Page 2 of One of Us Is Guilty

I’d been in tight spots before.

But not like this.

Not with so many unanswered questions. I had a pretty good idea who had grabbed me off the street, though. My ability to get myself into trouble was kind of a gift. Not that my ex-wife, Christine, saw it that way.

I thought of her, and my daughter, Amy. How would they react when they were told I was missing? Judging by the professional approach of the two guys riding in the front of the car, and it was always two guys in a street grab like this, my body would probably never be found.

It was strange, but right then, that was the thing that pissed me off the most.

My family and my friends not being able to grieve properly. Not knowing where I was, but certain in the knowledge that I was dead. I had known loss and pain, and I’d seen the damage it could do to others – their lives torn to pieces. I didn’t want that. I definitely didn’t want that for my daughter.

Everybody has to go sometime.

And one grave is as cold as the next.

It was the people I would leave behind.

That’s what hurt.

I should have seen this coming sooner.

Sometimes, we are so blinded by what’s right in front of us, that we don’t see the real danger.

The car slowed. The scene that would play out was inevitable.

When the car stopped, the trunk would open. A flashlight would be directed at my face. I would be told to get out and walk. Headed somewhere dark, somewhere quiet. Some deserted patch of old forest, or hillside.

The men would follow me, one of them carrying tools – a shovel and a pick, most likely. The other would have a gun on me. Their flashlights pointed at my back, casting my shadow on the cold ground. And for a while, I would follow my dark shadow.

Then they would tell me to stop. To get on my knees.

To say a prayer.

I will have taken my last walk.

And then I’ll be dead.

FIVE MONTHS EARLIER

THE NIGHT OF THE MURDER

Patrick Vanderpool

As Patrick lay naked in the bed, he gazed at the ceiling fan rotating slowly and wondered why he felt so uneasy.

His fingers lightly touched the scar tissue on his right shoulder. A perfect circle of raised, gnarled, red tissue. When Molly had first seen the scar, she’d asked him if it was from a gunshot. He said it was an old wound, and left it at that. Strangely, he had told his wife the truth. Not all of it, but he’d told her it was a burn.

Even though it had happened a long time ago, the memory of it was still hot in his mind. When he was worried, or anxious, he often found himself rubbing the scar to remind himself that he was a survivor.

No matter what.

His heartbeat was just returning to normal. The young woman who rented this apartment, Molly Green, had taken a robe and left the bedroom. He wasn’t a man who usually enjoyed looking into his lover’s eyes as they caught their breath, or held them close, or kissed them afterwards or whispered sweet things to them in a post coital glow.

But Molly was different. He wanted to feel her next to him. Listen to her heartbeat. Lace his fingers through hers. Smell her hair as she nestled her head against his shoulder. Taste her lips.

And tell her how he felt.

The fan burred as it churned the hot air in the bedroom.