Page 18 of Night Blind

“I don’t know if you should pray for what we have,” Helen said removing his arm from her person. “I don’t even know what we have, but I will stab a rock for her. She is my ride-or-die. So, on that note, I guess, you can simply offer a prayer for us all.”

Whenever her cousin left the home, a prayer was all Helen had to go on that Cherry would return. There were backup plans in place should anything happen to Cherry, but she always came home. She had to come home because Helen and Naomi needed her and she needed them. Cherry also had a husband who would stay awake until she was safely home. For now, it was enough.

Chapter 7 - Sight

Indianapolis, Indiana (The Collector)

This was not enough. Shenita left him and he missed her. He obsessed over her, and often returned to the home where she’d lived, hoping she’d come back to the bed where he’d slept, so he could sneak in on her, sharing an encounter one more time. The taste of her in his mouth left him on rock for hours, and not one of his Dolls could take away the ache. Oh, they made the desire go down, but the taste of Shenita lingered in his mouth and returned later in the evening when he belched, making him long to be inside of her again.

The obsession was harmful. He came to the home where she’d lived, smelling the scent of her on the sheets, making him moan like a whore as the scent of her on the pillows made him hornier than he’d ever been. Unable to contain the force of the feeling hitting him, he yanked down his pants, rubbing one out as he thought about his Chocolate Queen. The tightness of her around his thick member made his member jump in the loose-fitted jeans. The way she’d reacted to the shock of him made her cum so hard and also made him long for her.

He'd made her squirt. Shenita came so hard she squirted, and the look on her face said she’d never done that before.

“I bet she was also surprised how big my cock is,” he said, sitting in the shrubbery and watching the house.

A sign sat in the yard.

An ugly sign.

A disgusting sign which advertised the house had been sold. A sold red banner across the sign meant she wasn’t coming back. The house wasn’t in her name, but someone named Abigail Barnes, who had miraculously dropped off the radar along with his Chocolate Queen. He searched for Abigail Barnes and kept hitting dead ends.

“Bitches,” he mumbled, getting to his feet, turning, and bumping into something.

He looked up to see a man.

A large man.

A muscled black man.

“Oh fuck,” he yelled, lunging forward and knocking the man off balance enough for him to break free of the grasp.

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him away from the home of his Chocolate Queen. He ambled his way down the dark slope of the water run-off, through the wet grass, and up the other side of the sunken area to where he’d parked his truck. Shaking hands started the vehicle as he pressed his foot down hard on the gas, praying, desperate to get away. His eyes went back and forth to the rear-view mirror, trying to see if he was being followed. Halfway up Highway 31, aiming for South Bend, then on to Elkhart, driving at a clip to I-69 to Flint, he drove at a steady pace connecting to I-75 to take him into Cheboygan. He could be home by midnight if he pushed.

“That was close,” he said, checking the rearview once more. He was pushing his luck longing for her the way he did. “Her man was watching the house. I recognize that big fucker. He is touching my girl. He’s touching my Chocolate Queen. I’ll fix him. I’ll show them all, and she will, at the end of all of this nonsense, be mine again. This I vow. This I promise.”

In his anger, his muddled mind no longer thought clearly. The Collector, always the hunter, never realized the rabbit now had the gun. Mustang, who’d come home to Michigan for a law enforcement conference, was called in to aid Cherry in finding her cousin. A friend, and former Army Ranger, Ricky Collins was on the job with the force in Michigan with the State Troopers. Collins, making a few calls to the powers that be, managed to get Mustang attached to liaison with the Michigan State Troopers to apprehend The Collector. Thus far, all of his hunches had provenaccurate. The man was obsessed with Shenita and couldn’t let go. All he had to do was park and wait. The Collector didn’t disappoint.

Mustang spotted the man when he arrived at the home. He backtracked his steps to locate the vehicle he’d driven, placing two trackers on the vehicle in different locations. He fully expected The Collector to realize, more than likely, first thing in the morning why Mustang didn’t follow him, and locate the tracking device under the rear of the truck. Tracker one would be easy for him to find.

It was the second tracker that would bring his Chocolate Queen to his door. She would not come to him to return to his bed or to his ever-watchful care. Shenita would come as the avenging angel of death to end his existence. In the morning, he would realize that as well.

As far as Mustang was concerned, they all needed to be prepared. He climbed in his rented vehicle, aiming the nose towards Kentucky. A visit was required to his old childhood friend, the Technician called Slow.

****

Evansville, Indiana

It was slow-moving. Karlton Manford went into the building to sell his dirty little secrets and get his wick damp. Men like him always played both sides of the long game, inadvertently coming up short in the game of life. Today would be his last day on the board as Cherry arrived to end his reign of nonsense.

Karlton wasn’t a smart man or even a clever thief. He was the worst kind of criminal, a man favored by luck. No matter what came his way, luckily, he managed to skirt the consequences, moving on to the next home to infest it like a vagabond roach with a one-legged girlfriend.

She spotted him going inside the building. Careful canvassing of the neighborhood didn’t leave many high buildings or vantage points to perch, set up, and take her shot. Cherry was a long-range sniper and preferred not to do up close and personal. Besides, the work order specified it needed to look like a hit. She was good at that.

“Damn it,” she scoffed, looking around and finding the only vantage point to get a good clean shot and not be seen would be from a tree.

In her early Army days, her spotter grew up in a family of arborists. During a war game exercise at Ft. Wainright, he’d convinced her to gear up and perch herself high in a tree. No one would expect it, and he’d been correct. She looked around, spotting several. A copse of Eastern Red Cedars lined the street. Cherry exited the vehicle, walked slowly down the street, and arrived at the small set of trees lining the dark road. The trees were surrounded by shrubbery as well, which would hide any other materials she would need after making the shot and scampering into the brush. The center tree Cherry chose would be perfect.

Easing her way to her shop, a black Ford F-150, she took out her weapon and a bit of rope and went to the chosen tree. The McMillan TAC-50, her weapon of choice, dissembled in a small carrying bag, appeared as nothing more than a cheap handbag. Rope in hand, she tossed it over the lowest branch, creating a climbing winch, and hoisted her weight on the lower branch. From here, she wiggled her way through the dense foliage of the tree, climbing nearly six feet up and finding the perfect branch. The rope hung loosely around her waist, as she assembled her weapon, seated a round in the chamber, and secured it to the branch. She worried about the recoil at this height, and for a moment, second-guessed herself. The ammo pack around her waist carried her Technician phone and a few extra rounds,which she never used. Cherry always got the target on the first shot.

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