Megan's Monster
by Sela Millard

Harriet Walker lit her third cigarette in an hour. Nasty things, but there was purpose to her vice. She hadn't smoked when he knew her. Her name wasn't Harriet Walker then either. The glass door of the diner swung open and her breath caught as she glanced up. The monster in human form entered. She'd begun to wonder if she had to wait all summer for him to show up.
She had come to this rustic area a month ago because the monster owned property here. His unspeakable acts had devastated her eight-year-old daughter, Megan. The girl was unable to name her attacker and he vanished. With the help of doctors, medical and psychiatric, she dealt with the violation and finished high school near the top of her class. She even began her freshman year at the local college along with three friends.
A few months later, the quartet visited an amusement park. They ran into a persuasive man, known to one of their number, and he attached himself to the group. He seduced the sensitive girl with clever, wicked words. He debased and humiliated her until she was fully in his control. Then tiring of the game, he revealed his identity as her past abuser and left again. Megan stumbled home and told her mother the story in disjointed, wrenching words. And then Harriet saw her daughter withdraw to an inaccessible place where nothing reached her.
The waitress behind the counter squealed. "Duke! About time you got back."
"Missed me, Trude?" He took off his sunglasses and looked around, then winked at her as he strode to the counter and straddled a stool. His silk shirt and designer jeans contributed to a still somewhat youthful appearance, in spite of a receding hairline.
He had made no sudden start nor returned his gaze to her as he looked over the lunch crowd. She'd been confident he wouldn't recognize her, but she was still relieved that her disguise had worked. The shoulder length, gray wig, dark contact lenses, and artful makeup effectively obscured the face he would remember. Her long denim dress with embroidered jacket on a body that was thirty pounds lighter also helped.
He ordered coffee, black. When the waitress brought the cup, she leaned on the counter in front of him. Her tight knit top's deep neckline gave him a good view of her cleavage.
"So, what brings you back this time, Duke?"
"Ah, shit, the usual. One of my tenants moved out and I gotta work on the place."
"What you get for bein' one of these 'absentee' landlords, Duke." The waitress blew at the long blonde lock of hair that dangled in front of her right eye.
"Yeah, right." He drank coffee and examined the scenery in front of him.
"Why don't you just move back here, Duke? You might enjoy it." She grinned, tongue protruding slightly between even white teeth.
"I've been thinking about it."
"Think about it hard?" She dragged the last word out.
"Maybe."
"You won't be sorry. I promise." The waitress moved her shoulders up and down, making her ample breasts bounce.
"Hey, Trudy. More coffee over here." A bearded young man in a camouflage outfit raised his voice.
"Keep your shirt on, Manny. I'm comin'." She straightened and turned to pick up the coffee pot. "Be right back, lover."
Harriet signaled for her check. She lit another cigarette and waited.
After about fifteen minutes and two cups of coffee, Duke put some money on the counter and slid off the stool. "Better go to the hardware store, then get started, babe. Gotta be back upstate Monday."
Harriet rose and walked to the front cash register, dropping money and check beside it. She got outside in time to see Duke's black and red Jeep moving away in the direction of the next town. She walked to her own nondescript rental car and drove to the small cottage she had rented for the summer, reaching it in about fifteen minutes.
She, too, had work to do. She entered the cottage and crossed the living room to the tiny bedroom. Dropping her purse on the single bed, she opened the closet door and pulled out the green canvas bag.
Sinking to the cheap gray carpet, she opened the bag and removed its contents. Camouflage green pants and shirt, green sneakers and socks, all purchased, with the bag, far from here at an Army surplus store. Black hood, gloves, and several strips of two inch wide heavy cotton belting were next.
A heavy weight sealed plastic bag held several rags soaked with floor varnish. Next to it, two hypodermic needles filled with a pale liquid nestled in a small, clear plastic box.
She picked up a plain plastic bag. It held a worn four inch screwdriver, electric outlet repair kit, and a book of matches with the logo of a local nightspot. She smiled thinly. Appropriate. The waitress had tried to persuade the balding man to visit the roadhouse tonight. Did he treat her as he had Megan? She didn't think so. Maybe only gentle, vulnerable females aroused that dark side of him.
The heaviest objects lay in the bottom of the bag, ten yards of eighteen inch wide plastic carpet runner and a hefty stick of wood about two feet long.
She leaned against the bed, considering the canvas bag's contents. Maybe she should have brought a can of polyurethane from home. Her plan depended on the flammable substance being in the house. Suppose he decided not to refinish the floors, as he usually did, before renting the house again? No. The weight of the canvas bag itself, and its present contents, were about all she could easily carry through the thick underbrush.
She looked at the clock on the bedside table. Better hurry, she had to be inside the house when he got there. Even though he had had to drive to the hardware store in the next town, then change clothes, she was cutting it a little close.
Short dark hair, threaded with white, was revealed when she took the wig off, placed it on its styrofoam headstand, and put it on the closet shelf. She stripped off the denim dress and jacket and donned the camouflage outfit. She stuffed the plastic box holding the needles into a pants pocket, matches and screwdriver in another, pressing the velcro flaps securely. After pulling on socks, sneakers, and gloves, she slung the canvas bag over her shoulder and left her house by the back door.
A few steps and she was in the half mile or so of thick woods separating her from her destination. Close to several homes and rental properties, only an occasional rabbit lived in the woods, so she had little concern that she might meet a real hunter. Just in case, she had prepared a story to explain the bag on her shoulder. It held the perfect heavy piece of oak she'd found to sand and polish for a doorstop. Hand crafts were a big activity in the area.
The frame house appeared deserted and quiet when she paused at the edge of the woods and lowered her burden. Sweat beaded on her forehead and she felt it running down between her breasts. The warm air was humid and still under the trees.
Satisfied he was not in the house yet, she took the roll of plastic runner and the hood out of the bag. She pulled the hood over her head and, stepping onto the end of the plastic, gave the roll a good shove out into the sandy backyard. She walked on it until she reached the still rolled portion, picked it up and threw it farther toward the house. After she repeated the action two more times, the plastic ended at the single wide concrete step at the rear door. She listened intently for a few seconds. Hearing nothing, she removed the piece of wood and heaved it through the glass pane. She reached in, unlocked the door, and entered.
She closed the door and moved through the kitchen, grasping the stick of wood. A quick glance into each of the three other rooms and the bathroom assured her that the hot and stuffy little house was empty. Her heart jumped at the sound of a car engine. She'd barely made it. The jeep pulled into the drive and stopped. She flattened her body against the wall next to the door hinges and raised her weapon.
His key scraped in the lock and the door opened toward her. A plastic bag flew into the room, making a clattering sound when it landed.. After a few seconds the door opened further and he came into view. He was stooping slightly, a bucket in each hand. As she swung the piece of wood, he turned just enough to catch a glimpse of her, but not in time to avoid the blow that knocked him cold.
She dragged him and one of the buckets of polyurethane into the room. The other bucket, along with the plastic bag holding the outlet repair kit from her bag, she placed outside the front door then closed it. With some effort, she pulled his body as far as the opening to the minuscule hall. She slammed the head injury she'd inflicted against the wooden edge, leaving traces of blood and hair. Too hard? Was he dead? No use feeling for a pulse with those gloves. She lifted an eyelid, the pupil reacted to light. Good. She didn't want him to die yet. He had to suffer, endure the thing that had scarred his soul, as he'd forced Megan to do. Of course, it still wouldn't be the same. Death would release him. Megan was still locked in her prison. She lay curled in her bed, staring at nothing, silent, occasionally moaning 'no, no'.
Turning him over, she bent each leg at the knee and bound wrist to ankle on each side with the belting strips. When she first conceived her plan, she had cut the strips, soaked them lightly in varnish and dried them, then worked them until they were flexible enough to tie securely.
She pulled the plastic box from her pocket and removed the two hypodermic needles. Injecting half the contents of one hypo into the upper jaw on one side and half just beneath the jaw, she did the same with the second hypo on the other side. She wanted him aware of what was happening, but unable to scream.
If she used a gag, any saliva he was able to generate might have preserved some portion of it and raised questions. She almost gave up before she found a dentist among the Personal Ads claiming to be professional men. He liked to talk. A few leading questions and she had all the information she needed.
She used the screwdriver to remove the cover from an electrical outlet and smashed it. Dumping the contents of the plastic bag he'd thrown, she found he had bought a brush for spreading the polyurethane. And rags. Excellent. She lifted the lid of the bucket with the screw driver and took bucket and brush into one of the bedrooms. She slopped some of the poly on the bedroom floor and spread it hurriedly, then did the same in the other bedroom. Returning to the living room, she spread the thick liquid on part of the floor. When she threw the bucket into the corner near him, the remaining liquid drained out and under his trussed form. The fumes were strong, she needed to finish and leave. She checked her bag to make sure the plastic box with the syringes and stick of wood were in it. Screwdriver and outlet cover on the floor, mute evidence of his carelessness.
Time to rouse him with a few drops of water. When she tried the kitchen faucet, a tiny stream emerged. Turning to look at him, she found the water wasn't necessary. His eyes were wide open, darting wildly around the room, and his mouth was working. But the only sounds he produced were grunts. The novocaine was working.
A questioning look entered his eyes when he saw her watching him. She considered removing her hood, to let him know who was doing this to him. No, he mustn't see her, on the remote chance that he survived.
Smiling behind the black fabric, she drew the match book out in slow motion. She squatted near the pile of rags. His bulging eyes locked on her gloved hands. He read her intent before she struck the match. His grunts became frenzied. He tried to slide toward her, but the partially dried polyurethane under his clothing prevented it.
She slid a match across the striking surface and the tiny flame sprang to life.
The rags flared up as soon as she touched the flame to them. She extinguished the match and put it and the folder in her pocket. The fire reached greedily for the pooled polyurethane on the floor. She noticed a dark stain now on the front of his pants. The white scars on his arms and hands stood out as he struggled with his bonds. He'd said they were reminders of a brush fire that got away from his drunken father. Barely a teen, he'd saved himself and the old man by running through the flames. Ever since, fire had been his special terror.
She grabbed her bag, and ran through the kitchen. The door with its broken glass closed behind her. Enough oxygen should enter to keep the fire burning. She stepped down on the plastic and turned to brush any traces of her sneaker prints from the step. That action and the plastic runner were probably needless caution, considering that the footprints of volunteer firefighters and county sheriff's men would soon cover the yard.
Reaching the shelter of the trees, she stripped off the hood and gloves, stuffing them and the rolled up plastic in the canvas bag. She would have to get back to her cottage and dispose of everything as soon as possible. A final glance toward the house showed dark smoke, shot with bright flame behind it, boiling through the broken pane of the back door.
She was sweeping her front porch when the fire truck careened past on the road, siren wailing. It was followed closely by the EMS ambulance, a County Sheriff's car, and several fire department hangers-on. Two hours later the sheriff's car slowed and stopped in front of her cottage. A deputy got out and approached her with a heavy step.
She laid down the trowel she'd used to bury the stick, in several pieces, in the dirt of the raised flower bed. Wiping her hands on her jeans, she stood, willing her face to show only normal concern.
He removed his hat. "Guess you saw the fire truck, ma'am?"
"Yes, Officer. Where was the fire?"
"Empty house down the road. Owner was refinishing the floors, making electrical repairs. Firemen figure a spark got in some rags. Maybe he fell and was overcome with smoke before he could make it outside." The deputy fiddled with his hat.
"How awful."
"Yeah. Not much left but bones and a little charred flesh. God, I'm sorry, Ma'am. I wasn't thinking."
"I better get moving. Good day, Ms. Walker."
She watched the car drive away. The monster was dead. When she told Megan, would the news reach her in that distant place she inhabited?

"Megan's Monster" is Sela Millard attempt at a different genre. The writer lives in the mountains of Tennessee and usually writes of crimes not so dark.