I knew I was in trouble when the zebra danced by with the barmaid.

I shook my head and they gave a final hoof-in-hand twirl before dissolving. The barmaid finished brushing crumbs off the zebra-patterned leather barstool and returned to her post.

I glanced across the table at my date. Or as my partner called her, my Girlfriend of the Month.

"Something wrong, honey?" Judging by the false concern in her voice, a month might be optimistic.

"Nope. Just fine." I smiled and squeezed her hand. "As a matter of fact, couldn't be better. It's Friday and I'm sitting here with a good beer and a great woman. What more can a guy ask for?"

Her generous lips tightened as she snatched her hand back.

"You're not that stupid." The snarl in her voice chased away my hopes of happily-ever-after. "I know the drug has to be working by now. What did you see? Dancing beer bottles? Singing margaritas?"

I glanced at my beer. A stream of bubbles drifted lazily towards the surface, pausing to spell out "sucker" before continuing to the top.

"You know, it should be a federal crime to tamper with a man's beer. Especially if you've been dating that man for almost a month."

"Seventeen days. That’s sixteen days longer than I wanted. But it's finally coming to an end." She gave me a cold smile and looked at her watch. "You should be losing your language skills right about now. Can you form a cohesive sentence?"

Warning bells went off in my head at the word "cohesive". In the past seventeen days, she'd never used a word more than two syllables long. And she’d giggled a lot more, too. An ugly picture started to form in my mind.

"Mudslide green bumblebee, kettle?" I asked.

People around us smiled at her bubbling, artificial laugh. "Oh honey, you're so cute when you're drunk."

She stood up and pulled me to my feet. The room spun and I stumbled into the table next to us. "She's crazy. Call 9-1-1," I said. Or tried to say.

"Brown sunshine. Shredder 325," I mumbled.

Steadying me with her arm, she gave the couple an apologetic smile. "He was promoted today. Assistant bookkeeper at the car dealership. I'm so proud of my Pookie. But I think he celebrated just a little too much."

I grunted. Like anybody would believe I was an accountant. Or a Pookie.

The couple must have been a bit tipsy themselves because they didn’t question her explanation, instead offering congratulations she led me out of the bar.

The cold night air helped steady my senses but my body refused to obey my commands. I staggered down the sidewalk to her car where she ignominiously shoved me in. She didn't bother with my seatbelt. This night was going downhill fast.

"So, have you figured out who I am, Mr. Hotshot Detective?"

"Peaches circuit candle concrete," I replied.

"Hmm…wonder what that means? Could you clarify?" She giggled. "No, I guess you can't."

"Guitar milk." The words might not have been right, but my disgust was clear.

"Now don't feel bad. I promise I'll tell you everything before it ends. I always do that, you know." Her features took on a calm, almost ethereal look. "I love that part. The moment when they realize how truly shallow they are, and how they misjudged a pretty pair of legs. None of them ever bothered to look beyond the surface."

I sat silently as she drove into an older part of the city. Once-grand houses stared at us, their sagging porches and gingerbread trim recalling better days. The few occupied homes had barred windows and curtains tightly closed to keep the night at bay.

After a few minutes we passed under a large wrought-iron arch. A long-dead craftsman had formed the words "Riverside Cemetery" among twisting ivy and rusting lilies.

She drove slowly down an overgrown drive. The headlights danced over broken headstones, casting eerie shadows of half-winged angels and headless cherubs. She started humming. I recognized the children's song "You Are My Sunshine".

We finally stopped in front of a large crypt decorated with an odd combination of gargoyles and laughing children.

"We're here." She sounded almost gleeful at our arrival.

I was pulled from the car and pushed toward the stone chamber. A twisted oak root grabbed my foot and sent me sprawling in the weeds. The sound of a rushing river mingled with her laughter.

"Did I tell you how much I love this drug?" she asked. "It makes even the strongest man malleable, putting him in my control. Yet the mind stays perfectly clear. Know how I know? I can see it in their eyes. Their beautiful, frightened eyes."

An old skeleton key appeared in her hand. She unlocked the gate and it swung open on well-oiled hinges.

"Maintenance is so important for these old buildings, don't you think?"

A sharp shove propelled me out of the faint moonlight into blackness filled with the smell of mold, bleach and the lingering odor of decaying flesh. My drugged reflexes were useless as I fell hard onto the cold stone floor.

Light filled the small chamber. From my inglorious position, I watched as she walked towards me swinging a camping lantern. The LED bulbs cast an oddly modern light on the gothic marble coffin that dominated the room.

“Welcome to my little hideaway. I think it is rather cozy.”

“Murdered them is this you where?” I asked.

Clapping echoed in the room. “Very good. I see that you are starting to get your speech back. Once they put you and your partner on the case, I knew I needed an inside source. You know, the whole ”˜keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ thing. Your partner was my original target, but I wasn’t her type.”

I dragged myself to the coffin and struggled to a sitting position. “DiMuzio smart very.”

“Obviously she isn’t, or you wouldn’t be here. Right, honey?” Her hand caressed my cheek, then continued on to the smooth, cold marble behind me.

“Yes, this is where I brought my bad boys. They really were, you know. No morals at all, each of them perfectly willing to pick up a stranger in a bar, not caring about their wives and kids at home. Until the end. They always cared at the end.”

Her fingers danced over the words engraved in the marble. “Etiam in morte, superest amor. In death, love survives. Fitting, don’t you think? My actions on this very slab stopped the infidelity, leaving their wives with the illusion of unending love. ” Her face almost glowed with self-righteousness.

“Psycho, lady coldblooded..." “

“Freeze!”

The command from outside was followed by the feel of a cold steel blade at my throat.

“Any move and he’s dead.” The knife pushed a little harder as she pulled me to my feet. We moved to the back of the chamber.

“Let him go.” My partner stepped into the light, her gun level and steady.

“Sorry, but we have other plans for the evening. Or rather, I do.”

Suddenly I was free. I turned as a concealed door shut behind me.

“Go standing don’t there!” I heard an engine start and then fade into the distance.

DiMuzio lowered her gun. “Nice to see you too.” Frustrated by my language skills, I just glared at her.

She laughed. “Come on, think about it. Why did she choose this cemetery? Why this crypt? And yes, I heard her drivel about the inscription.” She gave an unladylike snort at my blank expression. “It’s in German and says 'beloved wife and mother.' She chose this building because it’s closest to the river. She only had to drag her victims twenty feet out that back door and then they were drifting away downriver, washing away our evidence.”

I grunted my question.

“I know you trusted her. But I didn’t, so I followed you. Figured you could yell at me tomorrow if I was wrong. Once I saw you go in to the crypt, I knew a sadist like her wouldn’t be able to resist bragging a little. So I took a couple of minutes to check out this place. She had a powerboat fully gassed and ready to go. I took care of the 'fully gassed' part.”

DiMuzio glanced at her watch. “She should be running on fumes by now. I’ve got a crew on standby to pick her up once she’s safely away from shore.”

“Thanks.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“Guess you’re back in the market for a girlfriend. I have this cousin…”

"He's dead," Harold announced.

I looked at Harold and wondered what I’d ever seen in him.

"Gee Harry, what was your first clue? The fact that his head is on backwards? I hear that sometimes happens when you fall out of a hundred-foot tree."

"Your sarcasm is unbecoming for a woman in your position, Margaret," he replied.

"You just announced the death of a monkey in the middle of a jungle. And you're criticizing my deportment as lead archeologist?"

Harold gave a very refined, very upper-class sniff of disdain. "Death should always be taken seriously. Too bad we don’t have any thyme."

I resisted the urge to shake him.

"And why would we need thyme?" I patiently asked.

I received another disdainful look. "Have you forgotten your forensic archeology so quickly, my dear? It is an herb-of-all-trades, at least in reference to death. The Egyptians used it to embalm, the Greeks as a sign of courage, and in the middle ages it was used on coffins to assure passage to the next life."

"Of course, how could I have forgotten?" I searched my pockets and pulled out an envelope. "Darn, I’m all out of thyme. Unless I have some in here?" I looked in the envelope. "Nope, no thyme. Just a useless old map to some ancient temple. Too bad I prepared for an archeology expedition instead of the untimely death of a monkey."

I contemplated the small form in front of us.

"Harold, why don't you find someplace for him?"

"Are we going to try to get any farther today?" he asked.

"No, it's too late. Let's set up camp here. We'll look for the temple tomorrow."

While Harold relocated our deceased friend, I took a moment to review my notes. Officially, our goal was to locate an Aztec temple, but we hoped to find much more than that. With any luck, the temple would hold the Whale of Atlantis.

The Whale was rumored to be the key to finding the lost island of Atlantis. The Aztec civilization was well-known for its widespread reach and its gold. But it was also an established trading partner with connections throughout much of the ancient world. I had found my first reference to the Whale in the dusty basement of an old Spanish monastery. I still remembered the text:

The Whale of Atlantis had been given to an emperor many generations before the great Montezuma and was said to contain a map to a distant and amazing land. When the emperor showed it to us, we were initially unimpressed. It appeared to be a simple carving of ivory about as long as a man's arm, similar to what a sailor might make on a long voyage. Strange and ornate characters covered one side of the beast's body, and the other contained what appeared to be a map. Then the sun struck the whale and its eyes blazed with fire. Deeply carved eye sockets were set with large diamonds, fully half the size of a gold coin. After we all admired and examined it, Montezuma ordered the priests return it to their temple and nobody ever saw it again.

Hopefully, that would soon change.

The jungle creatures were still waking when we left camp in the morning. A bird screeched overhead, announcing our departure. We followed a small animal trail, pausing periodically to rest and check for landmarks.

It was just past nine when we suddenly entered a clearing. As my eyes adjusted from the jungle shadow to the bright sun, I saw that the space was dominated by a large stone temple.

"We found it, Margaret!" Harold shouted.

I smiled at his uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

"It's 9:23. Let's split up and take as many pictures as possible. We'll meet here at noon and head back to camp. If you find the Whale, don't touch it until we have a chance to fully document it in situ."

With that, we moved off in different directions. Harold headed towards an ornate entrance near the bottom of the structure. I paused for a few minutes, imagining what it had been like with priests swarming around and worshipper bringing gifts and sacrifices. Then I consulted my map and headed for a hidden entrance on the far side.

I located the door and opened it, exposing a small dark corridor. Flashlight in hand, I entered and followed a twisting maze deep into the bowels of the temple. A slight breeze assured me that the stale, musty air was safe to breathe.

I went deeper and deeper into the temple. Small animals skittered away as I approached.

I was close to the middle of the structure when I heard a soft rasping noise. At first I thought it was another jungle creature, possibly one with scales instead of fur. But as I continued, it grew louder and louder. It wasn't running away - and it didn't hear me coming.

I rounded another corner and entered a large, domed chamber. A stone table held a place of honor in the middle and Harold was bent over it.

"Find anything interesting?" I asked.

He spun around and my light struck the object in his hands. A rainbow of colors filled the room. He shifted again and a dark eye stared at me. An eye with a diamond iris.

"Margaret." His voice was flat and unemotional. But his eyes held a strange gleam.

"Congratulations, looks like you found the Whale of Atlantis. May I ask why you decided not to photograph it in situ?"

He gave a low chuckle. "I had much better things to do, my dear." Carefully setting the whale on the table, he walked around to the far side and picked up a small screwdriver - and a big revolver.

"Have a seat against the wall. I'll only be another minute and then we can chat."

Given the size of the gun in his hand, I decided to comply. Once I was safely on the floor, he picked up the screwdriver and went back to work on one of the eyes.

"So Harry, what's your story going to be? That we found the whale without its eyes? And I was so disappointed that I stabbed Charlie and then shot myself?"

His laugh echoed around the chamber. "Your lack of faith in me is amazing. No, that scenario would cast a dark shadow over my career and make it difficult to quietly sell these diamonds. I decided that you and Charlie wandered off into the jungle, never to be seen again. I will be devastated, of course."

With a soft noise, the first diamond popped out of the Whale. He held it up to his flashlight.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Harold reached into his pocket and pulled out a white gem of a similar size.

"Rhinestones are amazing, don't you think? And they've been around for centuries. Look at some of the old ones and you'd never know when they were switched out. Could have been two hundred years ago…or it could be today."

I watched as he worked the stone into the eye. The soft ivory resisted at first, then chipped away to accommodate the slightly larger stone. Harold stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"Perfect, don't you think?"

"Lovely. But how are you going to get the diamonds out of the country?"

He picked up the diamond and swallowed it. "If it works for drug dealers, it will work for me."

"There's one big difference between you and the drug dealers," I said. He raised his brows in question.

"Drug dealers aren't as trusting. I know you Harry. I know that your greed will always win over your scholarly pursuits."

He smiled at my assessment.

"That's why I took a little trip last night after you were asleep. Unlike you, I documented the whale in its original state. Then I replaced the eyes with my own antique crystals."

His face began to flush with anger.

"But I took an additional precaution and dipped mine in poison. The same potent poison the Aztecs used on their blowgun darts. Even more toxic if swallowed. Fitting, don't you think?"

Harold tried to speak, but it was too late. I watched the realization dawn in his eyes as he collapsed to the floor. He twitched a couple of times and then was still.

Taking the diamonds from my pocket, I stepped over Harold and lifted the Whale.

"These belong to you, I believe."

Sandra had no trouble finding him. Even in the dim red light of the club, he stood head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd. His trademark black and white striped hair would have identified him immediately anyhow.

“You must be Zebra,” she said, sidling up to him at the bar.

He nodded his head slightly. “Who’s asking?”

“Sandra Lekowsky. The blogger. I contacted you on Facebook yesterday.” She caught the bartender’s eye. “Miller Lite,” she mouthed.

“Ahhh.” His black leather trench coat creaked as he turned to face her. He had strong features in a large-boned face, and the intensity of his black eyes rattled her a little. In a second or two he had sized her up, and his appraisal must not have been entirely complimentary.

“So you’re the vampire hunter, huh?” His lip curled up in a sneer; she immediately noticed the sharp point of his right canine tooth. The dentist had done a remarkable job.

“Well, I wouldn’t call myself a hunter exactly. More of a thrill seeker.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed the unevenness of her voice or the tremble in her hand as she paid for her drink.

He shook his head. She tried to ignore the vein pulsing furiously at the side of his neck.

“Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?” he asked.

“Of course.” She didn’t sound as confident as she felt. “Of course I do. It’s, it’s not like you’re the first vampire I’ve met or something.”

She twisted the bottle in her hand, feeling its chilly sweat against her palm. “Can I buy you a drink? Bloody Mary?” She giggled nervously.

He shook his head slowly. “Go home, little girl. You don’t have any business being here.” She barely came up to his chest. She seemed so small, so fragile. She reminded him of his kid sister.

“Oh no, no,” she insisted. “I’ve got to see the crypt. I’m not going anywhere until you take me there. You promised you would.” She dug in her purse and pulled out a crumpled envelope.

“I’ve got the money.” The man to her right turned his head slightly towards her, taking in the fat envelope in her hand.

“Shush,” Zebra said. “Put that away. Are you crazy?” He gave the man a warning look and he took a sudden interest in something at the bottom of his glass.

“C’mon,” he said, shaking his long striped hair out of his face and grabbing her elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”

She left her half-finished beer on the bar and headed for the door with him, struggling to keep up in her stilettos. It took her three steps to keep pace with his one.

Outside the air was cool and crisp, refreshing after the smoky atmosphere of the bar. Dawn was still hours away and there were few people on the street.

In the light of the street lamp, Zebra’s shadow was exaggerated to immense proportions. She felt a little thrill of electricity run up her spine. Excitement? Fear? She couldn’t tell.

“So, will you take me to the crypt?” she demanded.

He leaned back against the grey stone of the building and sighed. She saw the wheels turning in his head as he glanced at his watch. If they went now, they would be alone, for a few hours anyway.

“All right. But you can’t stay long,” he said. “The others wouldn’t . . . well, they wouldn’t understand.”

She nodded silently.

“You’d better give me that envelope,” he said. “It’s not safe for you to walk around the city with that much cash.” He grinned. This time both fangs were apparent.

Sandra reached in her purse and handed it over. She smirked as he lifted a corner of the flap to check the contents.

“It’s all there,” she said. “A thousand. Just like we agreed.”

“No harm in checking,” he said. “Let’s go. It's not far.”

He headed up the street at a brisk clip, Sandra scuttling beside him unsteadily. When they reached an alleyway, he turned into it. It smelled of garbage and urine. All of Sandra’s senses went on high alert. Almost at the end, half concealed by a restaurant’s dumpsters, uneven concrete steps descended to a shadowy entryway.

“We’re here,” Zebra announced.

Sandra held back, pulling off her shoes at the sight of the steep stairs.

“Well, come on then,” he called as he reached the bottom, jangling his keys. She hesitated near the top. “You’re the one who asked to see it. Chicken?”

“No, I’m right behind you,” she said.

He turned away to unlock the door to the crypt. He didn’t feel a thing as the stiletto struck him at the base of his skull. He fell slowly into the room, almost in slow motion as the opening door slowed his descent to the concrete floor. He was dead before he reached it.

Sandra sank her teeth into his neck and began to feed. When she was satisfied, she reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the envelope with the money,

As she left, she blew his exsanguinated corpse a kiss with her bloody lips.

“So long, poser,” she said.

I walked in the house and immediately noticed that a crime had been committed. Who would paint the foyer of a Victorian cottage with a textured grey paint that looked like it belonged in the crypt of Nostradamus. It was horrible. I was sure to have nightmares.

The body wasn't very pleasant either.

She was dressed in a zebra striped outfit that clashed with the brown tones of the dried blood that pooled around her. I stepped carefully around the body so as not to disturb the scene of crime techs who were recording everything with their usual ghoulish efficiency.

I found an angle to observe that wouldn't be intrusive and crouched down to take stock.

The outfit was actually zebra leather with the hair left on. Odd, but not as strange as the fact that she was wearing green sneakers. With the amount of silicon the M.E. was probably going to find, I would have expected Prada over Keds. Her nails were carefully manicured, but short. Her hair was pulled back in a bun and was that gray paint on her forearm? The blood had leaked from the crushing wounds in the back of her head.

I pointed the spot out to the photographer, then stood up and left the body to the techs. Further into the house the jarring decor continued. What should have been a charming parlour had been turned into what I imagine a biker bar would look like. Neon glared from the walls and cast strange shadows from a table that looked like the unfortunate offspring of Stonehenge and and inukshuk, with a glass covered waggon wheel as its top.

The murder weapon was placed on the top of that table. It was a candelabra made from motorcycle parts. Blood had dripped from it onto the table creating a nightmare tie in with the front hall decor.

“So what do you think?” Frank, my partner, came in from the kitchen and handed me a cup.

“Clearly insanity.”

“You think the murderer was insane?”

“No,” I said waving my cup of what was apparently a skinny latte at the body. “The decorator. No sane mind could come up with something this bad.”

“Come meet the suspects then.” He led me into a quaint but very functionally laid out kitchen with modern appliances discreetly fitted into the antique cupboards. A man and his wife sat at a square table made of corner cut oak. Two teens stood behind them. All four were splattered with a mixture of blood and a very nice sage green paint.

“How's the coffee?” the younger teen girl asked.

“Perfect,” I took another sip. “Yup, couldn't be better.”

“These are the Sjmitts,” Frank said, “Simon, Jane, and their daughters Aggie and Taylor. Apparently they were on one of those decorating shows where you trade houses with friends and redecorate rooms for each other.”

“What happened to the other family?” I asked, visions of suburban mass murder dancing in my head.

“Oh, they went home,” Simon said, “It wasn't their fault. They argued with that woman, but she wouldn't let up. It's like the Stockholm syndrome. They just gave in and let her do her worst.”

“The Johans' were the ones to call the police.”

“We would have called ourselves, but we were just so .... upset.” Jane still had a tremor in her voice. I was fairly certain it was due more to the decorating than the murder.

I took another sip of my coffee. It really was good.

“Why don't you tell me what happened.” I saw Frank roll his eyes from where he stood behind the family.

“We came over with all the TV crews for the big reveal.” Simon said.

“I knew it was bad because the skinny kid with the clipboard reminded us of the contract we had signed.”

“We were just tired and wanted to get it over with.” The girl who had made the coffee said, Aggie I thought. “The Johans had really liked what we did with their place. We used this green that was almost, but not quite sage...”

“I don't think the detective wants to hear the details of our decorating.” Jane said.

I would have loved nothing more, but I had a case to work.

“I'm sure I'll see it when I see the Johans,” I said, “So what happened next?”

“We were shocked, horrified by the awful thing they had done to our house.” Simon took up the story. “The Johans were practically in tears so we put on a good face for the cameras. The show people wrapped it up pretty quick. They were at least as tired as we were. The Johans were trying to apologize when that woman came over and started crowing about her design.”

“I asked her if she would want to live with this hideous decor,” said Taylor, “She laughed and said that her whole house was done in plain white. That's when I snapped and grabbed that thing off the table and hit her in the head.”

“No dear, don't you remember you tried to claw her eyes out and Dad grabbed you.” Jane said, “I was the one that caved in her empty little head.”

“Oh please,” Aggie said, “You were screaming at her the whole time about how she'd ruined our home. I beaned her when she started talking about how people would kill to have her do their home.”

Simon was shaking his head. “It was Mom that grabbed Taylor, I hit her with that monstrosity.”

Frank was shaking his head and waved me out of the kitchen.

“They've been like that since I got here. I've had plenty of families blame each other for a murder, but this polite wrangling over who really killed the bi.. woman is new.”

“The M.E. will sort it out. She'll be able to connect it to strength or height or something.”

“Did you notice that they are all about the same height. I would bet that there isn't much to choose from in the area of strength either. They are all covered with blood spatter, but I don't know that it will tell us much if they can't agree who was where.”

“What can the Johans tell us?”

“Let's go find out.”

The Johans were sitting tensely in centre of their tastefully decorated living room. Aggie was right. It wasn't quite a sage.

“What can you tell me about what happened?” I asked.

“It was horrible. We should never have let that woman talk us into it.”

“I meant about the murder.”

“We couldn't stand to look at the room any longer.” Mr. Johan said, “We all had our eyes closed when it happened.” He looked at me defiantly.

“I see,” I said. “We may be back to talk to you later.”

“So what do you think?” Frank asked as we walked back.

I saw that room in my mind again and shuddered.

“I'm almost hoping they get away with it.” I said.

“That’s our man,” I said to Candace when he got there. He was still in his business clothes, looking like the good New England nephew who came straight from work to the wake. Deceiving as always.

“Wow,” Candace said, “He looks pretty harmless.”

“He is, really,” I said, watching him embrace the family, doling out consolations as though he had an endless supply. I turned to Candace. “Are you still up for it?”

“Of course,” she said. She set down her glass of Chardonnay on the table and took a deep breath, standing up straight to reveal her full, slender figure veiled in a sleek, black dress.

We approached him after he finished greeting everyone. “Glad you could make it,” I said to him.

“Me too, Jonathan. I’m so sorry.” We hugged, neither of us comfortable with it, but it was a part of the ritual. His back was wet and cold from the Manhattan rain. I offered to take his coat. “My friend Candace will keep you entertained in the meantime,” I told him. She had been standing behind me the whole time, looking him over with an explicit lust that surely made him equally unsettled and bewitched.

They walked to the cocktail bar and ordered drinks while I watched from a distance. They looked like a picturesque pair, framed in colorful arrangements of flowers and tiny hors d’oeuvres topped with “thyme” and ginger. It was not a normal wake. Half the people in attendance hadn’t spoken my father in years, yet there they were, fine dining in his spacious penthouse. My mother was nowhere to be seen; surely she was outside smoking a celebratory Newport, groveling in the death of her damned, cheating, recluse of an ex-husband. Surely she was also puzzled and frustrated over his will, which was quite different than what she imagined. It was different from what most people imagined.

Everything was going well at the bar. Adam was laughing, entranced by Candace’s pearly eyes and glimmering “rhinestone” jewelry, looking like a princess from some exotic, distant haven. He was hypnotized, looking back and forth at each “iris,” trying to take in as much of her beauty as he could, trying to keep the image of her engraved in his memory. Finally he was pulled away by another cousin. Before he was taken away, though, Candace discreetly slipped the “envelope” into his pocket. He stared at her a moment longer, then walked away.

“So far so good,” Candace said to me a few minutes later. I asked her what she wrote in the letter.

“It says to meet me outside at the curb in ten minutes.”

“Ten?” I asked.

“That’s okay, right?”

“That’s perfect,” I said, and made a quick phone call my brother, the driver. Meanwhile Adam was checking his watch every minute or so, glancing over at our table, waiting for the moment to arrive. Candace left, and I waited for him to do the same. He did, but stopped at my table first.

“Jonathan,” he said, extending his hand to save me from another awkward embrace. “It was good to see you.”

“Heading out already?” I said.

“Afraid so. The wife wants me home by midnight.” The lie made me smile, and I felt the residual guilt slip away. He was an awful liar.

“One more thing, though, before I go,” he said, sitting down at the table. “It’s about the will.”

I turned blue and took a deep breath. Did he know? “What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I’m sure you know about it already. It’s the glitch in my favor.”

“Glitch? There’s a glitch?” I said.

“Yes,” he said, and waited for me to smile. “God knows he didn’t intend to leave the bulk of his money to me. It’s a “whale” of a fortune, you know!” He was almost laughing now. “I’m going to get my accountant on it as soon as I can. I think I’ll transfer it to your account and your brother’s.” I faked a smile. “Great news, right?”

“It’s great,” I said.

He got up and nodded. He wanted to make a big deal out of the will, I could tell, and was disappointed by my lack of exuberance. Not that his words didn’t have an affect on me. He said, “Well, I’m out of here, for real this time.”

“Wait,” I said, and grabbed his wrist.

“What is it?”

“Why don’t you stay the night?”

He laughed and patted the table with his hand. “Love to, but I have to go. Sorry, Jonathan.”

He was gone a moment later. I called Candace but she didn’t pick up. I called her again, listening to the slow ringtone and feeling my fast heartbeat. I ran to the window and opened it. Candace was waiting for Adam across the street.

“Candace!” I shouted. “It’s off! Call if off!” She looked at me and squinted, then shook her head and looked back at the road. Surely she thought I was backing out, doing that cowardly thing we promised we wouldn’t do. She checked her watch.

“Candace!” I shouted again, but then Adam was outside. And from there it played like a movie. He waved to her from across the street, then walked toward her. Then, from nowhere, a large blue car, as horrifying and whale-like as the sum of money that was now giving me a headache, zipped by and sent Adam flying into the air. The deed was done. Adam’s body fell on the road with a slap. He looked like a ragdoll with opaque eyes turned up toward the starless sky. Candace looked up at me and smiled.

Detective Bristol tried not to gape like a rookie as he drove through the gate onto the grounds of the Wilbur Estate. The uniformed officer in the passenger seat didn’t possess Bristol’s restraint. "Wow! It’s like a wildlife preserve."

Bristol snorted. "It’s vulgar. Kids starving in the streets and rich jerks like Wilbur throw away money on this stuff. It’s a darn shame, Walenski; that’s what it is."

Walenski seemed not to have heard. "Look at that. It’s a wildebeest. And there’s a zebra. Whoa, he has a giraffe!" She pointed and stared at the animals as they continued up the mile long driveway.

The mansion was every bit as gauche as the surrounding acreage. Resembling a feudal castle, complete with a crocodile-infested moat, the structure loomed over the surrounding savanna. A tower beside the portcullis cast its long shadow along the road in the afternoon sun, lending the area an ominous ambience and raising the hairs on the back of Bristol’s neck.

He parked the sedan among the half-dozen squad cars on the lawn and crossed the drawbridge toward the officers guarding the police tape barrier. Bristol flashed his badge as he stepped over the barricade and with Walenski in tow, he entered the castle.

The interior was difficult to reconcile with the exterior. From the lush carpeting beneath to the vaulted ceiling above, the room looked not at all medieval. Warm light cascaded down upon the tasteful and expensive furniture while individual spots illuminated the equally tasteful and far more expensive artwork. Bristol was no art critic, but he doubted the seascape hanging in the alcove behind the bar was a replica.

They were met in the foyer by a haggard looking crime scene investigator. "Glad you could make it, Detective. If you’ll come with me, I’ll give you the rundown."

Bristol held up a hand. "Not yet. I need a little more information first."

The CSI sighed. "Ok, shoot."

The detective started counting off questions on the fingers of his left hand. "First, who called it in and when? Second, how long have you been here? Third, where are the witnesses? Fourth, what's your name?"

"My name is Darren Jenson, Detective. The housekeeper, a Mrs. Bacon, called us at 9:22 this morning. She said her boss, Warren Wilbur, staggered into the kitchen about nine, covered in blood and muttering unintelligibly. The first deputy was on the scene at 9:29. He would have been quicker, but the gate was locked and the groundskeeper had to get the menagerie out of the area first. Mrs. Bacon is in the parlor, and Mr. Wilbur is in the den. Nobody else was in the house at the time. The groundskeeper was outside; he probably wouldn’t have seen anything, but we asked him to hang around until you got here. He’s out in the garage."

Bristol nodded. "Very thorough. I'd like to speak to the housekeeper first."

Jenson led them into the parlor where Mrs. Bacon perched uncomfortably on the edge of an armchair. Bristol moved a matching chair towards her and seated himself. "Mrs. Bacon, I'm Detective Bristol. I know you've spoken to several police officers already, but can you can you tell me what happened this morning?"

Mrs. Bacon raised her head and covered a sob with her hand. Bristol waited while she clamed herself, then leaned forward as she began to speak in a barely audible whisper. "I don't really know what happened. All I remember is Mr. Wilbur stumbling into the kitchen, blood all over him. He looked quite shaken. I sat him at the table and called 911 right away. That's really all there is to tell."

"Do you know where Mr. Wilbur was before he came into the kitchen this morning? Had he spent the night at home, or did he come in from outside?"

Mrs. Bacon gulped. "I'm not one to go telling tales, Mr. Bristol. But I'm not one to hide the truth from the law either. If I had to guess, I'd say he came up from the basement."

The way she said the word 'basement' piqued his curiosity. "And what's in the basement, dear? A workshop or something?" If they had called him out here because some rich fool had sliced his arm on his scroll saw, someone's head was going to roll.

"No sir, not a workshop. It's something else."

"Well, what is it, Mrs. Bacon? A hobby room?"

She inhaled sharply at his question. "Kind of. You need to see it for yourself, Detective. I really can't describe it."

Bristol squinted at her, but let the issue slide. "And was he with anyone else down there?"

"I suspect so. He usually is."

"But you don't know for sure."

"No, sir. I was in bed reading when he came home last night, well, early this morning. And I don't intrude into Mr. Wilbur's affairs."

Bristol patted her hand gently and stood. "That's enough for now, Mrs. Bacon. I may need to ask you some more questions later though. Would that be all right?"

She seemed relieved that her interrogation was ending. "Yes, that would be fine."

As they left the parlor, Bristol said, "let's have a look at the basement, shall we?"

"Of course, Detective." Jenson led them to a stout, wooden door at the end of the front hall. There were multiple deadbolts on the door, but all were unlocked and the door stood slightly ajar. Jenson pulled it fully open. "After you."

In the stairwell, the atmosphere left the sanity of the main floor and reaffirmed that this house was no home. The steps and rails were stone and the light flickered from imitation torches ensconced into the walls. As he descended into what, from the smell might be either a crypt or a wine cellar, Bristol could feel the temperature drop and the humidity increase. His skin was slicked and clammy when he reached the bottom landing.

Another door, similar to the one upstairs stood open and Bristol stepped into a nightmare. The room was about twenty feet square. A table adorned with leather straps, chains, and manacles stood alone in the center of the room. In the floor next to the table was drain with streaks of red leading to it. The walls of the room held racks of devices. One held an assortment of whips ranging from a slender riding crop to a metal tipped cat o' nine tails. Another held phallic shaped objects of varying size and material. The others held devices whose purpose Bristol could only guess and some he couldn't.

Jenson spoke into the shocked silence. "We found blood and hair on the table and the floor. We sent samples out for DNA, but it's not Wilbur's blood or hair. He doesn't have a cut on him and the type doesn't match. The hair is the wrong length and color."

Through gritted teeth Bristol spoke to Walenski, "I want Wilbur down here, now."

Two minutes later, she reappeared, dragging a frightened, little man behind her. Wilbur was about forty, not more than five and a half feet tall, and a bit on the pudgy side of fit. The bald head and glasses completed the look of a man who belonged in an accounting office or chemistry lab, not a torture chamber.

Bristol wasted no time on pleasantries. "Mr. Wilbur, who did you have here with you last night?"

Wilbur's reply was much calmer than his outward appearance. "A friend. She was here willingly, I assure you. You'd be surprised how many women enjoy role-playing. They can't wait to visit my little dungeon."

"I'll bet. Where is she now, Wilbur?"

Wilbur blinked and licked his lips. "She left just after midnight. Exhausted, maybe a little bruised, but quite pleased, and most definitely alive."

Bristol raised his eyebrows. "Who said she wasn't? Alive that is. I'll need a name and address or phone number."

"Her name was Ginger. Or so she said. I didn't get a number for her. A lot of my 'friends' like their privacy."

"Mr. Wilbur, I think you and I are going to have to go down to the station."

"Whatever for, Detective? What two consenting adults choose to do in private is no affair of the police."

Bristol snorted. "I highly doubt 'Ginger' consented to being murdered, Mr. Wilbur. And even if she did, it's still a crime in this country."

"Ridiculous. You have no evidence. A little blood does not make a murder: corpus delicti and all that. Where is the supposed victim?"

Bristol ignored Wilbur. "Walenski, read Mr. Wilbur his rights. Jenson, go find the groundskeeper. We need to figure out how to get those crocs out of the moat."

Call me Ismael. That's not my real name of course, but my real name is long forgotten. I know that you have come to call me Ahab; but, I am much more rightly called after that alienated outcast of American fiction for I am truly a pitiful and solitary figure.

We humans seem to relish collective memories. We've always had a need to ask, "Where were you when?" Where were you when Kennedy was shot? Where were you when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor? Where were you when the Challenger blew up?

And of course, the most important question of our generation and for every generation to come: Where were you when the Whales came back?

Like all the rest of you, I will never forget. As misfortune would have it, I was out at sea hunting whales. Prior to the return of the Whales and my trial, most people thought whaling was a bygone occupation that had ended with the development of the electric light. In fact, even though the International Convention for the Regulation of Whaling effectively ended commercial whaling nearly 50 years ago it always had a provision to allow the Inuit peoples around the world to continue our ancient practices.

We have always hunted the whale as part of our cultural tradition. It was a culture based on a rich history of simple living and relying on nature's bounty. Yes, the people in my village had cell phones and television, but we also honored the old ways. I grew up eating seal meat and blubber. I drank tea made from fireweed and arctic thyme to soothe my stomach. And, I put whale oil and urine on my skin when it became dry and chapped.

We did not worship the whale, but we always respected it as a source of food and sustainability; it was part of our way of life. How were we to know that the whales we hunted were the descendants of an alien colony? How were we to know that one day the Whales would return for the colonists? How were we to know? How was I to know?

Several months earlier, an envelope had arrived at my house. By that time, the ICRW limited us to 50 small bowhead whales a year. I, like every other adult male in my village, had entered the lottery hoping to be allowed to participate in that years' hunt. You can only imagine my shock and joy when I found out that I would be captain, or more properly umialik - the one with the boat.

As umialik it was my duty to build the small wooden boat, or umiaqtuun,and cover it with walrus skin. I also prepared the tools and gathered my crew. Finally, in late April, the whales were spotted and the hunt began.

I still recall every detail so vividly in my mind. One moment, we were out at sea and the sun was sparkling like a rhinestone in the clear blue sky. The next moment everything was completely blotted out as the sky turned dark and the boat shook as a voice boomed out across the waves, "We have returned!"

I know you have seen the video a thousand times. There I stand at the front of the boat urging the men on as they harpoon the whale. We are singing and chanting, while he begs for his life. His pleas are hard to listen to as he cries out. "Help me. I don't want to die. I have a child. Please don't kill me."

But, we didn't know. We didn't understand. The Whales brought the translators. All we'd heard was snorts and bellows. How quickly the rest of you have forgotten. For thousands of years we knew the whales only as mute beasts. No one knew the truth.

The Whales plucked me out of my boat and held me aloft while they incinerated it along with my crew. I was held in stasis while they prepared for my trial. The Whales agreed to abide by our customs and I was judged by a jury of my peers, my human peers; but, it did not matter.

Thousands of years ago, the Whales had left a small band of colonists on our planet. At that time, the earth was covered with water, so they were given adaptations to help them survive. Unfortunately, as the colonists bred and developed, the waters receded and a group of small, simple mammals also began to evolve. Some inborn error in metabolism kept the whales from adapting further, and instead of developing lungs and the ability to expand their civilization they simply grew larger and larger. Eventually humans became the dominant species while the whales simply drifted through the ocean waiting.

Then the Whales came back. The resemblance was both minimal and uncanny at the same time. Where our whales were huge sea creatures, they looked remarkably human. Their hair was sparser and they tended to be, on the average, about twice as tall as a human. It was their eyes, though that linked them irrevocably with our whales. They were deep, dark and luminous each with an iridescent green iris that took your breath away.

Those eyes seemed to reach into a man's soul. You couldn't lie or cheat or steal when those eyes were looking at you. They drove the evil right out of a man's heart and filled it with peace and love. Within the span of a week the world had changed. Wars just seemed to end, and crime became virtually nonexistent.

Except, of course for my crime. My lawyer tried valiantly, but the video of the kill was just too raw and heart rending. His claim of ignorance fell on deaf ears. He was not even allowed to raise the argument of sentience.

It surprised no one, least of all me, when the verdict came back: Guilty of murder in the first degree. That was 30 years ago. The world has changed so much in that time. Without evil or malice, the humans and the Whales created the ultimate Utopian society where sickness and disease have been eliminated. I am allowed out of my cell once every five years to appeal for parole to the same jury that originally convicted me.

As I face you, I tell you again that words cannot express the depth of my sorrow. I beg you yet again to allow me to join the rest of humanity live again among my people. I implore you to release me from my exile. Please. Help me. Please.

An ashen face, and eyes crystalline, closed for eternity… A shame such a beautiful flower wilted so soon… Such a young blossom, destroyed by a late frost… The ice forms a hostile, merciless crypt…

Astrid brushed back her blonde hair, and secured it out of her face with a bobby pin. Her black patent leather shoes scraped against the gravel drive as she walked up the path, her grey eyes scanning the area. She moved swiftly, her slender frame almost completely enshrouded in a large, darkly colored overcoat. It had been her father’s, and she had worn every year since he had died.
Her breath lingered in the chilly December air, but it had yet to snow. It was always like that in this area; it frosted over all winter, but they didn’t get snow until after Christmas, and it was always so scarce and powdery that it was pretty much useless. Astrid moved her small body up the stairs of the front porch and pulled her house key from her pocket. Her mother would have a fit when she got inside, but sneaking out was necessary. It was just after one in the morning on the fourth Christmas without her father, and she had just visited his grave.

''No!''
''Oh, come on, please?''
''NO!!''
''Why no-ot? I want to…''
''I said no. You are staying inside, and that’s final!''
''Fine…''
It was a week after Christmas, and the first snow had fallen the night before. Moira had been begging their mother to allow her to go out and play for at least a half an hour, and Astrid was glad she had finally given up.
Astrid’s little sister, Moira, clad in the zebra print pajamas she had received a few days before, thumped down the hallway towards her bedroom, passing Astrid’s bedroom as she did so. She thumped back, stopping outside Astrid’s room. ''Whatcha doin’?'' She asked in the usual, nosy younger sister way.
''Nothing…'' Astrid mumbled. In reality, she was lying on her bed, reading a rather morbid article in the newspaper. No crotchety old man could say that no one read the newspaper as long as she had anything to say about it.
”˜RED CHRISTMAS: WOMAN MURDERED’ the headline blared. Astrid’s eyes were fixed on the page. She couldn’t stop reading. The murder was sick and twisted, the killer using a holiday theme. The poor woman was strangled to death with Christmas lights and hung from a barren pear tree like a perverse Christmas ornament.
The victim was a beauty, judging by the grayscale picture on the front page. She had long, beautiful hair and large, striking eyes. The unfortunate girl, barely eighteen, appeared to be the kind of woman you’d see on TV, or even in the movies. Astrid would have been jealous if the woman wasn’t dead.

''You are wonderfully beautiful, my dear sister.''
''And yet, even as I stand in the sun, I feel I’m still under your cast shadow, Brother. Why is that?''
''I do not know; you are a princess of the light.''
This horrible display of some people’s inability to act was making Astrid sick. It was so dramatic; the dialogue was overly worded, the plot was riddled with holes, and the acting was disgraceful. She had no idea why Moira liked it, and she stood, unable to take it any longer. If Moira wasn’t going to turn on FMA, Astrid decided that she would go listen to Vocaloid songs on YouTube. She tromped to her room, still in her pajamas.
It was late December, and school would start in about a week, but that was the least of her worries. The Days of Christmas murders were still occurring. After the first woman, killed December 27th, there had been three more murders, all occurring in the Midwest.
The disturbing detail was that all the victims were killed in a manner consistent with the song ”˜The Twelve Days of Christmas’. The second killing involved a woman in snowy Illinois, who was killed with her twin children, the ”˜turtle doves’, and left in their front lawn in bloody snow-angels. The third woman, a butcher’s wife, was found dead in the streets of White Pigeon, Michigan, three dead chickens on the ground around her. In the most recent killing, three days before in South Bend, Indiana, a young woman was found, four knives in her back. Her cell phone was crushed on the pavement next to her. She was the ”˜calling bird’, the reporters said. All of the women had been blondes, with soft, pleasant features and compassionate dispositions.

It had been a week and a half since the last murder. Things were calming down, and people were optimistic. ”˜Maybe the killer has gone away,’ people would cross their fingers, hoping. ”˜Maybe they’ve decided to quit while they’re ahead.’ Astrid was no different, and was bringing a bouquet of yellow lilies to her father’s grave. She wore his overcoat, as usual, and was carrying the old hardcover book he had given to her. It was a collection of Grimm’s fairy tales, and she planned to read it while leaning on his tombstone, the closest she could get to reading with him. The snow had melted away a week ago, then the ground frosted over again, which meant she could sit comfortably on the ground.
Astrid had been here many times; she knew every crack in the cemetery’s path, every bar in the tall iron fence. She made her way up the crumbling walkway to the newer graves; her father’s was atop the hill. She quickly located it, striding towards it. Astrid stood in front of it and smiled tenderly. ''Hello, Daddy,'' she whispered. ''I brought our book.''
She sat on the ground next to the headstone, and opened the book. She started reading, immersing herself in a fantastic, imaginary land, and was lulled into a gentle slumber.

It was dusk when Astrid awoke, and the streetlights were just beginning to turn on. She rubbed her eyes sleepily and stood, and uttered a drowsy goodbye to her father before starting down the path.
''Mmph!?!'' A gloved hand covered her mouth from behind, and she struggled against it. It was too strong, and she felt another hand close around her neck. Astrid’s eyes closed slowly, and her body went limp.

The police discovered the body of a young blonde girl, clad in a large overcoat and patent-leather shoes, on the ground of the cemetery the next day, her hands folded as if in prayer. The petals of yellow lilies were shredded on the ground around her, placed carefully in five circles, each a foot in diameter.

The golden princess of the daylight… A beauteous blossom, fixed in time… Glittering pearls of nectar collect on its petals…Frozen tears amassed on pallid cheeks…

I am writing this as I am nearing the end of my time in this world. My priest and friend has for a long time preached that I must make peace with God, to confess to and repent for my sins. In this way I will be free to leave this world and continue on to the next life, whatever form that may take. So here is my story.

I suppose it all began in 1966 when I married my beautiful wife, Mary. We had known each other for about five years and she was the love and the light of my life. I fondly recall her a single iris in her blonde hair, blowing in the wind, she needed no more decoration her beauty just shone through. We were happy and in love, of course we had our arguments, what couple doesn’t? Three years later our lives became complete when we welcomed our first and only child into this world.

As a child Lawrence adored his mother, they had a special bond that I did not share. He stood her on a pedestal and worshipped at her feet. Everything he desired he got from her, and they loved nothing more than spending time at the whale sanctuary, Lawrence for the excitement of their tricks, and Mary simply for their beauty and tranquillity.

I am not certain of when things started to go wrong, I suppose when Lawrence was about fifteen. Looking back I recall the scent, that beautiful smell of cooking, of rosemary, basil and thyme filling the house when I returned home from work. Mary almost never cooked, except for special occasions, Christmas and birthdays. The first time I remember asking myself if I had forgotten our anniversary, but it soon became clear that it was a guilty conscience at work.

His name was Arthur. In my opinion he wasn’t especially handsome, but he was younger than I was, maybe that was what appealed, or possibly it made her feel more youthful. I had been very naïve, for years I had believed her when she told me that she was going to night school dressed in a rhinestone covered dress and returning at gone midnight. I believed that marriage was based on trust, I wanted to avoid arguments, and most of all I wanted her to love me.

It was a fresh spring morning. I returned home after taking old Mrs. Jones from next door to church. “Honey, I’m home”, I shouted. No reply. The house was eerily quiet and felt empty. “Mary, Lawrence, I’m back”. No answer once again. I entered the kitchen. I could hear the tick, tick of the clock, in time with the thump, thump of my heart. Just sitting there on the table an envelope with my name written on.

My heart skipped a beat, or two, or three. I couldn’t breathe. I knew what it would say without reading it. I picked up the envelope, folded it and put it in my pocket. I couldn’t get out of the house quick enough. I started to run. I ran until I could run no more. I collapsed onto a park bench and cried until there were no more tears. Somehow I ended up in a down town bar.

“Another one”, I demanded of the barman, to which he told me in no uncertain terms that I had already had enough. My attempt at oblivion thwarted I turned my attention to the girls on the dance floor strutting their zebra print stuff. Then came the sight of them, Mary and her toy boy, beauty and the beast, having fun, no care in the world, no thoughts of what she had left behind.

Anger began to brew inside of me. I watched from afar as they wended their way around the dance floor. It was not late when they left, hand in hand, laughing and joking. I followed in the shadows. Close enough to see them, but too far away to hear. My brain began to work overtime. I tried to think clearly despite my intoxication. My head, my heart and the alcohol had different voices, an argument running through my body. My head tried to tell me to leave, to go home and to make a new life without her. My heart was in a state of flux, somewhere between love, hate and jealousy. But the alcohol wanted revenge.

The cold suddenly hit me. I slid my hands into the leather gloves that I always kept in my pockets. What I could do with those hands. My imagination went into overdrive. I imagined my hands around his throat, around her throat, what was the difference? Her lifeless body drops to the floor, then me standing over her, looking around at the walls of the crypt. My head has to take control. This is surely the alcohol talking. I could hear her cries in my head, his cries, screaming for me to stop. I realised that I had stopped moving. The alcohol didn’t want the prey to get away from me.

The gates of the fairground stood out cold and metallic against the black sky. I could still hear screaming in my mind, which of them was it, I could not tell, maybe it was just kids having late night fun on the roller coaster. My feet crunched on the peanut shells dropped by hundreds of happy punters. I looked down to see an abandoned shoe, like someone had just walked out of it, was that Mary’s shoe?

I picked up my pace, quickly past the chattering monkey, dressed up pretty in pink, having a tea party. Could I still hear screams, or was the alcohol still playing games with my brain? That is when I saw them, a figure in shadow leaning over and stroking my Mary’s beautiful hair. As I drew closer I could see his hands, dripping with blood, staining her hair and her face and the cold hard handle of a screwdriver emerging from her chest. Still closer and I could hear his breathing, and see her serene face, beautiful like an angel. He turned and for a fleeting moment our eyes met, I could see every emotion that I had felt that day reflected in those eyes. Then he ran.

I went to hold her, my beautiful princess. My eyes blurred with the tears, my hands stained with her blood. I was frozen in space and time, but I would be with her for eternity. Lights, sounds passed me by, the lights of the carnival, the sounds of the organ blurred into flashing blue lights and sirens. There were people, asking questions, I could hear words like “murder”, and “double homicide”, but I just needed to hold her and not let go, I had retreated into a world of my own.

The trial went by much in the same vein. I was silent. In due course I was found guilty and convicted, sentenced to life imprisonment, but due to my fragile mental state I was remanded to a psychiatric ward. I began slowly to accept my fate, and move on to life in captivity, on more than one occasion my thoughts turned to that whale sanctuary of yesteryear.

I lie here today in a different hospital. The envelope lies open next to my bed, but through all of these years remained unread. The priest visited again this morning, the third time this week. I can only assume I don’t have long left. He says that I should confess to my sins, but the sins he speaks of are different from any that I have ever committed.
My thoughts again return to that moment in time imprinted on my memory when I looked into Lawrence’s eyes and saw through into his soul. The emotions I witnessed were a mirror of those I had felt, love, hatred, sorrow, regret. He had worshipped his mother, and she had repaid him like this. That letter was meant for my eyes, those emotions were reserved for me and not him.

You ask me if I am guilty. My answer is yes, not guilty of murder, but guilty of loving my wife and my son. Do I leave this world with any regrets? My only regret is not having told my son I love him.

"I wanna go on a roller coaster mommy" My daughter Emma begged tugging on the hem of my shirt.
"Ok" I mumbled scanning the park for any signs of clowns, of all the days we could have gone to the amusement park Emma had to pick the day the circus was in town.
"I wanna go on that one" she pointed at a kiddie coaster with a clown handing out balloons.
"You go on ahead, I'm going to rest"
She let out a sigh and ran over to the ride, she greeted the clown, turned to me and waved as she got into the train shaped cart. I was startled by a loud popping sound behind me. I turned around to find a monkey with balloons tied to tail running away from two boys with pea shooters. I laughed and turned back to the ride, a new group of people were getting on.
My heart started to pound as the group thinned, no sight of Emma. I jumped up and started running yelling for my daughter.
"Have you seen my daughter? blond hair, green eyes, pink dress" I pleaded with the man who ran the ride.
"I have so many kids getting on and off they all look the same to me."
"Emma!" I shouted again.I turned back to the man "The clown, where's the clown that was here?"
"Who knows, he come and goes, look lady I got a ride to run here, so if ya don't mind..."
I franticly pulled aside everyone I passed asking if they saw my girl, all I got head shakes or shoulder shrugs, no help at all. I looked around for a cop or security guard, nothing. what kind of park doesn't have security?
I came to a fenced in tent with a sign posting "Entertainers only". I didn't want to go in but finding that clown would be the only hope I had of finding my daughter.
Sneaking around to the back, I squeezed through a small opening in the fence. laying on the ground by the tent was a small pink shoe , Emma's shoe. I carefully picked up a part of the tarp, inside was a cage with four children, they were being guarded by an over weight clown. I could see Emma sobbing with tape over her mouth.
The guard looked around for a minuet , picked up a magazine from the table and walked out the tent. I took that as my cue, I crawled in under the tarp, ignoring the fact that my shirt was now covered in mud from last nights storm, and ran to the cage, grabbed a screwdriver from the table and proceeded to pick the lock.
"What are you doing here" The clown barked
"RUN" I yelled to the kids "RUN"
I grabbed a hold of the clowns nose to distract him and threw in a bin of peanuts . He started after it but stopped short of the bin.
"Don't like peanuts?" I snarled
"No"
"Well That's too bad, I don't like clowns" I gave him a hard tackle knocking him into the bin causing its contents to spill all over him. I watched as he turned red, swelled and stopped breathing, he was dead I had killed a clown. I'm not sure if I was laughing or crying.
I quickly found Emma, we hopped in the car and left. I told the police everything that happened but they just laughed and checked my breath.
Next time you go to a circus, keep a close eye on your children and don't trust the clowns.

The End