enclosed him in
what seemed like a protective embrace, and enjoy a permanent Amazonian
experience under this tropical rainstorm, but the actuality of his world
inescapable, he began once again to muse upon what should be his course of
action.
Sleeping on the problem had
not changed his mind, even slightly, upon the matter of whether or not to
involve the police. If he were suspected, then that could (and probably would)
lead to an even worse situation for Bill. His thoughts were so dictated by fear
that running seemed to be the only option open to him.
As he rubbed the wafer thin
piece of soap across his chest, he looked down at the growing amount of flab
accumulating on his stomach. Observing that it was reaching never before seen
proportions, Bill afforded himself a chuckle as he mumbled out loud, ‘I hope I
don’t have to outrun this thing.’
For Bill Arnold laughter
was a good thing. He deserved a chuckle, and it would be a while before he
wholeheartedly chuckled again. It was going to be a struggle for good old Bill.
He stepped out of the
shower, grabbing a towel and rubbing the beads of water from his body briskly,
so briskly in fact, that his skin stung and assumed a dull red tint. He went
into the bedroom and pulled on a pair of briefs, jeans and a T-shirt. Then the
thought hit like a ton of bricks dropped directly onto him from something like
a four story height:
Is there any mail?
*
Bill Arnold went outside, making a Brrr sound as his teeth began to chatter instantly. He walked toward the
mailbox, praying inwardly that it would contain nothing more than the sound of
the breeze that passed through it with a low whine. He was disappointed. There
was one piece of mail for him to open.
He recognized the envelope
instantly as being of the same origin as the others that had at times amused
him, but now sent shivers down his spine that replaced with ease the ones the
early morning chill had inspired. His surname was scrawled onto the front of
the envelope, a characteristic that Bill had learned to identify with the
multiple threats he had received.
After the photograph he had
received on the previous day, he wondered what he was going to see. Bill
Arnold, as big and as tough as he looked, didn’t think his overworked ticker
could stand any more gruesome shows like the one that had forced him into an
alcoholic stupor the night before. He eased the paper from the envelope,
dreading the presence of another photograph. He freed the contents from the
envelope, and was relieved by the thinness that told him there was no photograph.
He double-checked the envelope to make sure he hadn’t left anything inside. All
clear.
All of his deliberations
now over, there was nothing to stop Bill Arnold from opening the paper and
looking at what was written on it. This was easier said than done, and it took
him a full minute to ease open the single piece of paper. On it there were just
four words, but four words were enough to inject a huge sense of paranoia into
Bill Arnold.
I am watching you .
Goose bumps rattled over his skin,
from his head to his feet, when he read this statement. Looking slowly around
the perimeter of the garden, Bill wondered if this were true.
Turning to go inside, he
noticed the newspaper on the veranda, leaning against the edge of the window
frame and bent in two. Damn, that paperboy’s slack , he thought. Why
can’t he stop and put it in the damn mailbox? He grabbed the paper and
hurried inside. He opened the cupboard that was under the sink in the kitchen
and quickly found a black plastic bag, taking it into the lounge of the small
house and placing the empty beer bottles into it.
Once he had sorted the lounge into a
presentable state he sat down and thought again about what he would do. A quick
scan through the morning paper failed, as it had the night before, to turn up a
report of the murder.
Still no body for the
police, but now he’s ready for me .
If he were being watched
then surely
what seemed like a protective embrace, and enjoy a permanent Amazonian
experience under this tropical rainstorm, but the actuality of his world
inescapable, he began once again to muse upon what should be his course of
action.
Sleeping on the problem had
not changed his mind, even slightly, upon the matter of whether or not to
involve the police. If he were suspected, then that could (and probably would)
lead to an even worse situation for Bill. His thoughts were so dictated by fear
that running seemed to be the only option open to him.
As he rubbed the wafer thin
piece of soap across his chest, he looked down at the growing amount of flab
accumulating on his stomach. Observing that it was reaching never before seen
proportions, Bill afforded himself a chuckle as he mumbled out loud, ‘I hope I
don’t have to outrun this thing.’
For Bill Arnold laughter
was a good thing. He deserved a chuckle, and it would be a while before he
wholeheartedly chuckled again. It was going to be a struggle for good old Bill.
He stepped out of the
shower, grabbing a towel and rubbing the beads of water from his body briskly,
so briskly in fact, that his skin stung and assumed a dull red tint. He went
into the bedroom and pulled on a pair of briefs, jeans and a T-shirt. Then the
thought hit like a ton of bricks dropped directly onto him from something like
a four story height:
Is there any mail?
*
Bill Arnold went outside, making a Brrr sound as his teeth began to chatter instantly. He walked toward the
mailbox, praying inwardly that it would contain nothing more than the sound of
the breeze that passed through it with a low whine. He was disappointed. There
was one piece of mail for him to open.
He recognized the envelope
instantly as being of the same origin as the others that had at times amused
him, but now sent shivers down his spine that replaced with ease the ones the
early morning chill had inspired. His surname was scrawled onto the front of
the envelope, a characteristic that Bill had learned to identify with the
multiple threats he had received.
After the photograph he had
received on the previous day, he wondered what he was going to see. Bill
Arnold, as big and as tough as he looked, didn’t think his overworked ticker
could stand any more gruesome shows like the one that had forced him into an
alcoholic stupor the night before. He eased the paper from the envelope,
dreading the presence of another photograph. He freed the contents from the
envelope, and was relieved by the thinness that told him there was no photograph.
He double-checked the envelope to make sure he hadn’t left anything inside. All
clear.
All of his deliberations
now over, there was nothing to stop Bill Arnold from opening the paper and
looking at what was written on it. This was easier said than done, and it took
him a full minute to ease open the single piece of paper. On it there were just
four words, but four words were enough to inject a huge sense of paranoia into
Bill Arnold.
I am watching you .
Goose bumps rattled over his skin,
from his head to his feet, when he read this statement. Looking slowly around
the perimeter of the garden, Bill wondered if this were true.
Turning to go inside, he
noticed the newspaper on the veranda, leaning against the edge of the window
frame and bent in two. Damn, that paperboy’s slack , he thought. Why
can’t he stop and put it in the damn mailbox? He grabbed the paper and
hurried inside. He opened the cupboard that was under the sink in the kitchen
and quickly found a black plastic bag, taking it into the lounge of the small
house and placing the empty beer bottles into it.
Once he had sorted the lounge into a
presentable state he sat down and thought again about what he would do. A quick
scan through the morning paper failed, as it had the night before, to turn up a
report of the murder.
Still no body for the
police, but now he’s ready for me .
If he were being watched
then surely
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