A Very Rare Find (standard:mystery, 2576 words)
Author: Spotlight	Added: Aug 04 2001	Views/Reads: 3614/2568	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Back again, with more editting. About Detectives and Heaven and hell and Disturbed Grandmas.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

magazines, crossing his legs. 

Cindy materialized slowly, as piano keys began to vibrate a church hymn.
 With her back turned to Jake, her body slowly focused and happily sat 
on the piano bench.  Her tired fingers glided along the keys, with the 
expertise of a seasoned player.  Jake stared through the large, healed, 
and clean hole in the back of her head, vaguely concealed by thin curls 
of gray hair.  For some reason, this did not disgust him and calmly he 
leaned deeper into the soft chair. 

"You may have some candy if you like."  Her back was still turned, the
song continuing. 

"No, but thank you.  You are Cindy Lazaruth, correct?"  Jake continued
to survey the grandmother's heaven, half in a daze. 

"Of course, and you are Jake Walters.  Pleased to meet you."  The last
chord of the hymn was held and dissipated.  Cindy turned slowly, the 
bullet hole in her forehead shining with sunlight in streaks of dusty 
air.  "You were the detective searching for me and my grandchildren." 

"Yes, ma'am.  Where is this place?" 

Cindy smiled; a warm motherly smile that increased his relaxation. 
"Now, Mr. Walters, is that what you really want to know?  I mean, I'm 
sure after weeks of searching you want to know...  why?  Not...  
where?" 

Jake sank into his chair more comfortably, a warm memory of his own
grandmother and apple pie, easing into his thoughts.  "Sure Mrs. 
Lazaruth.  Why did you kill your own grandchildren?" 

She lifted slowly, and began a slow shuffle across the floor to her
favorite recliner.  "Are you sure you don't want any candy?  Theres 
plenty."  She chuckled, shaking the wrinkles in her face. 

"I'm fine Mrs. Lazaruth." 

"Oh, call me Cindy.  I'm not a teacher."  She creaked into her chair,
leaning and sighing.  "Now, as for my grandchildren." 

Jake felt words exit his mouth, all he did was open.  "Where are those
grandchildren now, Cindy?" 

"They must be outside playing.  Haven't seen them for most of the day." 

Jake blinked.  "Mrs. Lazaruth, your grandchildren are dead." 

"They most certainly are not, Mr. Walters.  And please, call me Cindy. 
Thats a morbid thought, I would say.  They are outside playing, Jake.  
Just silent as usual.  Quiet like little mice."  She chuckled. 

Jake listened, the cushion against his back, soft and inviting, as he
shifted and sighed deeper. 

"Of course, they weren't always like that.  Grammy had to be strict with
them.  You know how children can be.  Always runnin' around causing a 
racket." 

"Of course, Cindy."  The words formed simply. 

She began to rock in her chair.  "Do you have children, Jake?" 

Jake nodded, a shiver of contentment running down his spine with the
movement. "Yes, two." 

"Yes, two.  Of course.  Then you can understand how sometimes you have
to "lay down the law" a bit." 

Jake nodded again.  "Of course, Cindy." 

"Of course.  Well, it was the rational thing to do, you see.  I babysit
my grandchildren during the day.  Over the summers; the kids are much 
too busy with schoolwork and the like any other time.  Last year, when 
my husband passed away, they kept me company." 

Jake shook his head quickly.  "Oh, I'm sorry." 

"Don't be.  I loved him very much, but he's gone now.  He was very
patient with the children.  But, I was a bit of a worry-wart.  This 
year again, the kids were over here playing, making a racket like 
usual.  And me, I would make those idle threats.  You know,  the ones 
that parents never mean,"  She was still rocking, lost in 
thought-provoking conversation; calm and collected. 

Jake sighed, brown couch cushions rubbing his ears; so soft.  "mmhmm..."


She chuckled, "I remember.  'Stop runnin' around the house or i'll cut
your little legs off'."  she laughed.  "And, 'Shut your mouths or I'll 
shut them for you'.  They were little rascals, dammit."  There was no 
force in her cussing, just nonchalant conversation. 

"Well, kids can be a handful, I'll tell you." 

"Of course they were.  But, I always loved 'em just the same.  They'd
run off to the park when I yelled at them.  Always.  I'd have to search 
for them up in the trees.  By the time I'd find them, the sun was 
setting, and I promised never to yell again.  Oh, I couldn't stay mad 
with them.  They were my babies, you know." 

Jake lifted a Handcraft magazine from the coffee table, then eased
himself further down into his fluffy groove, his eyes on the pages.  
Interesting baskets.  Kid stuff.  Fly fishing...  fly fishing. 

"Oh, you should've been there.  It was only a few weeks ago.  Their
disobedience.  Tsk, tsk.  You would've slapped their little bottoms.  
Runnin' through the house, screamin' their heads off.  No matter how 
much I told them to stop, they kept running, and crying.  Idle threats, 
ha!  They didn't know that their grammy could be so strong.  I gave 
them warning.  I stayed calm and rational.  I repeated the threats.  I 
even counted to three for god's sake, but they didn't listen.  So, I 
grabbed those kids by their cute little cheeks and dragged them into 
the basement."  Her mood was a little more lively, and she took a short 
pause to pick up a knitting needle. 

"Little devils."  Jake said, engrossed in the pictures of home-made
flies and huge mounted trout. 

"Oh, they were stronger then I thought, but I got 'em.  Yep.  I opened
up that bomb shelter in the basement and we stayed in there.  Thats 
when I let idle threats aside and quickly cut out their flapping 
tongues with a swiss army knife.  Could of woke the dead with their 
shrill screams.  But, really I was surprised at how much they bled.  
Crazy kids." 

"Crazy kids." 

"Oh, did you see the article on those longaberger baskets in there,
honey?" 

Jake lied simply, "Mmmhmm." 

"Expensive!  But, oh did those kids start running around, banging on the
walls.  I told them to calm down, but the moans and gargles kept on 
coming.  When I saw that blood start staining the floor and leaving 
trails cause of their running, I'd had it.  I just took out your 
special fish knife.  You know the one.  The one with the serated edges? 
Kinda like a saw." 

Jake jerked his head, and looked over the magazine.  But, before his
thought processes completed, an aching need for relaxation sank him 
back into his dreams of fly fishing. 

"Well, it was sharp, but a child's bones are tough to cut through.  Oh,
especially when they are thrashing and carrying on so much.  I tried to 
keep my dress clean, but oh do they bleed and bleed.  Well, anyway, 
Andy, then Matt passed out.  Too much energy used, I guess.  They were 
tuckered out.  I was glad the screaming had stopped and their faces 
were so cute and cuddly, I just wanted to eat them up.  I put their 
legs on the shelves with canned food." 

"Mmmhmm." 

"And when they woke up, they never wanted to eat their food.  I forced
them a bit.  Stubborn kids." 

Jake yawned, "oh, yep, yep, yep." 

"Oh, and then.  I'm getting ready to leave the place.  And their just
falling right back to sleep again!  So, I decided to keep them safe in 
there that night.  Well, as you might guess, we were comfortable there. 
 So, I didn't see any reason to come out when they awoke.  The boys 
were so silent, much more agreeable.  And later there was such a loud 
racket above the shelter.  ...Who was it?  Oh, yes.  A detective was 
looking for three missing persons.  Jake Walters was his name." 

Jake looked up. 

"He wasn't anything like you, George.  He was sloppy.  Definitely not
looking for perfection.  I mean, we were right underneath." 

"Hey. Hey. Hey."  He made an attempt to sit up and reevaluate the
situation, but fell back to her words, confused. 

"Oh come on George.  Well...  it doesn't matter.  We just stayed there
for a few weeks, and the whole time it was wonderful.  I just didn't 
feel like leaving.  Silence and bright faces of small boys.  It was 
wonderful.  I caught up on my reading, did crosswords, and the like...  
you know, women stuff."  She was gesturing a little now, more focused, 
laughing and talking like normal conversation.  "And so, we stayed 
until...  well until I knew that I should get some sun.  I'd seen 
horrible things on TV about, what is it?  Rickets.  Oh, and 
malnurishment.  I realized we needed some sun.  So, we climb out 
together, the kids needing a little help, what with those short, stubby 
stumps and all.  I grabbed my purse, which of course you know always 
has that gun you bought me in it.  After you left on your fishing trip 
last summer, you came back one night and brought me that gun.  'Just in 
case,' you said." 

Jake began to stir from relaxation, eyes now on the smiling grandmother,
but he was glued to the spot.  "Oh, but I think my temper was flaring, 
because I yelled at those rascals for being too slow.  They were tired, 
they said.  But, I yelled.  And they ran again.  Back to the park and I 
was in my car chasing after within minutes.  Those boys were great 
climbers.  Had me fooled for a while." 

Jake sank deeper into the chair.  His body struggled to pull him from
the smothering brown pillows.  But, he made no sound as her voice began 
to echo. 

"I found them high in a tree, and around sunset they came down again. 
We just jumped right in the car and went on home to get ready for bed. 
Rascals!  ...George?  ...George?"  Her words were muffled through the 
thick cushion that pulled like a vacuum, sucking his body into the 
constricting fabric.  His face was covered, his arms thrashing to find 
air.  He heard a ripping sound, like a scream from the center of his 
back.  He burst through. 

Jake was holding Cindy's head, slipping it into the bag.  There was no
blood on his hands as he stood and walked away to his car.  The sun was 
setting. 

"Jake!  The boys.  Their tongues were cut out!"  The coroner jogged
after him. 

Jake didn't turn, "I know." 

-- 

It took only a few minutes of searching for Jake to find the door.  The
handle was well-hidden beneath a floor drain, while the shag carpet 
gave way in a perfect square around the metal door hinges.  Jake 
climbed down the ladder, into the blood-splattered cement pit, 
switching on a single light hanging from the ceiling. 

Appliances lined the bottom shelf of a rickety wooden storage rack while
above on the canned food shelf were beans and spam and coffee grinds.  
Blood drips stained the top of a gas stove, some cans of corn smeared 
with dried, dark, crimson. 

And in the corner lay the four legs and two tongues, neatly placed along
the plywood. 

In front of the legs was a familiar Handcraft magazine.  Jake picked up
the pages and turned to the section marked, "Fly fishing."  At the 
bottom of page 61, was a picture of Chatugea River, "Fly Fisher's 
Heaven", with two legs scrawled into the lake in blue pen, a tongue on 
shore. 

And underlined in the paragraph below, amongst information on correct
lures and baiting techniques, were the words, "GEORGE...   A VERY RARE 
FIND". 

________________________________ _________              _________
_________Spotlight 2001_________ ________________________________


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