Right Place, Right Time
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Does it really matter?
When destiny decides to snatch you,
I guess not.

“I know you’re in there.”
From a dead sleep, her eyes shot open. She listened to the silence… for the whisper. Red lights from the clock said two a.m. Again.
She reached beneath her pillow searching for the gun she’d bought three days ago, and slid her hand up the barrel until she found the grip. Unlike her plan, it didn’t still her heartbeat.
Running away hadn’t freed her. She’d tried to leave her past behind in Atlanta, but it’d followed her here to El Paso.
She knew tonight would be just like the last three nights; nothing else would happen. Maybe she was dreaming; maybe the voice wasn’t real. Maybe she was just plain crazy. She looked at the clock again… 2:02.
Thinking nothing else would happen was not the same as knowing nothing else would happen. She slipped the gun from under her pillow and swung her feet to the floor.
Her bedside lamp turned on with a touch. At least no one was standing over her bed… like in Atlanta.
She scoffed at her flippant attitude; it was a lie; she didn’t feel one bit flip. She felt marked… fated for death… already dead. It’d almost be a relief when it finally happened.
That night in Atlanta had been eerily similar, except that someone had been standing at the end of her bed.
Straight out of a B movie, he was tall, dark, and wet. Thunder crashed and lightening turned the shadow into a man.
He’d worn a trench coat and a fedora with the brim pulled low over his forehead. His shoulder-length black hair was plastered against his neck, his eyes black orbs on his face, his lips incredibly thin, and his chin non-existent.
She’d found her voice once and screamed. He’d found a pillow and had nearly smothered her before he’d finished with her. When it was over, he simply left. He hadn’t said one word.
She’d survived the attack, and today she was different, at least she hoped she was. She had to search the rest of the house but this time she had a plan.
The bathroom was first, simply because she couldn’t stand the thought of opening the closet door.
She steeled her nerves as she crept toward the bathroom, glad she’d left the shower curtain open because pulling it back was classically scary for a very real reason.
No one was in the bathroom.
She forced herself to look under her bed. Nothing.
Finally, she turned toward the closet. It had a solid door that had to be opened to the right. She’d have to use her left hand to open it or switch the gun to that hand, a detail that hadn’t escaped her precautions but one for which she didn’t have an answer.
She put her ear to the closet door then immediately knew it was a mistake, picturing her body being knocked down by someone inside.
A silly notion, really. Why would someone break into her house just to hide in the closet? At least she heard nothing.
Switching the gun to her left hand, she slung the door open, bringing both hands back to the gun as quickly as possible, cursing when she almost slapped the little .22 from her own hand.
No one was there.
“Thank you,” she whispered… for no one being there and for not firing blindly at her clothing.
Her eyes were open as wide as she’d ever felt them. Funny thing to think of.
Her hands and the gun were trembling. She was hyper-alert and worried that paralysis, not action, would be the outcome of actually finding an intruder.
Barefoot and dressed only in her nightshirt made her feel even more vulnerable as she left the confines of her bedroom, hoping it would once again be a fruitless search. Maybe she should wear jeans to bed.
Within ten minutes, she’d searched the entire house, including every closet.
She inhaled deeply and stretched her tense neck.
“Get a grip, Abby. You’re okay. Spooked, stressed, but okay. And you’re talking to yourself.”
She’d be fish bait if anyone at the office got wind of this big black hole of weakness. There were unwritten rules, one of which was zero tolerance for weakness in the colleague-eat-colleague investment banking business, especially since she was the ranking outsider in a not very pretty hostile takeover.
No matter what the circumstances, if you’re going to play with the big boys, you’d better be strong, upstanding, and together… or at least appear to be.
“You need to find some girlfriends and stop talking to yourself.”
Six months in town and she didn’t have a single friend she could talk to. And what would she tell them? That in her own home, she heard voices in the middle of the night?
She shook her head and rolled her shoulders before climbing back into bed for a couple more hours of tossing and turning.

The night before she’d bought the gun, she’d been startled awake in the same way. That night, she’d heard the sound of a creaking door. Like tonight, she wasn’t quite sure if she’d heard it or dreamed it; it was gone as soon as she’d opened her eyes.
Then, as now, she’d remained completely still and listened. It seemed so real, but there’d been no other sound.
Sleep had not returned then either.
That first night, she hadn’t dared leave her room to confront an intruder. She’d locked her bedroom door and sat wide-awake in her bed for the rest of the night.
The whole thing seemed ridiculous the next morning, even as she tested every door in her house–once it was light enough to leave her bedroom.
She’d found that none of the doors creaked, and then worried about whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.
She’d assumed then that she was experiencing a flashback of the attack and wondered if she’d ever be rid of the fear that ruled her life.
The night after the creaking door sound, at 2:30 a.m., she’d awakened with the sound of something glass shattering on the floor–it sounded like it was right next to her bed–not likely since her bedroom floor was carpeted, but still…
That night, she’d also gotten out of bed and searched the house, holding her brand new blue metal steel protector out in front of her just like they did in the movies.
Her dad had taught her that, but you can’t teach fearlessness.
Nothing had fallen in the kitchen or either bathroom. The rest of the house was carpeted.
The next night, 3:30 a.m., she’d heard the sound of footsteps on a sidewalk. The feeling was the same… she knew the sound woke her up; she just wasn’t sure she’d actually heard it.
What she did know was that it couldn’t have been real. There wasn’t enough walking space in her bathrooms or her kitchen to accommodate that many footsteps.
As she did then, she closed her eyes and wished for a thought that comforted her, wished she knew what to do, wished she’d break down and call her dad.
Her dad would know just what to do… he’d take over her life like he always did. He’d move her back to Atlanta. It almost sounded inviting.
There’d been other things. The middle-of-the-night phone calls with no one on the line had finally stopped. That was last week. When she’d hung the phone up, it had immediately rung again, still no one on the line.
Before that, she’d had those slashed tires, vandals she’d supposed. That same Sunday, her trash had been dumped out into her yard, loose dogs, she was sure.

“Abby, Abby, Abby, you should’ve seen another therapist instead of buying a gun,” she said to herself with a sigh.
After Atlanta, things were different. Maybe the therapy had helped, maybe it hadn’t. One thing she knew for sure was that therapy couldn’t protect you. Her father had convinced her of that. And he should know after 25 years on the Atlanta police force.
Maybe her dad had been right; maybe she shouldn’t have left home, but she just couldn’t stay. When the merger began, she’d requested a transfer and was grateful that it had been granted, thinking that anywhere would be better than Atlanta… they’d never caught her attacker.
Giving up on the tossing and turning, she grabbed a book to read for a while, her gun resting at her side.
When it was finally daylight, she showered and dressed for work.

#

He was waiting for her. As she had every day for the past month, she left that morning at exactly 7:30.
She was such a creature of habit. Breaking into her car had been easy. Since her locks were electric, he’d had to use his locksmith set to open her car. Still easy. He smirked as he thought about how electric locks made people feel so safe.
Disabling her car was a piece of cake. He’d opened her hood and loosened the wire in less than a minute. She’d be off the road soon enough.
When she pulled out of her driveway, he slipped his little red Miata out of his parking place and fell in one car behind her.
Moments later, he smiled as he saw her car coast off to the side of the road. He pulled off behind her.

“Hi, looks like you could use a hand,” he said as he pulled his tall frame from his little red convertible.
“No, thanks.” That was an automatic response. She reconsidered immediately, tired of constantly choosing between worse evils.
“I don’t know what happened; it just stopped. I barely got it off the road.”
She knew that his business suit, short hair, and clean-cut look could hide a monster, but she was determined to remain calm and professional… detached and unafraid. Maybe this was why she didn’t have any friends yet.
“Do you need a ride?” he asked.
“No, that’s okay. Thanks. I have a cell phone. I’ll just call a tow truck and have it taken to the dealer.”

She made her call. But he didn’t give up that easily.
“Well, I’ll wait with you until he gets here if you like.”
“No need. I’m fine. Thanks, anyway.”
“I’m a security consultant. I guess I’ve seen too much; I don’t feel right leaving a woman alone here on the side of the road. Are you sure you’re comfortable here alone?”
“Security consultant? You put security systems in homes?”
Her voice sounded hopeful, relieved, like she’d found an answer to all her problems. He had her.
“I do. Are you thinking about putting one in?”
“I’d thought about it, but I don’t have much free time. Now, I think it might be a good idea. Do you have a business card?”
“Sure. Here you are.”
“Frank Weston. Okay, I’ll call you when I’ve had a chance to think about it.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Abby. Nice to meet you, and maybe even lucky for me.”
“Lucky? You having problems?”
“Problems or imagination, I’m not really sure which. Either way, I think a security system just might be the answer.”

Against her will, she felt her apprehension lessen. She wanted to stop being frightened of everyone and not to be afraid all the time. She was a fool for not having done this earlier, a fool for spending every free hour alone at work.
He stepped closer to her. “I’m on a job with the police department right now. It takes up my daytime hours, but putting in a home system is run of the mill for me. If you don’t mind me working evenings, I can help you quickly or I can recommend another company if that doesn’t fit your schedule.”
When she didn’t answer, he continued, “I bet that’s your tow… must be, he’s slowing down.”
“That was really quick. I’m surprised,” Abby said in a rush, relief evident in her voice.
The tow truck slowed and pulled off the road in front of her car.
“You were quick,” she said to the tow truck driver.
The driver’s smile was fast and easy. “The city’s been stationing trucks along the main roads for quick response–keep the traffic flowing… you know, rush hour remedies. Sometimes good for business, but sometimes boring as all get-out.”

Franklin Metz, aka Frank Weston for today, smiled. She’d taken the bait.
Now she would complete her payment for the indignity he’d suffered at her hands. It would be the last time she would publicly humiliate him.
She hadn’t even recognized him. Why would she? She was too good for him… at least in her mind.
Yet another woman who didn’t know her place and didn’t appreciate him. Well, he had a permanent fix for that temporary problem.
Her expensive clothes and perfect hair was why he’d picked her out of the crowd at the mall and followed her.
Her arms were full of packages and he’d chosen a crowded corner to bump into her. Her packages and her purse had all spilled.
He’d helped her retrieve everything. He’d been polite. He’d been charming. She’d looked at him and said a perfunctory thank you, but she never really saw him.
She’d ignored his invitation for coffee, acting as though she had more important things to do. She was an arrogant bitch, just as he thought she would be.
Twice, he’d seen people be rude to her, stand too close, push past her. She’d just ignored them, acted as if they weren’t important enough to even acknowledge their existence.
She was pretty, and pretty girls always think they’re better than everyone else.
She was a high-toned career woman who should’ve been home taking care of a family. Yes, he had chosen well, and she would no longer ignore him.

As he watched the woman leave with the tow truck driver, Frank mused about his favorite puzzler, women.
Maybe he wasn’t the most handsome man, but he wasn’t ugly either. He was tall, 6’2”. Women liked that. He was clean-cut, short brown hair, always neat, always clean as a whistle, and always well dressed.
His features were soft and his complexion flawless… people even said he had a baby face. He knew his persona was non-threatening.
It always seemed to him that women preferred men who looked rough and dangerous. Little did this one know that he was a very dangerous man.
Of course, being fairly nondescript was also to his advantage given his proclivity to murder.
“Mine is not to reason why, mine is just to do and you die,” he said to the image of her car moving down the road.