I stepped out the airport in Gulfport, Mississippi. My mission required stealth. I’m not a fucking masochist. Or a sadist either. But I welcomed the pelting rain that slapped my face nonstop. Intent on keeping dry, folks typically keep their heads down when a storm like this one hits—and they rarely notice shit that’s going on around them.
I hadn’t bothered to lug a suitcase on the flight from Arizona. I shrugged into my backpack. Tossed a gym bag cross one shoulder, straightened the damp lapels on my faded black trench coat. Fingering a pack of Camel Menthol, I sauntered forty feet from the terminal’s entrance.
Corralled in business class during the four-hour trip, I relished the freedom to stretch my legs—and the bunched muscles on my six-foot frame. I needed to say loose; needed to stay calm despite the odds against me. I shook my irritated head at the advertising slogan once touted by Southwest Airlines: You are now free to move about the country.
Free my ass. I sacrificed my back to the unrelenting wind till the flame from my struggling Zippo at last engulfed my cig. By the time I neared the filter, I managed to settle down. First step grab the Porsche at Hertz, and quickly find my suite at the Casino Gold Hotel. Make a brief appearance at the Gulf Coast Shorebird Conference, for which I’d registered online. Then flag a cab to Rent-a-Wreck—and launch my quest to find the book store.
Once I found the book store? Eventually I’d find her.
Love? Hate? Or Tolerate? Awake or in fitful sleep, these three choices rattled my brain.
I’d debated them for two weeks. While I’d yet to crown one king? Hate was winning by a landslide. And burned hotter than the ash of my dying cigarette.
***
People who rent a Porsche are begging to be seen. The folks at Hertz understood this, and the Carrera coupe that cradled me blazed candy apple red inside and out—including the leather seats.
While my endgame demanded stealth, strutting like a peacock and making a local impression struck me as a benefit till I slunk out of town, north to Hattiesburg. Suddenly ensnared by Friday morning traffic, I decided to change plans. If you wanna get caught on cameras? Go to fucking Walmart.
I throttled into the lot using a side entrance. Deftly slid to a stop in a lonely spot underneath a lamp post since they’re all equipped with cameras. Waving the key fob at the coupe, the alarm dutifully beeped. I slogged to the pharmacy doors, where I’d get filmed again. Wet hair dangling on my shoulders, I looked mangy as Kid Rock.
Nabbing a shopping cart, I zipped along the aisles—snatching items along the way: four Henley short-sleeved shirts in basic black and olive green; a six-pack of black crew socks; a white long-sleeved dress shirt; and flip-flops for the shower. I strolled past the guns and ammo. I had no need for either. A gun was too impersonal. And too quick—I wanted her to suffer. My hands and knife would satisfy.
Back inside the Porsche, I packed everything in the gym bag—including the plastic Walmart sacks. No need whatsoever to alert the hotel staff I’d just gone discount shopping.
Especially an amped valet.
I imagine it’s not often one of those dull lads drives a Porsche. Today marked only the second time I’d driven one myself.
If she and her sleek legs curled in the seat beside me…I would’ve enjoyed the experience more.
***
Entering my fifth-floor suite, I gave the place a quick inspection. Despite the four-star rating, the digs proved nothing special. I set my gear down on the bed, and rifled the top side-pocket of my custom photographer’s backpack. I tugged free a barrel lens…laid the felt bag on the mattress. Ripped out the Velcro padding. Fished out a small black box—and its AC car adapter from the tight compartment’s bottom. Slid both in a plastic bag; and stuffed them in my trench coat. Repacked the barrel lens. Removed a travel kit from the gym bag. Stripped and hit the shower.
Despite the costly room, the towels chaffed my skin like horse hair. Merely another sign of American corporate greed: a hunger that knows no bounds. I slipped on socks, a dull gray tee—then a pair of carpenter’s pants, since the pockets would prove handy. And using women’s hair elastics notched my black hair in a ponytail. The five times that she’d seen me, my hair was its natural brown—while sporting red flecks. I planned to keep my distance unless snatching her seemed safe. But if she chanced to glimpse me? Once hidden beneath a cap, I highly doubted my hair would give me away.
Using the hotel phone, I ordered The Wall Street Journal and a carafe of coffee. An ordinary person, doing ordinary things—
But I felt far from ordinary. Acid churned my stomach. Bile lurched in my throat. My skin itched and burned…as if a swarm of fire ants were devouring me for breakfast. I rifled each of the Journal’s sections—though I never read a word. Poured the hot coffee down the bathroom sink: but left a few dregs in one mug.
I stuffed an olive cap in my trench coat pocket. The clock on the nearby nightstand read nine fifteen a.m., and using my Amazon Store Card, I ordered four hours-worth of porn.
Better to look like a lonely pervert than a potential murder suspect.
I thumbed my iPhone’s ringer to silent, turned on the GPS. I’d leave the cell phone in my room. Another subtle attempt to leave a false impression should the cops ever check my whereabouts using my cell phone records. In theory my mission was simple: Leave no evidence behind—and spur doubt-after-reasonable doubt every step of the way.
The left breast pocket inside my trench coat held a burner phone—without a GPS. The twin pocket on the right snugly contained a stun gun that looks like a cell phone. Much to my relief, the airport security crew hadn’t given the device more than a cursory glance.
Knowing hotel key cards record the date and time whenever someone swipes them, I laid both keys in the nightstand drawer below the Gideon’s Bible. Rummaging my backpack, I fished a pocket knife, a small dense cube of hard gray foam, and a clear-colored roll of packing tape.
I opened the hotel door…the hall outside sat empty. Standing inside my room, I cut a chunk of foam to size, wedged the piece into the strike plate mounted on the door frame—where the latch would normally catch. I taped over the latch three times so the piece would stay inset…tested the door and grinned. The jerry-rig didn’t stick—and the hotel door stayed closed.
I snatched a black umbrella and the backpack from the bed. Tucked the Do Not Disturb sign inside the key card slot. Ducking in the stairwell, I rumbled the steel steps down to the lobby and out into the driveway. Two doormen stood on duty. Both African American. The tall dude looked strung out—the other more relaxed: likely a former baller. Chest and shoulders jacked; stomach going soft. Maybe offensive line in high school. Or defensive line in college. I managed to read his name tag.
“How far to the Sunbelt Center, Sam?”
“About a mile-and-a-half, sir.”
“Damn. I was hoping I could walk. Kindly hail me a cab, Sam? My name’s Connor, by the way.”
“Sure, my pleasure.” He spoke into his smart phone. By the time he finished talking a cab pulled in the drive. “This one’s yours, Connor.”
I handed him a tenner, fist-tapped him on the shoulder. “Keep it real, Sam.”
The doorman flashed a grin: “Always, brother, always.”
***
The cab snaked uptown to the Conference Center, traffic now much thinner. I missed most of the morning lecture, which ended in time for lunch. But I took copious notes throughout. I shook hands with the session speaker, and offered him my business card. As an added bonus, he stashed my card inside his wallet. While most participants filed to the dining room, I flashed my Camels as a pretext and strode outside instead. The clouds overhead loomed ominous. But for the moment refrained from pissing.
I wandered across the street, strode into The Rose Café, where Discover Card was welcome. I ordered a slice of apple pie and a glass of milk. Painfully managed to finish both. An ordinary guy doing ordinary things. I paid with a credit card to prove that I’d dined there, and the time I’d paid.
Back out on the street, I slipped on driving gloves—and a tinted pair of Ray Ban wrap-a-around racing shades. Nesting my ponytail atop my head, I donned the olive cap. And strolling one block south, I secured another cab. Lounging in the back, I pulled a Louisiana license. Wiped that sucker to a shine with a microfiber towel. Then tucked that precious plastic in my right hip pocket.
When the cab eased into Rent-a-Wreck the meter read twelve dollars. I fished a Benjamin from one pocket. Tore the bill in two—offered the short side to the driver: “Stay put until I say so, and you’ll get the other half.” He nodded and took his stake.
I wandered across the lot where two pickups caught my eye. Both ten years old. Some scratches and dings aside they seemed in decent shape. I’d circled both the vehicles before the rep inside the office dawdled out to join me. Tall skinny kid. Greasy blond hair. Face scarred with acne.
“Lookin’ to do some huntin’—I wanna rent a truck,” I said before he could say a word.
“Where you goin’ huntin’?”
“De Soto,” I told him flatly. Like I’d been there a thousand times.
“How long you lookin’ ta rent?”
“Be here about a week.”
“The Tacoma will do you best then. Cheaper on gas for sure. And it’s got four-wheel drive.”
The Tacoma would do me best because the truck was black—not bloody fire engine red like the nearby Dodge. “Let me cruise the lot then while you start the paperwork.” With the cab blocking the driveway, he knew I couldn’t bolt.
He shuffled toward the office; I followed him inside. He handed me the keys, I handed him that license. I’d stolen it from a drunk on a trip to New Orleans. He photocopied the license—which is why I’d wiped my prints and donned the driving gloves. Fingerprint techs these days can easily pull a print from almost anything. First reasonable chance I got I’d burn and dump the license.
“What you hopin’ ta bag?” he asked, plopping behind a desk.
I smirked and shot him a wink: “Pussy if I’m lucky.”
He guffawed a couple of times. Winked childishly in return. Opening the door, I knew he wouldn’t balk when I flashed him cash—rather than pay with plastic. Plastic was not an option.
***
Rolling off the lot, I eagerly lit a Camel. Cranked the AC and powered down my window. By the time I finished my cig, I reached the intersection heralding Highway 49. Seventy miles due north lay Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Sticking to the speed limit…about an eighty-minute drive if I cruised non-stop. But Highway 49 cuts through De Soto National Forest. Eight hundred and ten square miles filled with longleaf pine savannahs. De Soto’s northern boundaries squat just outside Hattiesburg: a convenient haunt to ditch a body—if you chanced to be in the area.
And how about that, I smirked. It just so happened that I would. Cruising the forest’s side-roads during daylight hours seemed like a good idea. Simply stick to the wide paved roads and avoid the muddy shoulders to keep from leaving tire tracks.
I craved a bottle of bourbon—chased with cinnamon Firewater. But odds seemed good if I started drinking…I wouldn’t be able to stop. If killing her proved an option, then I needed to do things right—every step of the way.
Instead of banging left onto Highway 49, I continued heading east. Love, Hate or Tolerate—I needed to get shit straight before I ventured north. Because no matter how I played things, my alibi—if needed—would never prove ironclad. While my Hate burned hot…did that Hate burn strong enough to risk a life in prison?
The Tacoma’s clock read one-fifteen. An hour had now lapsed since I’d bought that pie. Hattiesburg and back would take three hours minimum. My nerves screamed, Screw it—just make the fucking drive. You didn’t fly from Arizona to sit here on your ass. And this trip is just reconnaissance to find the goddamn book store.
I’d already played the fool; but that didn’t make me foolish. Four hours with no alibi was way too fucking much.
A snaggle-toothed band of lightning cut the black and brooding sky. By the time the bolt burned out I’d settled on a plan.
I shucked my hat and glasses for the ride back to Gulfport.
***
Cradled in the rumbling Porsche, I arrived at the Gulf Coast Audubon less than forty minutes later—as the skies began to clear. I’d tucked the Tacoma downtown in a public lot. Caught yet another cab back to the hotel. Purely as a pretext, I’d stopped at the front desk—and excitedly asked the clerk if I’d received a package. She checked her computer first, then a nearby shelf and the hotel safe: “Sorry, Mr. Raines, it appears that you haven’t.”
“Thanks, Luanne,” I sighed, sliding her a ten-spot.
Using the same stairwell, I’d darted to my room. The door stood fitly closed; the jerry-rig still in place. While the paper and empty carafe lay precisely where I left them.
Given today’s weather, only eleven cars dotted the Audubon center’s lot. I parked and locked the Carrera in the far-left corner, and strolled through the entrance, taking note of the HQ’s hours. They locked the building at five p.m.—but the preserve itself stayed open until sunset. Great news for me. The cheery golden sun, peeking in and out of tattered kinder clouds, also proved a boon: I now had a viable alibi.
Using my MasterCard, I bought a Mississippi membership—bringing my Audubon total to three dozen different states. I’d been down in New Orleans nine months earlier, the New Year barely born, photographing Wood Ducks at Audubon City Park. Bleating Fulvous Whistling Ducks outnumbered the little Woodies about a hundred to one. But I only had eyes and passion for those darling-darting Wood Ducks—who spent scant but precious time out of the leaf-strewn water. And all-too-often floated far beyond the range of even my longest lens.
I took two hundred duck shots—though most would look like shit. And stopped to swap my SIM cards. Tucking the full card in my backpack, I spotted her beneath a tree…perhaps ten feet from me. She dipped a hand in a Snoopy lunch box; wagged a bottle of Evian. I hadn’t stopped to drink in hours. I plopped down on the ground; accepted her offering.
“You live here in NOLA?”
“Visiting from Arizona. But I plan on moving somewhere along the Gulf. Maybe in a year. Mississippi or Alabama—out around Dauphin Island.”
“To catch the migrating birds—as they pass through the Gulf in the spring and fall.”
“Exactement.”
She grinned. “My mother’s dad was French. Though he died when I was four. You’re pretty damn intense when working behind a lens. Do you have a web site? Or an Instagram account where people can see your photos?”
I fumbled in my pocket, handed her a business card. “I’m not into social media, so ‘no’ and ‘no,’” I said. “When my book got published, the publisher insisted I create a Facebook page. But I don’t host my photos there. Photographers who post online get pirated all the time.
“Bein’ so antisocial, I don’t sell a lot of books. I prefer giving them away to folks I sense will enjoy them.”
“Art for art’s sake.”
“Exactement, again.”
When I returned to Arizona, I didn’t recognize the name on the Friend Request: Nikita Chiquita—
The Chiquita’s Profile Pic? An actual banana with Mr. Potato Head glasses…decked in a doll’s wig…vertically propped at a casual angle against a turquoise wall. Its face cheerfully painted with a trio of colored sharpies: Green for the eyes; black for the nose and eyebrows; red for the sultry lips.
But after jumping to the Page I recognized her selfies. Poet, Painter, Illustrator is what her Intro read.
Laughing, I clicked Accept. And in the time it takes to blink…Facebook proclaimed that we were now Friends.
Her page revealed little else—except the charity that she worked for—which was based in Mississippi. I admired her discretion.
The world is a dangerous place. Especially if you’re a woman and men consider you attractive.
I didn’t write on her Page. Or send her a note in Messenger. Given the physical space between us, I barely gave her a second thought.
Until she posted on my Page.
Once again she made me laugh. And fuck yeah, I felt flattered.
I reviewed your book on Amazon: Like the birds he photographs, the photographer himself is a beauty to behold.
I scorched these memories with a blowtorch—perched a two-page trail map on the Audubon counter. Quizzed the volunteer about the various habitats along the dozen trails, and the birds that I might find in each specific area. I jotted notes throughout our chat. And armed with this info, ventured outdoors to explore.
But my heart didn’t race at this new chance for photo ops. Today my favorite pastime felt like nothing more than a necessary evil. Like pushing a monster truck for miles because the beast ran out of gas—and your drunk jackass father demanded that you push.
With the sun sometimes shining, the mercury greedily spiked by at least ten degrees. But with the essential gear my trench coat held? No way in hell I’d leave the coat lying in the Porsche. Impossible to carry and still shoot steady photos. I’d have to endure the heat.
Like much of Florida, many of the trails through these wetlands consisted of brand-new boardwalks. I understood the need to protect these ecosystems. Yet boardwalks feel unnatural. I normally feel disgruntled by what I call “boardwalk birding.” But today these boardwalks oddly suited me: they’d establish I was here. And rather than hunting birds—though I shot three dozen species—I focused on shooting landscapes that often featured the boardwalks. As well as a landmark cabin and half a dozen bird-blinds.
I worked with furious intensity, bounding across the boards—almost to the point of running, gobbling down the real estate on as many trails as possible. After the first ten minutes, I started taking shots whenever pervasive clouds blotted-out the sun. And every four or five shots, I advanced the camera’s clock by eight to ten minutes. The sequence of shots would indicate I’d been shooting here four hours—instead of only one.
My behavior wasn’t paranoid.
I’d watched a pair of crime techs on Dateline NBC analyze the sun in a series of printed photos—and after visiting the crime scene—they determined where and at what time every single shot was taken. Without directional light to guide them? They’d have been fishing in the dark.
Trying to plan a murder was definitely fucking murder.
No wonder serial killers often took a break from killing. Unless they were totally bat-shit, as many of them were, they had to feel some strain.
***
Glancing at my map, I caught the Upland Trail. The trail cut sharply north. And would culminate on Gulf Shore Drive—half a mile due west of the HQ parking lot.
Soon as I spotted the blacktop, I dialed out for a taxi using my burner phone. I broke down and packed my gear. Removed the slim black box and its AC chord from the plastic bag, tucked them in a carpenter’s pocket. And before I reached the road, again tugged on my driver’s gloves.
I’d managed one rock-star pic: a launching Great Blue Heron—serrated wings unfurled—like an ancient pterodactyl intent on reaching heaven…
Since you’re into wings-n-things? My sister Jen claims that I’m a dragon. Wanna take me for a ride?
Tell me when and where—
I’m hosting a fundraiser in Miami on March twenty-third. I’ll be there overnight…if you want to sign my book.
A car horn broke my reverie. Bedecked once more in racing shades, hair tucked beneath my cap, I clambered in the cab.
And let my muddled thoughts wander.
“I forgot your book,” she said.
Uncapping a red sharpie, I signed her freckled forearm: To the Dragon Nikki—I’m still waiting for that ride…Connor
Her cheeks flushed as she read.
Clasping my hand in hers, she led me to the bed.
“My kidneys are failing, Connor. I’ve got five years at the most. Fairly soon, I fear…I won’t be able to travel.”
“Thanks for telling me, Nikki. But you haven’t dulled my interest.”
“How can you love a dying woman?”
“Easy,” I responded. “One moment at a time.”
Green eyes spilling tears, she tucked her head against my chest.
I held her silently through the night—
But we didn’t sleep a wink.
Rising with the sun, she ambled to the closet. Rummaged in her suitcase: handed me a book.
“Two of my recent poems were published in this collection. The illustrations are mine as well. But please don’t read them now.”
When she arrived home safe and sound, my heart leapt at her text: I used to write to fill the void—now I write to the one who fills it.
But during the past two weeks? She’d written me not a word.
Once I found the bookstore…eventually I’d find her.
I had the address for the store—
Which didn’t have a web site.
The store played host to Nikki’s book club: Dames and Private Dicks—
I knew the group met once a week. But I didn’t have a clue about what night or time. And calling the store to ask struck me as too risky.
Enough of the bloody past—or the tasks that lay ahead. I needed to focus on the present.
Rental car companies typically install GPS trackers on every vehicle in their fleet. Because if their rentals wind up stolen—or the vehicles aren’t returned, the company can track them down. The black box inside my pocket was a GPS jammer that plugs in the AC outlet on a vehicle’s dash. I’d bought the box three years ago, when my former corporate masters gave me a company car that had a tracker of its own. I’d bought the box on a whim—just to fuck with their heads.
The box exceeded expectations.
The odometer showed my mileage. But they couldn’t tell where I’d been, or determine when.
The cabbie dropped me on a corner, two blocks from the truck. The unwitting sods at Rent-a-Wreck wouldn’t know a damn thing either.
***
The Cozy Nook bookstore sat smack dab in the middle of downtown Hattiesburg on East Front Street. An alley on the north side lurked between the Nook and the Blu Jazz Café. While a two-story structure—which sold art supplies on the first and housed a gallery on the second—hugged the bookstore from the south. Bike racks on the sidewalk squatted near the curb in front of the art store…which as far as I could tell, was simply called Art’s.
I hung a right and cut a square that took me down East Front on the opposite side of the Nook. And swerved into an empty spot out front of a local restaurant: Welcome to Muddy Waters—Blues, Brews & BBQ. We smoke our savory meats using Mississippi pecan trees.
Smoke drifted from a chimney, as rising memories torched me…
Why do you call me Pecan?
Because you’re fun in a nutshell, Nikki.
Lol Ace. You’re right about that. I’ve always been a monkey—constantly climbing trees. My uncle owned a pecan grove. I grafted my first tree before I turned seven. When we settled his estate, the only thing I claimed was his grafting knife.
One week later she’d published her poem: “My Lover Calls Me Pecan.”
Twin saplings of Love and Hate…she’d grafted them in my heart—
And I couldn’t separate them.
With composure I didn’t feel, I crossed the road in front of the Nook, and paused at the displays in the book store’s spritely windows. Bingo. A purple flyer announced that Dames and Private Dicks would hold a bake sale tomorrow morning—right here at the Nook—and the sale would launch at nine.
Knowing where and when to find her, I had no need to linger. Time to learn the lay of the land. I needed the equivalent of some bird-blinds. Places to watch Nikki—without her knowing I was there. Or triggering unwanted attention from any of the locals. I sparked myself a Camel, started strolling south, casually but carefully taking snapshots with my mind. By stalking birds I had learned patience. Had learned about routines. Discovering Nikki’s habits might take a week. After spotting two more bike racks, I determined to buy a bike; preferably at a yard sale well away from Hattiesburg.
***
The window seat in Ellie’s Diner offered a clear view of the Nook, which sat serenely in the sun on the other side of East Front. I nursed my lousy coffee, the Hattiesburg Gazette acting as my shield. Ten minutes to unwind before cruising back to Gulfport. I needed to get back here early—long before the bake sale started.
After our meeting in Miami, we’d rendezvoused twice in Pensacola…both three-day weekends, first in May and then July. Knowing her travel days grew fewer she agreed to meet in coastal Maine for another three-day jaunt.
I booked a B&B in York—at the base of the harbor’s cliff walk.
Warm September days. Cool September nights, curled by the fire. Lulled to sleep each night by the sound of the pounding surf…that echoed our pounding hearts. We kissed beneath the stars—hovering on the Ferris wheel above Old Orchard Beach—suspended for a moment; brushing eternity. About as close to heaven as I’ve ever been.
We stood outside the terminal. She had a flight to catch; I’d be staying three more days.
“I should’ve told you earlier, but I’ve been married for six years. My husband runs the charity, and I work for him. He’s truly a good man…but sadly he doesn’t love me.
“My family’s begged me for years to leave him—
“And having met you, I’ve considered that long and hard. But knowing that I’m dying…to leave him would be selfish. His reputation would take a hit—the charity would suffer. So would others as a result.”
The last words she texted me when she got home from that trip…before I realized in the morning she’d deleted her Facebook page…and changed her cell phone number—
You will always be
my Maine squeeze
Like she was a children’s book author. Who’d penned her fairy tale. And decided to close the book. While I was just her audience—and expected to applaud. Or a puppet in her play; with no say about the outcome.
I fingered the stun gun in my pocket. And half a dozen zip ties. One thing I knew for sure?
She’d created a fucking monster.
The question that needed answering?
Did this monster have a soul?
I slipped inside my trench coat. Reaching for the check, I caught a glimpse of Nikki—hopping from her bike out in front of Art’s.
Flagging down the waitress, I asked her for more coffee…my eyes still chained to Nikki—who chained her bike inside the rack—and sidled into Art’s.
She popped out ten minutes later, an equally-tall blonde ambling ’longside her. Both chatting easily—often breaking into laughter.
Didn’t matter one iota how far apart we were—I could hear her voice and laugh ringing in my ears.
The blonde returned inside.
Nikki unchained her bike. Cocked her head to the side…looked up and down the sidewalk. Stood still and closed her eyes. Delved her jeans ass pocket—dug a notepad and a pen.
She wheeled her bike across the street. Straight for the Tacoma. Wrote something in the note pad, tore the page from the binder. Tucked the sheet beneath the driver’s side wiper—straddled her bike and pedaled off; long sleek legs rising and falling…like my sinking heart.
I sat motionless for five minutes. Walked out to the street. No signs of Nikki.
I freed the paper from the wiper—
Climbed inside the truck.
I sensed your soul, Connor….
I drove shakily back to Gulfport.
Crime author Mick Rose pens haiku and prose while wandering the United States in a Quest for the Perfect Pizza. Though his crime fiction can loom dark, and not for the faint-of-heart, he typically tells tall tales involving sexual humor (which sometimes prove explicit). His stories have kindly found good homes in online magazines and in print, including England’s hard-hitting Close To The Bone, Yellow Mama Webzine, The Rye Whiskey Review, and the story collection Born Under a Bad Sign from Screaming Eye Press.
Care to say, “Hello?” You can visit Mick below:
https://www.facebook.com/mick.rose.56808
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