They Never Die Quietly Read online

  THEY NEVER DIE QUIETLY

  THEY NEVER DIE QUIETLY

  D. M. ANNECHINO

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2008, 2010, D. M. Annechino

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  Produced by Melcher Media, Inc.

  124 West 13th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  www.melcher.com

  Library of Congress Control Number

  2009913662

  ISBN: 978-0-98255-503-3

  This novel was originally published, in a slightly different form, by Booksurge in 2009.

  Cover design by Ben Gibson

  Author photo by Jennifer Ann Chasser

  Melcher Media strives to use environmentally responsible suppliers and materials whenever possible in the production of its books. For this book, that includes the use of SFI-certified interior paper stock.

  TO JENNIFER

  FOR YOUR ENCOURAGING WORDS AND

  UNWAVERING SUPPORT

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  I lie naked on the makeshift crucifix. Along the underside of my arms, down my spine, against the back of my thighs, I can feel splinters from the rough-sawn wood prickling my tender skin. My arms and ankles are bound to the crucifix with clothesline. I try to inhale a breath of the damp air, but my lungs feel oppressed, as if a heavy weight lay on my chest. My heart pounds against my ribs. He straddles my shivering body. My captor. A monster like no other. For an instant, his wide open eyes glance at my breasts. I cringe at the thought of him touching me. Then he studies my face, searching for something; I don’t know what. Perhaps he wishes to taste my fear, sip it like fine wine. I try to convince myself that this is a nightmare, that all I know about life and death and reality will exist when I awaken. But I will not awaken. I look into his eyes and see not a man, but my executioner. I no longer sob or ask for mercy. My plea only serves to inspire and excite him. And I will not give him that satisfaction.

  So this is how I will die.

  I turn my head slightly and see my daughter lying on the bed. She sleeps peacefully, unaware that she will never see me again. He promises not to harm her if I do not resist, but I find little solace in his pledge. He is holding a hammer in one hand and a shiny spike in the other. I cannot imagine the level of pain I will experience when he drives the cold steel through my wrists and feet. If God is truly merciful, maybe He will lead me to a sanctuary of unconsciousness and spare me the agony.

  Why does he hesitate? His pause only serves to further torment me. But yes, this is part of his game.

  I fear death of course, the unknown, but the true terror lives in my still-alert mind. No one will recall my name. Linda Cassidy will be remembered as an obscure woman who made a poor choice when her car broke down. My life, all of my accomplishments and contributions to my family, will fade to oblivion. I will no longer have an identity. I will be reduced to a statistic in the newspapers: victim number two.

  As I lie here, waiting for him to continue with his ritual, I think about the past, but more of the future, a future in which I will not participate. What will my husband tell Jennifer when she asks about her mommy? Stephen will be devastated. I suspect it will take years for him to deal with the loss. The ointment of time may never heal his wounds. But in spite of his loss, life will go on. One day another woman will occupy my bed. She will hold him in her arms and make love to him like I did so many times. Jennifer will call her Mommy.

  I now realize that the things most dear to me were those seemingly insignificant: reading a bedtime story to Jennifer; cuddling next to Stephen and sharing a bowl of popcorn; picking roses from my garden; hearing red-breasted robins singing outside my bedroom window; the taste of fresh strawberries; taking my mom to her favorite buffet. Oh, how I wish I had another chance to appreciate life.

  “Are you ready, sinner?”

  His words break the silence like a storm piercing the calm of night.

  I will never be ready to die.

  His eyes are different now. The corners twitch to a hideous smile. His face is beaming with purpose. In a moment of futile hope I imagine a hero, a John Wayne breaking down the door and rescuing me. I turn my head toward the door. Hoping. Praying. But this hero lives only in my imagination.

  He presses the sharp spike against my wrist and holds the hammer in the ready position. “Are you prepared to atone for your sins?” He licks his lips as if preparing to enjoy an exquisite meal. “Do you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?”

  This is it, Linda Cassidy. The beginning of the end.

  Through blurry eyes, I quickly savor one last look at my beautiful daughter. I feel a lump grow in my throat and I can hardly suppress the tears.

  Goodbye, my sweet child. I love you with all my heart.

  I close my eyes and silently pray, hoping that God is indeed merciful.

  ONE

  Simon enjoyed this part of the hunt. His eyes were alert with the wild anticipation of another cleansing. Like a hungry alley cat stalking an injured bird, he had to wait for the perfect moment before striking.

  He slumped low in the black Ford F-150 Supercab, seemingly unaware of the patrons dashing in and out of the local FoodMart. Anyone noticing him on this crisp November evening might guess that he was waiting for his wife to appear with a cartful of groceries. As he sat in the dark, enough of the bluish parking lot light spilled into the truck for him to read his favorite passage from the Bible, a passage his mother had read to him numerous times. “He is a voice shouting in the wilderness: ‘Prepare a pathway for the Lord’s coming! Make a straight road for Him! Fill in the valleys, and level the mountains and hills! Straighten the curves, and smooth out the rough places! And then all people will see the salvation sent from God.’”

  Reading these words sent a chill up his spine.

  As he waited impatiently, Simon felt a cramp in his lower back, a slight spasm from his intense afternoon workout. He believed in keeping his body fit as well as his soul. He adjusted his six-foot-six frame in the leather bucket seat and gently kneaded the tender muscles. He’d been waiting for over an hour but hadn’t yet seen her. Her tardiness troubled him. A successful plan depended upon predictability.

  Although he would not abduct the redhead today, he had studied her routine for more than two weeks, observed her activities with the meticulous attention of a private investigator. Like clo
ckwork, she’d race through the parking lot squealing her tires and haphazardly maneuver the gold BMW into two parking spaces. Always in a hurry, she’d grab her daughter from the backseat and sprint toward the supermarket.

  About to abort today’s surveillance, Simon looked up from the Bible and spotted the gold BMW racing toward a vacant parking spot. He glanced at his watch.

  Forty-five minutes late.

  As in the past, chosen ones made his heart pump fiercely. His face felt hot, ablaze. Watching her, knowing that soon she would be cleansed, overwhelmed him with a level of euphoria few people could understand. For just a moment, he closed his eyes and gently stroked the leather bucket seat, imagining that it was the woman’s soft skin.

  Simon loved touching people. As a physical therapist, he earned a living bending fingers and wrists and uncooperative joints. Inflicting pain through aggressive manipulation helped the healing process. Who would ever suspect anything unusual if he torqued a pinky a little too far, or bent a knee beyond its reasonable limit? How could anyone guess that his actions were anything but those prescribed by therapy? Pain, he’d been taught by his dear mother, cleansed the soul and purified one’s heart. And Simon, appointed by his Creator and guided by the watchful eye of his mother, focused his efforts on the wretched women of the world. Yes, he was indeed a gifted therapist, but Simon prided himself more as a healer of souls than of bodies.

  She parked two rows over; close enough for him to observe her without obstruction. True to her nature, she again seemed to be racing the clock. After snatching her daughter from the car seat, she half-jogged toward the twenty-four-hour FoodMart.

  While studying her every movement, watching her through absorbing eyes, a new Infinity parked beside Simon’s pickup. A short bald man eased out of the car with a great deal of effort, slowly stood upright, and slammed the door. From the passenger side, a young woman with a petite figure and long blonde hair appeared. The man’s daughter, Simon surmised. At first Simon couldn’t see her face and didn’t really care what she looked like. Then, when she turned to close the door and the mercury vapor light illuminated her features, Simon’s heart felt as though it had tumbled down a flight of stairs. The strikingly attractive teenager looked too much like Bonnie Jean not to be her twin.

  Impossible.

  Bonnie Jean would be over thirty by now, and the last he remembered, she’d left Corpus Christi and relocated somewhere in the Northeast. Although it was an uncanny likeness, he knew the resemblance was nothing more than a bizarre coincidence. Still, he felt uneasy. As he watched the bald man grasp the young woman’s hand and lead her into the FoodMart, Simon forced the haunting memory from his thoughts.

  After waiting twenty minutes, he spotted the redhead hurrying a shopping cart toward her car. He snapped a mental picture.

  “Not today,” he whispered. “In time, chosen one.”

  Today, he watched and plotted. The redhead’s cleansing would come soon enough.

  Another sinner currently awaited salvation in Simon’s Room of Redemption.

  Simon left San Diego, hopped onto Freeway 8, and headed for his home in Alpine. Plagued by an urgency to get home, an inexorable desire to cleanse another soul, he ignored the speed limit and drove in the passing lane. He slammed his clenched fist on the dashboard.

  Sinners will have no place among the godly.

  Again, memories of Bonnie Jean Oliver flooded his mind.

  He exited the freeway and drove seven miles along a narrow, winding road dotted with farmhouses, dilapidated barns, and acres of open fields. Away from the coast, with its ocean breezes, palm trees, and knotted traffic, East County looked like any other rural community. He pulled into his long, gravel-covered driveway, pushed the button on the remote garage door opener, and sat in his truck for a moment.

  Blood would flow tonight.

  Fumbling with his keys, he got out of the pickup and walked toward the garage. A heavy fog hovered over the countryside; a smoky mist clung to the earth like smoldering embers. The damp air smelled of freshly cut timber. Samson, Simon’s three-year-old chocolate Labrador retriever spotted his owner and his tail swatted the plastic trash barrel with a steady tempo. As predictable as San Diego sunshine, the anxious dog started moaning and doing his semicircle samba.

  “How’s my big boy?” Simon knelt on the garage floor and let Samson lick his face. “Ready for dinner?”

  Simon tipped the forty-pound bag of food and filled Samson’s stainless steel bowl. With the garden hose he gave the dog fresh water, then unlocked the kitchen door.

  Except for updated fixtures in the two bathrooms, and a do-it-yourself kitchen the prior owner had put together with cheap materials, Simon’s modest home, built in 1926, had never been remodeled. From the gaudy flowered wallpaper to the badly worn and yellowed linoleum, the interior of the house was in a state of disrepair. The poor condition of the home caused Simon great angst. For years he’d been a neat freak, a man obsessed with impeccable surroundings. He enjoyed cooking gourmet meals and furnishing his home with tasteful decor; traits that would solicit his mother’s approval. His mother would often quote the hackneyed proverb “Cleanliness is next to godliness” but always added, “There’s no sweepin’ your sins under the carpet in my house.”

  When he first moved to San Diego from Texas, he rented a condo near the ocean, close to Bayshore Hospital, where he worked. But his daily jogs on the beach offered far too many opportunities for sinful thoughts. Scantily dressed, the young women parading up and down the boardwalk were too much of a temptation. By his own pathetic admission he recognized his weaknesses and had no desire to give Satan the advantage. Besides, he needed a remote dwelling, a sanctuary with plenty of acreage and wide-open spaces between houses. He moved to the country, where his closest neighbors lived more than a mile away, far enough so they could never hear the helpless screams of the chosen ones.

  They never die quietly.

  Simon had not chosen this particular house for its beauty. Its full basement, an essential feature required for his holy work, distinguished it from most Southern California homes. With thoughtful construction and strategic soundproofing, Simon converted the musty, dank basement into the perfect Room of Redemption.

  He reached in the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of sparkling water, and poured a tall glass. The door to the basement was off the kitchen. Carrying the glass of water, he flipped the light switch and negotiated his way down the narrow stairway. The basement, taller than most, built with twelve courses of concrete blocks, allowed Simon to walk upright with at least eight inches between his head and the floor joists. Before unlocking the soundproof door, Simon peeked into the security lens he had installed so he could monitor the activities of his guests. About to turn the dead bolt lock, he stopped, closed his eyes, and could see a vision of the woman he’d just seen at FoodMart.

  Bonnie Jean Oliver.

  She’d been Simon’s classmate and next-door neighbor. He remembered her pigtails, dimples, eyes as green as jade, and the day she’d invited him to her house after school. Her parents were both working. They’d been listening to the Rolling Stones, munching potato chips, sipping Cokes, talking about school and homework.

  Simon, on the threshold of puberty, could feel his hormones pumping vigorously. Curious about blossoming young girls—particularly Bonnie Jean, who had always been his favorite—Simon surrendered to temptation and ignored his mother’s relentless warnings about sins of the flesh. He never intended to be so forward, but he could not stop his hand from caressing Bonnie Jean’s tiny breast.

  Her reaction both aroused and enraged Simon. Any self-respecting young woman should have been mortified at such a blatant act of immorality. Instead of stopping Simon with a well-deserved smack in the nose, Bonnie Jean’s lips curled to a smile. She clutched his hand and guided it under her skirt, between her warm thighs.

  Simon froze.

  Bonnie Jean pressed her moist lips against Simon’s mouth, and her tongue found its way pas
t his teeth. Without warning, another self, one Simon had never known, took control. He pushed her away, knocking her backward. Bonnie Jean took one look at his grotesque expression and must have sensed that mortal danger loomed. She tried to flee, but Simon, his body hyped with sexual anxiety, grabbed a fistful of her long blonde hair and viciously yanked her to the floor. What happened after that, Simon could not recall, not even today, twenty years later. He only remembered visiting Bonnie Jean in the hospital, watching in total puzzlement as she squirmed at the sight of him as if he were a poisonous snake. No one ever found out who had beaten her so brutally, stomped on her face, broken her nose. Only after Simon found bloody fragments of her left breast in his Levi’s pocket did he realize he had been her assailant. In constant fear that Simon would disfigure her further, or even kill her, Bonnie Jean never told anyone what had happened.

  Simon shook his head as if to erase his thoughts of Bonnie Jean. Visions of this incident often plagued him. He’d never been able to re-create the entire scene. But he feared that snapshots of the incident would assault his memory forever.

  He turned the key in the dead bolt, unlocked the steel fire door, and stepped into the room, closing and securing the door behind him. Molly sat on the bed with Benjamin on her lap. Reading aloud, she didn’t look up from the book.

  “Are we going home now, Mommy?” The three-year-old tugged on her sleeve.

  “Soon, honey.”

  Simon had designed the Room of Redemption like a studio apartment. It had a full bath, a modestly appointed kitchen with a small refrigerator, a compact microwave, and well-stocked cupboards; a self-contained environment that could adequately support life for an indefinite period of time. He’d been careful choosing the utensils and other supplies. He didn’t want an overly heroic guest inventing a makeshift weapon.