I haven’t posted a story in quite a while. I’ve been working on a short story I’ll be publishing on Amazon in June. It’s called “Invasion Of Privacy.”
Here’s an excerpt from it. I hope you like it.
Invasion Of Privacy
& Other Short Stories
by Jim Liston
If you’re the person who murdered my wife and think you’ve gotten away with it, think again. I’m looking for you, and I’ll eventually find you.
“This is my last job, I’m just waiting for the computer to reboot and then I’ll run a quick scan,” I say to my wife, Diane, while working in a client’s home. “I should be back in less than an hour. Have you been very busy?”
“There were several customers earlier,” Diane says, “but it’s been quiet for a while now. I’m thinking about locking up and calling it a day, but I’ll wait until you get back. What do you think about going out to dinner tonight? I’ve been hearing about a new restaurant— I’ve got to go, someone just came in. See you soon, love you, bye.”
Arriving at the store about an hour later, I sit in the parking lot a moment. I still get a thrill when I look at the small business we’ve created. It might not look like much, but I remember it without the new windows added to the front. There’s a customer walking out, carrying a laptop. Trying to be friendly, I say, “Hi, how’s it going?” He doesn’t respond and quickly gets in his car and leaves but not before I get a good look at him. He’s about my size, just under six feet, with long brown hair. There’s nothing unusual about him except he has a spider tattoo on his face, just under his right eye.
“Diane, I’m back,” I say while walking in the door. I’m surprised she isn’t at the front counter since a customer has just left. She’s probably in the backroom. I notice the X-770 laptop is gone. Spiderman made a good choice, I think while walking past the display of new computers. There’s a pile of papers lying on the floor, as if they’d fallen from the counter. It isn’t like Diane to let something like that go; I’m always teasing her about her compulsive neatness.
I’m starting to get a bad feeling; something doesn’t feel right. “Diane, where are you?” I hear a noise coming from behind the counter and rush over to look. Diane’s lying there on the floor, bleeding.
“Diane,” I scream, “What happened?”
There’s blood everywhere … so much blood. I grab her and press my hand against the wound on her neck to try and stop the bleeding. The warmth of the blood and the sticky wetness of it, surprises me.
“You’re going to be fine,” I say, trying not to panic, “It’s OK, I’m here, don’t worry.”
Her eyes are closed, but they flutter open briefly, looking at me. The vacant look in her usually bright blue eyes frightens me. She’s trying to tell me something.
“Don’t try to talk,” I say while dialing 911.
“911, what is your emergency?” the young woman calmly asks.
“My wife is bleeding, please send help.”
“What is your address, please?”
“738 Harrington, Jim’s Got Web, the computer store, please hurry.”
“Sir, I’m contacting the medical dispatchers. Are you with your wife right now?”
“Yes… Please hurry. I’m trying to stop the bleeding—there’s blood everywhere.”
“Sir, an ambulance is on the way. I need you to stay calm. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Someone stabbed her—the man with the spider on his face—please hurry.”
“Spider? Sir, what are you talking about? Sir?”
I drop the phone so I can use both hands on Diane.
“Diane, please… You’ll be fine—you’re ok. The ambulance is on the way. No, please, no…”
She’s trying to talk again. I put my face against hers and faintly hear, “I’m sorry … I love you.”
“I know. I love you too. Diane, listen to me. You have to hang on. I need you. Diane, please … Don’t leave me.”
I’m trying not to think about losing her. What would I do? Keep pressure on the wound, I tell myself. I can’t believe how much blood there is. The metallic smell and the sight of the blood is starting to make me dizzy …
“Sir, can you hear me?” a voice in the distance asks, “Can you stand up? Let’s walk outside … Easy—take your time.”
The fresh air helps to revive me, “Diane,” I yell, remembering what happened.
“Your wife is on her way to the hospital. I’ll take you there. Are you feeling better?”
Diane’s blood is all over me. I must have passed out. “Is she okay? Damn it, how long have I been out? I was trying to stop the bleeding. I can’t believe I fainted … Please, take me to her.”
When we arrive at the emergency room, I run up to the desk, “Where’s my wife?”
“Sir, please have a seat, I’ll get someone to talk to you.”
A young doctor walks up to me, obviously uncomfortable. He doesn’t have to say anything; I can see it on his face. The only thing I hear him say is, “I’m sorry …”
The police officer waiting for me says, “I’m sorry for your loss, sir, but I’ll have to ask you to come down to the station with me to answer a few questions.”
I don’t remember the ride to the police station. It’s as if I’m in a nightmare and I can’t wake up. I’m seated at a small table with the officer across from me. Looking around the room, I notice a large mirror on the wall. I wonder who’s watching us from the other side.
“Mr. Gotweb, where were you when your wife was attacked?” the officer asks.
“I was on a service call.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“You can ask the customer. The work-order with his address and phone number will be on my computer.”
“OK,” he says, while glancing at the mirror, “We’ll contact him to verify that. Now, can you describe what you saw when you arrived at the scene?”
“I saw a man leaving the shop, carrying a laptop. He had a tattoo of a spider on his face.”
“Did you see anyone else there? Someone that can back up your story?”
“No,” I say, “there wasn’t anyone else.”
“Now, just for the record, were you and your wife were you having any problems?”
“Problems?” I ask, “What do you mean?”
“You know, how was your relationship? Are you having financial difficulties? Were you arguing a lot lately? Those type of things.”
“No … What does that have to do with anything? Wait,” I say, suddenly realizing what he’s getting at, “Are you accusing me of murdering my wife? This is ridiculous! I told you who the murderer is.”
“Right, the man with the spider tattoo. Yeah, I’ve got that. Can you tell me anything else about him?” the officer asks.
“Anything else? Are you kidding me? My wife is dead. I’m covered in her blood. Her murderer has a tattoo of a spider on his face, how much more do you need to know? I can’t believe this. How many people have a tattoo like that? Why aren’t you out looking for him?”
“Sir, we know what we’re doing. I’m just trying to get all of the facts straight. That’s all I need from you right now. Let me know if you think of anything else.”
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Thanks,
Jim
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