The Outlaw Inn, Laramie, Wyoming

Cannon read the brief restaurant history on the back of the menu, which explained the  eating spot had originally been called, Bucket of Blood Saloon. In the late 1800s, the prior owner and his two brothers were lynched in front of the saloon for various misdeeds. Laramie justice. 
            A bulky, young man and a teen-aged girl came into the Outlaw, taking the next booth. The man sat facing Cannon glowering, then swept the dining room with his angry glare.

Suddenly, the man started to rise from his bench, as to leave, run away. He did not want to be there, not at the Outlaw Inn. Cannon watched as the young girl moved from her seat and joined the nervous man. She sat beside him, speaking softly to calm him, patting his arm.

Cannon was shocked to see that the girl was Red, the young girl who had come to his apartment in Boise, Idaho, seeking donations for piano lessons. She glanced over catching his eye and signaling Cannon not to interfere. Red leaned toward the unhappy man and spoke, almost whispering in his ear, then patting him again to reassure him, “you can do this”.
The angry man looked at the other diners, a few were now watching. HIs face was red, his dark eyes wide, as if he were terrorized. The young girl returned to her side of the booth, her back to Cannon.

            The man twitched and squirmed, as bound in a too-tight jacket. Then he jumped up, sweeping the dining room with a malevolent look that instantly dimed the hum of conversation.

            “I’m Johnny Lang.” He boomed, as if introducing himself to give a speech. “I killed Amber Delay.”

            A stunned hush fell over the restaurant; the waitresses all stopped where they were. Those setting down plates hesitated, not taking their eyes off the swaying Johnny Lang. A dark cloud descended over the room.

 Amber Delay had vanished 18 months ago and her parents had been frantic, assembling search parties, distributing posters, and offering a $100,000 reward for Amber’s safe return.

 “I saw Amber in an alley, taking a short-cut to high school. I stopped and told her to get in the car, showing her my knife and telling her I had a gun and that I would shoot her if she tried to run. She got in the car.”

            The restaurant was dead quiet. Not a soul stirred, no one drew a breath.

            “Amber got in and asked for music. She wanted some music as we drove. Then she pleaded with me, saying I did not have to do this, that I should let her go, just stop and let her out. She was a good girl and would never tell anyone.

I drove her out to the old fort and that treed area behind the stockade, and…I don’t know why…I stabbed Amber, slit her throat. I buried her there at the fort."

            Red looked over her shoulder at Cannon. Her eyes were wide and she shook her head, telling him to stay still.

            Johnny Lang was wearing jeans and a maroon sweat shirt; he reached behind his back under his shirt and pulled out a wicked-looking hunting knife. He waved it at the diners, who recoiled. But no one moved, no one dared get up. Cannon noticed an older woman out of Johnny Lang’s sight who was talking on her cell phone.

            “This is for Amber Delay.” Johnny yelled. Then he put his left hand on the table and with a whack cut off his first finger. He turned and waved his bloody left hand in the air.

 “Amber Delay” he shouted.

            There were gasps.

            The patrons stared wide-eyed. The woman on the phone had her hand to her mouth; an older woman in a wheel chair wobbled and her chin fell forward on her chest.

            Johnny Lang surveyed his mesmerized audience, holding up his four-digit left hand, while waving his vicious knife in the air. He dared anyone to move, the show was not over.

            “I also killed Cherry Lee. That was six months ago. You all remember Cherry Lee, don’t you?” It was a taunt, as Cherry Lee was loved by all.

“I caught her on the jogging path along the Laramie River at twilight, your track star, a hero to the community. Everyone loved Cherry Lee.

 I could not help it, could not stop. She wept. No music for Cherry Lee, who fought…fought like a tiger.  I thought to let her go. But I had to strangle her. Then I buried her out there in the brush, beneath the bridge, the one that connects Main Street to the I-80.”

            Folks could still not completely comprehend what Johnny Lang was telling them.  Amber Delay and Cherry Lee were two teenage girls that had gone missing. The town and state had mobilized each time to search. It was Laramie’s nagging, unsolved mystery. Amber was 17 and perhaps she had run away because of her step dad. But Cherry was only 14, a budding track star.

            “This one is for Cherry Lee.” Johnny boomed, then turned and put his left hand on the table and sliced off his second finger. He raised his left hand with the two stubs and waved it around.

            “I’m out on parole. And I won’t stop. I will kill again. I won’t be stopped. This little darling with me, my red ponytail,” Johnny said, pointing his knife at the teen in the booth, "she will be next. I swear it. Unless…”

            And with that, Johnny took the knife and cut his throat, the blood spurting, galvanizing the nearby patrons, who leapt up screaming to avoid the splash.

            The young girl in the booth turned to look at Cannon, staring at him with her serious hazel eyes. Johnny’s blood had splashed her front. “Sit still and do not say anything.” She said to Cannon in a low voice. “I am making things right.”

            Pandemonium descended on the dining room. A few diners on the other side bolted into the kitchen. Others backed away from the prostrate, bleeding Johnny Lang.

Cannon sat riveted, watching as Red stood up to avoid the pooling blood that was flowing toward the booth. She stepped away from Johnny’s body and looked at Cannon. At that moment, the dining room hostess, an older white-haired lady in shiny black slacks with a lime green shirt, came out of nowhere and put her arm around Red, turning her and heading for the rest room. “We’ve got to get you washed up, young lady.” She said and the older woman steered the girl down the hall.

The hostess returned and stood by Cannon, who looked at her. “She’s okay?” Cannon asked, referring to Red.

“Remarkably calm, especially after that brute announced she was next. Oh Lord, makes me shutter just to think. What a horrible person. There on my floor lies true evil.” The hostess said, looking down at the still Johnny Lang, and then she turned back toward the rest room.

Suddenly the police and the EMS were there, telling everyone to stay in their seats. The emergency personnel knelt down and attended to the sprawled man, checking his vital signs. But Johnny Lang was dead.

Cannon looked up and saw the hostess returning with a concerned look, but Red was not with her.

“Did you see the girl?” The hostess asked in a panic, as if Red were her daughter. “Did she come this way? She’s not in the rest room. Where is she? Where could she have gone?”

 Cannon shook his head. He had no idea where Red had gone. But he knew he would see her again.

                                                                 

Love Nest Tragedy, North Platte, Nebraska

Norman, tall and balding, came in and gave Emily Lour a quick pat on the shoulder. Lou noticed there was no kiss. Norman poured himself a glass of ice tea and sat across from Lou at the kitchen table, asking her about her upcoming Colorado trip and schedule. He mentioned that she would love the Stanley, a famous old Hotel outside of Boulder, and he urged her to take the ninety-minute Stanley History and Ghost Tour that he had noticed on the hotel website.

            They chatted comfortably with each other. Once teenage sweethearts, they had been married for twenty-five years, a good life with financial security due especially to Lou’s hard work and the money she brought in with her regional sales job. She continued making notes for her trip as Norman began to drone on about his job and his day.

            “But I am happy.” Norman was saying.  “I’m so happy. Something wonderful has happened. I’ve fallen in love with my summer intern, Betty Jo. So while you are away, I will be moving out. I won’t be here when you return from your Colorado meeting.”

             Lou paused with pen on paper. It took a few seconds to record what Norman had said. She looked up and blinked. “What did you say?”

             “I’ve fallen in love with Betty Jo and I am moving out.” Norman replied with a giddy, idiotic grin on his face, driving an ice pick in her chest. Yet, she still could not believe. Out of the blue came to mind.

             “…sell the house. I know the market is still off. But this is such a great house. Maybe some of the new people at the Resort would be interested…” Norman continued to babble on about his happiness and how they must split up their possessions.

             Lou put Norman on mute. She watched his lips moving, but tuned him out. Was this happening? Was it a cruel joke? She looked around the kitchen in bewilderment. Was there someone in the dining room? Would the neighbors pop in and yell, “Surprise”. What did the kids call it? Punked, that was it. The kids nowadays like to punk each other. Was Norman punking her?

              “…of course it is against company rules. You cannot imagine how hard it is when Betty Jo and I see each other, pass in the hall, or sit in meetings together. We can hardly keep our hands off each other. Betty Jo wants to leap into my arms, drag me into a closet, hee, hee.”

              Lou recoiled at Norman’s salacious chuckle. Maybe he was deranged; the pressure for the job was too much. Or perhaps, this was a flight of fancy. In the morning, he would not recall any of it, just an aberration.  Norman would be himself in the morning.

             “…I think it was love at first sight…” Norman waxed on. “We shook hands the first time we met and electricity coursed through my body. “My Lord, the real thing…”

              Lou cocked her head and studied Norman. He seemed oblivious of her, as if he was telling his pals, explaining his euphoria. He and Betty Jo had found true love; they were soul mates. Emily Lou blinked. Where was the sanity? Would he never stand up and yell, “Not!' Tell Lou the joke was on her and their life would, of course, go on as before?

             “Well, I’ve had a hectic day.” Norman said. “All the politicking by the others to take the top job away from me! Have they no decency? I am the only qualified person for replacing Stu. I will be the resort manager. I have been loyal and honest, for twenty years a most productive company employee, an outstanding executive member of the team. I,,, No we, have worked so hard for this. It is mine! I mean the job is ours, Lou.”

             Emily Lou was incredulous. We? Ours?

  She could vaguely recall meeting this year’s summer intern at the Springtime Dogwood Function. Betty Jo was athletic, short haired, dark eyed. Not unattractive, Lou grudgingly acknowledged. But this young woman was going off with Norman, who could be her father. She was stealing Lou’s husband of twenty-five years. Betty Jo was destroying their marriage and also destroying Norman’s career, once the word was out. What was happening here?

   “I know this is out of the blue, dear. I’ll leave you with your coffee. Maybe a second cup will help.” And Norman gratuitously got up and gave her a refill of the afternoon coffee. “Let me get a shower, then we can talk some more. But I need to get comfy first. Maybe you make a list of the things you want. Needless to say, tonight I will move into the guest room, use that bathroom at the end of the hall. I’m sure you’ll want your space.”

  And Norman got up and went up the stairs. He was humming a song from long ago. But Lou could not place it. If he did not shut up, he would drive her mad.

  Lou looked down at her pad and the notes she had made to share with her friend, Cannon, over drinks at the Stanley Hotel. She stared at what she had jotted about her last sales overnight in Mitchell, South Dakota. An odd young man had sat with her at breakfast in the Comfort Inn, whispering to her about a Washington, D. C. conspiracy: there were no political parties, no wars, the U.S. Government was a hoax, a ponzi scheme. And only he knew, and they were after him. To read her notes made Lou smile, the story was amusing, but that morning  the young man had scared Emily Lou. Cannon would love this one.

  Lou slowly got up and blew her nose. How long had they been there at the table? How long had Norman rattled on about his new happiness? It seemed to be getting dark, definitely twilight time. There was only one thing to do.

  She went into the cellar and poked around in Norman’s things. Finally, she found what she was looking for in a trunk. Then she needed something else and found that in the tall cabinet beside his work bench.

 Preparing herself, she went back to the kitchen and listened. Lou could hear the shower in the guest bathroom. Norman was singing. Lou went up the stairs and took the chair from the side table. She set it at the far end so she was looking down the hall at the guest bathroom, some thirty feet or so from where she sat.

  “Only you, only you can…” and again Norman’s voice trailed away, followed by the insane humming. Then the water shut off and Lou could hear him moving around in the bathroom. Finally, the door opened and there was Norman in the doorway, resplendent in his gold-trimmed, navy blue robe. He blinked at her, his mouth open in protest.

  Lou steadied herself and pulled both triggers. The shotgun barked, shook, and spat, shredding Norman’s robe. The shots blew him back into the bathroom where he smacked against the hot water radiator, and then Norman slid to a sitting position, his mouth agape, and his eyes wide in surprise.

 She got up and put the shotgun on the hall table, dragging the chair back to where it belonged. She went into their bedroom, now her room, and searched in the bathroom cabinet, taking two aspirin, which she shook out of the bottle and flushed down with a drink of water.

 Lou then looked at her roller suit case, which was sitting on the bed. She prided herself on packing compactly, taking just the essentials. She had always told the kids, “you pack it, you carry it."  She glanced at the phone on the end table, but hesitated. No need to dial 911, not yet. Let Norman sit tight in the bathroom. He would not ruin her Colorado trip. Besides, she so wanted to hear Cannon’s story that he hinted at in his email, the one about the Nevada motel that he claimed turned into a flying saucer. And all her colleagues were waiting. The show must go on.

 Such is life.

i

The Bonefish Grill, Broad Street, Boise, Idaho

Cannon sat at the empty bar of the Bonefish Grill and nursed

an Idaho local brew, a Big Horn ale seasoned with honey and spices. 

             The disappearance of Karla Ravenholt five years ago from the Ravenholt  house on Lake Payette was on Cannon’s mind. The local police with assistance from the Idaho State Patrol had searched the shoreline, dragged the upper portion of Lake Payette, and had gone cottage to cottage interviewing the occupants. They had checked Karla’s credit card and bank accounts to see if there was any activity. But nothing turned up.

            Initially, the suspicion was Karla had been kidnapped, but as the days dragged on and there was no ransom demand, that theory was less credible. Rumors abounded that it could have been the work of the Snake River Killer, who had operated with impunity in the Northwest for twenty years, terrorizing Oregon, Washington, and Idaho.     

.             Ravenholt had turned to an investigator based in Portland, Oregon, who was well known by the Northwest law enforcement agencies. His effort was impressive...no stone unturned. The private detective had even used lake experts from the University of Idaho to study Lake Payette currents, assessing the possible body flow if Karla had suffered a spasm and suddenly sunk into the inky depths of the cold water.                 

             Now Ravenholt wanted Cannon to look into Karla’s vanishing. He took out his small note book and studied items he had jotted down when he had talked to Ravenholt. Cannon was aware of rustling to his left and heard a female voice order a glass of Idaho Riesling.

            There was a young woman sitting at the bar dressed in a jade green sweater, with long brown hair, shapely face and expressive green eyes, jade eyes, which matched her  sweater. She was staring at him, a slight smile on her red lips.

            “Well, well,” she said. “We meet again.”

            Cannon felt a chill run down his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He recognized her instantly. It was Mary Jane Taylor, the young woman from the Jordan Valley schoolhouse, where he had been briefly taken prisoner, where the little girl had gnawed on his fingers, infecting him with an odd virus, which seemed to empower him, certainly energizing him.

            The bartender returned and lingered in front of Mary Jane, asking her if she wanted some snacks. Mary Jane cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, which began to glitter, giving the bartender “the look”. He got the message and drifted past Cannon back toward the more talkative couple at the other end of the bar.

            “You were smart not to go the Jordan Valley Sheriff’s station.” Mary Jane said in a low voice. “We were gone by the time you got to the gravel road, not taking any chances.”

            Cannon thought back to that evening with the dark storm coming. He never considered going to the sheriff, just wanted to get away. Mary Jane had said she would have to put him in the cellar with the little children…and their leader. What was her name?”

            “Radika,” Mary Jane said, reading Cannon’s mind.

            Shuddering, Cannon recalled that when Mary Jane focused on him she could read his thoughts. He knew Mary Jane was correct. If he had returned to the schoolhouse with the police and found it empty, what would they think? How would his story sound, a lovely, green-eyed school teacher, tiny children led by their black-eyed charge, Radika?  Would the sheriff believe the odd tribe had ever been there, threatened to put him in the storm cellar? He would have to tell the sheriff that Mary Jane had  paralyzed him, rendered him immobile. It was only the threat of a tornado when her power had ebbed; when Mary Jane had become distracted that Cannon had been able to escape.  

            “Of course, I do have something.” Cannon said, looking at the bartender who was washing glasses nearby. Cannon moved his right hand in a semicircle and the bartender froze. Quickly, Cannon reversed the motion and the bartender jerked back to life, dropping one of his glasses, which bounced in the stainless steel sink.

            “Damn,” the bartender said as he looked around in confusion. “What was that?” He asked Cannon, glancing at Mary Jane.     

            “I could have shown them that.” Cannon said, ignoring the bartender’s query. “That would make them believers in me.”

            Mary Jane moved next to Cannon. “And what do you think a demonstration of “that” would get you? They’d take you to Nevada’s Area 51 and study you. They would want to understand and then reproduce your abilities, maybe clone you. Another arrow in their quiver.”

            Cannon nodded and  to his surprise Mary Jane changed the subject, asking him about the Karla Ravenholt case. She waved away his questions and leaned toward him, saying in a low voice that Karla’s disappearance was not what it seemed; the Ravenholt family was like a labyrinth, full of twists and turns, a giant spider web that would entrap him if he was not careful and prudent.

            Mary Jane then sat back and moved her right hand slightly and Cannon froze his glass halfway to his mouth. The next thing he knew the bartender was standing in front of him.

            “What happened to the lady?” The bartender asked, looking for Mary Jane.

            Cannon turned and was surprised to see Mary Jane was gone.

            “Hope you got her number.” The bartender said. “She’s a looker, a real knockout. I’ve never seen such green eyes if my life.”

            “Neither have I,” said Cannon, wondering when he would encounter Mary Jane again. “Neither have I.”

The Night Visitor, Morrison Park Mansion, Boise Idaho

He built the house for his wife; seven years it took--- seven years of sweat and sawdust, seven years of floor plans and precision.  Endless days and long evenings, he sanded and waxed the imported mahogany floors, so that she could host tea parties on Thursdays. He carved the pattern on his sons’ door frame: a cat chasing a mouse through a field of flowers. He spent the early years of their lives teaching them about animals and plants, and how to mutually benefit in life from and with them. He was a member of the National Guard and one day civic duty removed him from his house and family in early summer.

        She counted the days he was gone, pined for him atop the widow’s watch. She kept his letters in a tidy stack, rereading them in the evening on the porch. Sometimes she would wait a month between letters---and when a letter arrived, she read it in a quiet whisper and often would shed a silent tear. Afterwards she would rock on the porch, and then fold his letter, placing it inside the envelope. She would untie the red ribbon that held together his stack of tales from afar, his promises of an imminent homecoming and his promise of his undying love.

        Her beloved returned on a Thursday, but hadn’t sent a letter in months; she was dusting the bookshelves, sashaying around the house in her purple dress, anticipating her night visitor. Then there was the sound of heavy leather boots as the returning hero tracked mud across the polished floors. He smiled weakly, when she dropped her feather duster with a shriek of joy. When his youngest child clung to his leg, he was startled at how the boy had grown, that his eldest had lost a tooth.

         He had only been home for a few days, when a sudden storm swept in from the west, thunder shook the house and he remembered the gunshots and the fallen. On that dark afternoon he broke the boundaries between the life he had loved, and the things he had seen and done, the nightmare he had hoped he had left behind whispered to him once again.

          “A family massacre” the press called it; they reported on the bodies of two adults, two children, strewn across a field behind an elegant farmhouse; the commotion of barking dogs caused neighbors to alert law enforcement. People of the town were aghast and the rumors flew about the motivation behind the tragedy. Was it those Thursday night visits? Of course, the progressive youth argued about war and morals.  But there were no answers.

        Today the hand-crafted house stands empty.

Story by Lisa Fliege

.

          

The Widower's House, Warm Springs Ave, Boise, Idaho

Cannon parked in the driveway, staring up at the large, sprawling brick home on the edge of Boise. The architecture was French Gothic, the west wing set off with a large turret-like structure on the side, next to a widow’s screened porch, where one could watch for travelers.
     Cannon approached the front door with apprehension, dubious about getting involved in patrician Ravenholts’s personal business, the strange disappearance of his first daughter more than five years ago. And now one of his nieces had died unexpectedly in Sun Valley, Idaho.
     A Latina maid answered his ring and Cannon introduced himself, handing the maid his business card. She led him into a spacious living room centered by a great fireplace. The wooden floors were covered with oriental rugs and dark mahogany furniture, the windows draped in ivory brocade curtains. All spoke of old, Idaho money.
     The patriarch was waiting for Cannon by the fire, sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in a bulky burgundy robe. He was a big man grown old and slumped at the shoulders, with a large head, long face and bristly white hair. He awaited Cannon with an impatient scowl.
     “Your nieces suggested I see you.” Cannon said, as he approached the old man and shook his hand. “I briefly new Nicky and my condolences on Nicky’s untimely passing. I just met Dr. Shaw and she suggested I should visit you. Suzie, Dr. Shaw, wanted me to look through the Karla files.”
      Rei Ravenholt sighed and shook his head in distaste, took out a checkbook along with a ballpoint pen. “How much?” He asked.”
       Cannon was taken aback. “This isn’t my idea. I’m not a private detective, or a tracer of lost persons. I have no idea why, but both of your nieces thought it would be useful for me to study the files. At that moment, the Latina entered the room and hovered, announcing that Rei had a phone call. She wheeled the annoyed man out to the den across the hall. Cannon waited a decent interval, and then wandered the living room, first inspecting the bookshelves, then turning toward a shelf set with what appeared to be family photos. There was a large photo of Rei and a handsome woman in their 50s, presumably Ravenholt’s dead wife, who Suzie related died a few years ago of cancer in her mid-60s.
    At that instant a door in the corner of the living room creaked open and Cannon was startled to see a young, blond woman standing on steps that led upstairs, a back stairs to the second floor. She was tall, athletic, dressed in a strange, white cotton gown that hung down to her ankles, perhaps a nightdress, similar to an institutional gown. She had a lovely oval face, fine features and the bluest eyes that Cannon had ever seen.
     He introduced himself, explaining he was here on business, waiting for Rei Ravenholt, who was taking a phone call in the den. He smiled and stepped toward the comely woman in the doorway. The young woman held on to the door knob, but stepped back as Cannon came close.
     “Don’t do it.” She whispered, taking another step up the stairs.
     Cannon paused and she smiled at him. “Don’t do it.” She repeated, then reached back and slowly closed the door.
     At that moment, Camilla entered the room and told Cannon that Mr. Ravenholt would see him in the den. He dutifully followed the maid into another dark room, this one set off with a massive desk at the main window, the walls lined with book-filled shelves.
      “That was my favorite niece on the phone, Suzie Shaw.” Rei said perking up. “You made a favorable impression on Suzie and she trusts you. So, I have agreed to let you have a go; you can take the files. You can even visit the cottage on Lake Payette in McCall if you wish. And how about your fee?”
     Cannon protested that his interest in Karla’s disappearance was a favor to Suzie and now Nicky. If he did get involved, he would ask for expenses. If by some miracle, he was helpful in solving the Karla riddle, then Cannon would leave it to Rei to decide on an appropriate fee. He asked Rei to tell him what happened to Karla that evening on Lake Payette.
      Rei cocked his head and smiled. He took out his checkbook and tore out a check. “I was going to give you $1,000 to get lost. But take this check as an advance on any expenses you might have. When you tire and Suzie is satisfied, we can reconcile our accounts.
     “Tell me about that evening.” Cannon repeated.
     Rei looked away and his face sagged. “Karla always went for an evening six- mile swim. That evening was nothing special; she planned to swim three miles toward the north along the shore, then three miles back. She went in the water around five and never returned. Of course we looked. I knew the police so the next day they searched the lake shore, then dragged the route she swam. But nothing,  Karla had vanished.”
     Cannon nodded, telling Rei he would go through the files and be in touch. He leaned over to take the expense check. As he did, Cannon noticed a standing frame picture on Rei’s desk. It was a picture of a young blond woman, dressed in running shorts and a Boise singlet.
      “Karla, after she ran the Robie Creek Half-Marathon.” Rei said wistfully.
      Cannon stepped back startled. It was a picture of the young woman that he had just seen a few minutes before on the living room back steps. Cannon asked who lived in the house. Rei explained he lived in the west wing, while Camilla had a maid’s suite in the east side of the house. Guests came and went, Rei said. He had four other children, three daughters and a son. Occasionally, they came to stay. But mostly it was just Rei and Camilla.
     “Do the other girls look like Karla?” Cannon asked.
     Rei laughed ruefully, explaining the other daughters, while attractive enough, got more of their father’s looks. Karla got her mother’s true Danish blond looks. Rei then asked Cannon about his schooling and back ground, why he was in Boise.
     “No harm to try.” Rei concluded after listening to a summary of Cannon’s background. He then handed over three large manila folders, explaining that one was the police file, the other two were private detective reports that Rei had commissioned.
      Cannon said he would go step by step. First the files, then he would decide if it was worthwhile to visit the lake cottage. He got up to leave and Camilla appeared, walking him to the heavy oak entrance door. As Cannon went to his car, he turned and looked back at the big house. Above the colonnaded front porch there were large windows. A young woman in white was standing looking down at him, the same woman on the steps and in the picture on Rei’s desk. She put her hands of the glass and shook her head.
    She did not want Cannon searching.

Red Riding Hood and the Snake River Killer, Eagle, Idaho

     Earl Lee was through with killing and on the hunt for a young companion. He saw her at the corner, looking apprehensively up at the darkening sky. She was early teens, hair pulled back in a pony tail, wearing jeans and a white blouse, pulling an odd red cape around her slender body to ward off the March chill. His smell told him she was the one.
     Thinking through his approach, Earl pulled next to the curb and lowered the passenger side window, flashing his most winsome smile. Before he could open his mouth, the young girl hopped into the passenger seat, knocking Earl off his stride. “You need a ride?” He improvised. “Big rain coming and I am going your way.”
     She looked him, a pretty face with freckles and large brown eyes, flecked with an odd shade of gray. “My name is Earl Lee Crowder, but you can call me Earl. What’s your name?”
     The girl smiled. “Red.”
     “Red what?” Earl pursued.
     “Just Red.” The girl replied.
     At that point Earl felt a sense of unease and his instinct was to let her out, but then she smiled again at him, so he pulled away from the curb. She settled in her seat, buckling up and looking through the windshield as the rain began to fall.
     “Where are you going?” He asked.
     “This way.” Red said. “I am looking for someone.”
      Earl nodded, thinking hard. He had been prepared with his sweet inducements and then the chloroform, just in case. But this girl was compliant. Too compliant? They drove in silence for 45 minutes to the north outskirts of Eagle Township. “I have to stop at my place for minute, if that is okay.” Earl said, looking over at her. She nodded, watching as he turned onto a small dirt road that went up an incline to his yellow house trimmed in green. It was set back in the dim woods, isolated and conveniently hidden in a copse of pine and cottonwood trees with no nearby neighbors.
     As they drove up the drive, Earl tensed and checked on his young passenger, but she was unconcerned. Still, he felt for his small towel and bottle of chloroform under the front seat, just in case Red got antsy.
     Earl pulled behind the secluded house and stopped, keeping the doors locked. He turned to Red, telling her to come in for a minute while he did some chores. Instead of getting fidgety or looking worried, she nodded. Earl breathed easier, thinking that the young girl had taken a liking to him. In his mid-forties, Earl was six feet, well built with busy hair and long sideburns. Most women took to him. Unfortunately, Earl Lee had a dark side, carrying the sobriquet of “Snake River Killer”, the Northwest’s most notorious serial killer for twenty years. Earl had left a trail of terror and grief through Washington, Oregon, and Idaho.
     “Is this my home? Are you my keeper?” Red asked.
     Earl was nonplussed; never in all his years of rampage. Yet, a yellow light flashed before his eyes. Who was this girl? He led her into the kitchen and showed her the layout, a dining room and an open living room. “My bedroom is down the hall in the back. To begin with, you will stay down here.” Earl said, opening the basement door and pointing down the cellar steps.
     Red came forward and peered into the dark, dank cellar. Then she stepped back and looked up at Earl Lee. “I don’t live in cellars.” She said simply.
     Earl felt that all too familiar rage surging and balled his fists to lash out, his eyes narrowing and his nostrils flaring. Then the madness ebbed and he was still; after a second Earl shook his head in wonder and smiled at Red. “Of course…what was I thinking? There is a guest suite upstairs with its own bath. That is the place for a girl like you.”
     Earl closed the cellar door, shaking himself and looking around the room. He refocused and directed the girl to the living room. “This is my easy chair. Come sit in my lap and I can go over our routine and rules.” Earl said, feeling a surge, dryness in his mouth.
     Red took Earl’s hand. “You’ve had a long day, searching so hard and long. I am happy to sit in your lap, but first you need a bath, a nice hot bath. You smell.”
     Earl snatched his hand back and growled, that fury and fire flaring in his chest. But as she looked at him, he once again caught himself and thought, not a bad idea. “Yes, a bath before we have our chat.”
     She led Earl back to his master bedroom, then went into the bathroom, admiring the large porcelain tub set on iron claws. She then turned on the water, but only the hot water. In a few minutes Earl appeared at the door naked with his hands modestly crossed in front of him.
     Earl’s eyes widened as he saw the steam. “Hey, that’s too hot.” He shouted.
     “You like it hot.” Red explained, taking his hand and leading him to the tub. “So nice and steamy to ease your tired body; you’ve had many years, created so much sorrow. A lot to wash away.”
     “Not my fault. If only they had understood, been more like you.” Earl muttered, as he stepped into the scalding water, grimacing, but dutifully sliding down, reddening just as a lobster that goes into the boiling pot. He sank in the tub until only his head was exposed.
     Earl Lee’s eyes darted back and forth, looking at Red in panic and distress. “Help me!” Earl pleaded, unable to move. “Get me out. I’m dying.”
     Her eyes widened when she heard the hot water heater thundering in the cellar below emit a loud whistle, and then a loud bang. Smoke began to drift up into the bathroom. “Name them for me, Earl.” Red whispered to him, as she bent over and stroked his bushy head. “Name them all and you can get out of the tub. I’ll even help get you started. Back to junior high school, Martha Manning was your first. Come on now, think. Earl Lee, who was next?”
     Earl squirmed and tried to rise from the water, but his body was inert, still. His eyes widened as he saw the wisps of smoke from the basement. “Cindy Volk!” He shouted.
     Red stepped back and smiled. She stood at the bathroom door as Earl gasped for breath, his eyes wide as he furiously searched his memories.”Lisa Stevenson, Linda Morse, Betsy Givens.”
     Suddenly flames darted up through the wooden floor, feeding on the cheap linoleum. The fire crackled, muting Earl’s voice as he shouted the roll call. “Marilyn Hall……”now his voice was hoarse and almost drowned out by the popping and whooshes of the fire.
     Red left Earl Lee struggling in the bathtub. She went out the back, pausing and listening by the bathroom window: “Dana Oland, Martina Dawn, Odyssey…” but Earl’s voice faded.
     She walked through the woods, following a path that paralleled the road below. Red made her way down to the blacktop and returned toward the house, which was a mass of flames. Emergency vehicles and a fire engine roared past her.
     A small crowd had already gathered and some men were running back and forth along the drive, pointing and shouting as the first fire truck made its way up the dirt road to Earl’s house.
     “I think he’s in there!” A frantic young man shouted to the firemen. “I heard him shouting for some woman. Nancy something. Maybe she’s in there too.”
     The firemen started forward, but then reared back as the roof collapsed inward with a shower of sparks, flames, and roiling black smoke.
     Red cocked her head, but she could not hear Earl’s voice, no more names. The roll call was over.



                                                                             ***


     That evening Cannon was listening to the TV news and working at his laptop. He suddenly stopped when he saw the Eagle fire news. An unidentified charred body had been found. What caught Cannon’s eye was the news lady in the foreground interviewing a young girl, identified as one of the first on the scene.
     The little girl with the pony tail and wearing a red cape around her shoulders looked into the camera. “I am looking for someone.” She told the news lady.
     Cannon sat up and felt a chill run down his spine; was that a tapping? He held his breath and listened, but all was quiet. She was not at his door. Not yet.

Little Red Riding Hood, Watergate Apartments, Spokane, Washington

     Cannon opened the door and there she was, about twelve years old, red hair pulled back in a pony tail, freckles across her nose, brown eyes flecked with gray. She was holding a straw basket, dressed in a white blouse and jeans with a scarlet cape: Little Red Riding Hood.
     The young girl stepped away, taken aback by Cannon’s scowl. She started a spiel, but was jittery and he could only catch the ending: “… piano lessons.”
     He asked her if she was collecting money for her piano lessons and she nodded. Cannon turned, leaving the door ajar and went into the bedroom, taking five dollars from his wallet. There was something about the girl.
     When he returned she was sitting at the table, across from where Cannon had been eating his salad. A bone-in rib eye was waiting to be seared and Cannon was hungry from a long day.
   
     “I’m tired and need to rest a minute.” The girl said, looking at him wistfully. “May I have a glass of water?”
     Cannon went to the kitchen and got a small bottle of Fuji Water. He gave it to the girl and then asked if her mother wanted to come in. She told him her mother was a nurse and working nights.
     “She allows you to go out collecting money by yourself? Don’t you know that is dangerous?” Cannon scolded her. “Where do you live?”
     “The next building in 201. I just visit these apartments and I quit at eight. I need the money for my piano lessons.”
     Cannon shook his head. “I admire your initiative, but there are strange people out there. Surely your mother knows better. Do you have a cell phone?”
     “I don’t need a cell phone. I can take care of myself. Believe me.” She said, looking at him. “You have no idea.”
     Since coming into the apartment and settling at the dinner table, the girl had gained confidence. “You remind me of Little Red Riding Hood; I’ll call you Red, okay?”
     “Of course,” she replied, “I like you.”
     Cannon smiled. “You need to leave as I have to finish dinner and do my homework. You can take your water with you.”
     The little girl hung her head, but got up. “I feel good knowing you are here, just a building away. I do need someone.”
     He told her to go home. “No more knocking on doors tonight. When you get to your apartment, go out on the balcony so I can see you are home safely.”
     She agreed and departed, taking a cookie from her basket and handing it to Cannon. “Something for you, so you remember me.”
     Cannon went into the kitchen and got a glass of wine, then went out on the balcony and looked across to the next building where he saw that apartment 201 was dark. Suddenly there was movement and the little girl with her scarlet cape came out on the balcony. “Do your school work and go to bed.” Cannon called softly to her. She nodded and held up her Fuji bottle, and then vanished inside.
     That night Cannon did not sleep well. The girl was on his mind and he worried. Finally, he made a decision and fell into a troubled slumber.
     The next morning Cannon left early and went north of Spokane where cell phone coverage was spotty. His job was scouting areas in the west for cell phone towers. With all the data now being transmitted to cell phones, there was a soaring demand for more capacity.
     Cannon returned at four and went to the building next to his. He paused at the second floor landing. There were two apartments, 201 and 202. He intended to knock on 201; the mother should be home. He wanted to talk to her mother about what Red was doing, maybe offer to shepherd Red as she door knocked.
     But he got cold feet. What would the mother think? What would she say? Better to leave it alone. He turned away as he heard footsteps plodding up the stairs, accompanied by heavy breathing. He looked and saw a portly, gray-haired woman lumbering up the steps carrying four plastic shopping bags.
     Cannon hurried to help her and took the two heaviest bags, then followed her up to the third floor. She produced a key and opened the door of 301.
     “Thanks. You here to see me? What about?” The woman demanded.
     “I’m looking for the woman who lives below you, the nurse in 201; she has a young daughter. Do you know if she is home?” Cannon queried.
     “Below me?” The woman asked, catching her breath. “That apartment is empty, been empty for almost three years, since the tragedy. Occasionally someone comes, rents it a few days, and then they run away. Me? I don’t know nothing.”
     Cannon stood puzzled, staring at the woman. “Do you know a little girl, wears a red cape? She’s been knocking on doors, asking for money for her piano lessons.”
     “That girl? You’re crazy!” The old woman said, slamming her apartment door.
      Later Cannon was puttering in the kitchen, getting ready to sear Italian sausage to add to his sauce for a spaghetti dinner. He stopped and looked around. There it was… a light, almost timid, tapping at his door. He knew the knock, Little Red Riding Hood.   Cannon went to the door and Red was there, with her straw basket wrapped in her red cape. “Hello again, I just wanted you to know I am quitting for the evening and going home now. I know you worry about me.” With that she walked in, brushing past Cannon, taking a seat at the dining room table.
     Cannon laughed and went to the kitchen and got a small Fuji Water bottle, setting it in front of the young girl. This time he took a seat across from Red. “I was in your building today.” He said. “I met the woman who lives above you, 301. She said she did not know your mother, or you. In fact, she claimed the apartment below her has been empty for three years.”
     The young girl frowned. “That must be Mrs. Rumpke. Used to look after me, but now she hates me.”
     Cannon smiled. “It can’t be that bad. Why would she hate you?”
     “Because I killed her dog, an old, mean hound. He lunged at me, so I cut his throat.”
     She reached in her pocket, pulled out a two inch Swiss Army knife, opened the blade, held it up and made a cross-cutting motion. “Just like that.” Red said.
     Cannon was startled, not sure what to believe.
     “I told you I need someone to look after me. Can you?”
     Before Cannon could respond, the girl looked away. “Mrs. Rumpke is an old hag and I wish she were dead.”“I see I have unfinished business tonight.”
     Shaking his head, Cannon told her to go home. And not to worry about Mrs. Rumpke. Red nodded and reluctantly got up, leaving behind a cookie.
     “I know you worry about me. But I can take care.” She said, her gray-flecked eyes solemn as she left. Cannon waited on his balcony until Red appeared and waved.
     The next morning at daybreak Cannon was awakened by a shrill screaming, then loud voices. He got up and went into the living room. The commotion was coming from the building diagonally across from his.
Cannon went out on his balcony and was horrified to see someone dangling from the third floor in the next building. A small group of morning walkers were gawking at the body which swayed in the morning breeze. Cannon stared, and then looked away. It was Mrs. Rumpke.
     That night Cannon sipped a Willamette Pinot Noir and gazed at the fading twilight over the snow-capped Cascade Mountains. He would relocate tomorrow to Boise, Idaho; spend March and early April in Idaho, then on to Wyoming, and then into the Dakotas. With all the new apps on the market, the demand for cell phone capacity was endless.
     Suddenly Cannon froze, his wine glass in mid-air. He held his breath, but all was quiet. There it was again. He cocked his head and felt a chill, the hairs on his neck standing up.
     There was a light tapping at his apartment door.