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Crimson on Cerise

by Egbert Wikitiki

June 2011

Leon Mc Caffrey knew that he had less than a week to live. 

As a man who believed that nurturing an active imagination was a waste of time—that the time one spent daydreaming could be better utilized planning for the future or pondering new ways to increase the bank account—Leon held little interest in dreams and couldn’t recall having remembered a single one, until three weeks ago. 

After waking from the first of these nightmares, unsure of where he was, certain that some shady and unknown menace lurked in some dark corner, he had erupted from the bed he occupied alone, grabbed the wrought iron lamp beside the bed and wielded it like a club, then spent the next ten minutes searching his bedroom, though he had no idea what he was looking for or if he would even recognize the threat should he confront it.  Following the hunt, he had spent the next ten minutes trying to calm himself and succeeded in this only with a long hot shower following a stiff belt of Scotch.

He’d spent the better part of that day pondering the disturbing imagery that his mind refused to release its grip on, virtually ignoring the pleas of his staff and the stacks of work that steadily piled up on his desk.  By the following day, he recovered enough to return his attention to his work, though with even less interest and more ire than usual.

The second nightmare—exactly the same as the first—had come five days later, and its impact nearly equaled that of the first.  Since then, the dreams had been gradually increasing in frequency and clarity, always ending the same way:

Crimson on cerise.

Pushing himself back from the cluttered work desk in his basement hideaway, upon which lay the article he had to edit and revise for the next day’s edition, (another insipid piece on little-known hot-spots in and around Los Angeles), he rubbed his face with both hands as if he could scrub the unwanted images away.  Of course, the action was futile.  Not only were the dreams a daily occurrence now, but he frequently saw the same disturbing scene projected onto the backs of his eyelids when he closed his eyes.

Leon’s job at the Beach Cities Chronicle provided an income that afforded him an above average—but less than swanky—lifestyle.  The two-story, four bedroom house that he shared with his wife and son was hardly the most impressive dwelling in his corner of Manhattan Beach—or even on his street, for that matter—but it did boast one feature rare to the community: a basement, which Leon had converted into an office. 

Though he had a handsome face for his age, it spent more time than not scrunched into a frown or scowl that reminded him of old Mr. Potter from the movie It’s a Wonderful Life every time he looked into a mirror.  His average frame, sandy blond hair and seemingly open, friendly-looking blue eyes allowed him to disappear into a crowd, where he was free to observe those around him without notice.  This anonymity had served him well in his younger years, when he was a struggling journalist trying to make a name for himself.  Unfortunately, Leon liked his liquor (though he rarely drank to excess, at least in his opinion), and booze had a habit of loosening his tongue, which could make it very hard for him to blend in.

The reason Leon had become a journalist in the first place was as an outlet to channel his rage for society in general.  Leon didn’t pass his hatred out with discrimination: he loathed everyone equally, though he had always been most offended by homosexuals—or, as he referred to them, “shit-packing fags”.  Because Leon was never one to turn down a party invitation—and because he always indulged in a drink or three—his intolerant views were well known throughout the paper’s staff.  And because Leon had once published an opinion column (that lasted only a week—a week that the former editor in chief had wished he could have back), much of the local community was aquatinted with him as well.

Leon normally fed on the anger he engendered, but now—as had been the case for over a week—he had other things on his mind. 

Still obsessed with the nightmare four hours after the fact, Leon sighed, forgot about the article and attempted to focus on the dream, trying to make sense of the prophetic vision. 

Crimson on cerise. 

A dull thump from the basement ceiling over Leon’s head made him flinch violently.

“Jeez, am I keyed up,” he said with an angry smirk.  Although he’d had the cellar soundproofed a few years before, the sound of the weights in the Nautilus machine hitting the first-level floor when his wife, Sharon, finished her exercises always carried through the padded ceiling.  Normally, the sound served as just one of many minor sources of irritation for Leon.  But the nightmare was getting progressively worse, and now every time he heard the dull thump, it sounded like the muffled discharge of a gun. 

Leon knew that his big mouth had offended many people over the years (and he took more than some perverse pleasure in this), not the least of whom were his fellow employees at the Chronicle.  He knew—was absolutely certain—that any one of a dozen or more people would love to see him dead.  The only question was who would it be?  Who would turn his nightmare into reality?

As an avid hunter and fisherman, Leon spent a considerable amount of time at the local Big 5 Sporting Goods store.  Just yesterday, while browsing through the latest selection of Ugly Sticks, Leon saw Chuck Woolcott bring his Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum in for cleaning and maintenance. 

Although they hated each other, Leon and Chuck spent at least three hours together every week, as Leon was Chuck’s senior editor.  Leon had no idea why the paper had hired Chuck.  The kid couldn’t find a decent story if it fell on his lap.  The only reason Chuck received any recognition at all was because of Leon’s clip-embellishment-and-repair of every article the snot-nosed brat wrote.  Leon suspected that Chuck was having homosexual relations with Bill Terry, the vice-president, who had come “out the closet” just the year before. 

Although Leon knew he was essentially carrying Chuck on his shoulders, he also knew that Chuck despised him.  Chuck, the aspiring novelist, had told Leon of the book he spent a mere four months writing and his dreams of being the next Stephen King.  Leon, of course, gave Chuck a reality-check, pointing out that he, Leon, had tried and failed for years to have his novel (which had taken three pain-staking years to complete) published, and that the no-talent, twenty-four year old hack’s visions of success were nothing more than a pipe dream. 

Chuck did not care for the commentary one bit, especially since Leon hadn’t read the book. 

Leon was famous for blasting gays and virtually every ethnic group in Southern California.  He didn’t care who heard his off-color comments.  As the insults to Chuck’s talent and character mounted, his hatred of Leon swelled.  Though he was much smaller than Leon and rather frail, Leon suspected that Chuck was capable of murder… if he had a potent enough weapon. 

A .357 Magnum certainly qualified. 

Although Chuck was the best candidate to fulfill Leon’s nightmare, Leon knew that he was not the only one at the Chronicle that looked at him with eyes filled with murderous hatred.

Earlier that day, while reading the latest issue of Outdoor Life on the john in the office, Leon had overheard Phil Blankenship and Jerry O’Mally’s discussion of the gun club they had joined that week.  They laughed and joked of how they imagined the black silhouette man-figure into which they shot holes was Leon Mc Caffrey.  Although Leon had never verbally attacked either man, they hated the editor out of principle. 

After they left, Leon had lost interest in his magazine.  He again became absorbed with one thought:

Crimson on cerise. 

“So… who will be?” he said aloud.  The sound of his voice booming around the cellar did not disturb him in the least.  Leon had a habit of talking—and sometimes yelling—to himself, which is one of the reasons why he had the basement soundproofed in first place.  His family already thought he was crazy; there was no need to reinforce their conviction by submitting them to his ratings. 

Leon had sufficiently pissed-off enough people that his murderer could be any one of two dozen people in the city… or more.  But only Chuck, Phil and Jerry knew where he lived.  Although the details were always fuzzy, Leon somehow suspected that the murder would take place in his own home. 

Suddenly apprehensive, Leon’s head shot to the left, toward the outside entrance to the cellar.  He felt certain that he would see Phil and Jerry sneaking through the doorway, their identical Baretta 9-mm pistols cradled in their palms, taking aim on Leon’s back. 

But the door, which opened onto a small series of stairs that led, up to the side yard, was locked and bolted as always.  Leon hardly ever used that door, and no one else in the family was allowed into the room.  Of course it was locked. 

Leon spent a moment or two chastising himself for his flights of fancy, which was more than enough time because he so rarely erred in any way that he could conceive, then his thoughts returned to the mental list of potential assassins.

Even Sharon was a candidate.  The distance between Leon and his wife had been expanding into a gulf for the past two years.  For months now, the only words exchanged between the two were critiques or complaints, usually spoken in soft, snide voices but on occasion screamed at one another.  They had both uttered the “D”, more than once and always accompanied by one expletive or another; but so far, neither took the idea seriously.  Sharon was in no position to seek a divorce.  She had only completed half of her college education when they married nine years ago, and until recently she hadn’t seen the need to complete it.  Now, on occasion, she talked about returning to school to earn her degree, probably thinking it was a potent threat against Leon, but he didn’t really care one way or the other anymore.  Besides, she never meant it.  To finish her education, she’d have to spend less time bitching at Leon and give up her daily five hour long shopping trips, and Leon knew she’s never do that.

The only thing that kept Leon from booting Sharon out of the house was their son, Damon.   Not because Leon was concerned about his boy growing up with only one parent, but because Leon knew that, if they did divorce, he would be stuck with the kid.  After all, Leon was the breadwinner of the family, and they lived in California, where fathers had as much chance winning sole custody disputes as wives did.  Sharon would gladly relinquish custody of Damon to Leon; then she’d be free of any ties to her past.  And while Leon loved his son, he couldn’t imagine the terrible responsibility involved with single parenthood. 

Besides, Leon enjoyed tormenting his wife just enough to stick with her… for the time being.  But one thing he would not tolerate was spousal infidelity, and he knew that Sharon had been having an affair for at least the past month.  If Sharon thought that she could fool around with another guy and divorce Leon, taking half of all that he had worked so hard to acquire, she had another thing coming.  Leon already had some evidence against her that he would gladly use to prove that she broke her marital vows.  He was determined to gather even more.  Let her try to take him to the cleaners!  And if she was the one who wound up killing him, Leon hoped that the evidence he’d secretly collected would aid in her prosecution.  At least he’d have his revenge from the grave.

Using some equipment he “borrowed” from work, Leon had tapped his own phone lines so that he could eavesdrop on his wife’s conversations.  Although Sharon had never mentioned an urge to kill Leon to any of her friends, she often spoke of her desire to have him out of her life.  And Leon knew that she was capable of making it happen. 

“Okay, I gotta take some positive action here,” he said, rising from his seat.  He crossed the room to a large oak cabinet, fished some keys out of his pocket and unlocked the case.  As he swung the doors open, Leon did a quick inventory of his arsenal: Two Glock 9 mm semiautomatic pistols, one Colt Python .44 Magnum with a four-inch barrel, one American Standard .22 caliber semiautomatic pistol, two Derringer .38s, two Winchester pump action shotguns (one 12 gauge, the other 20 gauge), one Remmington .306 hunting rifle and an AK-47 that had been modified into fully automatic, which he called his “fun gun.”  All of the firearms were present and accounted for, he noted with relief. 

Thinking it best to have a weapon that was easy to conceal, yet packed a wallop, Leon selected the Python.  He locked the cabinet and walked to the worktable at the far end of the room.  Because it had been quite some time since he fired the pistol, he clamped it into a vise mounted on the table, aiming the gun’s barrel at a target mounted upon a large block of wood against the opposite wall.  Once he had the sights lined up on the center of the target, he fired off a shot (having forgotten his ear muffs, the sound of the magnum going off was deafening, making Leon wince and his ears ring). 

Just as he thought: high and to the right. 

Using two tiny screwdrivers, Leon adjusted the gun’s sights until they lined up with the gaping hole in the target.  He fired off another round and the hole gaped wider. 

Perfect. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the real-to-real tape recorder click on automatically and knew that Sharon was using the phone. 

Leon hurried across the room, snatched up headphones lying on the counter and donned them.  He had to crank the volume nearly to full to hear the voices over the ringing in his ears. 

“Oh, hi Phil,” Sharon said pleasantly.  In the background, Leon could hear his son’s cracked, weary voice asking Sharon where his father was.  That was odd.  Damon pretty much avoided Leon these days—especially today, after their awkward, painful encounter the day before.  Why would the six-year-old be asking for him?

“So…” Phil said hesitantly and with great uncertainty.  “Is this a good time for… it?”

“He’s in the basement,” Sharon said in a flat voice.  “He’s clueless, and he’s playing with his guns.  He won’t hear a thing.  He won’t know what happened until it’s too late.”

Leon sat up straight in the chair, his eyes so wide that they seemed to float within their sockets. 

“Do you want it like you said… both of us?”  Phil sounded terrified. 

“Yes, bring Jerry too.  I want to be sure job is done right.”  Sharon giggled and the cloying sound was like daggers in Leon’s heart. 

“Okay.  We’ll be right there.”

Click!  The tape deck stopped by itself. 

Suddenly, the image from the very end of his nightmare flashed into Leon’s mind and he could almost feel his chest erupt as the bullet tore into his back and through a lung before disappearing into a crimson blur.  Now the dreams, which had begun a month earlier, had become a nightly excursion into horror as he woke in the wee hours of the morning with a scream choked in his throat. 

He knew, with a sickening certainty, that the time had come. 

As a fighter, Leon was not content to simply sit and wait for the inevitable.  If the nightmares were truly premonitory, then he was helpless in the hands of destiny; but Leon had never believed in destiny.  He’d be damned if he’d sit idly by while his co-workers pumped him full of lead. 

Both Jerry and Phil lived within a mile of Leon.  Time was short.  He grasped the handle to the pistol-clamp and twisted it, but his sweaty hands slipped and he scraped a knuckle painfully against a sharp corner of the vise. 

Swearing and sucking his knuckle, Leon dug the keys back out of his pocket and stumbled over to the cabinet.  As he fumbled with the key ring, he faintly heard the front doorbell ring.  Because Sharon spent much of her time in the backyard and often had the stereo turned up to an earsplitting level, Leon had had a very loud doorbell installed.  Now he was glad that he did. 

“Did I lock the basement door?” he whispered harshly, nearly dropping his keys.  The front door was only about twenty-five feet from the cellar door.  Jerry and Phil could be there in less than five seconds, and Sharon had a key.  Leon would have to run across the large basement and then up the steps to reach the door.  He wasn’t about to do it unarmed. 

In a near panic, Leon frantically sifted through the many keys for the smallest one with trembling fingers.  He tried to force the tiny teeth into the keyhole of the gun cabinet, but either the key had grown or the hole had swelled shut, for he could not seem to get the damned prong into the thin slit. 

Behind him, the intercom over the desk buzzed and Sharon’s distorted voice said, in tired, mildly aggravated tones, “I’m going out for awhile, so answer the phone.” 

Leon knew she didn’t expect a reply, so he offered none.  Instead, he sighed with relief as he crossed the room and slid into the padded armchair in front of the desk.  Then he frowned.  Why would Sharon ask Phil and Jerry to come over if she was going out?  Was she going somewhere with them?  Although Leon suspected Sharon was having one or more affairs, he didn’t really care what she did.  He’d stopped feeling any kind of affection for her well over a year ago; now all he wanted was more evidence against her to protect himself.  But the nagging suspicion that Sharon had let Phil and Jerry into the house prior to her leaving tickled Leon’s brain annoyingly.  He could not help but think that his wife was on her way out to build herself an alibi. 

As the ringing in his ears subsided, he cocked his head to the side and listened to the ceiling above him intently.  Very faintly, he could hear the creaky floorboards upstairs moan as one or more people walked across the living room toward the staircase to the second floor. 

“Well at least they aren’t coming down here,” he said with a slight measure of relief.  He felt certain that Phil and Jerry would lie in waiting upstairs until Sharon had suitable time to establish her alibi.  At least he had some time to think. 

Instead of formulating a strategy, Leon’s mind turned to his six-year-old son, Damon, the only person in the world that Leon truly loved.  Having been submitted to Leon and Sharon’s daily squabbles and occasional all-out brawls had affected the sensitive child deeply, Leon knew.  He had become withdrawn were once he was gregarious.  The charming smile that used to grace Damon’s nearly beatific face almost constantly had disappeared, replaced by a perpetual frown.  It recent days, as Chuck’s persistent babbling about his “soon-to-be-published” novel took its toll on Leon’s nerves, Leon had snapped repeatedly and his son, causing the boy to cringe cowardly, which only aggravated Leon more.  Just yesterday, Leon had slapped Damon in a pique of rage over the boy’s pusillanimous weakness.  Leon hung his head in shame as guilt complemented the brewing terror produced by his ghastly vision and wondered what would become of the boy once he was gone.  Even Damon glared hatefully at Leon these days.  Leon knew he would have to make amends with the boy somehow, but had no idea of how to proceed.

Leon had lost track of time when the intercom clicked on again, dragging him back into the present. 

He was expecting Damon’s timid, quiet voice to come from the speaker and was surprised to hear Sharon, sounding put out.  “Someone’s at the door.”

Leon had been so caught up thinking about his son that he hadn’t heard the chime.  Now he was doubly distracted by Sharon’s presence.  Had she just come home?  Did she never leave?  Depressing the Return button, Leon said, “Who is it?”

 “It’s someone named Chuck Woolcott,” Sharon said with a bitter sigh.  “He wants to talk to you about that story you’re working on.  Are you gonna open the door, or what?”

With a puzzled frown (and his finger off the Return button), Leon muttered, “Chuck?  Since when does he give a damn about what I do to his stories?”  Shaking his head, Leon depressed the button and said, “Uh, whatever.”  He backed away from the desk and gave the cabinet a glance.  He really needed to get in there, but he didn’t want Chuck to grow suspicious if forced to wait for too long.  Besides, Chuck was a pansy.  Leon knew he could take him easily, even if he were armed. 

Then the intercom clicked on again.  This time, Sharon sounded bored.  “He just left.”

Doubly puzzled, Leon walked back to his desk and activated the intercom.  “What?  Why did he go?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Well, did he say anything?”

With a snicker, Sharon said, “He said he wanted to give you something.  I think I know what it is.”

“Well… what!” Leon barked. 

“Oh, I’d never tell… it’s a surprise, after all.”

Now irate, Leon snapped at Sharon.  “God damn it—I hate surprises!  Tell me what he said!”

With a giggle, Sharon said, “No,” and turned the intercom off. 

Ruled by rage, Leon forgot all about his secured arsenal and raced up the stairs two at a time.  At the door, he realized he had been correct: the dead bolt was locked.  He fumbled with the lock for several seconds, then pushed the door open and stormed into the living room.  The intercom was near the front door, but Sharon was nowhere in sight.  He looked to his left into the kitchen, then to his right down the central hallway and mumbled, “Where the hell is that bitch?” 

He crossed the living room in six quick steps and nearly stumbled over his son, who sat silently on the bottom step of the stairway.  “Uh!  Oh, Damon,” he said with a weary sigh.  “What’re you doing there?”

“Just sitting,” Damon said pitifully, his chin resting in both hands, elbows on his knees.  The boy would not look up at his father.  Apparently, he had lost interest in Leon’s company.

Leon felt a moment of shame for himself and pity for his son as he stared down at the raven-haired boy.  He never felt as though he could relate to his son, who seemed to take after his mother in every respect. Yet Damon was the closest thing to family Leon had left.  Knowing that another shouting match with Sharon was soon to come, Leon said softly, “Why don’t you go play in the yard for awhile, okay?”  

Frowning sourly at his dad, Damon said, “Okay,” and shuffled down the hallway toward the back door.  His left cheek still had a red welt from the previous day’s beating.

The ache in Leon’s chest had nothing to do with his nightmare this time.  He had failed his son as both a father and protector.  He didn’t want the boy to remember him as a brute, but he simply didn’t have the time to sit down and try to explain himself to Damon.  Once he finished with Sharon, he’d go outside and have a nice chat with the boy.  He doubted that he could undo the damage he had inflicted in one conversation, but it was the best he could do for now.

After all, someone was planning to kill him.  He had bigger fish to fry for the moment.

As he mounted the staircase, he wondered if his dream were truly prophetic.  If it was, was it even possible to change his destiny?

Leon had never gone in for that destiny crap.  At least that’s what he had always told himself.  But the nightmares had smacked so richly of reality that he began to doubt his earlier convictions.  What if he was wrong all those years?  What if people really did have destinies?

If fate were the way of the world, then why did you get dealt such a lousy hand? he pondered silently.  He’d had such lofty goals in his youth, such bright dreams of a wonderful future filled with love and peace, or at least plenty of money and sex; yet now he had none of those things.  Why?  He was a good guy.

Well, he admitted, maybe good is too strong a word; but I’m not a bad guy, not bad enough to deserve this kind of ending.

He decided that his life had no place for or no need of destiny.  If fate existed, he’d have none of it.  He was the master of his own fate and therefore the dreams could not be prophetic, but were mere warnings of one possible future.

He could change that future.  But in order to change it, he’d have to be prepared.

Halfway up the staircase he slowed and stopped, gripping the banister tightly with his left hand.  His expression slowly softened from fury, to confusion and finally to deep concern.  He suddenly realized that he’d forgotten something very important.

“What if they’re up there?” he whispered to himself.  The thought twisted Leon’s stomach into knots.  And what if Chuck hadn’t come over at all?  What if Phil or Jerry told Sharon of Woolcott and suggested she use his name as a ruse to get Leon out of the protection of the cellar? 

And here he was, out of the cellar. 

An easy target. 

And unarmed, no less.

Leon felt more than saw or heard movement behind him.  He spun around and crouched out of reflex, sure that a bullet with his name on it was racing his way.

But no one was there.  He saw the closed front door and the door to the cellar standing open, but no gun-wielding maniacs… so far.  He turned back toward the top of the stairs, but held his position.  He felt vulnerable, too exposed.  He needed to get to safety.

Then the front doorbell chimed—and ear-splitting clamor—and Leon squealed, “Yipe!” as he flinched violently.  His chest, which up to that moment had felt hot, as if filled with angry magma, felt suddenly cold, nearly icy.  His heart beat so hard and his ribcage felt so frigid that he feared the forceful contractions would shatter his ribs into tiny bits.

He was afraid to turn his back on the staircase.  In every one of his recurring dreams, the shot had come from the rear.  As crazy as it seemed, he felt certain that as long as he faced his attacker, he would be safe. 

“But what if the attack comes from the front door?” he whispered with a moan. 

No, he was far too defenseless where he was.  He needed to get back to the basement. 

He backed down the stairs carefully, quietly, then walked backward across the living room to the front door, certain that Jerry or Phil would appear at the top of the stairs at any moment. 

When he reached the front door, he looked through the peephole and saw Chuck Woolcott standing on the porch, his right hand concealed within his coat.  As Leon watched, Chuck reached forward with his left hand and pressed the button again.  The loud clanging of the doorbell rattled Leon’s nerves and he shuddered uncontrollably. 

Looking directly into the peephole, Chuck smiled wickedly.  His right hand remained hidden within his coat. 

Stumbling away from the door with a dreadful moan, Leon whirled and sprinted the twenty-five feet to the basement door, slammed it and bolted it behind him.  It was a solid door, but given time, Chuck (or Phil or Jerry) could pull out the hinge-pins and remove it from the frame. 

But by then, they’d be too late.   

Of course, Sharon had a key. 

Digging his keys out his pocket as he stumbled across the large cellar, Leon panted as he carefully tried to select the right key, then slowly and gently inserted it into the lock in the gun cabinet.  The key slid home on the first attempt and Leon twisted it savagely, then threw the doors open wide. 

A subtle stirring sound made Leon’s rapid breathing catch painfully in his throat.   He spun around, fully expecting to see Phil, Jerry and Chuck racing down the stairs, with Sharon close behind whispering seductive encouragements to them all.

But nothing—and no one—was there.  Maybe what he heard was Sharon slipping her key to the basement door to let the others into Leon’s stronghold.  The cellar held many small hiding places, but Leon hadn’t the time to search them all.  The door was still locked, however.  He should be safe, at least for a while.

“Okay, it’s time for action,” Leon said in a stern yet quiet voice, turning back to the cabinet.  There was no time for finesse.  What he needed was firepower, and a lot of it.  He grabbed the AK-47 and snatched up the loaded magazine that lay on the bottom of the cabinet.  When he tried to jam the clip into the machine gun, he missed and it shot out of his sweaty hand and clattered across the concrete floor. 

Whimpering pathetically, Leon scurried after the magazine, which had enough momentum to slide all the way across the room, coming to stop in front of Leon’s practice target. 

The door had not yet opened, but Leon knew with a dreadful certainty that his time was up.  The dream was coming true.  While the details of the surroundings in the nightmare had always been fuzzy and lacking in form, he suddenly knew—was absolutely certain—that it took place right there, in the cellar.  Every night, in the dream, his stomach roiled sourly with the certainty of impending doom just before the bullet tore through his body.  Just as it did now.

Crimson on cerise. 

Moaning and sobbing, Leon bent over, picked up the magazine, straightened back up and slapped the clip into the machine gun.  But before turning to face the enemies he felt sure were rushing down the staircase—unheard—directly toward him, his eyes fell on something directly ahead of him, about a foot below eye level, and his heart began hammering even more furiously in his chest. 

A cerise circle. 

The center of the target. 

From behind, Leon heard a disturbing, half-manic giggle.

Leon experienced no surprise, no shock nor wonder as the bullet ripped through his back and exited his chest, splattering the target with his blood, bits of muscle, lung tissue and shards of bone. 

Crimson and cerise were the last colors Leon saw. 

*          *          *

The basement may have been heavily insulated, but it was not precisely soundproof.  Within one minute of the gunshot, a key rattled in the lock in the cellar door.  A moment later, Sharon, dressed only in a ruby red bathrobe, descended the stairs carefully.  As she neared the bottom of the staircase, she said, “Would you quit shooting that damned thing?  You’re spoiling my meditation.”

The sight of her dead husband surprised Sharon, but did not cause her any distress.  However, the sight of his killer did. 

Phil and Jerry arrived half a minute after Sharon, both busily tucking in their shirts and brushing their mussed up hair with their hands.  Both appeared more relieved that shocked. 

Walking down the steps slowly and uncertainly, Chuck Woolcott, said, “Hello?  The front door was unlocked and I came in, then I heard something like a gunshot.  Is everyone all right?” As he descended the stairs, he held a small, rectangular, gift-wrapped package out before him.  Sounding very nervous and verging on babbling, he said, “I just got my book published and want to give Leon a copy… I wanted to see the look on his face.”

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Chuck’s jaw fell open as he gazed dumbly at the horrific sight before him.  Not so horrible was the site of Chuck’ dead editor, but rather the others in the room.  Mrs. Mc Caffrey’s lovely oval face betrayed disappointment, worry, and small pangs of joy tugged lightly at the corners of her mouth. 

Very odd. 

Stranger still was the presence of Phil Blankenship and Jerry O’Mally.  Although Chuck had only been with the paper for six months, he could have sworn that both men hated Mc Caffrey, judging by the way that they always made fun of him when he wasn’t around.  Why would they be in Mc Caffrey’s house?  And why were they both sweating so much?  Why was their hair so tussled?  Why weren’t they wearing shoes?

But strangest of all was the sight of the boy kneeling on the table, two of the fingers on each of his tiny hands still wrapped around the trigger of the Colt Python .44 Magnum clamped into the vise.  The little boy’s eyes danced with a fiery glee as he smiled up at Chuck and said, “Bang!  Daddy’s dead!”