Bicycle Shop Murder by Robert Burton Robinson (fiction novels to read .TXT) đ
- Author: Robert Burton Robinson
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âHope youâve got a good lawyer.â
âYeah. Heâs pretty good, I think.â
ââCause you donât stand much of a chance in this town. The white people are gonna send somebody to the electric chair for that murder. And youâre black, so it might as well be you.â
âNope. Iâm gonna get off. And then Iâm moving to Shreveport. Gonna buy me a brand new car.â
âSo, youâve got money, huh? Rich family?â
âNah. Theyâre poor. But Iâve got my own money.â
âWhat kind of car?â
âIâm thinking a Cadillac XLR Roadster. A red one.â
âReally? So, youâve got $90,000 to spend on a car? Heyâyou want to be best friends?â Big Ben laughed at his naive cellmate. âReallyâI could use a new car too. How about it?â
âNo. I donât have that much to spend. And Iâm sure not buying you one.â
âMaybe you could settle for a Miata. Itâs a girly car, but it might be more in your price rangeâaround $25,000, I think.â
âI donât want no girly car.â Kantrell had not even checked the price of his dream car. To him, $30,000 was a fortune. It should have been enough to buy anything he wanted.
âSo, where did you get the money?â
âWhere do you think?â A wry smile slowly formed on Kantrellâs face.
âYou mean you really did do it?â
âNot so loud.â Kantrell looked down the hallway, checking for guards.
âYou killed Sam?â
âNo.â His lips lied, but the smirk on his face told the truth.
âYou did do it. I can see it in your eyes. But Sam wouldnât have had that much money in the shop. Somebody must have hired you to do it. But why? Sam didnât have any enemies.â
âYeah, he did. He had at least one.â
âYou stupid fool! Donât you realize what youâve done? Sam Spokane was a great man. I donât care what color he was. He cared about everybody. When I was twelve years old, and starting to get into trouble, Sam helped turn me around. I grew up poor, and the only bike we had was so busted up we couldnât even give it away.
âBut somehow Sam found out about me, and offered me a deal. He told me that he and I could take an old bike he had in his shop, and rebuild it together, a few hours a day, after school. Then heâd give it to me. It was great. And I didnât see it at the time, but all those funny stories he told were actually teaching me lessons.â
âYeah, everybody talks about how great he was. But he was real old. He didnât have much time left anyway. And I couldnât turn down that kind of money.â
âNot everything is about money, punk! That old man was like a grandfather to me. I oughta bust your head wide open!â
Without backing away from the table, Big Ben jumped to his feet, flipping the heavy table onto his cellmateâs chest.
Kantrellâs chair tipped backward. He tried to jump out to the side, but found himself pinned to the chair by the weight of the table.
A bicycle helmet might have saved him. But he had no helmet, nor anything else to protect his bare head from the rock-solid surface. His skull crashed into the unforgiving cold, hard concrete. A coconut thrown against a boulder would have produced a similar crunch. But cracking open a coconut would not have caused Big Ben to vomit all over himself.
In a single motion, he yanked the table off Kantrell, and threw it into the wall behind him with such velocity that two of the legs broke off. Kantrell didnât appear to be breathing. Big Ben looked at him in horror, fearing he had killed the boy.
âGuard! Guard! Call 911! Hurry!â
*
One of the jail guards had phoned Kantrellâs mother right after calling 911. She was pacing the floor in the emergency room when they rolled him through the doors. Kantrellâs eyes were closed.
âI want to speak to my son.â
âIâm sorry, maâam, but youâll have to wait,â the guard said.
âBesidesâheâs barely conscious,â said one of the paramedics.
âI donât care. Iâm gonna talk to my boy!â Ella Jamison was a large, strong woman. She grabbed the stretcher, leaned over Kantrell, and whispered, âKantrell, this is your mama. Do you hear me?â
He opened his eyes a little, but was in a daze. âYes, Mama.â
âWhere did you hide the money?â
âThatâs my money.â
âKantrell, you gotta think about your poor mama and your little sister. Now, where is the money?â
âIâm gonna buy a new car.â
âThatâs fine. Weâll hold the money for you until you get out of jail.â
âNo, Mama. Thatâs my money. I earned it.â
âNow you listen to me, Kantrell. You hit your head real hard tonight. What if you die? Then we wonât know where to find the money. Then what are we gonna do?â
âIâm sorry, Mama.â
The guard pulled Ella away from the stretcher. And before she could think of what to say next, Kantrell had disappeared through the double doors.
*
Between Cabin 14 and Cabin 15, there was a small road. John X drove down the road until it widened near the lake. He made a u-turn, turned off his lights, and killed the engine. He had finally found the Bonneville. It was parked in front of the last cabinânumber 17. He checked his watch. It was 10:45 PM.
Greg and Cynthia would probably be asleep soon, he thought. Unless they were having sex. Maybe he should go now, and find out. It would be fun to crash through the door in the middle of it. But noâthat might be risky. It would be safer if they were asleep. Being safe was not normally a high priority for him. But after the fiasco with the 18-wheeler, he was feeling a little more cautious.
He would wait a couple of hours. Then he would walk to their cabin, quietly pick the lock, and slip inside. Then he would flip on the light, and wake them upâwith his .44 Magnum in hand. And they would, of course, do whatever he said.
He had decided to use his âtwo hearts for the price of one bulletâ plan. He would set them up back to back, and then blow a big hole through both of them with one shot. He would enjoy watching them cry and beg for mercy.
Of course, the .44 Magnum would be very noisy. Itâs a revolverâlike an Old West pistol, except bigger and more powerful. And itâs impossible to effectively suppress the sound because of the open chambers. But he couldnât resist using it. He had owned the gun for over a year, but had never used it on a job. The people in nearby cabins would definitely hear it, but would initially be afraid to go near the source of the blast.
John X would be long gone before anyone worked up the nerve to investigate, and discovered the gruesome scene in Cabin 17. And if anyone saw the Mustang driving away, that wouldnât matter either. He would dump it a few miles down the road.
*
Greg woke up to the voice of Jay Leno. He had dozed off during the monologue. Cynthia was asleep in her bed. He clicked the remote to turn off the TV, and tried to go back to sleep. But now his mind was wide-awake.
It had been another wild day in a crazy week. And even though they had nearly been killed in a car wreck, he wouldnât have wanted to be anywhere else. There was something about being with Cynthia that made life special. He had never felt this way about any other woman. Even his ex-wife.
Sure, she was beautiful and sexy. Sweet and caring. Smart and funny. He imagined holding her slender, but curvy body in his arms, while kissing her warm, wonderful lips. It gave him chills. The kind of chills you want to feel every day for the rest of your life.
But it was more than just physical. Much more. He loved talking to her about anything and everything. And joking around with her. Just having fun together. How sad and miserable he would be, if he found she didnât feel the same way. In that case, wouldnât he have been better off not to have ever met her? No. Even if they were only together for these few days, it still would have been worth it.
Worth every minute of it.
John X had waited until 1:00 AM to leave his car. More than likely, Greg and Cynthia were sleeping, he figured. Hopefully the people in all of the cabins were sleeping. But he wondered how the animals in the woods could ever sleep at nightâthe crickets and the bullfrogs created a wall of sound as loud as a rock concert.
He walked along the lake behind the woods, in the direction of Cabin 17. Each cabin had its own little pathway to the lake. Cabin 17 was surrounded by the road in front, the woods on the right and back, and Cabin 16 on the left. The trail he was on would come out behind number 17. A flashlight helped him avoid snakes and other critters. He was carrying a small overnight bag, containing the .44 Magnum revolver and two rolls of duct tape.
Each cabin had only one window. The bottom half of the window held a large air conditioning unit. Cabin 17âs window faced the woods. As John X carefully walked around the side of the cabin, he noticed that there was no light coming from the cabin. He ducked under the window, walked to the front, and put an ear to the door. All he heard was the hum of the window unit.
He picked the lock. It was even easier than he had expected. He turned the doorknob, and eased the door open very slowly, counting on the air conditioner to mask the sound of any squeaky hinges. The room was illuminated only by moonlight. But he could see that they were both in their beds. The top half of the window was uncovered. But since there were only trees and brush in that direction, he didnât care.
He reached into his bag, and pulled out his big, heavy revolverâhis most prized weapon. All six rounds were loaded, even though he only intended to use one. Then he felt along the wall by the door for the light switch and flipped it on. âTime to wake up, and die!â
Cynthia simultaneously woke up, gasped, and jumped back against the headboard. Greg opened his eyes, but was frozen in place. The young man standing before them was holding a very big gun in his hand. A gun big enough to hunt buffalo.
âHello. My name is John. And Iâll be your killer tonight. But first weâre gonna have some fun. Or at least Iâm gonna have some fun. But youâll be a big part of it. So, thanks for flying with us.â He laughed.
What kind of a sick maniac is this? Cynthia wondered.
âI think you may have the wrong cabin,â said Greg. But he recognized him as the guy in the pickup who had tried to run them into the 18-wheeler.
âNo, Iâm in the right cabin. Cabin 17. Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockermanâs cabin. Your good friend, Buford Bellowin, sends me with greetingsâand a bullet.â
Greg had put the electronic tracker on a minivan at a gas station. Why wasnât the killer far away, chasing that minivan?
âHow did you find us?â Greg asked.
âI just followed the yellow brick road. Or, actually your big red convertible. A lot of people remembered seeing it.
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