A Twist Of Noir 670 - Naomi Johnson

CARRRRLEEEE - NAOMI JOHNSON

She hunkered down in the snow, digging the deep white away from the base of the tree with her bare hands. The snow was falling almost as fast as she could scoop it away and the wind was an icy scissor flaying her exposed arms and face.

She thanked God for that wind.

And for the hole she could just make out at the base of the hollow oak. And for being skinny enough to slide through the hole and inside the tree.

Cold here, too, and dark, but at least she was out of the wind. She curled into a tight fetal ball, thinking what must she do next.

That wind, if it would last for even one more hour, might save her. Just one hour and the wind would destroy her tracks. And when darkness fell – surely not long now – she would make her way up the hill to where old Fader had a meth lab in a cave. Mal didn't know about the cave. Fader would have killed him just for knowing. But Mal wasn’t much of a woodsman and he didn’t brave the wild places without a reason. He’d do it to find her though; he wasn’t going to just let her go.

So she’d hole up in Fader’s cave until daylight, if she made it that far, then push on toward the railroad station at Claustrum. She could hop the freight and beg for a meal wherever she got off. Hitch a ride from there. And that was as far as she needed to plan, because if Mal caught up with her at any point short of that freight, the only train she’d be seeing would be bound for glory.

A snapping sound rose above the howl of the wind and at first she thought it was branches being snapped by the gale. Then she heard the laugh and her breath was caught in a solid frozen lump in her chest. Mal’s voice came to her. Close. Close enough to lick her with the fetid air skimming over his rotting teeth. Make a sound and he’ll have you.

“Carrrrleeee! I’m gonna fiiiinnnnd yuuuuuuu!” A rabid hyena’s laugh. “Carrrrleeee, where arrrrr yuuuuu?”

She buried her face in the crook of her arm as her stomach dry-heaved, empty but for water for the last two days.

“Hey, Carrrrleeee girrrrl, I can smellllll yuuuu! Ooooh, you smell taaaasteeee! Here I come, ready or no-otttt!”

The hollow oak juddered from a sudden blow to the trunk and Carly stuffed cold fingers into her mouth to keep from shrieking. Mal had brought his pickaxe.

Mal’s wild cackle tickled her ears and she felt warm liquid ooze down her throat, and she realized she’d bit her fingers to the bone. Mal always claimed he could smell blood and she’d more than half-believed it. But now she totally believed it.

“I smelllll yuuurrrr bloooood, Carrrrleeee. Oooheeee, you smellll goooood! Gonna get me some of you, girl, gonna get me –”

His words were obliterated by a blast and there was only the sound of the wind, rising and falling, rising and falling, keening its solitude.

Carly snaked her head and shoulders out into the snow, peered through the mountain gloom. Saw Fader with her deer rifle, standing by the fallen Mal.

Fader caught her movement and gestured with the rifle.

“Come on out, girl. I reckon he’ll live but he won’t be chasing you no more for a while.”

Carly scrambled away from the oak and stood up.

“He’ll live?”

“It’s what I said. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d gone deef from all his bellerin’ and carryin’ on. Knew it would come to this one of these days.”

Mal roused, turned his head to Carly. “Hey, Carly, I found you. We gonna have us some fun now, girl.”

Carly saw the pickaxe at her feet. Bent and picked it up, felt the heft of it. Felt the power.

“Oh, yeah, Mal,” she agreed. “We gonna have us a big time now!”

BIO: Naomi Johnson is still in shock over being able to write to such a limited word count, and thanks Christopher Grant for the opportunity. Her longer stories have appeared here at A Twist of Noir, as well as at CrimeFactory, Southern Cross Review and Encounters magazine.

A Twist Of Noir 640 - Naomi Johnson

PURSUIT - NAOMI JOHNSON

The night enveloped me as I ran. Ran hard. Harder still after I glanced back and caught the beam of headlights flashing in the distance behind me. Ran as though in a dream, one of the scary ones where you try desperately to scream, because if you scream maybe help will come, but in the dream you cannot scream, cannot cry out. My throat is blocked, it’s all I can do just to breathe. Must run. Must not stop. I’m so tired. I can’t think. Feet torn and bruised. But fear won’t let me stop running.

I saw the dim outline of a distant house as a light burned then winked out, gone like the flutter of bat wings, and I was abandoned to the night. The darkness was safety from the headlights behind me. But the darkness had eyes of its own, too, that I could not see, but could feel like hot demon breath on my neck. Somewhere on the wind I heard over my own panting an owl call out, questioning my identity. Bad omen. Owls are bad omens.

I staggered on against the night while thick, scudding clouds eclipsed the lightsof heaven. The road was cold, infinite space. The road was a bottomless cave with its monstrous maw agape, salivating, ready to swallow me. The sound of an engine closing behind me spurred my fear. With no warning, a shard of light sliced across the blackness before me, a surgeon’s scalpel cutting into the flesh of night. Probably a car, and that meant the highway was up ahead. If I made it to the highway, I might get away.

Just as quickly the light was gone and the darkness knit itself back together. Behind me, the engine purred like a cat on the prowl, growing louder as it neared its prey. Still I ran, fell over unseen snares, rose again, ran. Sobbed for breath, dared to look back once more. The headlights were closing in. I fell again, scrambled once more to my feet. My knees rebelled and at last I cried out, sobbing. Knew that if I stopped they would catch me. If I stopped I would feel the bruises and flowing blood from the cuts gathered on my wild flight. If I stopped my life was over. If I stopped –

I stopped, pressed backward by the shock of lights before me, blinding me. I shielded my eyes and felt myself falling, felt the road press its cold grit into my skin. And then the lights were all around me, flashing red and white victory. I wanted to be strong, to have courage, but I felt tears course my cheeks, salting the scratches there. The vehicle behind me stopped and ejected my tormentors. They were yelling, “Get down get down hands on your head get down hands on your head.”

I did and felt steel bite into my wrists. Hands grabbed me and stood me up and I staggered back against my enemies, pushed myself into them, made them wrestle me down again. I grabbed at their clothing, searching, searching, as the air filled with hot curses.

“Son of a bitching maniac killed sixteen that we know of. We ought to shoot him now.”

“Keep your head, Davis,” said a stern baritone. “He’s too famous. We’d never get away with it.”

“Should fucking shoot the monster right now.” There was muttered agreement from more than one voice.

They should have done that, but they didn’t. They hurt me some and made sure I bumped my head getting into the back of a cruiser, but they didn’t shoot me. In my right hand was a key to the cuffs and I used it. Leaned forward, raising my hands slowly, and spoke softly to the two men in the front seat.

“You two will make eighteen.”

BIO: Naomi Johnson is still in shock over being able to write to such a limited word count, and thanks Christopher Grant for the opportunity. Her longer stories have appeared here at A Twist of Noir, as well as at CrimeFactory and Southern Cross Review. She recently made her first sale of a story to Encounters magazine.

A Twist Of Noir 161 - Naomi Johnson

REMEMBRANCE - NAOMI JOHNSON

Jack awakened in a cold sweat, half sitting up. His back was killing him but that wasn't what had blasted him from deep slumber. There had been a dream. He'd been terrified, but the dream was fading so fast that already he could not remember what had frightened him so badly. He hadn't had a nightmare in years. He rubbed one trembling hand across his face, felt dampness against his scalp. Some bogeyman dream, he guessed, just go back to sleep. And although his rapidly thumping heart had already begun a gradual descent to normal, the forgotten dream left a residue of fear in his gut, a cold knot of unidentifiable anxiety.

He looked down at his sleeping wife, her dark hair fanned across the pillow. God, she was still a beauty. Classy, too. She had everything, Jack sometimes thought, and yet the truth was she deserved better. She wasn't happy with him anymore, butthen ten years of marriage, two kids, and life in the public eye will take a toll. Still she was hanging in there, keeping the facade intact. And he hadn't been the best of husbands, as his father never failed to inform him. As if she felt Jack's scrutiny, her eyelids flickered and she muttered, “Everything all right?”

“Fine. Go back to sleep for a while. It's only,” he looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand, “four o'clock. I'm going to get up, go over my speech.” He paused, anxiety nibbling at him as the knot in his belly tightened. “Maybe I'll call the kids. Make sure they're all right.”

“At four a.m.? Besides, if they weren't all right, you'd be the first to know. I'll call them when I get up.” And she rolled away, giving him a glimpse of one pretty, bare shoulder before she pulled the covers over her head.

He rose, and went into the bathroom, cleaned his teeth and took a shower. Afterward, he wiped the steam from the mirror and examined his face. He would to wait to shave, he decided, until the last minute. He didn't have a heavy beard but acouple of years ago he had learned a lesson about appearing clean-shaven on television. Nowadays he never knew when there was going to be a television camera focused on him. When he shrugged into his robe, he felt a sharp pain rip the length of his spine, taking his breath away. He'd better call the doc for a shot or two. No, wait, Jacobson wasn't here. Jack had forgotten where he was for a moment.

Fort Worth. Fucking Hotel Texas. Never mind, he'd fly home tonight and God help these bastard oilmen and cattle ranchers and mealy-mouthed good ol' boys if they didn't see things his way. They thought they had him in their sights, but Jack wasn't about to be easy prey for them. And if this visit wasn't enough to set matters straight, maybe he'd send his little brother down here to look things over, do a little digging in Texas closets. That would start some fireworks all right. The knot in Jack's stomach tightened, shifted, and dread suddenly filled his throat like an oily rag. He tried again to remember the dream. No use, it was gone. Just theemotional memory of the forgotten nightmare, he supposed.

He filled a water glass from the tap and swallowed three of the pink pills. Even wearing the back brace, today was going to be a struggle if he didn't get those Procaine shots. He padded back through the bedroom and into the living area of the hotel suite. Jack started when he saw O'Donnell, his most trusted assistant, was already there. O'Donnell looked up from his place on the sofa. A dim table lamp shed a glow over the papers in his hands.

“Ken, what are you doing here so early?”

“Couldn't sleep, sir.” O'Donnell rose to his feet, tugging off his horn-rimmed glasses. “This place gives me the itch.”

“It's a nice hotel,” Jack pointed out. “The best in Fort Worth.”

“Not the hotel. Texas. The people. Jumped-up rednecks who think it's all about money.”

“It is about money, Ken. It's always about money.” Jack eased down onto one of the straight-backed chairs.

“You know what I mean, sir.”

“Unfortunately I do. Ken, I'm going to have to have something for my back today. More shots. Could you arrange that for me?”

“Certainly. And you should know there's already a crowd forming outside for your speech, sir.”

“Is that right? This early? So maybe not everyone here would like to nail my hide to a wall.”

O'Donnell's smile was wry. “Only the ones who don't have money. Here's the schedule for today, revised yet again.”

Jack accepted the paper from O'Donnell and scanned it. “Speech, breakfast, etc, etc. Thirteen minute flight from here to Dallas, is that right? I could get my shots onthe plane, otherwise I don't see any openings before dinner unless I cancel something.”

“I wouldn't suggest it, sir. Dallas is where the Big Money is. And Big Money is easily offended.”

“Then make sure I get the shots. I have to be sharp today. I have to make certain Dallas remembers me.”

O'Donnell grinned and reached for the telephone. “Dallas will never forget you, Mr. President.”

BIO: This story came out of a classroom exercise in which the writers had to use a book title as a writing prompt. The title Naomi used was Seth Harwood's JACK WAKES UP. Naomi is a retired financial analyst who spends too much time envying the product of other writers and not enough time writing.

A Twist Of Noir 093 - Naomi Johnson

FREE BIRD - NAOMI JOHNSON

Robin couldn't help hearing the results of the lottery because, while she had to keep her little TV on the kitchen counter turned really low, Carter always kept the volume on the big screen in the living room up full blast. When the announcer called number 13 first, she didn't pause in loading the dishwasher. When the number 25 was called, she thought, 'Huh,' and went on working. Then she heard 'seven,' and she stopped, listening intently now, her gaze fixed on her own TV with its black and white flickering images of Cary Grant carrying a poisoned Ingrid Bergman down a flight of long, elegant steps. But all she heard was the TV in the next room.

'And the next number in the Wealthy Winners drawing is five!'

She caught her breath, and felt a sharp twinge in her bruised ribs. Four numbers. Four numbers was worth something, wasn't it? She wouldn't get all the numbers, the odds were incredible, but four numbers might be worth a thousand dollars or so. A thousand dollars would really boost the amount in her Escape Fund. Right now she had almost five hundred dollars saved against the day when she would walk out the door a free woman. A thousand dollars added to that would almost be enough that she could start packing her suitcase.

The only hitch was that Carter had the lottery ticket. Robin had bought it at the carry-out almost two weeks ago, when he'd sent her in to get more beer. He had laughed when he saw the lottery ticket. “You stupid bitch,” he'd said. “What a waste of money.” But he had slid the ticket into his shirt pocket and she hadn't seen it since.

“Twenty!” And she choked on her own air, coughed deeply. Five numbers now. Five out of six numbers. What would five numbers be worth? Maybe $25,000? Maybe more. Maybe even – a hundred grand? She couldn't even comprehend how much money that was, just that it would be more than enough.

What had Carter done with that ticket? Did he still have it? It hadn't been in the laundry. She always went through his pockets like a crime scene technician looking for trace evidence and she had scrounged a good portion of her Escape Fund that way. She hadn't seen the lottery ticket laying on his dresser or the coffee table either, two of his favorite dumping grounds.

Robin moved like a sleepwalker as she went to the doorway and peered into the dimness of the living room. She looked past Carter lying in his recliner, a bag of Doritos in his lap, beer can tipped to his lips, and stared at the announcer on the big screen. One more number. What if – ?

'And the Magic Number in tonight's Wealthy Winners drawing is 18!'

Blood drained like a whirlpool from her head and she thought she might faint. Her knees wobbled, weakened, and she clung to the door jamb. Carter hadn't moved except to shove a handful of Doritos in his mouth. But then, the numbers wouldn't mean anything to him unless he had the ticket right in front of him. Those numbers meant everything to her, though.

Seven, the month Robin and her brother Danny and their mom had all been born. Five, her mom's birthday. Thirteen, her own birthday. Twenty, the day her mom and dad had married. Twenty-five, Danny's birthday. And the Magic Number, eighteen, maybe the most important number of all, the reason she'd made it the Magic Number and not one of the others: the day she'd finally decided to leave Carter and had begun to save toward that dream.

But first she needed that ticket. Everything would be so much easier with money. Money bought distance, bought new identity, bought shelter and food and transportation and everything she would need to live. Money bought freedom from Carter. She had to have that ticket.

'Didn't we have some of those numbers on that lottery ticket I bought?' she asked.

'What lottery ticket? Have you been pissing away my money on crap like that again?'

'No, Carter, just that one ticket I got that night down to the carry-out. You remember?'

'You fuckin' moron, that ticket's more than a week old; it ain't no good for tonight's drawing.'

No, that wasn't right. She'd paid the clerk for five consecutive draws, and this was only the third one. But Carter hadn't noticed.

'Oh, so you threw it out?' And she thought, I just might have to kill the bastard.

'I guess. How the hell do I know? Hey,' he sat up in his chair, slewed around to look at her, 'did you get those venison steaks out of the freezer like I told you?'

'Carter, you ain't said nothing about no venison steaks. I'm not even sure there's any left in there. We've eaten pretty much all of it.'

'Not from that deer I got last year, you idiot, I know that's all gone. I helped Terry slaughter that buck last week and he let me have some of the steaks. They're in the door of the freezer in brown paper.'

'I didn't know –,' she started to say.

'They're in the door of the freezer, I said. Duh! Jim and Terry are coming over to watch the game tomorrow night, and I want you to fix those deer steaks. And you'd damned well better not burn 'em either, you hear me?'

'Yes, Carter, I hear you.' And she went back to the kitchen, found a brown paper package in the door of the freezer and moved it to the refrigerator to thaw.

Carter's pickup was barely out of the drive the next morning when she began searching for the ticket. She'd hunted as much as she could before going to bed, but she couldn't look like she was searching for something without drawing Carter's attention. She couldn't open and close drawers and cabinets and dump out the garbage and do anything to show how desperate she was to find the ticket.

Not until he had left for work.

She had searched the bathroom the night before because she liked it kept really clean, so clearing the vanity and straightening the linen closet was her usual behavior. Nothing there to attract Carter's notice. She had taken the opportunity then to go through the laundry and search his pockets, too. She'd found a soft, crumpled one-dollar bill but that was all. Yesterday, she would have felt like she'd hit the jackpot but, tonight, finding that dollar felt like being bitch-slapped. She would need at least another 499 of those bills if she didn't find that damned ticket.

Once he'd left for work the next morning, her search became organized. Or it started out that way.

She began with the spare room where Carter kept his computer, a device created solely for the purpose of playing games and spreading porn, as far as she could tell. But that's also where the bills were paid, and the insurance policies were kept for the house and car, along with other odd bits of paper necessary to the modern American household.

She emptied the drawers out, went diligently through folder after folder of things marked 'Water,' 'Light bill,' 'Cable.' She was surprised to find that Carter had a passport. She wasn't surprised to find there were no stamps indicating he'd ever left the country. She even took the drawers out of the desk and turned them upside down, and looked to make sure the ticket had not fallen behind a drawer into the no-man's land between the drawers and the desk. Behind the desk, under it. No ticket.

She had a horrifying thought. Maybe Carter got the passport because he also had the lottery ticket and was planning on leaving the country with all that money. She went back and looked at the passport again. The expiration date was almost ten years off, so Carter must have just applied for the passport recently.

She went through the papers again, not looking for the lottery ticket this time but for something else. And she found it: An airline booking for two tickets to Jamaica for this coming Friday. Two tickets, one for Carter and one for Eloise Chambers, of all people. So Carter was screwing around with that slutty little barmaid. Good for him; maybe he'd catch a terminal disease. But the printout showed the tickets had been booked three weeks ago, before Robin had even bought the lottery ticket. And they were round-trip tickets. Too bad, one-way would have solved most of her problems. She still had to find that Wealthy Winners ticket.

As her patience thinned, her search gradually became less organized, more frantic. The bastard couldn't have thrown it out. He wouldn't even put his own beer bottles in the trash can, and his pickup truck looked like a mobile aluminum recycling center. He couldn't even be bothered to litter the highway if it meant having to roll down a window.

She searched his dresser drawers, turning out his socks. His clothes in the closet; every pocket was checked, even in her own clothes. She looked inside his shoes, pulled up the insoles if they were loose. Behind and under all the furniture. Every waste basket in every room. Behind pictures. Under doilies and scarves. She pulled out all of Carter's CDs and looked in the jewel cases. Flipped through the few books, paying special attention to the family Bible. And everything, everything had to be put back the way it had been so that he wouldn't notice.

Under the mattress, in the tool chest in the garage, the odds-and-ends drawer in the kitchen. The cloth bag that held all the leftover plastic bags from grocery shopping, that was just the kind of place a receipt or a ticket would hide. But it wasn't there. The ticket wasn't anywhere.

Frustration formed a hard knot in her throat. Escape had seemed so close last night. Although today was really no different than yesterday, freedom seemed farther away than ever.

At five-thirty, when she heard the rumble of his truck coming up the drive, she fled to the kitchen, trying to remember what she should be doing when he came through the door. Her TV should be on, it was always on. She flipped the switch and Humphrey Bogart suddenly appeared on the screen with whats-her-name, Mary somebody. Yeah, she recognized it; she'd seen this one before. She heard the garage door opening, and reached for the bag of potatoes, found a paring knife to peel them with, and then was struck by a thought.

What about the truck? The ticket could be in the truck. It could be in the glove box, or maybe it was just laying on the floorboards, right out in the open. She would have to make an excuse after dinner to get the keys and search. Dinner. Oh, shit, those damned deer steaks.

She tossed the potatoes onto the counter, opened the fridge and pulled the package out. They still felt partly frozen. She would have to nuke them or maybe soak them in water before she could cook them. What time would Carter's friends show up? She broke the tape on the package and began to unwrap it. She froze just as Carter came through the door from the garage, bringing the cold air with him, the ever-present beer in one hand.

'Hi, honey, how was work today?' Robin was careful not to look at him, he might see something in her face that would give her away. He grunted a response, put the bottle to his lips and tilted his head back. When the bottle came away, it was empty, and he belched and said, 'There better be some beer left.'

'In the fridge,' she replied, as she stared down at the deer steaks cradled in the brown butcher paper. She felt strangely dizzy and she had to try to remember how to breathe, the same way she'd felt last night when she heard the lottery numbers on TV. She heard Carter open and close the refrigerator but she never looked up until he said, 'What are you looking at?'

She gave a nervous start, looked up at him and tried not to let him see her excitement. But he wasn't looking at her, he was staring at the little television.

'What did you say?' she asked.

'Clean the shit out of your ears. I said, what are you watching?'

She looked at the television. Humphrey Bogart had given a fat man a package wrapped in tattered newspaper and a bunch of people were crowded around a statue of a black bird. She looked back at the contents of the package in her own hands, saw the partially thawed slab of meat pasted with a perfectly preserved lottery ticket. Beat the living hell out of any USDA Prime stamp she'd ever seen.

'Robin? Are you so fuckin' stupid you don't even know what you're watching?'

But she was listening to Humphrey Bogart saying something about the bird and she repeated it to herself, then dared to say it aloud.

'It's the stuff that dreams are made of.'

'Never heard of it,' Carter sneered, and he disappeared into the living room.

Robin carefully peeled the lottery ticket off the meat. She thought about calling the slutty barmaid's husband. If he were the jealous type, the violently jealous type, then who knows might happen? Being a rich widow sounded a lot better than just being rich. Maybe she should be thinking about getting her own passport.

BIO: Naomi Johnson is a retired financial analyst with an unused degree in Criminology, She lives in Columbus, Ohio. Her friends deny all responsibility.

A Twist Of Noir 036 - Naomi Johnson

THE FREUDIAN SLIP - NAOMI JOHNSON

Fuckin’ Dan Winterburn. I never liked that asshole and now I’m dying because of him. Smug, arrogant motherfucker.

I had spent my lunch hour plus a little more at Bergdorf’s, buying a gift for Doreen. Doreen was a walking wet dream, she made Marilyn Monroe look like as juicy as a turkey carcass on the day after Thanksgiving. Curvaceous, funny, easy to be with. In other words, nothing like my wife.

So I’d picked out this pink silk slip, one of those full slips with the lacy brassiere built in. Major retro and with some designer’s name on it, it cost almost as much as my car payment but what the hell. I was imagining it on Doreen then me ripping it off her when that asshole Winterburn appeared out of nowhere. Like I don't get enough of his shit at the office.

He greeted me and then said, “A gift for Velma?”

Fucker. He’d met Velma and he knew she was the last woman in the world any man was going to buy designer silk for.

“Ah…” I said, repartee not being my forte.

“A friendly bit of advice, Bill,” he clapped me on the shoulder and gave me his special brand of grin. A supercilious, knowing, leering grin. I don't how he manages it. “Always buy a gift for the wife when you’re buying one for the other woman. If you don’t, then when you get home the guilt sets in. You feel guilty and it shows. The wife sees it, starts to wonder. Don’t want that, do we?”

The asshole drifted off in the direction of the perfume counter where I hoped the fumes would induce a fatal asthma attack. But I had to admit he had a point. Velma was like a bloodhound and Doreen was a bone I didn't want to toss her. I’d spent the entire hour lingering over my gift to Doreen but it took all of three minutes to settle on Velma's gift: A girdle with more armor than a naval destroyer. I took both items to the counter and paid for them, asked for them to be wrapped and delivered. I filled out the address cards and went back to the office feeling a little holier than Dan Winterburn. The feeling even lasted through the phone call to Velma to let her know I'd be working late.

Bergdorf’s service is always excellent so I was looking forward to seeing Doreen in pink lace when I let myself in to her apartment after work that evening. And I was right, the slip had been delivered. The box and wrap and ribbons were in a tangle on the floor when I opened the door. Problem was, so was the slip.

No, the problem was sprawled on the sofa, one heavy leg dangling over the sofa arm, a meaty arm tucked behind her head. An unfiltered cigarette dropped hot ash onto her upper lip. Velma.

A shudder ran right through me and I never wanted to pee so bad in my life until I saw the gun in her hand. You've heard that expression about bowels turning to water? I'm hear to tell you it's the God's honest truth.

“Jesus, Bill, you're late,” she rasped. “Thought I might fall asleep waiting for you. That's been the routine for some time now, hasn't it?”

I looked from Velma to the slip on the floor.

“What have you done, Velma? Where's Doreen?”

She gestured with the gun. “In there, hon. You go on in and get your goodbyes over with.”

I went in and saw Doreen lying on the bed, the evening sun pushing between the window louvers and slatting across her naked body. A small black hole marred the perfection of the valley between her breasts. Her eyes were glassy and bulged a little, as though she was choking on the object partially stuffed into her mouth. I stared at it for what seemed like days before it dawned on me that it was the girdle I'd bought for Velma.

Sick, I staggered back to the living room. If I was going to throw up I wanted to it be on my wife. Velma sat up and held out a piece of paper to me. Two pieces, the address cards I'd filled out at Bergdorf's. One was to Velma and one was to Doreen. Oh, Christ. The address on both was the same. Mine. Velma's.

I looked up in time to see Velma's paw tightening on the gun. I didn't really hear the blast, I was too busy coping with the sudden punch of a piledriver to my chest. I had to lean against the wall and when that didn't help I sort of slid down it. Velma came and stood over me, straddling my legs.

“What'd you say, Bill?” She leaned closer, the gun to my head.

I whispered, “Fuckin' Dan Winterburn. I never liked that guy.”

BIO: Naomi Johnson is a retired financial analyst with an unused degree in Criminology. She lives in Columbus, Ohio. Her friends deny all responsibilty.

A Twist Of Noir 030 - Naomi Johnson

THE 30-YEAR REUNION - NAOMI JOHNSON

I felt an electric shock along my left forearm when I saw him. I had not seen him in many years but I knew him immediately. Age had not much changed him. His handsome face had haunted me, along with so many others. I never expected to see him again, had hoped he was long since dead, but here he was in Columbus, Ohio, of all places, browsing before the jeweler's display on High Street, on a suffocating August day in 1973.

The shock of seeing him, well-dressed and clearly well-fed, spun me back to the day I met him. I was an unmarried woman of 20, shy, thin, plain, with a dark cloud of hair, and I was both hungry and terrified. He spoke to me quite gently at first as he took my arm, then less kindly when I tried to pull away. And he flew into a rage when, as he was working on my arm, a little of my blood smeared across his knuckles. He was afraid, I think, that's what made him so angry. He was afraid that my blood would contaminate him somehow. I made a sign with my fingers to ward off evil. I learned it from a gypsy woman in my village and I made the sign often in those days. And he reached out, took my fingers as they made the sign and, quick as you please, he broke them. I fainted and when I came to, I was in another place altogether. I never saw him again until that summer afternoon in Columbus. I compared my memory to what I saw now and I was not mistaken. It was he.

For a minute, I could not think what to do but then he moved away from the window and crossed north of Broad Street and I found myself following him. I was afraid that he would hail a cab or get into a car and I would have no way to find him again. His name would be different now, of course. He might not even live in Columbus, he might just be here on some business. But I was lucky and he continued to walk and walk and, finally, we were out of the downtown rush and he turned left at a medical supply store onto the street leading to Goodale Park and a residential area made up of beautiful if slightly dilapidated Victorian homes.

My thoughts were still spinning as he approached one of the brick homes, mounted the steps and let himself in. He never looked back. You would think that with his past, he would always think to look behind him, something must be chasing him, but he never did. Such confidence, such arrogance! I felt a spurt of anger and it calmed my thoughts. Amazing. Here he was, after all this time, and he was living only blocks from my modest house near St. Francis Cathedral and the elementary school. Suddenly, without planning, without consciously deciding, I knew what I was going to do. I went to his door and knocked.

When he opened the door, I told him a story about my car breaking down and asked if I might use his telephone to call my nephew. He did not recognize me. I knew he wouldn’t and yet, I was a little disappointed. He glanced at the street but the lack of a stalled car didn’t seem to worry him. The sight of a small, work-worn fifty year old woman held no fear for him, I am sure. I was still dressed in the uniform required at the cafeteria where I worked, and the stains, the ill-fitting apron, the once white, now dirty nursing shoes, all must have been reassuringly lower working-class to him.

He waved me in impatiently, pointed at the telephone on a small table. I listened but heard no sound that might indicate anyone else was in the house with him. And what a beautiful home he had. Polished wainscoting in the parlor that set off lovely old wingback chairs, barrister cases filled with neatly arranged books, a small painting in the entryway that looked very much like the work of Cezanne. Other paintings, expensively framed, adorned the walls of the parlor. I shivered with controlled rage. How was it possible after what he had done that he should enjoy such beauty, such tranquility, in his home? He had done nothing to deserve any of it.

I dialed my own number and my nephew answered. Daniel was my only surviving family and was good enough to visit his old maid aunt on his vacation, bringing me gifts from the Holy Land and stories of life in his country.

“Daniel,” I said, “this is Anna. I am having problems with the car. Would you be good enough to come and get me? I am at -- .” I paused to get the address from my host and relayed it to Daniel, along with directions. Daniel had not spoken beyond saying hello. When he did speak he said, “Aunt Anna, you are somewhere you cannot talk freely?”

“Yes. Please hurry. You must think me very tiresome, but I wish you will come right away, yes? Mr. Gillespie in the yellow house will let you borrow his car if you tell him it is a favor to me.”

When I hung up the telephone, I turned to my host. He was seated in one of the wingback chairs and I said to him, “Thank you for letting me use your telephone. You have a lovely home. May I ask, what do you do?”

“I’m a professor at the university. I teach art history.”

“Yes? And you are an artist as well? Are some of these paintings your work?”

He was so proud of his possessions, and he began telling me about the various pictures. More about what other people said of his work than about the pictures themselves but I did not care. I was lost in memory, seeing again the revulsion on his face when he saw my blood on his knuckles, feeling the sharp pain of my bones snap under the pressure of his heavy hands. I shook off the memories when I heard a car pull up out front. I interrupted him and said, “Here is my nephew now.” I hurried to let Daniel in and quickly closed the door behind him. With a look, I warned him to be quiet, then took his hand and pulled him into the parlor where my host was now standing, looking concerned, perhaps even a little worried at this unexpected stranger in his house. Daniel has that effect on people.

Before he could raise a protest, I spoke. “Thank you for telling me about your paintings. I know you are an artist. I knew it before you opened the door to me. You see, I own one of your works. You might call it an ink drawing, yes? You gave it to me right before you broke my fingers.” I extended my left forearm, turning the inside up to show him the blue number he had etched into my arm in 1943. I felt Daniel go rigid next to me. “Forgive my bad manners. Please allow me to introduce my nephew, Daniel Aron. He is visiting me, you know, on his vacation. He lives in Israel now and has a very important job. He is with Mossad, you know this word, yes?”

Yes, I could see by how pale his face had become, by the sudden tic under his left eye, by the way he collapsed into his chair that he knew the word.

“Daniel,” I said, “this man is Franz Gerhardt, who gave me this wonderful work of art all those years ago. It has lasted the test of time as so many did not. How can we ever thank him?”

BIO: Naomi Johnson is a retired financial analyst with an unused degree in Criminology. She lives in Columbus, Ohio. Her friends deny all responsibilty.

A Twist Of Noir 026 - Naomi Johnson

SISTERS UNDER THE SKIN - NAOMI JOHNSON

“Tiffany, where is your daughter?”

“I told you, I left her with the sitter.” Her eyes shifted away and down.

“When?"

”I told you.”

“Tell me again.” For the tenth time, I thought. Because I just love it when killers lie to me.

“On Thursday. No. Friday. No, Thursday. Thursday. It was a Thursday.”

Christ, it was like pulling teeth but I knew she couldn't hold out much longer. We'd been at it for hours now. I'd done this before; she never had. I stood up, stretched, walked around behind her and leaned in close.

“Help me out here, Tiffany. Which Thursday? What sitter? Where does she live?”

“I told you already. I told you and told you!” Her voice took on a high pitch. “I'm so tired, I need to sleep. I can't--”

“Stop whining!” I shouted, and slammed my fist on the table. “Your daughter, your beautiful Karla is missing. She's been gone eight fucking days. I don't want to hear how tired you are, I want to know what you've done with Karla!”

I dropped to a squat next to her, looked up, let my anger drain away. You have to balance the anger and intimidation with a little empathy. Timing it right is hard, though.

“She's so little, Tiffany, so helpless. And we're all tired and we could all go home if we only knew where she was. If we could only be sure that she wasn't frightened.” She lied, I could lie, too, right?

I saw her mouth tremble, her eyes fill with tears. Close, I was close. I took her hands, held them between mine.

“See, Tiffany, here's what I think happened. You tell me if I'm wrong. I think you were tired. And Karla, well, she's only three but she's a handful, isn't she? Maybe you spoiled her a little, huh? You were too good to her.”

Abusers loved to think that about themselves.

“And she wanted something she couldn't have, a toy maybe or a piece of candy?” A picture snapped into my mind of a toddler's tantrum. Tiffany's hands trembled ever-so-slightly. Or maybe it was me.

“Or maybe she didn't want something. Didn't want to take a nap, didn't want to pick up her toys. Started that bawling, hollering and screaming maybe, but not really crying. You know how kids carry on when they aren't hurt but they aren't getting their way? And you were tired, you didn't mean to do it, you would never hurt her, not Ka -- not Karla. No one could love their little girl more than you love her. But she just wouldn't shut up and you couldn't help it, could you? Nobody could blame you, it wasn't your fault. But she wouldn't stop and you had to make her stop, didn't you? You had to make her be quiet. She needed to know who was the boss. You couldn't help it, you put the pillow over her and held her down until she stopped. You weren't hurting her, you just wanted her to be quiet.” It all rolled through my mind like a silent movie, but I could feel her parental rage, out of control; the child shrieking, thrashing. Her silence.

The tears rolled down Tiffany's cheeks and she drew a breath that rattled in her throat, like she was having trouble breathing. “Yes,” was all she said.

Gotcha!

“Yes, Tiffany? You'll help us take care of her now, won't you?” Images of a little girl wrapped in her favorite blanket, face covered, fogged my vision.. “Help us bring her home.”

She nodded and drew herself up, as if collecting her thoughts. And the whole story poured out between mounting sobs and hiccups. Fourteen hours of badgering, coaxing, pressuring and pleading, and finally she told it all. Especially the excuses, there were a lot of those. There were always plenty of those. Tiffany was going to feel a lot better in a few minutes, very peaceful and calm, when she got it all out. Maybe even sleepy, I'd seen that happen.

I was exhausted, too, but I wasn't going to feel better. Fact was, I felt worse already, really wobbly, and I left Patterson and Seaver to nail down the details of her confession. Uniforms would get the call shortly to start the search for a body. I headed for the restroom but I'd left it a little too long. I felt my legs go all rubbery and I sagged, shoulder to the wall. Breathing took an effort.

The pictures were in my head now, clicking past like a rapid-fire slide show, Youtube on acid, one after another after another: Newborn Karla, toddler Karla, then Karen, my Karen; Karla crying, then Karen in chorus and the pillow over her face, her short, round legs kicking and then limp, not kicking anymore. And putting the little body into the trunk. No, in a box, then in a trunk. DNA, you know? Tiffany should have thought of that. I did. Opening the trunk again, under a half moon amid the whine of mosquitoes and the distant splash of a 'gator. The Everglades, the best place. She'll never be found there. Never. The little bundle had slipped into the water so quietly, sank gently. Wish I'd put her favorite doll with her, but that wouldn't be right. She'd had so many dolls, but that one always made Karen laugh. A kidnapper wouldn't know about that funny little doll. Only a mother would know that, right? But Karen was a long time ago. A lifetime ago. Think about Karla instead. Karen was gone forever. Karla would come home again even if it was only for her funeral.

From around the corner I heard one of the county cops say, “That was really something, the way she got in that woman's head. Kind of creepy. I've never seen anything like it.”

“You never will, God willing.” That was my boss, Captain Delancey. ”How many cops do you know who've had their own baby girl disappear?”

I held my breath, pushed hard against the wall like I could just slide through it and vanish.

Don't. Think. About. Karen.

I started, jumped, as a heavy hand landed on my shoulder, spun me around. Captain Delancey. His expression was grim but he had the light of victory in his eyes. I shuddered, guilt sweating from my pores.

“Good work, Angie. I know this was a bitch for you. Square away your paperwork and take some time off, okay? You did a helluva job, you're a shoe-in for a commendation.”

I nodded, pulled away. Delancey was a good guy, and he cared about his people. But maybe some night I'd take the commendation out and throw it in the 'Glades. I knew just the spot for it.

BIO: Naomi Johnson is a retired financial analyst with an unused degree in Criminology. She lives in Columbus, Ohio. Her friends deny all responsibilty.

A Twist Of Noir 023 - Naomi Johnson

THE WINTER OF MY DISCONTENT - NAOMI JOHNSON

Ma had to pick the coldest day of the year for us to leave. Icicles hung like giant spears from the eaves and the mercury hovered at the zero mark that morning. And with the promise of a blizzard yet, according to the radio. Still, her mind was made up and she packed what clothes would fit in a cracked-vinyl two-suiter.

“Your pa won't be home until late,” she promised. “We'll be long gone by then. We'll catch the bus down at Mahoney's store. I got enough money to get us at least to Beckley, and Aunt Roxie will help us from there.”

Whatever had final broke loose in Ma, after what was for me a lifetime of witnessing her take Pa's beatings and abuse, was a mystery. Yes, he had slapped her around the night before but it wasn't no worse and some easier than it had been a hundred times before. All I know is that they had fought like they always did, the two of 'em hitting and screaming at each other, and her threatening to leave like she always did, and at some point he said something about me. I didn't catch anything but my name and he didn't say anymore, but she stopped fighting and was real quiet for the rest of the evening. Pa was most quiet, too, keeping his bleary gaze fixed on the bottle and its vanishing contents. I wish I could recall what he said but a long time ago I learned how to keep my head down in a book and drown out their voices when they carried on like that.

But her being silent, that was different. That caught my attention.

Reckon it caught his, too, because there we were the next morning, just out the door and here he came back up the dirt drive, walking fast, eyes up and head down to dodge the wind and the snow that was just beginning to fall. His breath was blowing all steamy-like, quick and puffy like the C&O.

“Where the hell you think you're going, Mavis? You think you're leaving me? Goddammit!”

And that quick he knocked the little suitcase out of Ma's hand, yanked hard on her other arm and she cried out. Then it was like an episode of 'Cops.' One-Baker-One, domestic disturbance, see the woman. She started to scream and claw at him. He pushed back, cussing a blue streak, and before I could get myself at a safe distance I found myself pressed tight between her and the door, eye-level with her shoulder blades. He whopped her with his fist and her head snapped back but Ma being Ma, she was flailing right back at him. I was trying to squeeze out from behind her and get away. It was stupid to stand too close when they were like this.

Then I saw him reach a big old paw up and wrench off one of those icicles hanging there. Thirty inches long, if I had to guess, and ice thick as Pa's wrist at the place where he broke it from the eave. He two-handed it, for a better grip I suppose, and whaled at her, catching her across the head above her ear. I heard a wet smack and she stopped yelling. She slumped away from me, dropping right at his feet. He let go the icicle, kicking and cussing at her. She didn't move and neither did I, her all pressed to the cold ground and me feeling more pinned to the door than when she had pinned me there. He didn't move no more, either, frozen as that icicle.

Nothing moved, except for tiny pellets of frozen white being whipped by a razor-sharp wind as it rode down the holler.

“You killed her,” I said. My mouth felt all cottony, but the words came out okay.

Now how could I know that? She laid face down, and hadn't I seen her like that at least once a month, every month, as far back as I could recall? But I knew she was dead. I had felt her spirit fly away from me, from him, scissoring away on the wind. I did. I don't know how else to explain it, but I knew she'd final cut free of him for good and all. I also knew it wasn't any use doing what he was doing then: Turning her over and crying and begging and praying to God to bring her back, wake her up, he'd be different, he would.

Sure he would.

“She ain't coming back,” I said, louder so he could hear me over his moaning and grieving. “You killed her.”

Like he needed to be told twice, I guess, 'cause he stopped the noise, straightened up, dragged out a dirty hanky from his back pocket and said, 'Get your ass back in the house, boy.' His eyes were red, not just from crying but from drink, too. The tears had frozen that quick on his cheeks and somehow he didn't look like he'd real wept real tears at all but kind of phony, like movie makeup or something. Somehow that seemed right to me. Real tears would have been all wrong on him.

I went back inside and took off my coat. Went to the sink, rinsed a cup and drank some water. I noticed my hands shook but I do think that was from the cold. Then I went to the front window and pulled back the blanket so I could see what he was up to.

He walked back down the packed-dirt drive toward the hard road. I guessed he'd hid the truck when he left that morning and sat there just waiting for Ma to come outside. In a few minutes, he drove the truck right up to the front of the house. He sat behind the wheel for a long time. I couldn't see his face. Maybe he was trying to find the nerve to do whatever he was going to do.
Maybe he was just taking time to get warm again. But final he climbed out, opened the passenger side door, picked up Ma and hefted her in the cab. It was an awkward business, and that's all I have to say about that. Then he grabbed up the two-suiter that had skittered away when he struck her. I wondered how that crappy little case had kept from flying open and strewing clothes everywhere. He tossed the case on top of her, took his own place at the wheel, and slow pulled up the hill behind the house, going towards the ridge. I had a pretty good idea where he was taking her and how long it was gonna take him.

I went back to the sink and got some more water and I noticed my hands weren't shaking no more. That pleased me. I thought about calling the sheriff, thought about how that would go and how it might end. Then I picked up the phone and called my best friend, Brett. Brett's parents were way cool, they let him do just about anything he pleased. I counted on that more than once.

“Hey, dude,” I said, “what are you doing?” Be casual. There is nothing wrong.

“Oh, dude, you gotta come over! My dad and I are playing Guitar Hero and he is so lame!” Everything excited Brett, but nothing excited him like Guitar Hero.

Play it cool. No, no, play it cold. Like an icicle. “Man, I'd love to, 'cause, you know my folks are fighting again. But they said on the radio that we'd have a blizzard starting this evening and Ma doesn't want me to be out in that. Two feet of snow by morning they're saying.” I paused, waited.

“I know, I heard, but -- well, you can spend the night, can't you? Why not? And if it gets real bad you could spend the whole weekend because you know there isn't going to be any school tomorrow. Ask your Mom, dude, we could have a great time!”

“Okay, I will, but she's in a pretty bad mood. Hold on a minute.”

I put the phone down and walked around the room, tried to talk in a normal tone then alternate with some mumbling like a real conversation might sound. Banged some pots around and yelled once then picked up the phone again.

“Brett? She said okay, but I gotta take my homework with me. And plus, there's some stuff she wants me to do here first and Dad's too drunk to drive this morning so it'll take me a while, okay?”

“See ya when I see ya. But hurry, man, Dad is making Weezer sound good.”

I hung up and went into my room. From the window in there, I could look up the hill but I didn't see the truck, so I went into their bedroom and started looking. Found a bottle of Mad Dog almost right off, hid in an old support stocking that had belonged to Grandma. The stocking was in a small wood casket that had once had fancy chocolates in it. Ma won it in a raffle over at the Jesus First Church. She loved that little box, don't ask me why. It had a picture painted on it, she said it was the Road to Emmaus.

But Mad Dog wasn't what I was after. I found it under a floor register, disguised by a big clump of dirty socks. Everclear. “High test,” Pa called it. I sampled it once, and once was enough for me. I heard his drinking buddy, Travis Marcum, say that a man could drink less and get drunk faster on that stuff than anything that had ever been put in a bottle. Illegal in about a dozen states, too, so it must be potent. Whatever worked fast, that's all I cared about. I'd've used Drano if I thought Dad would drink it.

I heard the truck coming back down the hill -- too soon! -- and I scrambled toward the kitchen. He came in, the cold air haloing him, and did what he almost always did, went straight to the fridge and looked for a beer. We were out, so he closed the fridge and sat down at the table. And there was the Everclear, smack in the middle of the table. He gave me a weird look.

“I thought -- it's cold out. I thought you'd want something to warm you up.” And damned if I didn't duck my head, just like she always did, always half-expecting him to throw a glass or a bottle or a fist. And then he looked away from me and sat and stared. Practically stared a hole in that bottle. He was silent so long that I jumped when he finally spoke. I was afraid he would want to know how I came to find the stuff.

“Are you fucking stupid?” I held my breath, let it out quick when he added, “Get me a goddamn glass.”

And for the next two hours he drank steady. Guess he wanted to be drunk enough to forget what he'd just done. I just wanted him to be drunk enough to forget where he was.

When I left home around two o'clock that afternoon, I carried a plastic shopping bag with my geography book and my notebook in it, along with a change of clothes and my toothbrush. I was bundled up warm enough to please even Ma. It was three and a half miles to Brett's house and I had to walk bent over against the wind. The blizzard was moving in faster than the weatherman had predicted and I don't mind saying it was a rough walk. There was already five inches on the ground and it was full dark when I rang the doorbell with a hand that had gone numb.

Brett's mom took one look at me, did the 'you poor boy, what were you thinking' routine that all moms do, all the while she bustled around chafing my hands, making hot chocolate and telling Brett to get me some dry clothes to put on. She fed us all some vegetable soup, made from stuff she'd canned last fall. Brett and his dad had tired of Guitar Hero so we ended up playing board games to please Brett's mom. She loved Clue so we played that and Scene It. They have a big old-fashioned fireplace, and Mr. Chambers made a fire while Brett and I made popcorn. Then we all laid around in front of the fire and swapped ghost stories. It was probably the best night of my life.

I guess it was around midnight when Brett and I climbed into the sack. Mr. Chambers went upstairs with us, and he said the temperature had dropped to 14 below. We could hear the wind, a high-pitched squeal rounding the corners of the house, but when we looked outside there was nothing to see but snow being blown in all directions. Brett and I decided to just sleep in the sweats we were wearing, and I had turned onto my side and closed my eyes when I felt a tug at my shoulder.

“Hey, dude, was everything okay with your folks when you left?” Brett knew all about my mom and dad. Like I said, we were best friends. I'd have been embarrassed for anyone else to know, but Brett is totally cool.

I rolled over to face him in the dark. Brett was cool all right, but he was not ready for all this. Maybe someday, but not today. But I hated lying to him all the same.

“I think my mom is leaving. She had her little suitcase packed.” I picked at the hem of the pillow case. It smelled so clean.

“Oh, man. That's bad. You -- are you going to stay with your dad? I thought you hated him?”

“Mom wants to take me, but I think -- things just ain't working out that way. I'll meet up with her sometime, though.” Time to change the subject. “How much snow you think we got so far?” I murmured.

Brett pulled himself up on his elbows and peered out the window. “Hard to see anything. But the way it's been coming down there's gotta be at least a foot already.” He settled back down again.
“So what did your dad say about her leaving? Didn't he try to stop her or nothing?”

My last memory of Pa was the way I stretched him out in the driveway. Out, period. He had give a little drunken snore, like a sleeping hog, as the snow began to erase his outline. I felt sleepy now, too, and yawned, a real jawbreaker. I couldn't resist a smile though.

“He didn't say a word, dude. How could he? When I left he was out cold.”

BIO: Naomi Johnson is a retired financial analyst with an unused degree in Criminology. She lives in Columbus, Ohio, and this is her first crime story.