EDGE OF SUSPENSE: Thrilling Tales of Mystery & Murder by R. Barri Flowers Page A
Authors: R. Barri Flowers
Tags: Suspense, Thrillers, Crime, Mystery, Short Stories, Murder, Anthologies, Mystery & Suspense, mystery short stories, literature fiction short stories, legal short stories
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night was offset minimally by a
lamppost. I saw no evidence of any living beings other than myself,
which was just what I wanted.
I bypassed the gravesite of Jocelyn Parker,
though something told me her spirit was as aware of my presence as
I was of hers.
Reaching the grave of Francine Saunders, I
took out a cigarette for a smoke.
"Guess you've been waiting a long time for
this moment, huh? Maybe we both have. Wish I could take back what I
did to you and the others, but it's too late for that now. But I'll
make it right so you can rest in peace, wherever that might
be."
I took a long drag on the cigarette for the
last time and flung it as far as it would go.
Without giving myself time to think about
it, I pulled out my gun. It was a department-issued Glock 9mm
handgun used by most detectives. I took out my badge and I.D.,
which read Detective Conrad Tate. Only family and friends knew me
by my middle name: Kenneth.
Probably better that way.
I set the badge and I.D. on Francine
Saunders' grave, put the barrel of the gun in my mouth at an upward
angle, and pulled the trigger.
# # #
THE RIPPER'S
RAGE
New York City, 1868
Jack watched from a crack in the closet
door. In the dingy room, his mother was lying on a cot
spread-eagled with a man wedged between her legs as if stuck there.
They were breathing hard, grunting, and making other strange
noises. A pile of crumpled dollar bills sat on a table.
Jack winced as the man squeezed his mother's
breasts so hard she cried out in pain. Just as quickly, she began
to laugh almost hysterically, her legs wrapped around the man's
buttocks while he pounded into her violently.
"Come outta there, Jack!" His mother looked
toward the closet. Jack kept very still, hoping she would think he
was elsewhere. "I know you're in there. You heard me!"
Jack swallowed and slowly opened the door,
stepping into the room.
"That's Jack," his mother said to the
man.
The man chuckled. "Hope we're puttin' on a
good show for you, boy."
Jack remained mute.
His mother eyed him and extended her arm.
"Take Momma's hand, Jack. I need you..."
Obeying, Jack took her clammy hand. The man
was still on top of her, but she didn't seem to notice or care.
They both reeked of whiskey.
She gripped his hand tighter and tighter as
the man drove himself into her harder and deeper.
Finally, the man let out a thunderous wail
and Jack felt his mother's hand go limp. The man rolled off
her.
"Don't let what you just seen scare you
none, Jack," he snorted. "Whores are used to it and a whole lot
more. Ain't that right, Lucy?"
"Yeah, whatever you say," she mumbled.
Jack turned away, not wanting his mother to
see the hatred that consumed him like a fever.
* * *
New York City, June 1888
The smell of sulfur hung in the air like fog
and gas lamps barely put a dent in the night's darkness.
Jack watched from the shadows as the whore
staggered out of the dance hall. He'd watched her tease and flirt
with men before taking them one by one to a room upstairs.
He followed her as she crossed the street
and headed down another. It was darker and empty of other
pedestrians. Nevertheless he eyed her with caution, relying on his
senses more than sight to guide him.
She was his for the taking.
As if sensing him, she stopped and looked
around. He ducked into the shadows. She saw no one and continued to
move more briskly than before.
Jack picked up his pace behind her, closing
the gap with a sense of desperation. Blood pumped through his veins
like morphine in an addict.
The whore stopped and turned abruptly,
facing him. He could sense her apprehension. "Are you following me,
mister?"
The pungency of her strong perfume
infiltrated Jack's nostrils.
Her fear seemed to be replaced with anger as
the whore planted her hands on ample hips. "Cat got your tongue?
Come on then, we ain't got all night you know—"
She regarded him curiously, surmising the
man was in his mid twenties. Tall and sturdy, he had
lamppost. I saw no evidence of any living beings other than myself,
which was just what I wanted.
I bypassed the gravesite of Jocelyn Parker,
though something told me her spirit was as aware of my presence as
I was of hers.
Reaching the grave of Francine Saunders, I
took out a cigarette for a smoke.
"Guess you've been waiting a long time for
this moment, huh? Maybe we both have. Wish I could take back what I
did to you and the others, but it's too late for that now. But I'll
make it right so you can rest in peace, wherever that might
be."
I took a long drag on the cigarette for the
last time and flung it as far as it would go.
Without giving myself time to think about
it, I pulled out my gun. It was a department-issued Glock 9mm
handgun used by most detectives. I took out my badge and I.D.,
which read Detective Conrad Tate. Only family and friends knew me
by my middle name: Kenneth.
Probably better that way.
I set the badge and I.D. on Francine
Saunders' grave, put the barrel of the gun in my mouth at an upward
angle, and pulled the trigger.
# # #
THE RIPPER'S
RAGE
New York City, 1868
Jack watched from a crack in the closet
door. In the dingy room, his mother was lying on a cot
spread-eagled with a man wedged between her legs as if stuck there.
They were breathing hard, grunting, and making other strange
noises. A pile of crumpled dollar bills sat on a table.
Jack winced as the man squeezed his mother's
breasts so hard she cried out in pain. Just as quickly, she began
to laugh almost hysterically, her legs wrapped around the man's
buttocks while he pounded into her violently.
"Come outta there, Jack!" His mother looked
toward the closet. Jack kept very still, hoping she would think he
was elsewhere. "I know you're in there. You heard me!"
Jack swallowed and slowly opened the door,
stepping into the room.
"That's Jack," his mother said to the
man.
The man chuckled. "Hope we're puttin' on a
good show for you, boy."
Jack remained mute.
His mother eyed him and extended her arm.
"Take Momma's hand, Jack. I need you..."
Obeying, Jack took her clammy hand. The man
was still on top of her, but she didn't seem to notice or care.
They both reeked of whiskey.
She gripped his hand tighter and tighter as
the man drove himself into her harder and deeper.
Finally, the man let out a thunderous wail
and Jack felt his mother's hand go limp. The man rolled off
her.
"Don't let what you just seen scare you
none, Jack," he snorted. "Whores are used to it and a whole lot
more. Ain't that right, Lucy?"
"Yeah, whatever you say," she mumbled.
Jack turned away, not wanting his mother to
see the hatred that consumed him like a fever.
* * *
New York City, June 1888
The smell of sulfur hung in the air like fog
and gas lamps barely put a dent in the night's darkness.
Jack watched from the shadows as the whore
staggered out of the dance hall. He'd watched her tease and flirt
with men before taking them one by one to a room upstairs.
He followed her as she crossed the street
and headed down another. It was darker and empty of other
pedestrians. Nevertheless he eyed her with caution, relying on his
senses more than sight to guide him.
She was his for the taking.
As if sensing him, she stopped and looked
around. He ducked into the shadows. She saw no one and continued to
move more briskly than before.
Jack picked up his pace behind her, closing
the gap with a sense of desperation. Blood pumped through his veins
like morphine in an addict.
The whore stopped and turned abruptly,
facing him. He could sense her apprehension. "Are you following me,
mister?"
The pungency of her strong perfume
infiltrated Jack's nostrils.
Her fear seemed to be replaced with anger as
the whore planted her hands on ample hips. "Cat got your tongue?
Come on then, we ain't got all night you know—"
She regarded him curiously, surmising the
man was in his mid twenties. Tall and sturdy, he had
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