It Was Me

©2000 Mr. E

You were beat when you got home, exhausted, tired, worn out, and why
not. A machine might be able to rise at 4:30 a.m. when even the birds
have the brains to still be asleep, spend 45 minutes sweating on the
stairmaster, shower, dress, and head out the door, slice of toast
clenched in your mouth, juggling a briefcase, a laptop, a cell phone and
a Franklin planner, to drive clear across town through yes, that god
awful traffic (damn is a better word). Just to spend the next, oh, say
10, 12, maybe 14 hours in a high stress, keen tension,
high-blood-pressure-inducing management position that you had fought and
clawed for like a wild animal to get, (was it worth it), but you are not
a machine, you're just a beat, exhausted, tired, worn out young lady in
a business suit who was kicking off her low heeled shoes the minute the
front door slammed shut behind her. A young lady who padded in her
stocking feet then across the thick piled carpet in her living room,
dropped her briefcase and laptop and cell phone and Franklin planner on
the clawfoot oak dining room table, breathed a huge sigh of relief, just
glad to be home.
Missing her dog.
Worried about her dog, her Bowser. Picking up the cordless phone from
off the table then, speed dialing the vet again, it had been two days
now. Carrying the mobile phone into the bedroom with you, letting it
ring as you tugged out of your pantyhose (oh that felt good), sliding
your now bare feet back and forth over the cool hardwood floor beneath
your bed, as the vet's assistant answered, again, and checked on Bowser
for you, again, the vet's assistant patiently assuring you that yes, his
condition was stable, but no, there were no signs of improvement.
"I hate to tell you this," the veterinarian had said, standing before
you in his white lab coat, eyeglasses perched on the end of his nose. He
held the test results in his hand. "But it appears from these results
that your dog has been poisoned."
"What do you mean," you had asked, incredulous, alarmed, frantic, your
brilliant blue eyes going wide as saucers.
"I mean, ma'am, that traces of a specific poison have shown up in your
dog's blood specimen. Does Bowser usually roam the neighborhood?"
No, no, you had said. Bowser is kind of like my guard dog, you
explained. He is a house dog. I have a fenced back yard. I walk him in
the neighborhod every day. He jogs with me regularly. He protects me.
Why?
"Well, it has been my experience," the vet had said slowly, measuring
his words carefully, "that when this strain of poison shows up in a
dog's blood, it has invariably been furnished by some third party. Most
often in food. I believe there is a good chance that some one has fed
poisoned food to your dog. Have you noticed anyone other than yourself
feeding Bowser recently, perhaps over the backyard fence?"
No, you had said. Not that I remember.
"Well, I hate to jump to conclusions, but I will be blunt with you. I
believe it highly likely that someone, somehow, has found a way to
poison your dog, most probably within these past 48 hours or so."
You had sat there then, stunned, shocked, sad, torn up inside over your
poor sick dog (have to wait and see, the vet said, he should pull
through this), alarmed at the thought that anyone would do that to your
dog, that anyone was mean enough, or cruel enough, to do that to a poor
animal, that anyone was sneaky enough to do what the vet had suggested,
sneaky enough to feed your poor, unsuspecting dog poisoned food.
But that was me.
Not sneaky, clever.
Not cruel, kind.
Not mean, cunning.
And crafty.
It was me.

You were naked, then, in your bedroom, standing before the full length
mirror on your wall, as you ended the conversation with the vet's
office, tossing the cordless on the bed in disgust. Naked, in the soft
light of early evening, as the the day's last light filtered dreamily in
through your parted window blinds. Naked, you stood before the long
mirror, eyeing your lean form, determined to take your mind off your
poor dog, poor Bowser, determined to forget the possiblity that some one
had actually poisoned your poor dog. Oh Bowser.
Pleased, however, with your body, and why not. Why shouldn't you be, it
was not as if it happened by accident, you were not like some of these
women, these waifs, these thin, skinny rails. It was not as if you had
always been this light, this trim, this strong, this fit. It had taken a
lot of work, a lot of sweat, a lot of discipline. Oh god, you cringed at
the thought of how you had looked on your wedding day. And that was only
six years ago. That was 40 pounds ago. That was back when a six mile run
in 90 degree heat was something those other people did, those skinny
little people, and here now you did it at least three times a week, with
Bowser.
Oh Bowser.
And that was a few dress sizes ago. You walked, then, still naked, no
clothes, nude in the soft light of your west window, you walked in your
bare feet across the polished hardwood floor of your room, shiny
hardwood feeling cool and delicious on your bare feet.
Flinging the door of your clothes closet open, you reached in and pulled
out an old dress, yes, you kept some of your old dresses for just this
reason, you pulled the light blue cotton one out, the one that your ex
had bought for you, that you only wore once, the man had no taste,
pulled it out and carried it back with you, as you padded, naked, back
across the room again, to stand before the full length wall mirror,
holding the large, floppy dress up before you, holding it up before your
thin frame. Delighted in seeing, again, with your own eyes, how far you
had come, where you had been, where you were now, knowing, in your own
mind, how hard it had been.
You needed to take your bath now, you knew that. Your Friday night
ritual---long hot bath, soaking in oils, shaving carefully, gently
shampooing and rinsing and conditioning your hair, moisturizing your
face. Cleaning the bathroom carefully. Lying down then, for a nap, to be
fresh for Jeff, sleeping soundly, waiting for Jeff's call.

Jeff would be in town tonite, like every Friday night, arriving late,
even if his flight was on time, which was no guarantee, knowing the San
Francisco airport, even if he did not have to wait for a cab at the
airport, still he would not arrive at his apartment until after ten. He
would call you right away, he would come over as soon as he could, you
would wait for him eagerly, anticipating him, you would serve him a
light dinner, very light, some nice wine. The two of you would talk,
would go over events of the past week, catching up on tidbits of news,
sharing your lives as best you could in your long distance relationship.
And yes, the two of you were in love, oh god how you loved that man, and
soon the long distance relationship would be over, and Jeff would get a
transfer, or you would get a transfer, or something would happen, you
just knew it. Then after the light dinner, and after the glass of wine,
after the small conversation, the talking, after the shared stories, the
quiet laughter, after it all, a moment would come when you would feel
Jeff's eyes on you, you knew the moment, you craved the moment, the
moment when you could feel Jeff's eyes burning into your soft skin, the
moment when a torrid look into Jeff's smoldering eyes would melt you, he
could melt you, that man could melt you with his eyes and you would melt
then into his arms, you would melt then into his hands, into his chest,
his lean hips would melt into yours, his warm mouth melting into your
neck, and soon your soft, warm pussy would be melting around Jeff's
steel-hard cock, your slick, wet pussy slowly melting over his thick,
long dick, and you would surrender to Jeff, you would surrender to your
virile, hardy man, and your virile, hardy man would take you, he would
take you roughly, he would own you, and Jeff would fuck you, he would
fuck you hard, and then harder, and then even harder, and you would
submit to your man, submit to him your body, submit to him your mind,
submit to him your heart, submit to him your soul, and the two of you
would make love, through the dark, sultry night, and when the birds sang
to you in the morning, you would be in your lover's arms.
Then you thought you saw a shadow cross the shiny hardwood floor.
Behind you.
Quickly you crossed the room to the window. Had there been someone
there? Holding the old dress over you for decency, you peered now out
your west window.
No one.
Perhaps a cat, you thought. Those damn neighborhood cats loved to sit in
that window. Especially now, with Bowser gone.
Oh well. You then replaced the dress in the closet, and walked, still
naked, into the bathroom, turning spiggots, preparing your bath.
Returning to the west window, you pulled the curtains closed, you
lowered the blinds. Just in case. Then you moved off towards your bath.
Not knowing that there had been no cat in your window, watching you as
you walked, naked, around your bedroom. There had been no cat watching
as you talked on the phone, naked, as you rummaged in your closet,
naked, as you stood in front of your mirror, naked, seemingly lost in
thought, as you ran your hand over your breast, naked, as you slowly
twisted your hard little nipple, naked, as you moved your hand to your
crotch, naked, before the long mirror, in plain full view, as you slid
your middle finger in your pussy, a far away look on your face, as you
fingered your pussy, as you plunged your fingers in and out of your
pussy, lost in thought, lost in a dream.
That was no cat.
That was me.
I stood outside your window, hidden by your bush, I watched you.
Naked.
When you came to look out your window, I hid in the bush.
That was me.
I watched you naked.
And I liked what I saw.
It was me.

You liked to talk on the phone, had always liked to talk on the phone,
had made a cordless telephone one of your earliest purchases, when you
were first married, first settling into your new home. You loved the
absolute freedom of the cordless phone, had many friends to call and
talk with, about your new husband, and chit chat with, about your new
house, and gossip with, about the neighbors, haha, as you moved about
your house, doing what you did, as you climbed the stairs to the second
floor, as you wandered out onto the front porch, as you meandered into
the back yard, talking, chit chatting, gossipping. And you secretly
pined, yearned for a cell phone, was enchanted early on with cell
phones, as soon as they came out. But their early cost had gotten in the
way, and your husband had pooh-pawed the very notion of cell phones from
the start. What a stick-in-the-mud he had been.
But once you were separated, and the stick-in-the-mud had moved out, it
took very little time for you to acquire a cute, compact, flip-up cell
phone. And besides, you were making good money by then, it was not like
the early days (oh god), when you felt the need to clear every purchase
you made with the stick-in-the-mud. In fact, by the day that you walked
out of Nortel Communications (after talking with that cute blond clerk,
the one with the goatee, having him show you on paper, in black and
white, the tremendous savings Nortel had to offer you), you were in fact
making more money than your ex (or very soon-to-be ex). And so your
ability to verbally communicate with the entire global community on a
mobile basis was thus assured. You could now talk on the phone while on
the stairmaster in your living room, you could talk on the phone while
you fixed breakfast, while you did the laundry, while you cleaned the
bathroom, washed the car, while shopping at the grocery, drove the car
to work, you could talk on the phone while you stopped for gasoline,
while you were going 75 MPH on the freeway, while stopped at red lights,
while parking your car in the garage at work, in the elevator on the way
up to your office, you could now talk and talk and talk and talk and
talk on the phone.

Of course, it never really crossed your mind, or occurred to you, just
what was taking place when you operated your cordless phone, and your
cell phone. Or maybe you were aware of it, but only in a trifling way,
paying it little heed. That is to say, the fact that your cordless phone
and your cell phone were in fact radio transmitters did not seem
terribly important to you. On the other hand, to some other individual,
the fact that virtually all of your phone conversations were transmitted
over radio waves might seem very interesting. And this person might in
fact become so enchanted with that concept that he might pay a lengthy
visit to an area Radio Shack outlet. And at the end of that visit this
person could very easily, very simply, walk out of the Radio Shack
outlet with enough printed information, and enough hardware devices to
detect and record, without ever touching one of your phone lines, every
single phone conversation that took place in your home. And this person
would not even have to spend a great deal of money on this hardware.
This individual, enchanted, beguiled, delighted with the possiblities,
might some night take all of this equipment with him to the street where
you lived, and park his sedan down the street from your house, so that
he had a good view of you in the kitchen, and an excellent view of you
in the dining area, and this person might watch as you fixed dinner, and
talked on the phone, and ate at the dining room table, and talked on the
phone, and washed your dishes, and talked on the phone, and took out
your trash, and talked on the phone.
And by reading the directions, and following instructions, and reviewing
the printed literature, and using a painstaking process of trial and
error, this person might, in a relatively short period of time, be able
to pinpoint the exact radio frequency that your cordless phone
transmitted on. And following this same process, might very simply
ascertain the radio frequency that your cell phone operated on. And this
person, curious individual that he might be, might then content himself
to listening to your phone conversations.
And if so inclined, he might easily tape record them.
Of course, by observing you in your home he would discover that you
rarely used your cell phone in the house. That made sense. And he would
also discover that his digital Radio Shack scanner would in fact only
pick up your part of the telephone conversations on your cordless, which
also made sense. After all, the incoming reception was over a land line.
When you spoke into the cordless, however, you were in reality speaking
into a radio transmitter. And radio waves travel in the air, and can be
snatched from the air, and so this person might get into the habit of
parking on your street in the evening and, using an inexpensive scanner
from Radio Shack, and an inexpensive tape recorder from Radio shack,
snatch your voice from the air between your house and his sedan. In
fact, he might become fascinated with this habit, until it developed
into something of a hobby.
Because this person might learn a great deal about you this way.

He might learn of your very near and dear friend, Kathy, you talked with
her nearly every night, for any length of time from a few minutes to
perhaps two to three hours, depending on what was going on in your life.
And so much was going on in your life. Separated from your ex for a
year, divorced for three months, successful in your fitness program,
really hitting your stride as a manger now at work, deeply in love with
the west coast sales manager for the IDT Tech Corporation, your life was
full, and rich, and rewarding.
By listening to you with Kathy a person might learn, over time, that you
now deeply regretted you marriage to the-stick-in-the-mud, whose name
was Gary, but you rarely called him that, especially with Kathy, both of
you seeming to delight in your pet name for him, a name that seemed to
sum up, to you, all the problems in your relationship. No excitement.
Dull. No fun. Stickinthemud.
Just the exact opposite of Jeff, really, in fact that was your main
topic of conversation these days, what with the divorce still so fresh
in your mind, you still bitter over the settlement, all you got was this
house, that bastard, and so you and Kathy could talk at length about the
differences in the two men. Like day and night, you would tell Kathy.
Gary was a builder, had built this house, in fact, and while he was a
skilled builder, he was a boring builder. The house was functional, but
as boring as the man who built it. Gary was a quiet man, thorough, and
meticulous to the point that his obssessive attention to detail could
just make you want to scream. Gary truly worried over every small
detail, not just in building, but in all aspects of their life.
Unsettling, is what it was, you explained to Kathy.
Jeff, on the other hand.
Oh, Jeff.

Everyone loved Jeff, everyone enjoyed Jeff's company, Jeff could not go
anywhere without making new friends, at the store, at the post office,
wherever he went, people were attracted to his quick, easy smile, his
good looks, his carefree attitude. Don't sweat the small stuff, Jeff
would say, grinning, rubbing his big hands over your shoulders. And with
Jeff, you did not.
Like day and night, that was the difference. One of your favorite
stories, that you seemed to like to repeat over and over to Kathy, was
the difference in buying slacks for the two. With Gary, you were
shopping for a 36 waist, 30 inseam. (Like a pear, you would laugh). With
Jeff, you were looking for a 30 waist, 36 inseam. Oh, the two of you got
a big kick out of that. Six inches can make all the difference in the
world, you would giggle, and Kathy could practically be heard giggling
along with you on the other end of the line. Or the time one winter
night, when Jeff asked if you had a pair of gloves he could wear, as he
was leaving, and you rummaged through the closet and came up with an old
pair of Gary's. And how Jeff had come back to the door, a few minutes
later, saying you must have made a mistake and given him a pair of your
gloves, because he could not even get them on his hands. Oh, yes, the
two of you loved that story also.
But the most intriguing phone calls, at least for this individual, would
have to be the ones between you and Jeff himself. Being in charge of
sales for IDT Tech demanded that Jeff spend Monday through Friday on a
west coast circuit that ranged from San Diego to L.A. to Seattle to
Portland to San Francisco, and found him often in hotel rooms in the
evening, talking to you long distance, the two of you working on your
long distance relationship until it was possible to change things
somehow, in the meantime doing all that you could to keep the fires
stoked, somehow, keep them smoldering, somehow, until the weekend would
arrive, and the two of you could be together, as you always were, every
weekend.
And these long distance calls had been going on for some time now (thank
god for MCI), and had run the gamut from casual chit chat at the
beginning, to what many would call phone sex, in fact anyone would call
it phone sex, even Bill Clinton, and the two of you seemed to take
naturally to phone sex, and many many hours were logged on your
cordless, all over your house, talking phone sex with Jeff.
Such a filthy man.
God how you loved it.

But that was no anonymous, indescript individual, parked down the street
from your house, in a dark sedan, sitting quietly behind the tinted
glass of the windows, listening to you speak on the phone to your best
friend, listening to you speak on the phone to your lover, recording
bits and pieces of your conversation, learning your innermost secrets,
learning your innermost, hidden desires, that was no bumbling fool who
accidentally stumbled across your path.
It was me.
I listened, and I listened, and I knew. I knew what time you rose in the
morning, I knew when you came home at night. I knew the food you
prepared for dinner, the price of clothes that you bought off the rack,
the problems you were having at work, illnesses you had recently
experienced, recent deaths in your extended family, how you loved to
suck your lover's cock.
I love to suck your cock, Jeff, you would say, you would coo, huskily,
into the phone. Baby just lay back, let me lower my mouth down on it,
feel my lips slide over your thick cock, steadying it with both hands,
using my short pinky fingers to lightly stroke your balls, feel me lower
my mouth down that hard cock, Jeff, my warm, wet tongue sliding hard,
pressing hard against that thick, bulging vein that runs up from your
balls, forcing my tongue hard, pushing hard with my hard, wet tongue
onto that vein. I love that vein, baby, it is packed with cum, Jeff,
that is the vein packed with cum, honey, it is filled with sperm, baby,
feel me run my full, wet lips up and down on that vein, I want your
sperm, Jeff, let me lick on that sperm vein, feel me suck on the cum
vein, honey, I want to eat your fucking sperm, Jeff, let me eat your
fucking cum, Jeff, let me eat your big hard dick, Jeff, god I love your
fucking dick, Jeff.
And the person in the sedan, with the scanner, in the dark, would listen
closely when you talked to your lover, like that, on the phone, would
often tape record your phone sex with Jeff, in fact had a nice little
collection by this time, of your phone sex with Jeff, and once again, I
need to remind you, that the person outside your house, listening to
your vulgar, obscene phone calls, the man who listened to your
disgusting, revolting desires, the man behind the dark tinted windows,
with the Radio Shack scanner, listening to your slutty, smutty,
pornographic desires, was not an anonymous, indescript indivdual.
It was me.

It was me, turning the brass knob on the front door of your house
slowly, ever so slowly, stepping softly, quietly into the darkened
hallway. Knowing that you were in the back part of the house, in the
bathroom, drawing water for your bath, knowing that you could not
possibly hear me over the rush of the water entering the porcelain tub.
Of course, if your dog had been home, as was usual, Bowser, I believe is
his name, yes, if Bowser had been home, he would have put up quite a
ruckus, there would have been quite a bit of barking, wouldn't there
have been, but Bowser was not home, was he? And of course you did not
lock your front door because, as I had heard you tell Kathy more than
once, that you never locked your front door before going to bed, that
Bowser was your loveable, loyal guard dog, that Bowser would take care
of you.
So you were not in the habit of locking your front door, were you?
So I had a hunch, just a sneaking suspicion, that even though Bowser was
not around, (and by the way, haha, what did happen to Bowser?), that you
still would not lock your front door. Out of habit, as it were. And so I
turned the brass knob on your front door, stepped inside and slowly,
carefully, quietly made my way through your darkened house toward the
rear, where you sat, nude, soaking luxuriously in your tub of hot water.
The room where you lay bathing in steamy water sat at the end of a long
hallway, past the doorway to the kitchen. The door to the bathroom
itself was wide open. How nice. I could see you lying up to your chin in
the steaming water, freshly shampooed hair piled high atop your head,
your gorgeous, well featured face tilted up towards the ceiling.
Soaking.
Stepping quietly into the kitchen, I approached the tiled counter and
quickly found what I was looking for. Just as you had bragged to Kathy
on the phone three nights ago, sitting in a stained wooden butcher block
holding case on the counter top, dull black handles pointed towards the
ceiling, was a sparling new set of German steel kitchen carving knives.
Razor sharp.
Precision steel.
Machine sharpened. I chose a nice ten inch butchering knife, with a
shiny, glinting, shimmering blade. Then, clutching the razor sharp knife
at my side, I returned to the dark hallway.
Where I watched you.

Now you were sitting on the edge of your tub and, using a wide, ceramic
mug and an old fashioned brush, were applying lathered foam to your
legs. I watched as you carefully, meticulously shaved your legs, first
one, then the other, from your thin ankles clear up your thighs. You
were naked. I watched as you used the hand held shower nozzle to hose
your legs off, then I watched as you turned toward a mirror next to the
tub. I watched as you used the brush to spread lather all over your
pussy. I watched as you shaved your pussy.
Oh, did I watch.
I knew what you were doing. You had told Kathy about your Friday night
ritual. How you loved getting yourself ready for Jeff. Long, leisurely
soak in steamy, hot water. Scented bath oil beads. Hair shampooed in
botanical extract. Moisturing cream, aloe vera based, on your face and
neck. You had already explained your ritual to us. I mean, to Kathy.
You stepped from the tub then and reached for your large, oversized
cotton terry cloth towel, and began not vigorously rubbing yourself dry,
but instead lightly patting your damp skin, carefully dabbing at the
wetness, yet leaving the skin damp. Next you reached for your bottle of
liquid silk oil. Because you did not want to smell like a bar of soap
for Jeff when he walked in the door and took you into his arms. And you
wanted him to take you in his arms. Rubbing a few light drops of the
thick oil between the palms of your hands, you first applied the oil to
your freshly shaved pussy.
I watched.
You rubbed the liquid silk oil over your entire groin area, over your
upper thighs, over the meaty folds of your pussy lips, over the tuft of
hair that you had left in place above your pussy, pulling the hair out
with your fingers, stroking the hair with the liquid silk oil, wanting
to work the oil in there deep, so that Jeff would smell it, later
tonight, when you were holding him down there, by the back of his head,
you wanted your man to smell your hot pussy as he licked and sucked on
it, and you wanted him to smell the alluring fragrance of the liquid
silk oil.
Oh, yes.
You then spread the oil over your belly, over your breasts, over your
neck, and then, hanging your head forward, allowing your long dark hair
to hang toward the floor, you rubbed your liquid silk oil covered
fingers through your long hair, massaging it into your scalp, and then
rubbing it over the back of your neck. Next you reached for your large,
thick brush and began slowly, carefully brushing your still damp hair,
freeing tangles, smoothing your long hair straight until it hung like a
glistening, satiny sheet from your head.
I watched you.
I watched every move you made.
I watched every move, every curve of your wonderful, glowing, naked
young body.
You excited me.
You aroused me.
You set me on fire.
There was a fire in your house.
It was me.

I wanted you, I hungered for you, I craved you. My hot desire was for
you, my hard desire was for you, I was hard for you, my hardness was for
you, my stiffness was for you, my hot, hard prick poked straight out
towards you, I had to have you, I was going to have you, I clutched the
razor sharp knife at my side, I was going to have you, I clenched the
long steel knife in my hand, I was going to have you, my passion for you
was keen, my fervor for you was intense, you were teasing me, I must
have you, you were taunting me, I would grab you, you were tantalizing
me, with your smooth, sleek skin, you were tormenting me, with your
wicked, coy grin.
As I stared at you naked, my eyelids fluttered, as my cock hardened to
steel, my entire body shuddered, my mind was incensed, I would caress
and embrace you, my thoughts were insane, I would wrap you, and cloak
you, in my arms, in my grasp, I would fondle and stroke you, with my
hand on your cunt, I would plunge, I would poke with my fingers inside,
till you whimpered and cried, shove my fingers inside, till you groaned
and you sighed, you were mine, I must have you, I must have you right
now, this very instant, my mind was delirious, my thoughts so debased,
as I watched you stand naked, my deranged brain flamed, with a fiery hot
fury---(my sordid desire was for your nude, frail, body, my vulgar
passion, for your creamy white breasts, I was filled with wretched want
for your worthless, sinful body, I must gorge, I must cram, I must pack
my hard dick in your disgusting little cunt)---I MUST HAVE YOU I MUST
HAVE YOU I MUST HAVE YOU!!!

On fire, now, eyes blazing, now, seething, lust-filled, delirious, now,
demented, now, the time is now, to bait my prey, the time is now, to
lure my prey, to entice my prey, come here now, prey, my filthy prey,
come here, my prey, my wanton prey, my lusty prey, my smutty prey,
listen to this, my pretty prey, listen closely to this, my sinful,
soiled and slutty prey, LISTEN NOW CLOSELY TO YOUR BAIT.
Removing the portable tape machine from my vest, yes, the same portable,
battery operated tape recorder that I had used to record so many of your
phone conversations, stepping into the kitchen, placing the small tape
machine on the tile counter next to the wooden case of German steel
knives, the tape was in it, yes, I had made certain of that, yes, before
leaving the sedan, yes, now pushing the control button to play, turning
the volume to high, this is your bait, stepping back then into the
darkness, come here, my prey, stepping back then behind the door, my
slutty prey, the door that opened out from the kitchen to the hall, my
sinful prey, peering through the crack in the door, here comes your
bait, able to see you there, standing there, in the bathroom there, no
longer naked, there, now clad in your floor length terry cloth robe, so
fresh, so delicate, so lovely, MY PREY.

("I want you, Jeff", the voice on the tape said---your head jerks
upward---"come to me, Jeff", the voice on the tape cooed---your head
swivels towards the kitchen---"I am spread for you, Jeff", the voice
pleaded---your eyes are shocked---"fuck me, Jeff", the voice begged,
"split my cunt with your cock, baby"---your hand comes up to the side of
your face---"poke me deep with your prick, screw me, honey, with that
big fucking dick, fuck me hard, Jeff, I want it hard, baby, fuck me
hard, Jeffie"---your eyes are alarmed, appalled!)

moving now!, toward the kitchen, now!, you are frantic, now!, you must
see, now!, where is that voice, how is that voice, THAT IS YOUR VOICE!!,
who has that voice, what is your voice, moving to the kitchen, running
to the kitchen, RUNNING TO THE VOICE!!, hurrying to the voice, hastening
to the voice, who has that voice, that is your voice, come to me,
girlie, come to me, child, come to me, woman--- YOU HAVE TAKEN THE BAIT.
Now I wait for my prey.
Long knife clutched at my side.
Come to me, slut.
And die.

Come to me child, come in my darkness, run to me, child, run to my dark
place, where I hide, and I sweat, and I lust for your sex, where I peep,
and I peek, and I long for your flesh. Come to me, run to me, run now
headlong, headfirst, run straight to your death.
(I know what you think, as you race down the hall, ears ringing with
your own voice, your own filthy voice, your own vulgar voice, your
wretched, loathsome sinner's voice, you are thinking WHO, as your bare
feet race along the hallway floor, WHO, as you round, heart thumping,
face flushed, the open kitchen door, WHO, as you spy the little tape
player perched on your counter, you are thinking WHO, as the filthy
flesh on your wicked body crawls, WHO, as your foul flesh crawls with
goosebumps, WHO HAS DONE THIS??---WHO?? has placed that tape player on
your counter, WHO has played your voice on that tape, WHO is in your
house right now, WHO has been watching you, WHO has been listening to
you, WHO is it, WHO could it be??)
Well, my dear, my lovely, my sweet, apple of my eye, love of my life,
WHO built the house where you now stand, heart thumping wildly, who
built it, my love, who built this house that you now so boldly claim as
yours, WHO BUILT IT???
WHO married you, dear, when you were still a poor girl, when you were
still nothing, who made you into something, who did that, child, who?
Who lavished you in luxury, in elegance, in splendor, who bought you
diamonds, and pearls, fine clothes, who did these things for you, whore?

Yes, whore, I speak to you, whore, I own you, whore, I bought you,
whore, I paid for you, whore, you are mine, whore, this house is mine,
whore, I built this house, whore, I built you, whore, I made you,
whore, I created you, whore.
WHO is watching you now, as you stand in the kitchen that he built,
fresh from the cedar paneled bathing room that he built, fresh from the
sunken porcelain tub that he built, who built you, woman, made you all
that you are? Who has been watching you for months, who has been
listening to you for weeks, on the phone in his house, who watches you
now, standing crouched behind the door in the dark, in the room that he
built, who listens to you now, as the air wheezes in your chest, as a
fearful cry escapes your lips? Who clutches a long sharp knife in his
hand at this moment, poised to claim what will always be his?
For you will always be mine, love, you are mine even now, love, I have
bought you, love, I have paid for you, love, with my blood, love, and my
sweat, love, and my tears, love, I have bought you, I own you, now I
claim you, you are mine. So look at me now, my sweet one, my tender one,
look at me, love, I am crouched here behind you, look at me, woman, I am
crouched in the dark, long knife in my hand, crouched at your back,
sharp blade at your back, claiming the girl that I love.
Turn to me, love, and enter my darkness, turn to me, love, surrender to
Fate.
Now you turn.
Now you see me.
Now you scream.
And you scream.
Bloody murder.
Go on.
Scream.

***

Harvey Miller had been on the police force more years than he cared to
remember. He had in fact lost count years ago, but he did know that he
was about 3 years past retirement, what ever that added up to. He had
come on the force right out of the military. The police academy had been
brief, back in those days, and he had done well, because his uncle was a
cop, and he adored his uncle, and so Harvey was no stranger to the world
of law enforcement. And except for a two year hiatus at the local
college, he had been on the force ever since, working his way up from a
beat cop in a patrol car to the detective division, to making officer
detective, to having worked every detective division in the city. Harvey
had seen quite a few cases over the years. Tough, grisly cases. Seamy
cases. Baffling, confounding cases. And he did not like the looks of
this case.
He stood in the hall outside his office, slowly looking over the
contents of the yellow manila envelope in his hands, frowning, shaking
his gray, weathered head. No good, he mumbled, to no one in particular.
Messy, messy, messy, he whispered.
Lieutenant Davis approached him then.
"The suspect is in your office, sir," the young man reported.
Harvey looked up. "Oh is he, now. And how is he acting?" he asked.
"Well, sir, he is co-operating, up to a point."
"Which is?"
"No confession, sir."
"Ok," Harvey said, grimacing. "Let me talk with him."
The old detective pushed the door to his tiny office open, stepped
inside and walked past the suspect, studying the suspect carefully from
the corner of his eye, as he passed on his way to his seat in the swivel
chair behind his wooden desk. Harvey took his seat, placed the manila
folder on the desk before him, and looked the man sitting across from
him square in the face. Unflinching. Unblinking.
Detective Miller was looking at a somber man. A stone faced man. He
could read anger in the man's eyes, though, mixed with bewilderment.
That was good. A good sign.
"Have they read you your Miranda rights, son?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"And so you are aware that you are being charged with a very serious
crime?"
"Of course."
"A felony."
"If that is what you people want," the stone face muttered.
"That after we talk here tonight, things are going to be pretty much up
to the DA, and the grand jury?"
"Wonderful."
"So you do understand how serious this is."
"Yes. Yes I do, sir."
"Then take my advice, son. Get a lawyer."
The man's jaw tightened in his face. He clenched his fists in his lap.
"That is what I don't get. Why should I need a lawyer," he said, evenly.
"I just did what needed to be done."
Harvey Miller stood up then and walked over to his window, which looked
directly down onto Madison Avenue. He watched the headlights of the busy
night traffic go streaming along the pavement. He was thinking of his
wife now.
Harvey knew what it was to love a woman. He had loved his wife for over
30 years. He had loved her for so long that eventually he had lost track
of where he stopped, and where she began. She had been part of him. The
most wonderful woman he had ever known, hands down. No competition. And
Harvey had stayed on the force 3 years past retirement because his wife
had been dying of cancer. And that was why he was standing here now,
about to get involved in this messy case. Instead of being camped on the
banks of a high mountain lake, tying flies by lantern light for the next
morning's catch.
Because his wife's cancer had eaten through all of their medical
insurance, all of their savings, their house, everything that they had,
everything they had owned. And finally, it had eaten through her.
Through the same girl that he had held in his arms in her youth, whose
body had hummed with vitality, whose eyes had sparkled with life. On the
steel gray morning that she had died, in his arms, he was holding a
woman who was thin and light as a feather, whose skin was thin as paper,
whose eyes glowed like diamonds, whose final breath left her in a
whispered sigh.
And he had buried her three months ago.
He could retire now. He could live on his pension, get by, nothing
fancy. And not have to deal with cases like this. He looked back at the
young, stone faced man. This guy, he thought, had no idea what kind of
trouble he was in. He thought acting tough was to his advantage.
"Jeff," he finally said. "Early this evening you shot one of the most
prominent members of this community. You are not from around here, son,
so you don't understand the role that Gary played locally. You shot the
president of the county builder's association. Past president of the
state building contractor's association. Elder in his local church.
Board of directors at Good Sam Hospital. I could go on."
Harvey walked then over to his chair, and sat down directly next to
Jeff. He looked closely at his face, studying it.
"You forgot one," Jeff said, bitterly.
"Which is?"
"Stalker."
"Any proof, Jeff?"
"No."
"Any reports of stalking activities on this man ever reported to the
police?"
"No."
"So you are accusing the man who three years ago coached our local
Kidsports soccer team to the state finals of stalking his ex-wife, and
attempting to kill her in her own house."
"Yes. I am. He did that."
"Any proof, Jeff? Do you have any, even the smallest iota, of proof?"
"Not really."
"Well then?"
The anger, which had been living below the surface in Jeff's stone face,
now boiled up and bubbled over. His livid face now twisted in rage.
"I just don't see why I am being charged with a crime," he protested,
his strong voice rising now, "for protecting my fiancee from a stalker,
and intruder, in her own home."
"Your fiancee, Jeff?"
"Yes."
"How long have you been engaged?"
"She does not know it yet. That I am going to marry her."
"Okay. Well. When did you decide this?"
"Sitting here, in this room, just now. I am going to marry her. I am
going to quit my job. Effective immediately. I am never going to leave
that girl alone by herself again. Never."
"Tell me again what happened, Jeff."
"I already have."
"No. You told the others. Tell me. You haven't told me, son. Tell me."
Jeff rubbed his hands over his face, looked up, then spoke.
"My fiancee called me two nights ago and told me that her dog had been
poisoned. I thought that was strange, but you know, a neighbor kid could
have done that, or just some freak that hated barking dogs. Bowser did
bark a lot. Then Kathy, her best friend, called me this morning, and
talked to me about it. Kathy also told me that she had noticed a dark
sedan on the street near her house, near my girlfriend's house, the last
two nights in a row, when she drove by. Kathy wanted my advice. She was
not sure whether to mention it to my fiancee, and set off what might be
false alarms in her. My girlfriend is very excitable. But at the same
time she was afraid not to mention it to her."
"And?"
"And so I decided to come back from my business trip right away. I
decided to just surprise her. I had planned to be at her house when she
arrived home from work. But my flight from San Francisco was delayed.
There were no cabs at the airport. By the time I got to her house it was
dark out. I parked down the block, away from the house, and walked up.
And Kathy was right. There was a dark sedan, with tinted windows, parked
near the house."
"And so what did you do?"
"I let myself in through a side door. Most of the house was dark. My
girlfriend was bathing in the back. I decided not to bother her, to let
her enjoy her bath. I took a seat in a corner of the dining room, where
I could keep an eye on the sedan. Suddenly, the driver's door opened,
and he stepped out. He walked toward the house. I heard him walk up on
the porch. The footsteps. That is when I reached up on top of the china
closet in the dining room and searched with one hand until I found the
gun. I keep a loaded Glock up there, and had shown my fiancee how to
use it."
"Who is it registered to?"
"To her. She has the permit."
"So you used her gun."
"Yes. I sat in the corner, in the dark, and watched as he opened the
front door. I could tell by the way that he moved that he was trying to
be sneaky. He walked to the kitchen, and picked up a knife from the
counter. I watched him stand then, in the hallway, looking toward the
bath room. I pointed the gun at him. I decided that if he made one move
toward that bathroom, I would kill him on the spot."
"And?"
"After a few minutes he went back into the kitchen, and turned a tape
player on. I could hear my girlfriend's voice on the tape, but could not
tell what she was saying. Then he hid behind the kitchen door. When she
came out to the kitchen to check on the noise, he stepped out from
behind the door, holding the knife in his hand."
Jeff's eyes then took on a glazed look.
"That's when I shot him," he said.
"Did Gary attempt to use the knife on her?"
"No."
"Did he hold it toward her in a threatening manner?"
"No."
"So you shot him, even though he was not threatening her?"
"I shot him to kill him. Guess I'm not much of a shot."
"Jeff," Harvey said, "I am going to pretend I did not hear that remark
about 'shooting to kill'. Let me explain the facts of life to you, son."
Harvey spoke slowly, hoping Jeff would understand what he was saying.
"You only wounded Gary. Gary is laying in the hospital right now, saying
that he was attacked by a jealous boyfriend. By you. Gary has the best
law firm in the state to represent him. He says he stopped by his
ex-wife's house to deliver important documents that she had demanded in
their recent divorce."
"He's a fucking liar."
"That he was waiting for her to finish her bath. That he has an
extensive knife collection of his own, and that is why he was inspecting
her knives."
"A no good, low life liar."
"He has the best lawyers in the state."
"He's a stalker."
"Can you prove it?"
Jeff grew quiet.
Harvey returned to his side of the desk.
"Okay Jeff. My advice to you is to get the best lawyer you can afford.
In cases like this, it is not so much what happened, or why it happened.
That is not going to be the issue here. The issue will be who can
explain what happened the best. You need a good lawyer, Jeff."
"I guess you're right."
"But it will help your case immensely, especially if this goes to a jury
trial, if you will make a simple statement, at this time, admitting not
so much as to why you did what you did, but simply admitting that yes,
you did shoot Gary. Understand, it is completely up to you. Will you do
that for me?"
Jeff stood up then, in front of Harvey's desk, leaned over and placed
his big hands flat over the papers scattered across the detective's desk
top.
"Sir," Jeff said, "I will tell you, I will tell a judge, I will tell a
jury, I will tell anyone who cares to listen to me, that yes, I shot
that miserable, no good son of a bitch, and yes, if I ever catch him
with ten yards of my woman again, I will shoot him again, and I will
shoot him to kill him, and next time I won't fucking miss. Yes, I shot
that low life. I shot him."
Jeff's eyes narrowed as he looked squarely at the old detective.
"It was me."