The White Angel Murder

66

Stanton raced on the interstate, weaving in between cars. He cut off a semi and the loud horn startled him. He fumbled for his cell phone and was annoyed that he had to wait for it to turn on. He dialed Jessica’s number.

“Hey,” she said, “what’s up?”

“He’s going after Melissa. Call dispatch and tell them an officer needs assistance immediately and get them to 2312 New Haven. Tell them the suspect is armed and hostile to officers.”

“Oh my God. Okay, I’m on it.”

He then called Melissa. There was no answer as it went straight to voicemail. He tried again with the same result.

Stanton glanced down at his speedometer and saw he was doing nearly ninety miles an hour, disrupted only with the frequent braking he had to do before passing slower vehicles.

By the time he got off his exit six minutes had passed. He knew he would be closer than any responding officers and probably be the first one there.

The street was quiet and there were no vehicles parked in the driveway. Stanton ran up onto the grass and left the car on as he darted out and to the front door. It was locked and he pounded and rang the door bell and shouted for Melissa. He took a step back and raised his right leg and smashed his heel by the doorknob. He did it again, and again, and again. The door was beginning to splinter and he did it twice more with the other leg before switching back.

With a thunderous crash the door swung open, bits of wood flying everywhere, and Stanton pulled out his firearm and entered the house.

It was dark except for the blue light of the television coming from the living room. He flipped the switch on the wall and nothing happened. He pushed his back against the wall and slid along it, heading for the living room when saw a figure slouched on the sofa.

“On the ground!”

There was no movement. Stanton reached for the light switch and a lamp turned on. It was Lance. His head was leaned back against the leather, a small hole in his forehead drizzling blood down over his face. The back of his head was blown out and brain matter and blood was on the wall behind him.

He heard screaming from farther down the hallway. They were of young children.

Stanton sprinted down the hall. The gun was in his hand but it was lowered now and he couldn’t think; there was only the instinct to run to the voices and destroy anything in front of him.

They were coming from the bathroom and the door was locked. Stanton rammed his shoulder into it and it flung open. His boys were on the floor, their faces covered in tears and sweat, their eyes swollen. But alive.

They ran to him and he wrapped his arms around them.

“Where’s your mom?”

“I don’t know.”

Stanton glanced around the bathroom. “Come on, let’s go.”

He took them outside and shouted for help. A neighbor came out, an older woman in gym clothes. Stanton told her to take his boys inside her home and wait for the police and lock her doors. She was frightened and confused, but did what he asked without a word.

Stanton ran back inside the house.

His heart was pounding so hard he didn’t think he could hear anything else. He ran back to the bathroom and checked the two rooms farther down that hallway. They were empty. He ran over to the stairs leading to the second floor. On the first few steps were dirty boot-prints.

Stanton climbed the stairs slowly, straining to hear any sounds. He got to the top and stood for a moment listening. There was a muffled cry in the room immediately to his left. He twisted around the other side of the door and ducked low. He took a deep breath, and reached for the doorknob.

He twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. Tied to the bed with plastic cuffs, Melissa was in her bra and panties. Her make-up was running down her face and she was hysterical, fighting against the straps as her wrists bled.

Stanton pushed the door open farther, and then went deaf.

A shotgun blast tore through the wood just above his head. Where his chest should have been had he been standing. He fell to his stomach as another blast went off, his ears ringing and causing nausea.

He crawled along the floor away from the room as another blast tore through the wall, blowing fragments of wood and drywall over the hallway and on top of him. Another blast farther along but above him.

Stanton climbed to his knees and got toward the end of the hall when he heard Melissa scream. He stood and ran for the bedroom. Brady was at the door and fired, the spray mostly hitting the wall behind Stanton as he fell to his stomach and fired up at the figure in front of him.

Stanton squeezed the trigger and felt the impact against his wrist and shoulder. Another shotgun blast caught Stanton and tore chunks out of his midsection and shoulder. Brady was hit once in the throat and the face. His jaw shattered into pieces, revealing his tongue and pink throat, and he stumbled backward. Stanton steadied his hand, and fired.

A single shot went into his cheek just underneath the eye. He fell to his knees as Stanton stood up and fired two rounds into his head, knocking the corpse over onto its back. A handgun was in Brady’s other hand and Stanton walked over and kicked it away. He stood over the body, and fired his last round into the heart.

He ran over to Melissa and tugged on the straps. They weren’t tightened all the way: he had been interrupted. Stanton ripped them off and placed his arms around his wife and kissed her forehead as she wept onto his chest.

“It’s over,” he whispered. “It’s over.”