Two Killers on the Loose

By Elaine Hamill

When it became inevitable a category five hurricane was going to bombard the Louisiana Coast, Residents, who had the means to escape the devastation of the impending storm, gathered a few prized possessions and headed for points north and west. Others took a wait-and-see attitude not wanting to admit to themselves or to anyone else the possibility of losing everything they owned.

Since it became obvious New Orleans was in the direct path of the hurricane, an evacuation of inmates from the prison was initiated. A caravan of busses took their unsavory passengers to other prisons in Alabama and Texas. As soon as the last three buses were full, the respective drivers headed to Texas in hopes of outrunning the life threatening flood waters, which, without a doubt were going to swallow up everything and everyone in their path. Five death row inmates were left behind. It was certain the antiquated, inadequate levees would not hold for long. The result of their giving way most certainly would be catastrophic and New Orleans inevitably would be submerged twenty-five feet beneath the deadly waters of Lake Pontchartrain.

Three of the youngest guards were left to supervise the exodus. If the inmates did not survive, it would be no loss to society. They all had exhausted every appeal the law allowed and were waiting for their execution. Now they were doomed to a watery grave unless one of the guards took pity on them and set them free. It would be every man for himself. The prisoners, who typically spent hours every day lifting weights and strengthening their bodies, make a break for freedom. However, it is not long before two of them are incarcerated in Texas and the third dies in a shootout in a bank robbery. That left two murders on the loose: but where were they, and more importantly what were they doing?

The story traces the escapees for seven years. One continues to act according to form and excitingly lives on the edge avoiding one capture after another; however, the second killer, who has had the advantage of an outstanding education and an honorable family life, meets a wonderful young lady who unknowingly motivates him to a higher standard of life. With his new identity he cleverly gains respectability and stature in high society. From outward appearances he has everything a man could desire; however, his paranoia invades his days and especially his restless nights and nearly consumes him.
The subplot focuses upon a neophyte reporter whose exuberance and humorously unorthodox methods of getting the story, unwittingly weaves in and out of the second killer’s life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Aug 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781621831693

Elaine Hamill

Elaine Hamill’s parents often wondered what would become of their lively, youngest daughter. When there was any mischief afoot, she always could be found in the middle if it. You can imagine their relief when she announced she was entering the convent, where she remained for twenty three years.Although architecture always held a fascination for Elaine, fate destined her for the educational field as teacher, principal, teacher trainer, counselor and janitor (when one could not be found). While she was a member of the Society of the Holy Child, a deep insight into the multifaceted condition of the human spirit was gained. For years she was a professional student and her transcript looks like a travel log. For several years she taught sailors and marines at Navy bases and counseled divorced individuals which gave her a first hand experience with the pain people cause one another.Her interests are many: reading, portrait painting, furniture building, designing, telling jokes and writing. Retirement affords her time to build stories, invent people and all sorts of situations in which they live.

Book preview

Two Killers on the Loose

A novel of suspense and romance

by

Elaine Hamill

Brighton Publishing LLC

501 W. Ray Road

Suite 4

Chandler, AZ 85225

www.BrightonPublishing.com

Copyright © 2013

ISBN: 978-1-62183-169-3

E-Book

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Dedication

To Janet, Marge, Renata—three great friends

Chapter One

Dick Blackwell was almost overcome with joy when he heard the unusual noise. All the criminals welcomed the sound with bone chilling fear mixed with extraordinary elation, which especially gripped the souls of the prisoners on death row.

The screech of the heavy, paint-chipped gate, as it released from its securely locked position, was like music to the ears of Dick Blackwell and Earl Madison. Under ordinary circumstances the grating noise would have been cause for complaints; today, however, it was the sound of freedom and jubilation for five inmates who had exhausted all the appeals the law allowed. They were scheduled to die an ignominious death as a consequence of their dastardly crimes. The squeaking sound heralded the possibility of a new beginning; their chronically accepted hopelessness and defeatism turned into an unexpected second chance tinged with overpowering joy. They were going to be free men—that is, if they could swim or outrun the flood that was about to submerge New Orleans.

Dick’s heart beat so rapidly, it actually hurt his chest. It felt as though someone were inside him pounding with hammers in desperation, trying to get out. He ignored the stabbing sensation as soon as the cell doors were opened and the prisoners made a mad dash for the outside and the world beyond.

Dick was in excellent physical condition because he lifted weights daily; it was a good way of avoiding run-ins with unfriendly factions in the yard. When the weights were being monopolized by gang members, he would run around the perimeter of the yard as fast as he could. Being in excellent physical condition was insurance against bullies, who were out for a brawl or revenge for some perceived wrong done to them—imaginary or real. He thanked his lucky stars he had been on the swim team at the university instead of going out for football. That skill just might save his life.

Dick’s destination was his mother’s house on Garden Lane in the affluent part of town known as the Garden District. He would check on his mother, who typically refused to evacuate when hurricanes were on their way; he knew for a fact the insistent urgings of the authorities would fall upon deaf ears. She had weathered the last hurricane and was convinced she was invincible and would pull through this one as well. Dick hoped she had not given away his clothes to some charity, as she had his father’s. He had to divest himself of the bright orange jump suit with the large black letters that spelled out the fact that the wearer was a criminal.

A rickety old truck lumbered down the road; when it came near, the driver invited Dick to climb aboard. Dick jumped into the back and found a woebegone family of four. The father eyed the new passenger with suspicion and fear. One could almost hear what the fellow was thinking as he pulled his wife and two children closer to him: What crime did this guy commit? How safe are we around him?

The truck went several blocks, but when the driver turned in the wrong direction, Dick jumped out and began to sprint toward his family’s stately antebellum house. One could imagine the deep sigh of relief that emanated from the other passengers as distance grew between them.

Conflicting emotions nearly overcame him: elation at one end of the spectrum and death-gripping fear at the other. Was he going to be swept under the wall of water that he knew was just a few blocks away and heading his way? This fear provided him with a great impetus to run even faster. Just as he was about to turn down his mother’s street, he heard an eerie, crashing sound above the screams of the people who foolishly had decided to ride out the hurricane. These were the sounds of the damned in Dante’s Paradise Lost. Dick did not take time to look behind him as he reached his mother’s block; he knew Lake Pontchartrain was roaring down on his heels, taking trees, vehicles, bushes, yelping dogs, and anything else in its path.

Since Dick did not have a key and there was no response to his banging on the front door, he looked for some heavy object to throw through the window. He hefted a flowerpot, planted with flowers, and smashed it through the living room window.

Mother, where are you? he called. It’s Dick. Mother, Mother, Mother! He ascended the stairs and found his mother on her four-poster bed. Apparently fear had gotten the better of her when she realized she was trapped, and her heart had stopped beating. In an instant he was filled with remorse and sorrow for all the pain he had caused her. As she lay there peacefully in her deadly repose, Dick began looking for cash and a change of clothes. His father’s clothes long ago had been donated to charity, so he was certain none of his remained in what used to be his room.

He decided to take his mother’s body to the attic and hoped the torrential waters would not reach that high, but when he reached the stairs with her in his arms, the foul-smelling current was cascading through the broken living window and was fast approaching. He decided to lay her back in her own bed where he had found her.

He had the presence of mind to grab the sharp, dagger-like letter opener from her boudoir desk before jumping out the bedroom window into the murky waters below. If being submerged in the filthy water was his only chance at freedom, then he had no real choice.

Next door lived the Johnson family. James and Dick had been the best of friends growing up; they had gone to the exclusive boys’ academy together and then on to M.I.T. One would think they were brothers. James had been a serious student, but Dick liked to party and have a good time, so the two boyhood friends grew apart and traveled in different circles. Dick did not know that James had married and that a terrible accident had claimed his wife and baby girl. After the tragedy his mother had convinced James he needed to move back home temporarily so she could mother him and take care of him through the grieving process.

With great effort Dick swam toward the second-story porch of the Johnson home and pulled himself up. James was as surprised as though he had seen a ghost from another world when Dick opened the French doors and stepped inside the master bedroom.

Jimmy, I need some clothes; anything of yours will do. This was said as he disrobed and divested himself of the bright-orange prison garb he hated so much.

James stood there, lost in disbelief, as though he were a statue. He had had two really big shocks in a matter of minutes and they almost left him lifeless. When he finally found his voice, he said, Help me carry my parents’ bodies up to the attic; they both had heart attacks. I’ll take Dad; you get my mom.

As James started ahead of Dick, time was of the essence as this welcomed, unexpected gift fell into the prisoner’s lap. By now the waters reached the second floor, and Dick dropped his burden and grabbed James from behind. Within seconds the already murky waters at his feet turned red. As the saying goes, once a killer, always a killer. Dick had but a few minutes to strip off his bloody clothing and don the pants he quickly tugged off the lifeless body of his former friend. Much to his delight he found a well-stocked wallet in Jimmy’s back pocket. He searched a little for more money, but when the sound of a rescue motorboat neared, he climbed onto the balcony and hailed a ride.

Who else is inside? the rescuer called out.

I was home alone; thank heavens they all got out, he lied.

As Dick climbed into the boat, he noticed the orange garment floating behind him, as though his criminal past would not let go of him. He needed a distraction—and fast. Look over there; I think there’s someone in the water behind that house.

The boat instantly was turned in the designated direction when someone asked, Any pets?

No, no pets. Let’s go.

After searching for several minutes, the boat headed to another house, where two very scared people were hanging onto the chimney for dear life. We’ll take you to the stadium where buses will be available to transport you to another city, the rescuer told them. Some passengers were crying, while others were mute, statue-like and catatonic as though they were already dead.

Anywhere is fine with me. As long as there is distance between me and the Johnsons’ house, thought Dick, who from now on would be known by his stolen identity, James Jim Johnson.

There was destruction everywhere one looked. Grand old historic houses had been reduced to piles of rubble. Valuable personal documents, art treasures, clothes, furniture, and photos noting happier times were obliterated. Those, who were fortunate to heed the evacuation warnings early enough, escaped the wrath of the killer storm with precious little in the way of material wealth. Objects in which these people took pleasure and pride were reduced to bits and pieces of junk. Gilded frames, which formerly housed priceless paintings gathered from around the world, now contained dirty, ripped, water-soaked canvasses.

Dick was totally detached from the destruction that surrounded him. His thoughts were consumed with the question of how he would be able to pull off his stolen identity. He did not see why not; he knew so much about the real James Johnson—the now dead James Johnson.

The boat made three more stops and gathered six more passengers, and then it headed in the direction of the stadium, which they found to be overly crowded. After Dick and the others had stood outside for what seemed like an eternity, a bus appeared on the scene. Self-preservation kicked in as Dick pushed his way onto it. As each mile ticked by, Dick became more at ease, especially when someone asked the driver what city was their destination.

We’re on our way to Austin. They still have room to accommodate us.

Austin, Texas? Great, he would be out of state. As the realization sank in, he unclenched his fists and gradually became a little more relaxed; however, he wondered if anyone recognized him as the fellow who had dominated the news in the papers and on television a year ago. As he took in the scenery, he promised himself he would never be caged again—never. With his new identity, he could get a respectable job and have a good, honest, and hopefully comfortable life. Then a sinister smile crossed his face as he began to get accustomed to his new name and his new possibilities. He thanked the corpse he had left floating behind in his neighbors’ house. It would be ages before the real James Johnson’s body would be discovered. There would be no hiding the fact he had been murdered, but that did not bother Dick in the least.

At some point members from the American Red Cross boarded the bus and distributed sandwiches and coffee, which tasted much better than prison food. Could that be because he was eating it on the outside? Several hours later the bus came to a stop; they had reached their destination. Next, there was the wait in an endless line, as each person was required to sign in. The idea did not sit well with Dick; he wanted no accountability to anyone.

There is no one in the world who would be looking for me, so why do I have to sign in? he asked the woman volunteer behind a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses. No one, that is, except the police.

Ignoring his remarks, the volunteer asked, Do you have any form of identification on you?

Dick reluctantly produced James’ Massachusetts driver’s license. Instantly he realized his mistake—the picture in the officious lady’s hands did not all that much like the grown up Dick. James was now a stocky man. Fortunately for Dick, the robotic worker did not lift her eyes as she finished filling out the required form and sent the nervous man on his way to find a cot.

The stench of unwashed bodies was overpowering. What else could one expect? Some of these people had walked up to their necks in sewer water amid drowned animals and feces. Dick tried to position himself against a wall to minimize his exposure. There were bathrooms, but the lines to use them were long; nevertheless, since Dick had nothing else to do, he headed in that direction. After a torturous, interminable wait, Dick entered the facility and immediately stripped and began washing himself, his shoes, socks, and underwear in one of the sinks. That was one good thing about prison: it was a clean, orderly place to live. There was no room in which to be messy.

Dick emerged holding most of his dripping laundry as he headed toward his cot, which he had turned over to designate it was taken. He stopped in his tracks due to the exquisite vision walking between the cots. She had the face of an angel, long shapely legs, and golden hair. It had been an exceedingly long time since he had seen a beautiful woman, for he had had no visitors during the year he had been incarcerated. After his father died, all communication with the family stopped, which was a blessing and a curse of his own making.

***

Several of the senior students in the psychology department at the university responded to the request to volunteer to help the flood victims in any way they could. They would try to ease the suffering of the poor unfortunates, who had been bused to the sports center for temporary shelter. Most likely the school authorities were asking for monetary assistance but did not come right out and say so.

To only give money seemed too cold and impersonal a donation for Liz O’Brien to make. Since she was a psychology major at the university, perhaps she could make a contribution of greater value by listening to the homeless, consoling them, giving them hope, and helping the refugees realize this could be a new beginning for them. She conjectured many of them would like to reinvent their circumstances given the opportunity. Liz must make them understand the past was gone, and they only had today and the future. The sooner they realized and accepted that fact they could not go back and change their personal history, the better it would be for them.

The air hung heavy on that dreadful day when Liz had arrived at the shelter. Now she walked up and down the aisles between the cots, stopping to chat with anyone who looked near catatonic or in shock at the realization their water-logged world had crumbled so completely. If they somehow got separated from their loved ones, she would make every effort to get news of them.

The air, indeed, hung heavy—Liz could not help but be aware of the odor, which was almost overpowering. She ventured forth anyway and tried to ignore the stench, realizing that people had not had the opportunity to shower or change their filthy clothes for two days at this point. Any evacuee who had walked waist- or chin-deep in water contaminated by feces, oil, and chemicals bore witness to the horrible odors that replaced the tantalizing, delicious smells typically wafting from the famous New Orleans restaurants. But now they were in Austin, Texas. Now all their luxury and grandeur was very much a thing of the past; they had exchanged New Orleans, which now was one gigantic sewer, for Austin, an upbeat city of art, music and creativity. The refugees must realize it would be months or even years before the city they had left behind could be inhabited with any degree of safety and without any fear of contamination.

Life would never be the same again for the people who had called New Orleans home. Many would better themselves by a new beginning with the help of generous government checks and the assistance of charitable individuals and organizations. Others, who had been affluent, would have to rebuild and reproduce their success. If they did it once, and were not too old or disheartened, most likely they could do it again—that is, if they had the health and will to do so.

The best advice Liz could impart to the victims was to help them not to look back and dwell upon the negative: not what was, but what could be ahead of them. The potential of tomorrow was what she would emphasize. She knew that was a tall order, but she had to try. The young volunteer responded so intently to the tears and moans around her and was so preoccupied with them, she did not notice the stares of the ruggedly handsome man who studied her every move as he sat upon his cot against the wall. The expression on his face was different from the others’—he looked content and almost happy.

Many of the refugees had never been out of their immediate surroundings since their birth. Even though New Orleans was a destination for innumerable travelers from around the world, many of those who called New Orleans home had only known a restrictive environment. An impressive number of residents could trace their lineage back to times when the French were the rulers of the land. They had unique customs: Catholicism mixed with the occult, and the two diametrically opposite factions were deemed logical and posed no problem for them. They had their jazz, their Creole foods, their traditions, and their language. These people were the Deep South personified.

Every year the restaurateurs and shop keepers looked forward to Mardi Gras with great anticipation and looked forward to its end with even more passion. The festival meant money for the local economy and one unbelievably horrendous mess that remained after the rowdy throngs went back to their clean, quiet lives. It was accurate to say the visitors were both revered and reviled.

Everyone knew it would be years before the crowds would return to celebrate and herald in the holy season of Lent in such a ludicrous way, with drunkenness, narcotics, debauchery, and vulgar displays of bad taste. It also would be a very long time before the people of the city would return—if, indeed, they did return at all. Perhaps many would never come back, having now been exposed to a different—if not a better—way of life. Although no other place had the same flare, perhaps once the unknown world outside was experienced, some might prefer the uniqueness of other cities and find them exhilarating.

Liz noticed a weary-looking woman of ample proportions by the name of Chantille, who had five very lively little children. Were they all hers? Poor woman. Liz approached and tried to help her control two boys and a little girl who were running up and down the aisles. As one of the boys rounded a corner, he fell at Liz’s feet and announced his presence with an ear-splitting howl. She tried to comfort him as his mother took off after her other two children. Liz got nowhere with the inconsolable lad. Suddenly the man, she had noticed before, stepped forward. He lifted the child into his arms and whispered some soothing words in his ear. Immediately the howling stopped.

How did you do that? Liz asked the stranger. What did you say to him?

I told him, if he did not stop being so noisy, I was going to cut his head off and put it into his pocket.

They both laughed as they studied one another’s features. So he has a sense of humor.

No, what did you really say to him?

I told him he wasn’t hurt, so there was no need for him to make a lot of noise and wake up the sleeping babies.

Why didn’t I think of that? She extended her hand and introduced herself. Hi, I’m Elizabeth O’Brien.

My name is Jim Johnson, and believe me, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. He continued holding her right hand, and she caught him studying her left one, which sported no engagement or wedding ring. By now the other four children were by their side, and the handsome stranger sat on the floor and started to tell them a story. Other children joined the group and were intent upon being included. Now it was Liz’s turn to stare at this modern Pied Piper. It was with great difficulty Liz tore herself away from the group and started to attend to other refugees.

Sadness came into her eyes as she went about the room filled with homeless individuals. She wished she could take all of them home with her to her parents’ house. That was not practical, but she could rescue the frazzled woman with the five lively children; that would relieve the situation for everyone. The story was just coming to a conclusion when Liz reached the group once more. She addressed the worried mother. We have a gate house that is unoccupied at the moment, and if you would like to, you could stay there until we find you a place of your own.

The woman was so overcome with emotion, she could not find a voice to answer. Her smiles, as well as her tears, gave grateful assent as she began collecting the few items she had managed to rescue from their humble home and secured them in two garbage bags. When the youngest son saw his mother cry, he began to have a noisy, uncontrollable tantrum. For the second time, Jim knelt down and whispered some soothing words, which had a quieting effect once again. The little fellow’s response was to put his thin arms around the stranger’s neck and plant a wet, juicy kiss on Jim’s cheek.

Liz was very much impressed with the power the stranger had over the child. The mother was trying to follow Liz to her van, but found it difficult because she was struggling to carry the bundles as well as her youngest son, while the other four kept tugging on her faded and tattered skirt, impeding her every step. Jim came to her rescue once again by putting the squirming child on his shoulders and relieving her of the bundles as well.

You are really outnumbered, aren’t you? He laughed, trying to make light of the situation.

When the motley group was seated in the van, Jim tried to place the youngest child in his mother’s arms, but the little guy would have no part of it and let out a blood-curdling scream. Passers-by registered a mixture of disgust, annoyance, and sympathy. It was an impossible situation, and Liz knew they would not make it home safely if the child did not quiet down. She went to Jim and said in his ear, Would you consider coming home with us and helping with the children? There is plenty of room, and you would have a suite all to yourself.

Jim did not have to be asked twice; he was delighted to have any opportunity to prolong his contact with this enchanting beauty. He was irresistibly drawn to her; this altered his life-long stance that love at first sight did not happen. Did he feel this way because he had not seen a woman for so long, or was he genuinely captivated by her beauty and grace?

The ride to the O’Briens’ house was somewhat uneventful. Three of the older children were fast asleep on the smooth leather seats. The second-youngest boy was content to be held close to his loving mother’s ample bosom. Jim and his newly acquired buddy occupied the front seat next to Liz. The little fellow ate up the attention he was receiving. As soon as the adults started to have a conversation, the child would ask a question and direct the focus back to himself; he was a masterful manipulator for one so young.

You have the patience of biblical Job. Do you have children of your own? This was Liz’s way of finding out if Jim had a wife somewhere. She warned herself to keep her heart in check until his story was told.

Heavens no. What makes you ask?

You’re so good with little ones. The silence that followed was extremely awkward and almost deafening in its quietness, until another question was forthcoming from the small passenger in the front seat.

Dick—now known as Jim—analyzed her personal question. Hopefully she was trying to find out if he were available. Yes, he was—definitely for her, he was. She actually might be interested in him, and that possibility thrilled him.

When the gatehouse came into view, the adult passengers were duly impressed with their temporary accommodations, even though Jim had been reared in wealth.

Is this our new house, Momma? This was repeated by each wide-eyed child in turn before she had a chance to answer the first child. Jim was ushered to the master suite on the second floor. Liz thought it a safety factor to restrict the little ones to the main floor, where they would not fall down the stairs.

After everyone was settled in and Liz had announced supper would be in an hour, she drove to the main house to face the scary task of informing her parents they had guests. Immediately her father, George O’Brien, wanted to know their names and any other pertinent information she had gathered about the two adults. One of the servants had told the O’Briens the husband was a white man but his wife was an African American. It was a foregone conclusion the head of the house would have them checked out by a professional who did such things. Liz prayed the inquiries would yield good results and set her father’s mind at ease once he was assured they were not harboring murders, thieves, or anyone with a prison record.

Precisely at the appointed hour three servants, as well as