1.
The sheet slid back with her hand as she rose to a sitting position. Her right foot gently touched the floor of the dark bedroom, followed by the left. She silently stood and crept away from where her husband of twelve years slept.
This was not the first evening in which she had stealthily exited the bedroom she shared with her husband, but on this occasion, she was not on her way to meet her handsome young lover for a midnight rendezvous. During this particular late night escape, Elizabeth Foster was sleepwalking. As she and her husband lived alone and felt no need to close any of the doors in their house as they cared not for privacy, she could easily walk heel-toe toward the open bedroom door. Most of their time together was bitter, and neither cared if any neighbors saw their bickering. She turned left as she passed the threshold of the bedroom and stepped toward the stairs.
The Fosters’ home was not very large in terms of two-story houses, but five oak steps made it high enough. When she came to the top of the stairs, her right foot came down and felt air where there should have been floor. This realization shocked her into sudden wakefulness. There was a pounding on her chest, as if someone had pushed against her breastbone. Elizabeth’s breath seemed to have been ripped from her lungs. Her eyes widened suddenly and her vision was filled with a shapeless, dark red mist that spread out in tendrils. Elizabeth opened her mouth to scream, but she didn’t have time to make a sound before falling forwards. In fact, the only sound she made that night was of her crashing down the stairs, and the crack of her neck breaking.
Dusty Foster saw nothing wrong in his wife not being beside him when he awoke. On any other morning, Elizabeth would have been off to work by now, as the students of her school were just arising and preparing themselves for another day of drudgery. Rather than go downstairs for a cup of coffee, he stepped to the bathroom located behind the bedroom. After showering with the bathroom door widely ajar, Dusty began dressing for work.
The first thing he put on after showering was the one accessory he could not do without: his glasses. Over the past ten years, he had become completely dependent on them. They were at least an inch thick, and the lenses obscured his blue eyes from anyone who would look upon his round face. His wife had come to expect his showering with the door open so that his glasses would not be coated with condensation, and as such had stopped complaining about it. Once he could see, he looked into the mirror and combed back his thinning sandy hair.
The telemarketing firm for which he worked required their male employees to wear slacks, collared shirts, and a tie. Dusty slid his feet into his steel-toe boots as he did every weekday morning. After lacing up, he put on his only tie, one of a solid blue that matched his eyes. Once fully clothed, he exited the bedroom, flipping the light switch down as he did so.
Turning left toward the steps, he froze. The morning sun had yet to fully illuminate the house, making it difficult to make out the shape at the bottom of the stairs, but the chill running through his spine told him it was Elizabeth. Fighting the lump that traveling from his stomach to his throat, Dusty eased down the stairs to check her pulse. She was face-down, and her long blond hair covered most of her body. The left side of her face was visible, one glazed green eye staring blindly into the kitchen. Once certain that she was dead, Dusty shakily picked up the kitchen phone and dialed 911.
He knew there would be suspicions; an unfaithful wife, a temperamental husband with the world’s worst job and a fondness for cheap whiskey, and a “fall” down the stairs in the middle of the night. All he wanted was for the motions to pass. It was true that whatever love he held for Elizabeth had died many years before, but he never wanted her dead. Now that she was gone, all he wanted was to be left alone.
That afternoon of May 16, Dusty Foster sat at a desk in a police station, still wearing his work uniform. On the other side of the desk was a thin police detective with the eyes of a hopeless man. In fact, Dusty found it hard to believe that this man could possibly have a job in law enforcement. He had a rectangular head topped with slick brown hair, and a cleft chin dotting its bottom.
The detective reached out to shake hands with Dusty. “Mr. Foster. I’m Lieutenant Harold Argo. I’m awfully sorry about your wife. I was once married, so I understand the loss you must be feeling.”
Judging by the monotonous tone and the robotic pattern in which the words were spoken, Dusty guessed that the detective meant nothing of what he had just said; especially that bit about how he understood the loss of a wife. Anyone could see his wedding ring, and even if there was still the attachment, Argo had that whipped husband look about him. Maybe he wished he was widowed, but that was not so. He was definitely a “Yes, dear” man, and a lousy liar to boot. Maybe that had something to do with why he was chained down.
Instead of challenging the detective, Dusty decided that his problems were severe enough. He nodded somberly. His stress from the events of the day as well as the humidity of Georgia’s late spring soaked his shirt with sweat. He asked, “Has anyone found out what happened?”
The tall detective’s shoulders became level with his ears as he shrugged. In doing so, he looked even more box-like than before. “We’re hoping that maybe you could help us in that department, Mr. Foster.”
“Well, I hate to shatter your hopes, but I already told you what I know. She was next to me, alive, when I went to bed. When I woke up, she was at the bottom of the stairs, dead. Anything between there, I don’t know.”
“The coroner approximates her death at about half past midnight. Do you have any idea why your wife may have been going downstairs at that time?”
“Well, she obviously wasn’t going to the bathroom; that’s upstairs. It’s possible she was going to the kitchen for a midnight snack.”
“Mr. Foster, do you believe your wife was cheating on you?”
“I don’t just believe it. I know it. I caught her in the act with my former best friend and co-worker. That’s the same reason I’m stuck in the dead-end job I’m in now. But that was four years ago, so it’s pretty much forgotten.”
“And this man she was seeing, what was his name?”
“Gary Vinson.”
“And what does he do? In other words, what was it that you did before becoming a telemarketer?”
Dusty sighed; he even hated being called a telemarketer. “I was the assistant manager at Dillard’s. That’s his job now.” He closed his eyes and could see himself wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and the golden nametag. In the shoe department, Gary would be helping beautiful young women try on pumps, subtly and seductively rubbing the backs of their legs. The females would hold their breath as that college stud would grin up at them with his dark eyes and his black hair combed into a pompadour. Dusty really should have seen it coming. Not only was Gary’s libido his most prominent feature, but he tried to act as friendly as possible toward Elizabeth whenever she came to visit her husband at work. And Liz never came to visit Dusty at the store of Gary’s day off, which was ultimately the giveaway.
“So he stole your job and your wife? It’s a wonder he’s not the stiff.”
Dusty glared at the cop, but said nothing.
“Could you please spell his name for me?”
He spelled the name out, and as the detective scribbled it down in a notepad, added, “I never cared about what happened with the job. I haven’t seen him since then. There’s no revenge plot there. And as far as the marriage goes, it was never really about being faithful to one another. I never cheated on her, but that’s only because I’ve had too much on my mind to worry about women.” He glanced over at the office’s window, looking out through the cracks in the blinds. The sun was reflecting off the cars in the parking lot. It was true; he had too much on his mind to focus on the marriage. He once had a great future ahead of him, but felt that it was his duty to support Elizabeth. “If you’re thinking I killed her for revenge or jealousy, you’re wrong.”
Smirking, Argo retorted, “Oh? Then why did you kill her?”
Dusty’s temper began to flare as he firmly stated, “I didn’t.”
“No? There was one hell of an insurance policy on her.”
Exasperated, Dusty said, “Yeah, there’s a hell of an insurance policy on me too. If I had been hit by a truck, would you be accusing her so she could get paid?”
“We examine every possibility. I didn’t write down her lover’s name just to fill up space on paper. We’re going to question him and anyone else who knew your wife on a personal level. And if an insurance policy seems to be a motive for homicide, we look into it. So why so much insurance?”
“As you can probably see for yourself, those policies were taken out twelve years ago, right after we were married. She was pregnant and my mother had died giving birth to me. She was paranoid about it happening to her, too. So she insisted on having plenty of insurance just in case, so the baby wouldn’t have to worry about growing up with a struggling single parent. That got me thinking the same thing. At the time, I loved her, so I got my own policy just in case.”
Argo nodded. “So what happened to your child?”
Dusty’s face darkened. “SIDS. Eight months old.”
The detective avoided eye contact. “I’m sorry to hear that. How far along in the pregnancy was your wife when you decided to get the insurance policies?”
“Five months.”
“Which would make it approximately a year before the death of your child, correct?”
Dusty clenched his fists so that his knuckles popped. “Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m just trying to get an idea of where in the chronology the insurance policies come in, that’s all.” He scratched his head, and then asked, “Was she pregnant before or after your wedding day?”
Guiltily looking at his feet, Dusty whispered, “Before. Two months.”
“I see. So... you took these policies three months after you were married?”
Feeling ashamed and wishing to be anywhere but here in front of this rectangular cop who couldn’t tell a convincing lie if his life depended on it, Dusty nodded.
Argo grunted with amusement. The detective then picked up a manila folder from his desk. He flipped through it, pausing every now and then to read a line or two. “Well, according to your neighbors who were awake at that hour, there were no sounds of a struggle and the bedroom light was off. We still have the coroner working on it, but it looks like your wife just had an accident. However, if there are other developments, I’ll let you know.” There was that robotic voice again.
Feeling physically ill, Dusty stood up.“Thanks for the brilliant detective work; you just found out what I could’ve told you. And an extra special thanks for believing me.” With that, he turned and walked out of the office, his knees feeling weak.
Smirking ever so slightly, Argo called out, “Just doing my job, Mr. Foster.”
With the testimony of neighbors and forensic evidence seeming to prove his innocence in his wife’s death, he felt safe in going about his life as usual. He felt that Elizabeth would have done the same if he had died.
Buy the novel for $0.99 for Nook, Kindle, and other eReaders at https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=The+Odic+Touch
The sheet slid back with her hand as she rose to a sitting position. Her right foot gently touched the floor of the dark bedroom, followed by the left. She silently stood and crept away from where her husband of twelve years slept.
This was not the first evening in which she had stealthily exited the bedroom she shared with her husband, but on this occasion, she was not on her way to meet her handsome young lover for a midnight rendezvous. During this particular late night escape, Elizabeth Foster was sleepwalking. As she and her husband lived alone and felt no need to close any of the doors in their house as they cared not for privacy, she could easily walk heel-toe toward the open bedroom door. Most of their time together was bitter, and neither cared if any neighbors saw their bickering. She turned left as she passed the threshold of the bedroom and stepped toward the stairs.
The Fosters’ home was not very large in terms of two-story houses, but five oak steps made it high enough. When she came to the top of the stairs, her right foot came down and felt air where there should have been floor. This realization shocked her into sudden wakefulness. There was a pounding on her chest, as if someone had pushed against her breastbone. Elizabeth’s breath seemed to have been ripped from her lungs. Her eyes widened suddenly and her vision was filled with a shapeless, dark red mist that spread out in tendrils. Elizabeth opened her mouth to scream, but she didn’t have time to make a sound before falling forwards. In fact, the only sound she made that night was of her crashing down the stairs, and the crack of her neck breaking.
Dusty Foster saw nothing wrong in his wife not being beside him when he awoke. On any other morning, Elizabeth would have been off to work by now, as the students of her school were just arising and preparing themselves for another day of drudgery. Rather than go downstairs for a cup of coffee, he stepped to the bathroom located behind the bedroom. After showering with the bathroom door widely ajar, Dusty began dressing for work.
The first thing he put on after showering was the one accessory he could not do without: his glasses. Over the past ten years, he had become completely dependent on them. They were at least an inch thick, and the lenses obscured his blue eyes from anyone who would look upon his round face. His wife had come to expect his showering with the door open so that his glasses would not be coated with condensation, and as such had stopped complaining about it. Once he could see, he looked into the mirror and combed back his thinning sandy hair.
The telemarketing firm for which he worked required their male employees to wear slacks, collared shirts, and a tie. Dusty slid his feet into his steel-toe boots as he did every weekday morning. After lacing up, he put on his only tie, one of a solid blue that matched his eyes. Once fully clothed, he exited the bedroom, flipping the light switch down as he did so.
Turning left toward the steps, he froze. The morning sun had yet to fully illuminate the house, making it difficult to make out the shape at the bottom of the stairs, but the chill running through his spine told him it was Elizabeth. Fighting the lump that traveling from his stomach to his throat, Dusty eased down the stairs to check her pulse. She was face-down, and her long blond hair covered most of her body. The left side of her face was visible, one glazed green eye staring blindly into the kitchen. Once certain that she was dead, Dusty shakily picked up the kitchen phone and dialed 911.
He knew there would be suspicions; an unfaithful wife, a temperamental husband with the world’s worst job and a fondness for cheap whiskey, and a “fall” down the stairs in the middle of the night. All he wanted was for the motions to pass. It was true that whatever love he held for Elizabeth had died many years before, but he never wanted her dead. Now that she was gone, all he wanted was to be left alone.
That afternoon of May 16, Dusty Foster sat at a desk in a police station, still wearing his work uniform. On the other side of the desk was a thin police detective with the eyes of a hopeless man. In fact, Dusty found it hard to believe that this man could possibly have a job in law enforcement. He had a rectangular head topped with slick brown hair, and a cleft chin dotting its bottom.
The detective reached out to shake hands with Dusty. “Mr. Foster. I’m Lieutenant Harold Argo. I’m awfully sorry about your wife. I was once married, so I understand the loss you must be feeling.”
Judging by the monotonous tone and the robotic pattern in which the words were spoken, Dusty guessed that the detective meant nothing of what he had just said; especially that bit about how he understood the loss of a wife. Anyone could see his wedding ring, and even if there was still the attachment, Argo had that whipped husband look about him. Maybe he wished he was widowed, but that was not so. He was definitely a “Yes, dear” man, and a lousy liar to boot. Maybe that had something to do with why he was chained down.
Instead of challenging the detective, Dusty decided that his problems were severe enough. He nodded somberly. His stress from the events of the day as well as the humidity of Georgia’s late spring soaked his shirt with sweat. He asked, “Has anyone found out what happened?”
The tall detective’s shoulders became level with his ears as he shrugged. In doing so, he looked even more box-like than before. “We’re hoping that maybe you could help us in that department, Mr. Foster.”
“Well, I hate to shatter your hopes, but I already told you what I know. She was next to me, alive, when I went to bed. When I woke up, she was at the bottom of the stairs, dead. Anything between there, I don’t know.”
“The coroner approximates her death at about half past midnight. Do you have any idea why your wife may have been going downstairs at that time?”
“Well, she obviously wasn’t going to the bathroom; that’s upstairs. It’s possible she was going to the kitchen for a midnight snack.”
“Mr. Foster, do you believe your wife was cheating on you?”
“I don’t just believe it. I know it. I caught her in the act with my former best friend and co-worker. That’s the same reason I’m stuck in the dead-end job I’m in now. But that was four years ago, so it’s pretty much forgotten.”
“And this man she was seeing, what was his name?”
“Gary Vinson.”
“And what does he do? In other words, what was it that you did before becoming a telemarketer?”
Dusty sighed; he even hated being called a telemarketer. “I was the assistant manager at Dillard’s. That’s his job now.” He closed his eyes and could see himself wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and the golden nametag. In the shoe department, Gary would be helping beautiful young women try on pumps, subtly and seductively rubbing the backs of their legs. The females would hold their breath as that college stud would grin up at them with his dark eyes and his black hair combed into a pompadour. Dusty really should have seen it coming. Not only was Gary’s libido his most prominent feature, but he tried to act as friendly as possible toward Elizabeth whenever she came to visit her husband at work. And Liz never came to visit Dusty at the store of Gary’s day off, which was ultimately the giveaway.
“So he stole your job and your wife? It’s a wonder he’s not the stiff.”
Dusty glared at the cop, but said nothing.
“Could you please spell his name for me?”
He spelled the name out, and as the detective scribbled it down in a notepad, added, “I never cared about what happened with the job. I haven’t seen him since then. There’s no revenge plot there. And as far as the marriage goes, it was never really about being faithful to one another. I never cheated on her, but that’s only because I’ve had too much on my mind to worry about women.” He glanced over at the office’s window, looking out through the cracks in the blinds. The sun was reflecting off the cars in the parking lot. It was true; he had too much on his mind to focus on the marriage. He once had a great future ahead of him, but felt that it was his duty to support Elizabeth. “If you’re thinking I killed her for revenge or jealousy, you’re wrong.”
Smirking, Argo retorted, “Oh? Then why did you kill her?”
Dusty’s temper began to flare as he firmly stated, “I didn’t.”
“No? There was one hell of an insurance policy on her.”
Exasperated, Dusty said, “Yeah, there’s a hell of an insurance policy on me too. If I had been hit by a truck, would you be accusing her so she could get paid?”
“We examine every possibility. I didn’t write down her lover’s name just to fill up space on paper. We’re going to question him and anyone else who knew your wife on a personal level. And if an insurance policy seems to be a motive for homicide, we look into it. So why so much insurance?”
“As you can probably see for yourself, those policies were taken out twelve years ago, right after we were married. She was pregnant and my mother had died giving birth to me. She was paranoid about it happening to her, too. So she insisted on having plenty of insurance just in case, so the baby wouldn’t have to worry about growing up with a struggling single parent. That got me thinking the same thing. At the time, I loved her, so I got my own policy just in case.”
Argo nodded. “So what happened to your child?”
Dusty’s face darkened. “SIDS. Eight months old.”
The detective avoided eye contact. “I’m sorry to hear that. How far along in the pregnancy was your wife when you decided to get the insurance policies?”
“Five months.”
“Which would make it approximately a year before the death of your child, correct?”
Dusty clenched his fists so that his knuckles popped. “Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m just trying to get an idea of where in the chronology the insurance policies come in, that’s all.” He scratched his head, and then asked, “Was she pregnant before or after your wedding day?”
Guiltily looking at his feet, Dusty whispered, “Before. Two months.”
“I see. So... you took these policies three months after you were married?”
Feeling ashamed and wishing to be anywhere but here in front of this rectangular cop who couldn’t tell a convincing lie if his life depended on it, Dusty nodded.
Argo grunted with amusement. The detective then picked up a manila folder from his desk. He flipped through it, pausing every now and then to read a line or two. “Well, according to your neighbors who were awake at that hour, there were no sounds of a struggle and the bedroom light was off. We still have the coroner working on it, but it looks like your wife just had an accident. However, if there are other developments, I’ll let you know.” There was that robotic voice again.
Feeling physically ill, Dusty stood up.“Thanks for the brilliant detective work; you just found out what I could’ve told you. And an extra special thanks for believing me.” With that, he turned and walked out of the office, his knees feeling weak.
Smirking ever so slightly, Argo called out, “Just doing my job, Mr. Foster.”
With the testimony of neighbors and forensic evidence seeming to prove his innocence in his wife’s death, he felt safe in going about his life as usual. He felt that Elizabeth would have done the same if he had died.
Buy the novel for $0.99 for Nook, Kindle, and other eReaders at https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=The+Odic+Touch