Mary Burton - Im Watching You

Richmond, Virginia,
Monday, July 7, 4:10 A.M .

Thou shalt not kill.

The shadowed figure squatted in the darkness by Harold Turner'slifeless body, amazed that excitement, not shame, surged.

The sense of power and righteousness was nearly overwhelming.God's calling to be the Guardian had never been clearer.

Placing the .45-caliber handgun and silencer into a black duffle bag,the Guardian eyed Harold's body, propped against dented metal trashcans.

Even in death, Turner appeared pompous. Arrogant.

A neat part divided Harold's thinning black hair. Manicured nailsglistened in the moonlight. His double-breasted suit and white shirt stilllooked crisp, and his yellow silk tie matched the handkerchief packed in hisbreast pocket. Gold monogrammed cuff links told anyone worth knowing thatHarold had money and taste.

But beneath the expensive suit that Harold always wore were track markson his arms and behind his knees. It was an open secret that Harold had been adrug addict for years.

The Guardian adjusted Harold's tie over the growing plume of bloodstaining the attorney's shirt. Countless hours had been spent planningthis first murder, strategizing and worrying to near exhaustion. And in theend, luring Harold here had required only the promise of drugs. Firing thebullet from the .45 into his chest had been effortless.

"A fitting place, don't you think? I mean, a batteredwomen's shelter. Your wife certainly would understand why I chose thisplace."

The shelter behind them was housed in a white Colonial, and it blendedso seamlessly into the middle-class subdivision that most neighborsdidn't know the home's true purpose. Soft moonlight washed over theshelter's grassy backyard. A six-foot privacy fence corralled assortedkick balls, bicycles, and rusted wagons--all donated toys used by thechildren staying at the shelter. There was a swing with a long yellow slidesurrounded by mulch.

Thoughts of the children stirred anger in the Guardian. "Thereshouldn't be places like this. It's not right. Children should feelsafe in their own home."

The Guardian leveled an accessing gaze on Harold. The high-and-mightyattorney had stood up in federal court this morning to defend his drug dealerclient, speaking with authority, visibly comfortable with his ability tomanipulate "reasonable doubt."

The Harold Turner who had appeared in the county courtroom was a far cryfrom the man who'd stood here just minutes ago with tears running downhis face begging for his life. That Harold had neverunderstood a fear so sharp it burned.

But this Harold had.

This Harold had dropped to his knees. He'd offered money andpromised lavish favors--anything to buy back his miserable life.

"But fancy appeals don't work on me, do they Harold?"the Guardian had said. "There is no redemption for you."

A slight breeze rustled through the thick canopy of leaves above. Soonthe sun would rise and with it the heat. This had been one of the hottest Julyson record and the heat was drying up yards, draining water tables, andstraining tempers.

In the distance a dog barked. A cat screeched. They ran through the darkyards, their sounds vanishing in the night.

The Guardian stared up at the shelter, searching for any sign that theanimals had awoken anyone. A light on the second floor came on but it just asquickly went dark. In the last hour of the night, the people in the shelter andthe neighborhood slept.

This was a sacred and blessed time. Predawn's quiet and peaceconjured feelings of invincibility and invulnerability.

The Guardian unfastened the gold cuff link on Harold's left wristand carefully tucked it in the attorney's pocket before neatly pushingthe shirt and jacket sleeves up to his elbow. A platinum wedding band squeezedthe ring finger on Harold's left hand.

"His power is great, and He never lets the guilty gounpunished." The Bible verse had given the Guardian comfort during thedarkest days after Debra's death. Sweet, sweet Debra,dead at thirty-nine, her life stolen by her own husband. Like Harold,Debra's husband had been a respected man in the community, but a violentman at home. His tyranny had trapped Debra and her daughter in hell for years.

Memories of Debra and her child brought sadness and regret. Debra hadcried out for help. She'd wanted out of her marriage. She'd wanteda fresh start. But no one had come to her rescue. No one had cared whathappened behind the closed doors of her house.

And then Debra's husband had killed her. He'd violentlybeaten her to death and then, like the coward he was, had retreated and killedhimself. Debra's only child had found her mother. The violence of thatday had left its mark on the girl and she'd run away.

Many a night the Guardian had dreamed about Debra and her child andprayed for their forgiveness.

Twelve years had passed. And then the sign from God came a few monthsago. The sign was an article in a magazine. It was so clean and pure and itmade the Guardian weep. There had been no question then that the time forrevenge had come.

Debra was gone forever, as was her child's lost innocence, butthose who hurt their families could be rooted out and severely punished. Theycould be made to pay for their sins against their families.

The Guardian removed a machete from the black duffle bag and raised theblade high overhead. The edge was razor sharp, finely honed on a whetstoneuntil the blade could slice paper.

Moonlight glinted off the blade before it came down in one slicing blowthat severed the flesh and bone of Harold's left hand.

Blood splattered onto Harold's face and shirt as well as theGuardian's jumpsuit and gloved hands. The blood looked brown in themoonlight as it oozed from the stump and pooled in the dry earth aroundHarold's body.

Primal energy surged through the Guardian. For a moment, life had neverfelt sweeter.

Retribution is mine.

After wrapping the hand in a plastic zip-top bag, the Guardian shoved itinto the duffle bag along with the machete, still dripping with blood.

Satisfied that no one had seen, the Guardian zipped the duffle bagclosed and then jogged across the backyard, slipped though the privacy fencegate, and sprinted to the waiting van parked halfway down the block.

Opening the van's front door tripped the dome light. Blinkingagainst the brightness, the Guardian quickly got in and closed the door.Darkness shrouded the cab once again. For several seconds, the Guardian sat inthe darkness scanning the homes around to make sure no one had seen. The homesremained dark.