdrew and left the shed, returning the seven-inch blade to the sheath attached to his belt. Lester walked back toward the house, a swagger in his step. He was quite pleased with himself that things had gone so well tonight. The money would not be forthcoming but he’d managed to get his woman and left everyone else suffering in his wake. Before leaving he would need to burn everything that pointed to him as The Stalker. On the back porch he had placed a cardboard box full of the pictures, maps, documents and anything else connected to the past months work. The lock box also rested on the porch, the money he’d accumulated and valuables taken from the homes would make for a nice little nest egg to begin their life on the west coast.
Seymour stood in the kitchen looking out toward the barn, the light was off and only a faint glow from the living room illuminated the items in the kitchen. From where he watched the open area an object suddenly caught his attention, slipping between some trees and shrubs, moving toward him. He slipped to the side so he could still observe the person walking through the brush but left himself unexposed. It was Lester, but where was Blanche. Lester walked past the back porch and the silver vehicle to open the rear dual doors on the van; he removed the few belongings there and walked around to the porch. Seymour crouched below the windows and behind the sink giving him an advantage should Lester enter the house through the back door. He angled the rifle at the ready, held his breath and listened as he heard Lester moving something from the back porch, but no action on the door.
He waited a few seconds, and then lifted his head high enough to see back into the area behind the house. The backside of the man could be seen moving away from the house carrying something in his hands. Seymour tried to imagine what would be at the end of the dirt lane but he was sure he would find Blanche there. Surprise and the darkness would be his only allies in his quest to free the librarian from the fiend who held her captive. When the image moving down the trail vanished from his view Seymour opened the back door, prepared to venture into the unknown.
The crackle of the radio brought Deputy Guest back from her deep thoughts as she turned down the rural road that lead to the Cummings’ home. Otis’ ears perked up when they heard the voice of the Sheriff over the system.
“Deputy Guest, Lupo here, where are you?”
“I’m a few blocks from the Cummings’ house. What’s your situation there?”
“We’ve got one dead, a Felix Unger, and the owner, Beverly Davis says the killer was named Lester, no last name given.”
“I’m rolling up on the house now, got a pickup parked on the main road, looks like Seymour’s. Doesn’t appear to be anybody in it.”
“Guest, do not proceed without backup. Do you hear me?”
“Yeah, I got you Sheriff but something is going to go down here pretty quick, I may be able to save a life if I get in there.”
“Damn it! Where’s your backup? Natalie, I’m leaving it up to you. It’s your call but use your head. I don’t want you playing the hero there and check your service weapon before you leave your unit. Keep us appraised,” Angelo cautioned his youngest officer.
Natalie stepped from her K-9 Unit just at the same time that Seymour started the treacherous walk to the shed. Standing at the back of the station wagon the Deputy pulled her service 9mm semi-automatic, slid back the action and put a high velocity round into the chamber, leaving sixteen shells in the magazine. She opened the door exposing, the cage where Otis stood, wagging his tail and whining quietly.
“That’s a good boy. Be quiet now, Otis,” she said, as she released him, holding his collar long enough to put a leash on him.
Canine and handler moved at the same pace as Seymour, the two separated by seventy-five yards but without any knowledge where the other was. At the mailbox, Otis sniffed and raised both front paws, coming to rest on the poorly maintained structure. He let out a low, deep howl; sounding like a wolf calling his mate.
At the shed, Lester ignited the incriminating items in the fifty-gallon drum and was returning to Blanche when he heard the dog. He spun and looked down the trail but could see no one coming. He exited away from the flaming barrel and into the trees, protecting him from view.
Seymour heard the dog as well, the opportunity for surprise gone, he pressed on, feeling that Blanche was in danger. He could see the flames through the trees and the smoke billowing up into the darkness. Pausing only briefly, he calculated his options, knowing that if he moved toward the fire he would surely find Blanche. She would be waiting there to pull him close and seal their reunion with a kiss. The rifle continued to weigh him down, the barrel forward and leading the way, he moved more swiftly now, afraid that Lester would do something foolish and harm Blanche.
Down the driveway Deputy Guest pulled her service weapon from the holster and in doing so removed one of her hands from the leash that was holding Otis back. The powerful dog sensed the possibility of escape, being so excited to get his man; he bolted away from Natalie and raced down the drive toward the shed. She pursued her friend, gun drawn and at a dead run, her heart beating out of her chest, not knowing what she would encounter once she caught up to her partner.
Seymour charged down the trail toward the fire and smoke, anticipating that a shelter of some sort must lie nearby. Just when the silhouette of the small shed came into view he saw the glint of a blade rushing toward him from his right. He turned to bring the muzzle of the antique weapon to bear on his target but Lester had been too quick. With the hunting knife in his right hand, he used his left to thrust the heavy barrel up, just as Seymour pulled the trigger and the rifle discharged, sending a flash of fire and smoke from the barrel but only into the night’s sky. The blast from the ancient gun was deafening and the recoil set Seymour back on his heels. Lester took the brief advantage and thrust the fine-edged blade under the defensive right arm of Seymour and began to impale the steel between his ribs; when the growl of a huge German Shepherd could be heard, fast approaching.
Otis left the ground six feet in front of the assailant and carried his 105 pounds through the air, jaws open, front paws extended. Before Lester could pull the blade from Seymour’s side Otis had his left arm in his jaws and was shaking the man, driving him to the ground.
Further down the trail Deputy Guest was covering the distance as quickly as she could. The gunshot had sent a shiver through her and she could not deny that she was, for the first time since this investigation began, scared beyond reason. The sound of Otis attacking someone could barely be made out through the crisp night air. She pushed on, anticipating the scene just a few yards ahead.
Seymour lay sprawled out on the ground, his blood mingling with the dirt from the trail. The shepherd battled The Stalker and had the upper hand but Seymour could see the blade again being raised high above the fighting duo, then pitch downward quickly, driving the blade deeply into the left front shoulder of the brave dog. Otis yelped but continued his fight, thrashing at the man’s arm, not done with the job he was trained to do. Seymour grasped for the rifle and ejected the spent shell, reached for a live round from his front pocket, the pain causing the simple act to be monumental. He managed to extract the lead tipped shell and slide it into the chamber. Before him he
