Sunken Graves Alan Lee (reading e books .txt) 📖

wrong and his fly was down. And he’d forgotten the sunglasses! Carefully he righted the buttons and zipped himself and returned to the locker for the sunglasses. Back at the mirror, he slid on the glasses and sunk his face into the scarf. And he allowed himself to smile.

He’d done it.

Caldwell left the locker room and didn’t look at anyone, face hidden. Didn’t speak because he knew his articulation gave him away. On his way out, the desk attendant wished him a good day, silently amused at Mr. Lynch and his outfit. In the parking lot, Caldwell fixed his eyes on Mr. Lynch’s Jaguar and walked straight to it, twice reminding himself not to look in the direction of his own car.

The car unlocked automatically as he neared, sensing the key in the peacoat’s pocket. Caldwell giggled to himself and slid behind the wheel.

The security cameras, always recording, watched the indistinct man in the scarf and hat get into the Jaguar and drive away, the sports car making the turn too sharp and bottoming out on the curb.

Within his dark shower stall, Lynch waited in ambush with the patience of a leopard.

Craig Lewis arrived at the Carilion Wellness Center ten minutes after Homer left. A creature of habit, Lewis parked his Honda Accord close to the doors in the same spot he always chose when available, and he said good morning to the same desk attendant he always did.

He attended three cycling classes a week and it’d been two years since he’d missed the Sunday morning 10:30 session. Routines were important.

Already dressed in cycling gear, he deposited his bag in the locker room and hurried upstairs to claim his favorite bike.

A full hour later Lewis returned, dripping with sweat. Standing at their lockers, he chatted with friends he’d made in the class over the summer. Normally Lewis didn’t mind but today he was forced to listen to stories about grandchildren. Ghastly.

After making the polite and appropriate remarks, he went to the steam room while his friends showered and left. The steam room was empty and Lewis let his weariness sweat out.

In the dim light of his shower cave, Peter Lynch withdrew two extra large latex gloves from his toiletry bag. He snapped them on and remained calm, peering through the gap in his curtains. This was no time for wild rage. He had to maintain focus and control, like in a courtroom.

Lewis emerged from the steam pink and wrinkly. He chose the shower stall at the far end, adjacent to Lynch’s. He pulled the privacy curtain closed and dropped the towel, just visible on the floor. Lynch heard him twist the nozzle and step into the spray.

The white-tiled corridor was empty.

Dripping, Lynch exited his own dressing stall and entered Lewis’, the one adjacent. He twitched the privacy curtain closed, sealing them in.

Lewis was pumping the shampoo dispenser when he noticed the plastic curtain dim, like a light had gone out. He pushed it aside to peek.

Peter Lynch was naked and hideous and smiling beyond the plastic.

Lewis tried to say, “Good God!” but he was gathered into Lynch’s arms and crushed against his immense and terrible flesh. Lynch outweighed him by a hundred and twenty pounds.

There emitted from the shower no sounds of struggle. Lewis’ arms were pinned, his feet lifted from the floor. His face was sealed against Lynch’s chest, the screams shut inside his mouth. The words being whispered into his ear were lost in the spray.

Water ran in rivulets over Peter Lynch’s closed eyes. He drank in Craig Lewis’ agony. The dissipating life sated him, quenched the seething inferno of his mind, and soon he was limp with relief. He cradled the man to his breast for sixty seconds after the writhing ceased, and at last the corpse was allowed to slump to the shower floor.

Last night, as he pictured the current scene, he imagined that he would urinate on Lewis’ body, a final show of disrespect, punishment for daring to fire a gun at him. Now, however, he felt no need. The halls of his mind were sweet and clean. In such a rare mood, he forgave Daisy her betrayal. All his punitive plans for her, erased. She had been in awe of him, it was that simple, and who could blame her, a sacrificial virgin trembling before the might of a volcano. He enjoyed visions of her, nubile and innocent, before returning to the task at hand.

A medical examiner would determine instantly that Craig Lewis had been smothered to death—the tell-tale bloodshot eyes, the high level of carbon dioxide in the blood, the bruising around his nose and mouth. There was no need to pretend something else had happened in the shower.

Lynch reached into the changing area for his toiletry bag. He withdrew tweezers and a brush and a spray bottle. Inside the bottle was a cocktail of Nucleoclean and LookOut DNA Erase.

Hidden behind two curtains, Lynch had ample time to remove or destroy all incriminating genetic evidence. Lewis had scratched him with fingernails and toenails, and so all ten were carefully scrubbed with the brush and sanitized with the spray. He used tweezers to remove long hairs from Lewis’ lips and eyelashes, and he washed Lewis’ sparse hair thoroughly to ensure none of his own remained. The dead man hadn’t been able to pry his jaws apart enough to bite him, but still Lynch scrubbed the tongue and teeth, and he filled the mouth and nasal cavities with his decontaminating spray, more effective than bleach. He soaked a washcloth in the solution and scoured Lewis’ face and eyes and hands and feet and genitals. He used the remaining spray to coat Lewis’ body and let the shower wash it down the drain, ensuring no traceable evidence would be found in the pipes.

Thirty minutes of careful labor and the shower was sterile. A small contained area made the job easier than in the past.

The hallway empty again, Lynch left the murder scene