Heads You Win, Tails You Lose Read online

  Contents

  Books by Melanie Atkins

  Heads You Win, Tails You Lose

  About the Author

  Heads You Win, Tails You Lose

  a short story

  by

  Melanie Atkins

  Heads You Win, Tails You Lose (a short story)

  Melanie Atkins

  Copyright © March 2013

  ISBN 978-9858805-1-4

  Cover Art - Beth Fossen

  Book Design & Conversion - Lasting Impressions e-Book Creations

  www.lastingimpressions-ebookcreations.com

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the Author

  Ebooks are not transferrable, either in whole or in part. As the purchaser or otherwise lawful recipient of this ebook, you have the right to enjoy the novel on your own computer or other device. Further distribution, copying, sharing, gifting or uploading is illegal and violates United States Copyright laws.

  Pirating of ebooks is illegal. Criminal Copyright Infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, may be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of up to $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents or persons – living or dead – are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  Books by Melanie Atkins

  Indepedent Publishing

  Skeleton Bayou

  Heads You Win, Tales You Lose

  Desert Breeze Publishing:

  New Orleans Detectives:

  Cherished Witness

  Prime Suspect

  Chosen Target

  Beloved Captive

  Unwilling Accomplice

  Perfect Partner

  Keller County Cops:

  Marked for Murder

  Shield of Valor

  Quest for Justice

  Deliverance from Evil

  Written in Blood

  Trained to Kill (coming soon)

  Code of Vengeance (coming soon)

  Single titles:

  Haunted Memories

  Voodoo Bones

  Emily’s Nightmare

  Valentine Vendetta

  Blood Bound (coming soon)

  Above Suspicion (coming soon)

  Against All Odds (coming in 2014)

  Whiskey Creek Press:

  Flash Bang

  Blood Rite

  Look for Melanie’s full length novels at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and many online outlets

  Heads You Win, Tails You Lose

  “Harold, are you watching another damned football game?” Evelyn’s shrill screech sliced across her husband’s nerves like a polished blade. “You never fixed the lock on the bathroom door or put your dirty clothes in the laundry room. I have to do everything around here.”

  He ignored her and turned up the volume on the TV. The game’s announcer declared State’s receiver had just made a first down.

  “It’s about damned time,” Harold growled, irked with his team almost as much as he was with Evelyn. The woman never stopped nagging.

  A loud bang echoed from the kitchen. “You didn’t change the light bulb over the sink, either. I’m sick of asking you to do anything around here.”

  “I’m sick of it, too,” he muttered, only loud enough for himself and the Jack Russell Terrier curled up by his side to hear. The dog peered up at him with soulful brown eyes. Harold ground his teeth. “All she does is nag, nag, nag. Do this, do that. Fix this, fix that. I’m telling you, Max, if she don’t shut up--”

  “I need you to change the time on the clock above the refrigerator, too,” Evelyn called out. “The time changed two weeks ago, and it’s still on daylight savings time. And don’t forget tomorrow’s garbage day. You never did buy me those new green trash cans from Sears like you promised.”

  “Hell, yeah. I did,” he mumbled, picturing them hidden beneath the blue plastic tarp in the back of his pickup. “Hid ‘em from you just to rankle you. Irritating woman. After thirty freaking years of marriage, seems like you’d trust me to keep this place up, but you don’t. I stay in the doghouse, no matter how hard I try to please you.”

  “I suppose you’re goin’ fishing tomorrow instead of trimming the shrubs,” she hollered. “That’s usually how you spend your Sundays. Either sittin’ in a boat, huntin’ a bunch of dumb deer, or watching football. Don’t seem to matter if the grass is knee high to a giraffe or the sink’s clogged up. You ain’t gonna do anything ‘round here unless I stay on your ass for days.”

  Harold tightened his hold on the remote.

  Max shot him a fearful look and jumped out of the chair.

  “My sister Opal’s having hip surgery next month. Alvin’s already gotten a hospital bed for her recuperation and is repainting their living room so it’ll be done ahead of time, in case company comes by. Seems like you could do something around this house for me.”

  With a low snarl of displeasure, Harold turned up the game. State was on the twenty yard line, but was now going backward instead of forward thanks to a holding penalty. He silently cursed both Evelyn and the game’s referees.

  She halted in the doorway, the frightening shadow of her brown-gray helmet hair looming over him like the Grim Reaper. “You ain’t even listening to me, are you?”

  “I’ve heard every dadgum word you said,” Harold snapped. “Now leave me alone. I’m watching the game.”

  “You’re always watching the game. Or watching cars race in a circle, or ogling the boobs on those blonde bimbos parading around the ring during wrestling matches.”

  “I gotta do something to help me relax, Evelyn. Lord knows you won’t let me do it any other time.”

  “Don’t forget to clean the ceiling fans, either. They’re filthy.”

  I’d like to hang you from one of them. Then maybe you’d hush, although I doubt it. The image that idea brought to mind brought up the corners of Harold’s flat lips.

  She glared at him. “What are you smiling at? I didn’t say anything funny.”

  “Nothing.”

  “And feed that stupid dog,” she said, continuing her earlier tirade. “He ain’t nothin’ but skin and bones these days.”

  “He’s just fine.” Harold eyed Max, who hovered near the drapes like he wanted to hide behind them. I don’t blame you for that, boy. I’d like to hide there, too.

  The dog growled at Evelyn.

  His wife put her hands on her wide hips. “That animal needs to be outside.”

  “Nope. He stays in the house with me,” Harold said firmly.

  She blew out a disgusted breath. “Give him a bath, then. He stinks.”

  Harold focused on the football game to keep from throwing the remote at her.

  “I need you to check the stopper in the bathtub,” she said, staring at him for another long moment before turning and huffing back into the kitchen.

  He ground his teeth. I work to put food on the table, and I do a lot around this place. Grilling, cooking, making the bed. She never shuts up. Not for one cotton-pickin’ minute.

  “Don’t forget to look at
the garbage disposal.” Her shrill tone rankled his raw nerves. She’d started nagging him the moment he walked in the door tonight even though he brought dinner home. She’d talked about his dog--and now she was starting all over again.

  Fed up, Harold turned up the TV another notch, got out of the recliner, and stalked down the carpeted hall to the bedroom. After making sure Evelyn hadn’t followed him, he opened the closet, dug into the long pocket of his favorite pair of camouflage pants, and took out his serrated hunting knife. He’d sharpened it just last weekend, but he still unsheathed it and ran the pad of his thumb down its sleek silver blade. A sharp prick startled him, and blood welled on his skin.

  With a sly smile, he slurped the warm trickle into his mouth and palmed the knife’s narrow handle. It fit comfortably in his hand. Felt right.

  His heart beat in time with his quickening steps as he made his way back to the living room. Max whined and jumped into the recliner. Harold patted the dog’s smooth head and flicked a glance at the giant flat screen TV just in time to see State miss a field goal.

  Anger rocketed through his veins.

  “And Harold,” Evelyn screeched. “Take another look at the washing machine while you’re in the storeroom. I think it’s out of balance again.”

  Not as much as you are, you stupid bitch. You just don’t know when to shut the hell up. He rolled his eyes and gripped the knife.

  She kept up her diatribe as he slipped up to the kitchen door and peeked inside. She stood in front of the sink with her back to him. Rows of little dancing birds decorated her white cotton blouse, and Harold thought about how much he hated it. Almost as much as he hated her black knit pants and her old lady hairdo. Hell, she made him feel old.

  “I also need you to stop by the store on the way home from work tomorrow and pick up some orange juice,” she hollered, her shrill words bouncing off the walls and curling the hairs on his arms. She was washing something off in the sink. He couldn’t tell what it was, and frankly, he didn’t give a tinker’s damn.

  He kicked off his shoes and slipped into the room, careful not to make a sound.

  The soft whir of the dishwasher paused as it changed cycles. He paused, too.

  When it started up again, so did he. Three steps later, he halted and just behind his wife laboring over the sink. She screeched out order after order as her hands continued to scrub the pots and pans, telling him to take the car to have it aligned, to have the chimney cleaned, and to check the price of firewood for winter.

  He sneered and slinked another step closer. She wouldn’t have to worry about any of that once he was done, now would she? Excitement tingled over his skin. He sucked in a deep breath and suddenly became hyper-aware of every noise in the room. His wife’s constant yammering, his own rapid breathing, the rush of the dishwasher, the tick of the clock, the murmuring radio.

  “Harold?” she squawked, turning off the water. “Are you listening to me?”

  Hell, no. He smothered a laugh and took one more step.

  A floorboard creaked.

  She turned.

  Thrown off guard, Harold lunged across the worn linoleum and whipped his knife across her fat throat, the shiny silver blade flashing like lightning as he carved her an eerie second smile. Her words gurgled out along with her life’s blood.

  She sagged against him, and her arterial spray blasted the sink, the wall, even the faded yellow curtains, decorating them with a dazzling arc of color.

  Max came to the door and barked.

  “Shut up, dog!” Harold ordered, his face hot. “Get out of here.”

  Drawn by the scent of blood, the animal disobeyed and danced into the room, nipping at Evelyn’s shoes. Wild eyed and yapping up a frenzy.

  Harold shooed the pup away, eased his wife to the floor, and shut her eyelids with his thumbs. Then he kept cutting, kicking at the dog every time he drew close.

  Sweat rolled down Harold’s back as he hacked through his wife’s backbone, not stopping until he’d severed her head. Once he was done, he let it go. It rolled across the tired linoleum like a bloody beige bowling ball, her helmet hair still not moving.

  Max chased it and barked.

  Harold grabbed the dog before he got his paws bloody and tossed him into the garage. The animal kept up his crazy yipping for a few more minutes, and then finally stopped.

  Relieved, Harold grinned, even though he was covered in blood and had a helluva mess to clean up. He took his time washing the knife in the sink. Then he locked Max in the cab of his truck, got the tarp out of the bed, and rolled Evelyn up in it -- not an easy task, thanks to her considerable bulk -- and dragged her into the garage.

  He tossed her head into his fishing bucket and set it just inside the kitchen door.

  Eager to dispose of her dead body, he fished around for a rope. Once he found it, his eyes fixed on one of the overhead beams. He tossed the rope over it and slowly hoisted his wife into the back of the pickup. His arms ached, and sweat poured down his spine.

  Max stood up on the seat and barked at him through the rear window.

  Nag, nag, nag…just like Evelyn.

  Harold shook his head once he had his wife’s body settled and stomped back inside the house to clean up. After he was done, he’d put the little guy outside for a few minutes.

  He stalked back into the kitchen and yanked down the curtains. What a mess. He dumped them and the table cloth into the washer, along with a measure of detergent and a cupful of bleach, then poured more of the cleanser into the sink.

  Took him a good thirty minutes, but he finally scrubbed all the blood off of the walls, the counter, and the floor. His back ached and his eyes watered by the time he pushed himself wearily to his feet and peered down at his clothes. They were saturated with Evelyn’s blood and splotched with bleach. Better to just throw them away.

  He stepped into the laundry room and stripped down. Even though he was out of the room, his eyes kept wandering to the bucket sitting near the door in the kitchen.

  “You always wanted to visit Mt. Rushmore, didn’t you, dear?” he called out to his dead wife. “Well, now’s your chance. I’m taking you to see the heads of those four great presidents, and I just might leave you there, staring straight at ‘em. Let you nag on them for a change.”

  He pulled out a garbage bag and snickered. “She’ll do it, too. Even dead. Those poor ole’ men will be comin’ down off that mountain quicker ‘n you can say Jack Spratt.”

  His hands were sure as he stuffed his clothes, even his underwear, because it had a smudge of blood on the waistband, into the plastic bag, tied it shut, and tossed it beside the bucket. He stretched his sore muscles and enjoyed just standing there in the middle of the floor, hanging out in all his glory, knowing Evelyn couldn’t say a damned thing.

  A chuckle spilled from his lips, and he did a little dance. Then he left the kitchen and went in search of clean clothes.

  Max was thrilled to be let out of the truck ten minutes later. He poked around in the kitchen and sniffed, but was only interested in the bucket and the bag of dirty clothes. Harold set both on the counter and put the dog outside to take care of business before bedtime.

  The freezer. The idea came to him as he stared out the window into the warm June night waiting while Max explored the corners of the backyard. I need to stuff her body in there for a while, until I decide what to do with it.

  He scrabbled around in the cabinets and his favorite junk drawer until he dug out a large roll of freezer paper and some masking tape. Just what he needed.

  His skin tingled with resolve as he returned to the garage and wrapped up his wife. Took the whole roll of freezer paper and most of the tape, but as he examined his handiwork, he decided he’d done a pretty good job. Problem was, she was beginning to stiffen up, and he wasn’t sure she’d fit in the freezer, even t
hough it was an extra large chest model.

  He walked over to it and opened the lid. The baskets on top filled with vegetables she’d put up last summer would have to go. He hefted one of them and took it into the house. He moved the other one inside, too, then squeezed all of the veggies into the indoor freezer and set the bucket containing her head on the counter. He had to find a place for it, too.

  Next, he checked on Max. The dog was doing fine, so Harold decided to leave him outside for a little while longer.

  Just as he shut the door, the telephone rang. He jumped, bumped the bucket with his elbow, and almost knocked it off the counter. Holy hell. His heart pounded. Once he regained his equilibrium and slid the bucket away from the edge, he scurried across the room and snapped up the offending device.

  “Hello?”

  “Daddy?” His daughter’s lilting voice carried over the line.

  A slight pang of guilt stabbed Harold, and he glanced at the bucket. The guilt passed. He took a deep breath and smiled. “Hi, honey. How are you?”

  “Just fine. Stan says hi.”

  “Tell him hello for me, too.” Harold pictured his tall, strapping son-in-law. He was a good kid. “Remind him we need to go fishing again sometime soon.”

  “Sure. I’ll tell him,” she said. “Let me talk to Mom.”

  “Um…” Momentary panic froze Harold’s vocal cords. Oh no! Have to think… need an excuse… a good one. Then it hit him. “You can’t talk to her right now, honey. She’s at your Aunt Opal’s -- she had hip surgery, remember? Opal needed your mom to help out.”