Judgment Day

Judgment Day

by

Patricia Shannon

Copyright © 2006 by Patricia Shannon

Smashwords Edition

*****

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*****

Judgment Day

Chapter 1

Fifty-three-year-old Clovis Walters kept an impatient watch from deep within the shadows of the old redbrick apartment building. He wiped sweat-dampened hands on his shirtfront, and fumbled a cigarette out of the crumpled pack stuffed in his shirt pocket.

Take it easy man—she’ll be here.

Letting his mind drift to fourteen-year-old Lynn Peters, he recalled the weeks he had spent talking with her online.

Thank God for the Internet! The police won’t catch me this time. Not like last year when that damned old busybody saw me taking pictures of kids on the playground, and called the cops. Ain’t no busybodies watching this time by God!

Squinting through smoke curling from the cigarette clenched between his teeth, he glanced around, and then decided to relieve himself against the building.

Damn! He hopped backwards when urine splashed onto his shoe. Moving a few steps away from the widening puddle collecting on the blacktop, he finished peeing, then rubbed the toe of the spattered shoe against his pant leg.

He checked his watch again, 11:45. Lynn said she would meet him around 11 or 11:30. Come on kid! Come on!

Flipping the half-smoked cigarette away, he peered into the night, watching for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

Midnight came and went; still he waited. A full moon illuminated the parking lot, lending an impression of twilight to the stillness of the sleeping city.

Come on Lynn don’t chicken out on me now. Not after I drove halfway across Kansas for this meeting.

There! Something moved in the parking lot. That must be her.

Lynn? He called softly. I’m over here by the building.

That you Clovis? Where are you? I can’t see you, a girl’s voice answered.

He moved from the shadows into the small pool of light cast by a globe on the side of the building.

Yeah it’s me. Hurry before someone sees you—my car’s right here.

A figure stepped from behind one of the parked cars, and walked slowly toward him. Not the young girl that he expected, but a middle-aged woman.

The phum, phum, phum from the 9mm Beretta, caught him by surprise—his eyes widened as three bullets stabbed a triangle into his chest.

Jan took one quick look around, then hurried to the fallen man, and murmured, It’s judgment day.

Squatting down, she pressed two fingers against the carotid artery in the man’s neck. Detecting no pulse, she shielded the light from her small penlight with one gloved hand, and directed the beam into Clovis’s open, sightless eyes. The pupils remained fixed and dilated. He was most definitely dead.

Twitching her nose in disgust at the stench of urine, she turned, and sprinted back to her car. The engine of the two-year-old green Subaru purred smoothly to life with one turn of the key. She pulled out of the parking space, followed her headlights to the street exit, and traveled west for a couple of blocks before joining the late-night traffic on the Interstate.

Twenty minutes later, she guided the Subaru into her assigned space in the brightly lit motel parking lot, and killed the engine. After pausing for a moment to rest her forehead on the steering wheel, she slowly climbed out of the car. Once inside the motel room, she tossed the key card on the dresser, and sank down on the edge of the bed. She sighed, and gazed at her dreary surroundings.

I’m really beat. Maybe a shower will make me feel better.

Falling into bed after her shower, but too restless to stay still for very long, she got up, paced for a couple of minutes, and drank a glass of tepid water from the bathroom faucet before lying back down.

She had only been in bed a short time when the familiar burn started in her chest, and the tears she fought to control ran unchecked onto the pillow. She hated what she had become, but the need to avenge her daughter’s death had driven her to murder, and she knew that she would not—could not—stop.

At last, the well of tears ran dry, and the mother-turned-killer, drifted off to a tormented sleep.

Feeling surprisingly rested when she woke the following morning, Jan checked out of the motel, and walked across the street to a coffee shop. She picked up a local newspaper, and skimmed through it while waiting for her breakfast.

Either they haven’t found him yet— or they did, and it was too late to make the morning paper. It doesn’t really matter, in either case. I can go home now.

She left for Denver right after breakfast, missing the article that ran in the afternoon edition of the Dodge City Chronicle.

Known pedophile found shot to death in local apartment complex parking lot. Residents of the Western Villa Apartments discovered the body of fifty-three year old Clovis Walters of Wichita, early this morning. Mr. Walters is a known pedophile and a registered sex offender, according to a police spokesperson here in Dodge City. Police have no suspects in the case. What reason Mr. Walters had for being at the adult-only apartment building, is anybody’s guess. Most residents seem to hold the belief that it was divine retribution, and urged the police not to pursue the person or persons responsible for his death. One man was overheard to remark that, the world is better off without filth like that—it’s good riddance if you ask me."

A little over a month later, Jan drove to Abilene, Texas, to meet with a man named Dan Wilson.

*****

Dan Wilson parked his six-year-old pickup near the back of the lot at the Mall of Abilene, cut the engine, and slouched low behind the steering wheel. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and scratched his crotch in anticipation, while he waited for the thirteen-year-old girl to show up. Sarah said she would meet him here about 8 o’clock.

He still considered himself a young stud, but hard drinking and late hours had left their mark on his once handsome, thirty-four-year-old face.

Dan and Sarah had been corresponding through email and instant messaging for several weeks. Can you believe that my Mom and Dad won’t even let me date? Sarah complained to him in one of her emails. God, the way they act, you’d think I was still a little kid or something. I’m like, almost fourteen, you know?

Come on Sarah! Dan grumbled, checking his watch, 8:15. Damn! Where are you? I can’t wait all night.

He had always liked young girls. Time, and nearly twelve years of marriage, hadn’t changed that—but he had to be back in San Angelo tomorrow. Having been out of work for over seven months, his wife thought that he had gone to Abilene for a job interview.

Glancing at the side mirror, he noticed someone approaching from the rear, and rolled down the window for a better look. It must be the girl.

No, not Sarah, but a small woman. He turned his head away as the woman neared his pickup.

Dan? The woman stopped just back of the driver’s door. "Are you Dan Wilson?

What’s it to you? Dan snarled.

It’s judgment day, he heard the woman say, just before the first bullet slammed into his skull. He slumped over the steering wheel, then slid sideways onto the front seat.

Quickly returning the Berretta to its holster in her gun purse, Jan Day strode across the parking lot to her car, and with forced calm drove away from the mall.

She had rented a room earlier in the day at a Budget Inn in Merkel, about seventeen miles west of Abilene, and was anxious to get out of the heavy early-evening traffic.

Back in the motel room, she clicked on the TV set, and sat down to watch the news. The lead story reported the kidnapping and rape of a fifteen-year-old girl that had met her attacker in an online chat room.

It never ends, she thought.

Well, well. Looks like Mr. Dan Wilson made the front page. She noted with satisfaction, glancing at the newspaper headline the following morning.

Man found shot to death in the Abilene Mall parking lot. Security guards discovered the body of thirty-four-year old Daniel Wilson of San Angelo, last night after the Mall closed. Mr. Wilson was in Abilene for a job interview according to his grief-stricken wife. I don’t know why anyone would want to kill my husband. We’ve been married for almost twelve years, and have four little boys. He was the sweetest, most caring husband and father you can imagine. Local police have no suspects, and few clues as to the motive for this senseless murder. They are asking citizens to come forward if they noticed anything suspicious at the Mall last night."

Jan didn’t waste time with breakfast after she scanned the news article—stopping instead at a McDonald’s to buy a sandwich and a cup of coffee to take with her on road.

Might as well get on home—I need a break before I take on Tom Slayton next week.

*****

Tom Slayton watched for the kid from the shadows near the back of the diner’s dimly lit parking lot. Randy should have been there twenty minutes ago. The fourteen-year-old boy, though reluctant at first, had finally agreed to meet with him.

They’d met in an open chat room, moved their conversation to a private one, and later to instant messaging.

I’ll give you two hundred dollars to have sex with me. Tom had stated bluntly in one email. We can get a hotel room, and have room service send us up dinner, and some booze. What kind do you like? We can have a few drinks, then go at it.

That’s no big deal. I can eat at home, and I drink all the time. Randy typed back. Anyway, I don’t think I want to have sex with a guy.

Why not? Have you ever tried it?

I haven’t even had sex with a girl yet. How do I know I would like it with a guy?

You won’t know unless you try. You must do yourself if you don’t screw girls.

I do not! Randy typed in the return email.

I’ll tell you what, Tom suggested. If you don’t want to have sex with me you don’t have to. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars if you’ll pose nude, and let me take some pictures. What do you say?

How do I know you’ll pay me? Randy typed.

I’ll send you a money order in the mail before we meet. Would that suit you?

"No—no money order. You have to give me cash, in twenties. I can’t cash a money order. I don’t have any ID.

I’ll have the cash. Will you meet me?

Okay, but you better have the money. I’ve got friends. Randy threatened.

Punk kid. I’ll give him something to show his friends. Tom fumed after he logged off.

If that damn kid pulls a fast one, and doesn’t show up, I’ll go over to the video arcade, and pick up another boy. It won’t go easy for him either, I’ll teach these punks not to fool with Tom Slayton!

He had driven from the small town of Enid, Oklahoma, to Oklahoma City that morning—angry, and on the prowl. He didn’t have anything else to do anyway—not since Rex moved out.

Rex had been furious when he discovered the secret box of photographs. Tom still envisioned the anger on his partner’s face, and heard the hurt in his voice when Rex had confronted him.

Tom, you promised! How could you lie to me? Rex cried. You promised me that you would stay away from young boys. You swore that you only did it that one time, and I believed you.

I didn’t lie! Honest to God Rex, those are old pictures. I just forget about them, that’s all. I was going to throw them away, I swear!

No they’re not! Rex shouted, and slammed the stack of pictures on the table. There is a newspaper in one of them; the picture was taken two weeks ago. It shows you and a kid, he wasn’t more than ten or eleven-years-old, and you were sticking it to him.

Rex, I-I...

I’m outta here! Rex threw things helter-skelter into a suitcase. Just because I’m gay, that doesn’t make me a pervert! I don’t mess with little kids, and I won’t live with someone who does.

Rex don’t! Please don’t go! Tom clutched at the retreating man’s sleeve, and attempted to block the doorway.

Get your filthy hands off me! Rex shrugged him off, and stalked out the door. I should report you to the cops!

If losing Rex hadn’t been bad enough, he had been fired from his job last week, and was still smarting from the chewing out his boss had given him.

The son-of-a-bitch even threatened to call the cops if I ever came around bothering the kid again. Damn snot-nosed brat didn’t have to go running to the boss just because I made a pass at him. The way he acted, you’d think I had the clap or HIV or something.

He looked at his watch again, almost nine o’clock. The little bastard lied to me, he snarled under his breath. He isn’t coming. I’ll find him and beat the... wait a minute; that must be him getting off the bus. Yeah, the kid in the baseball cap is looking this way.

Why is he just standing there? Can’t he see me?

Hey Randy! I’m over here! Come on, let’s go! He called out the window, and started the car’s engine.

Tom Slayton? Is that you?

Of course it’s me. You were expecting maybe Elvis? Get your ass over here.

Let’s see the money first.

Yeah, yeah. I got it right here. Tom shifted to one side to reach his billfold. He pulled out five twenties, and turned to hand them to the boy.

It’s judgment day, was the last sound he heard before three bullets shattered his brain. He collapsed half on, and half off, the front seat, the twenty-dollar bills still clutched tightly in his fist.

Jan slid the gun into her backpack, and stepped quickly to the other side of the car. Squatting out of sight from the street, she snatched off the baseball cap, stuffing it and the team jacket into her backpack. She ruffled her short, curly hair with her fingers, and applied a little lipstick. She pulled out the gold chain necklace concealed under her sweater, and exchanged the running shoes for a pair of high heels from the backpack.

The fourteen-year-old boy called Randy disappeared. No one even gave a second glance to the small middle-aged woman in blue jeans and high heels, striding around the corner to her car.

Less than half an hour later, she unlocked the door to her downtown hotel room, and stepped inside with a sigh of relief.

*****

Just coffee and toast please, Jan told the waitress the next morning when she went into the hotel coffee shop for breakfast. I’ll be right back, I want to get a newspaper out of the box.

I got one right here you can read, the waitress said, dropping a newspaper on the table. I used to work there.

Excuse me? Jan said, looking up at the waitress.

At Patty’s Diner, where that poor guy got killed last night. I used to work there, the waitress said. It’s getting so’s ain’t nobody safe anymore.

Yes, it’s a shame, Jan murmured, and turned to the article about the murder of Tom Slayton.

Man found shot to death in the parking lot of Patty’s Diner. Employees of Patty’s Diner discovered the body of twenty-nine-year old Thomas Slayton, of Enid, last night after the diner closed for the day. Police speculate that Mr. Slayton was in Oklahoma City looking for work. He had recently lost his job because of a personality conflict, according to Mr. Slayton’s former employer. Oklahoma City Police have no suspects at this time, but would like to talk to a male teenager seen getting off the bus in front of the diner last night. The police do not consider the boy to be a suspect, but he may have noticed something out of the ordinary. City officials are asking anyone who might know who this boy is, or might have seen anything suspicious in the vicinity of Patty’s Diner, to contact them immediately. When police searched the victim’s car, they found a roll of duct tape and a camera in the map pocket next to the driver’s seat. Police declined to comment whether or not there were any pictures on the film in the camera, or what possible explanation there might be for the duct tape.

*****

Guess I might as well get another face-to face meeting set up. Jan decided after she got home the following day. She went online, and when she checked her email, found sixteen new messages.

She replied to each of them with the same response. I would like to meet you if I can sneak out, LOL, like I never sneak out!!!! Just say when, and I’ll say where.

After Jan answered the email messages, she visited a couple of chat rooms, monitoring the back and forth messages for a few minutes, but not joining in.

She knew that the police had their sting operations going, where an undercover officer would pretend to be a young girl or boy. When the suspect showed up for the meeting, they were arrested, and more often than not, were back out on the street as soon as they posted bail. Maybe a year later they went to trial, and then maybe sent to prison for a few years. That is, if some lawyer didn’t convince the judge that his client was a good family man who would never do anything like that again if he just had one more chance. Or that his client had been drinking and didn’t know what he was doing at the time, or he didn’t know that the girl was underage.

I know that the authorities are doing all they can, but my way is simpler. When the pedophile shows up to meet me, it’s his final outing. No trial and no delay; just instant judgment and punishment.

The soft jingle of the telephone offered a welcome relief from her introspection.

*****

Hi Jan, this is Nina. The voice was that of her former co-worker. The two women had first met years ago when they both worked in Judge Day’s courtroom.

Nina! How nice to hear from you. How are things in the halls of justice? Jan asked, pleased to hear from her old friend.

Same old—same old.

Jan smiled, picturing Nina’s waving hand.

When are you coming back to the courtroom? I know you’re involved with your volunteer work, but we miss you, Nina said.

I don’t think I’m ready to come back to work just yet. I’m really busy with the Judgment Day civic action group.

Do you ever hear from that ex-husband of yours? Any chance you guys will be able to patch things up?Nina asked.

"Look Nina, I know you mean well, but I really don’t want to talk about the divorce.