King Exercise III

In which I conclude my brief foray, nudged on by Stephen King, into horror:


Jane, his ex-wife, was standing in the doorway to the den, grinning over a plate of cookies in her hand.

In an instant Richard leapt to his feet, unconsciously kneading his bad arm. He tried to say something, anything, his mouth futilely trying to form words, but none came.

Jane smiled again as she set the plate down. “Thought you’d like some more of my famous chocolate chip cookies, darling.”

A nauseating mixture of baked cookies and the sweet chemical scent of Jane’s perfume choked his nostrils. Of course, he thought, remembering the odor he detected entering the foyer. Jane’s special perfume. The perfume he bought her as a wedding gift, over eight years ago.

Finally he found his voice. “Jane, the hospital. How’d you get out?”

Jane wandered over to the fireplace. A sour look came upon her as she eyed the pictures on the mantel. Pictures of him with Nell. Without Jane. With Sheryl.

“Jane,” Richard continued, more forcefully. “How did you get out of the hospital!”

“Richard, darling, they let me out.”

“No, they didn’t. They were to keep you locked up for the rest of your life. For what you did to me. For what you were trying to do to Nell.”

Jane picked up an 8 1/2-by-11 picture of Richard and Sheryl, with Nell grinning in between them. Suddenly her face became impassive, and she turned to Richard with cold dead eyes. “What did I ever do to Nell,” she said, her voice rising in both pitch and volume, “besides TRY TO SAVE HER FROM YOU AND YOUR BITCH WOMEN WHORE SLUTS!” She flung the picture at Richard, who ducked; it shattered through the backyard window, erupting in showers of glass covering the floor of the den.

Richard quickly backed away, back towards the kitchen, backpedaling with his hands outstretched. “Jane, easy, now.” He realized that if she had escaped from the hospital she probably hadn’t been taking her medication. And an unmedicated Jane was a recipe for something ugly.

Jane followed him, tears welling in her eyes. “Why did you have to do it?” she hissed. “You know I have to punish you. I can’t allow you to – ”

“Jane, slow down. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He glanced furtively to his side, towards the counter, looking for something to help him defend himself. “Let’s relax, sit down.” Then he saw them: the scissors, next to Nell’s present. “Let’s talk this over.”

“We can’t. You don’t have enough time.”

Richard stopped retreating, and began to slowly align his body so that his good arm could lunge for the scissors. That he even had to do this filled him with hatred for her. Three years ago, while he was sleeping, Jane nearly severed his right arm at the bicep with pipe cutter.

“We have plenty of time, Jane. Besides, did you know its Nell’s birthday today?”

Jane motioned to the living room. “I know, darling. That’s why I’m here. ’Nother cookie?”

Blood drained from Richard’s face. He knew with certainty: the cookies contained lethal doses of a compound called carbon tetrachloride mixed with strychnine. Jane had bought some three years ago to kill Nell and tried to kill him when he discovered the poison and pieced together her plans. Now she was finishing the job.

He knew from his research he had an hour or two window to save himself. How long had he slept since he ate those first cookies? Two hours? Was he a dead man already?

Well, even if, he could still save Nell. He had no choice.

His stomach churning, he fought a sudden urge to vomit.

Jane laughed. “What’s the matter, Richard? Did my little piggy-wiggy eat too much – ”

Richard whirled, snatched up the scissors, and fell upon Jane. She shrieked, tried to fend him off with one arm while retreating towards the foyer –

The two fell into each other, crashing atop the kitchen table, falling to the floor in a mess of intertwined limbs, plates, and mail. Richard heaved himself up, found himself looking into Jane’s eyes.

Their eyes met for a long time, then Jane’s slowly dilated. Richard looked down, and saw his hands covered in blood. He released his grip on the scissors; they stayed wedged between her ribs.

He felt dizzy and sick, probably from the poison in his blood and the impact of what he had just done. Crawling away from the body, he thought, what do I need to do? Oh, yes, call the police. Immediately.

Putting one hand in front of the other, he slide off her body and through the debris of the kitchen. He finally slid up against the refrigerator, strained to reach up to grab the telephone, dialed 9-1-1. He explained to the operator that he was poisoned, that there was a homicide, could you please send someone over right away, yes ma’am, here’s my address, thank you. He let the phone drop.

Something caught his eye: a woman’s purse. Not Sheryl’s, but Jane’s. Sweating profusely and thinking it best to stay focused, he reached out and pulled the purse towards him. Was some of the poison still in there? He feverishly reflected it might be a good idea to find out; it might save his life if the paramedics knew what they were dealing with.

He roughly foraged through the contents of the purse, finding no containers or jars of any kind. But something did catch his attention. A magenta envelope, vaguely familiar to him. He recognized its color, the font of the writing. Oh yes, Clarke’s Bakery. He’d always get Nell treats there. He carefully opened the envelope, taking great care to stay focused, all the while awaiting an ambulance. It was an invoice. For Nell’s birthday catering at the school this afternoon. Let’s see, what did they eat? What do a dozen hyperactive seven-year-olds require for a birthday party?

For your records, the invoice announced. The birthday cake, a cake designed for two dozen, to be inscribed with the words “Happy Birthday Nell” and to hold seven candles.

Richard stared in horror. He tried to scream but a hoarse rasp came out instead.

Next to the box marked Picked Up By, in flowery cursive script –

Jane Davies