No Fear

  NO FEAR

  A Collection of Short Stories

  by Darcia Helle

  Exclusive Gift for Newsletter Subscribers

  Quiet Fury Books News

  Copyright 2017

  All rights reserved.

  The following stories are all products of my imagination. The characters aren’t real people and none of this stuff happened in real life. Well, mostly none of it. I might have been inspired by a real-life occurrence here and there.

  Cover design by Jason McIntyre

  Editing by Robert Helle

  Note to Readers:

  This ebook is a thank you gift for subscribing to my newsletter.

  I am both honored and humbled each time a person chooses to read something I’ve written. Your support is a gift to me each and every day. We often can’t see the affect the little things we do have on another person’s life. I want you to know that you’ve helped to make my life both more enjoyable and more meaningful.

  This book contains all the stories from my Quiet Fury short story collection, all my stories from the Mind’s Eye Series, and 8 stories that have not been published and are exclusive to this collection.

  Table of Contents

  Quiet Fury: Opening

  My Murderous Muse

  Cold As Ice

  Marietta’s Cats

  A Different Perspective

  Gently Down the Stream

  Forgotten

  No Fear

  Tiny Dancer

  Mad Scientist

  Polite Indifference

  Raising the Dead

  The Sound of Silence

  Adventures of Jack and Jill

  Loneliness

  You Can Call Me Ari

  True Colors

  The Ocean’s Song

  Out for A Good Time

  One Toke Over the Line

  Falling

  A Snapshot in Time

  Death by Chocolate

  Shades of Gray

  Free Fall

  Trunk Full of Lies

  Fairies Wear Boots

  Wilted Brown Eyes

  Strangers at the Table

  Serendipity

  I Didn’t Know His Name

  Pointless Story

  Chance Encounter

  First Kill

  Quiet Fury: Closing

  Quiet Fury

  Opening

  Would you kill for money? Power? Maybe not. But I know you’d kill to save your own life. I’m coming at you with a knife, ready to shred you into tiny pieces. Put a gun in your hand and you’d pull the trigger. Your life trumps mine every time.

  What about your wife, your husband? Would you kill to save them? If I turned the blade on your spouse, would you put a bullet in my head or would you run for help while the screams echoed behind you?

  How many holes would you blast through my body if I turned the knife on your child? One? Two? Or would you empty the clip?

  The knife is in my hand. You’d better get that gun. I'm headed your way.

  Can you see me yet?

  My Murderous Muse

  One long ago evening, I took a shortcut through a dark alley and stumbled over a dead body. Most of it was hidden on the far side of a filthy dumpster. Only the feet stuck out. The toes of my left foot caught on the edge of the Nike. I lurched forward, flailing my arms about like I was trying to fly. When I regained my balance, I turned to see what I’d tripped on. That’s when I saw the sneaker, and noticed it was attached to a body.

  I’m not in the habit of stumbling over bodies in dark alleys. Outside of funeral parlors and made-up faces in caskets, I’d never seen a dead person. In the shadows that evening, I thought this guy might be drunk and had passed out there. Or perhaps he’d been mugged and was hurt. I didn’t immediately think dead body.

  Until I knelt beside him.

  Half his face was missing.

  Fortunately, the missing half also happened to be the half he was lying on. I saw enough detail to cause the Kahlua sombrero I’d drunk at the bar around the corner to creep up the back of my throat. I turned away and focused on his shoes. Average-sized men’s Nikes. Flecks dotted the white leather. Blood, maybe. Hard to tell without a good source of light.

  Whatever morbid curiosity I felt soon gave way to fear. What was I doing in a dark alley, alone with a dead body? I sprang upright too quickly. The booze and the burst of adrenaline made me lightheaded. I reached for the dumpster to keep myself from falling onto the dead man with the missing face. I quickly realized my night was getting no better.

  My fingers slid through a wet, sticky substance. Blood. Red, gooey, and smeared over the edge of the dumpster. I pulled my hand away, but not before scraping against tiny fragments of something hard. The missing pieces of bone from the man’s face, perhaps? Or pieces of his brain? The fragments clung to my fingers as I pulled my hand away.

  Then I vomited on the average-sized Nikes.

  I was still retching when gravel crunching beneath shoes alerted me to someone’s presence. You’d think I’d be smart enough to run. But, no, I’m ever the optimist. I thought this person approaching would be able to help. He or she could go to the phone booth across the street and call the cops. As I straightened up, a solid steel baseball bat slammed into my cheek. Okay, I’m exaggerating. I was really punched in the face with a fist, but it felt like a steel bat.

  The blow sent me reeling backward. A moment later, I found myself lying on top of the dead man. The person with the steel fist laughed, which I found insulting. I told him so. Obviously, I’m not too bright. He gave me a kick for good measure.

  Lying on a stinky dead body freaked me out. I reached for the man with the steel hands, snatching a handful of his denim pant leg. The bone fragments on my fingers crushed into my skin as I pulled and yanked. He cursed and tried to kick me away. Finally, I managed to get to my knees and I scurried away from the dead guy.

  The man with the steel hands grabbed my arm and yanked me off the ground. For a moment, I was dangling in the air, my feet dancing above the pavement. Then he set me down, and that’s when I noticed the gun.

  I didn’t know anything about guns. This one was black and silver, and pointed at me. That was all I needed to know at the time.

  He was going to kill me. I was sure of it. Only he didn’t. He said he would let me go on one condition. For the rest of my life, I would have to write about murder. He wanted everyone to know what he and people like him did. Most of all, he wanted people to know why. No, not excuses. The truth of it. The madness behind it.

  Of course, I agreed. What choice did I have?

  And, so, here I am. One crazy night murder paid me a visit, and I’ve been telling the story ever since.

  Cold As Ice

  Cold. Bone deep and paralyzing. The frigid wind has sucked all the moisture from my eyes. When I blink, my lids scrape like sandpaper across my eyes.

  I’ve been walking for hours. Farmland is like that. You can go miles between homes. Endless stretches of nothing but land and not a person in sight.

  The ground is frozen solid. Ice crystals crunch beneath my feet as I traipse along. I’m not dressed for an outing in this winter wonderland, but at least I’m not wearing my Jimmy Choos with the five-inch heels. My boots, though, are more fashion statement than practical. The three-inch block heels don’t offer much traction. Once, about two miles back, I lost my footing on a patch of ice and went down hard on my ass. On the bright side, the snow immediately seeped through my linen pants, numbing the pain.

  Is it possible to get frostbite on your ass?

  I’m doing my best to focus on the positives. If I’d been trekking through snow-covered mountains, I’d be in a far worse predicament. I love the mountains, with their peaks and valleys. But I only love them in th
e summer, when everything is green. I don’t ski. And I don’t like snow.

  I frown at the frozen branches of the brush alongside the road. Pretty as a postcard, providing you’re sitting in a warm room looking at said postcard. Up close, it’s not so appealing.

  My rental car broke down about four miles back. I should have been better prepared. I’m smarter than this. Or so I thought. Today proves the exception to the rule. I don’t know a thing about cars, other than how to drive them. Smoke had billowed out from under the hood and streamed up over the windshield. The engine sputtered and coughed. Then everything went quiet and the stupid luxury car rolled to a stop. I found cursing while furiously stabbing the start button with my index finger did nothing to correct the situation. The sun was at least an hour from rising, which meant a quick rescue from a passerby was unlikely. At the time, this six-mile hike to my destination didn’t seem so completely absurd. I’m a city girl. What do I know?

  Now I’m wrapped tight in my Burberry Trench coat, shivering, zigzagging across this empty road in search of the sunny spots. While this $2500 coat is mad stylish, it’s not made for sub-freezing endurance. The sun has risen, finally, and helps thaw the frozen edges of my ears. Sometimes we have to be thankful for the little things.

  My iPhone is back at the hotel, sitting on the antique desk in the corner of my room. A lot of good it does me there. Though I’m not sure who I’d have called if I had the phone with me. I’m in the middle of nowhere. I have no family here. No friends. I flew in yesterday to do this one job. In and out. No big deal. Or so I thought.

  My flight from LA had been delayed two hours because of ice on the runway in Des Moines. That should have been my first clue to postpone this Iowa job. But, no. I take pride in my chosen profession. I go where I’m needed, when I’m needed.

  Maybe I should start refusing jobs in frigid winter climates.

  I’ve never been one who is easily spooked. Walking along this desolate road by myself in the predawn darkness didn’t scare me. I’m a realist. It’s highly unlikely I’d come across a serial killer or rapist hiding behind a frozen tree in the early-morning hours, on this back road, in this small town, in the middle of nowhere Iowa. Some people have a hairline trigger on their panic button. They freak out over the silliest things. Not me. I was once precariously dangling over the edge of a cliff, and I admired the breathtaking beauty of the view before pulling myself back up to safety. This makes it all the more bizarre when a noise in the distance has me stumbling over my own feet in a fit of panic.

  What the hell is that?

  The frenetic howl has me rooted to this spot, as if my feet have decided on their own that it’s not safe to go any farther. I can’t see anything beyond the line of ice-coated trees. I yank my hands from my coat pockets and stand ready to do battle. It occurs to me how ridiculous this is. Do I expect to fight off a werewolf?

  Just when I’ve convinced myself the noise had been a trick of the wind or my overactive imagination filling up the silence, I hear the rabid barking of a pissed-off dog. Then a howl that sets my teeth on edge.

  Not a wild dog. A wolf, maybe?

  I tell my feet to get moving, but they don’t obey my command. The frenetic growling starts up again. Angry. Territorial. Then it comes to me. Coyotes. I’d seen a clip about them once on some animal show, and I remember the sounds were like something from a horror movie. Judging by the noise, there is more than one out here and they are not happy.

  I might have been better off facing the random serial killer.

  Moving backward, I cross the road into the shade, away from the high-pitched growls and howls. Without the sun to keep the chill at bay, I instantly feel my body temperature drop ten degrees. Despite having kept my hands deep in my coat pockets, I can barely feel the tips of my fingers. Warming up is essential if I expect to do my job properly.

  I flex my fingers continuously as I walk along, trying to work the blood flow for warmth. A lone howl sends a shiver up my spine. I keep moving, mindful of the coyote calls in the distance.

  Finally, I turn a corner and I’m on what passes for the main road here. My destination is just shy of two miles north. I know that because I drove this route four times yesterday, to ensure I knew the way. My habit of excessive preparation isn’t always necessary, but it has saved me a time or two. Today it likely kept me from getting lost and freezing to death.

  I have this sudden mental picture of coyotes hovering over my still, lifeless body, fighting amongst each other for that first tasty morsel of my frozen skin. The ensuing bloody mess would make for an interesting contrast to all the white surrounding me. My remains would be abstract art.

  The cold, endless white surroundings have left me with morbid thoughts. Fortunately, the howling has stopped. Either the coyotes are quietly stalking me or they’ve moved on. I’m holding out hope for the latter.

  I’ve managed another thirty feet of progress when a new noise disrupts the silence. This time it’s the low thrum of an engine and tires crackling over the hardened snow. I turn and, a moment later, an old farm truck comes into view. It’s approaching slowly. The driver is probably sizing me up, this stranger out wandering in the early morning. I know I must look a wreck. Red, runny nose. Blotchy skin. Dirty, wet spots on my taupe slacks. A five-foot-five, one hundred-twenty-pound shivering mass.

  The truck pulls alongside me and stops. The driver, a middle-aged farmer wearing a brown Carhartt jacket and a mesh cap adorned with the logo of a seed corn company, lowers his window and tosses me a smile. He must have determined a frozen female dressed in city clothes wasn’t a threat. Or maybe he thinks I’m a high-priced call girl working the neighborhood.

  “Mornin’,” he says. “A little chilly to be out walkin’.”

  “My car broke down a few miles back.” I offer him my best helpless female smile. “I’ve been walking for hours.”

  The smile works. Or maybe he still thinks I’m a call girl. Either way, he invites me into his truck. I climb into the passenger seat and immediately hold my hands out to the vent blowing heat straight at me. I utter a contented sigh that probably sounds too much like a sound an actual call girl would make.

  The farmer is watching me with interest. “You ain’t from around here,” he says. “City girl?”

  “Yes. I’m from LA.”

  “No kiddin’? What brings you out this way?”

  I want to tell him it’s none of his business. City people don’t ask personal questions of strangers. Then again, they also don’t stop and offer strangers a ride. I suppose I should be polite and endure the interrogation. I give him a vague answer. “Business.” Then I use my charms to distract him. “You saved me from freezing to death out here. I don’t think I could’ve gone another step. You’re my hero.”

  He blushes. “Right place at the right time. That’s all.”

  His foot is still on the brake. I want to tell him to drive the damn truck, though that might be considered rude.

  “Excuse my lack of manners,” he says. “My name’s Phil.”

  I assume the ensuing silence is where I’m supposed to speak up and provide my name in return. I really miss the city. “Alyssa,” I say. “Thank you for stopping, Phil.”

  “My pleasure. Where you headed?”

  “Just a couple miles down the road.”

  He watches me, waiting, apparently, for me to offer more detail. I notice that Phil has hairy knuckles. And he’s still not driving.

  “You mean the Tanners’ place?” he finally asks.

  I was hoping we could find some way around this. Phil is nobody to me, but he’s somebody to other people. Maybe he’s a father, a grandfather. A husband. A best friend. Maybe he dressed up as Santa last week and delivered presents to kids stuck in the hospital for Christmas.

  Or maybe he’s just an asshole.

  Either way, I don’t like to stray from my business plan. And Phil isn’t part of my plan. So what to do?

  “Yes,” I tell him. “Leon Tanner is
expecting me.”

  “No kiddin’? Old Leon and I have known each other nearly forty years. We went to school together.”

  “That’s interesting,” I say. It’s not.

  “You say you’ve got business with Leon? What kind of business, you don’t mind me askin’?”

  I do mind.

  The heater has finally thawed my fingers. I stuff them back in my coat pockets. “I’m an insurance agent,” I say.

  He waits. I don’t say anything else, and he doesn’t drive.

  “Insurance?” he mutters.

  He gives me that look, the one that says he’s questioning the validity of my words.

  “I’m sorry, Phil,” I say.

  “Sorry?”

  “We might’ve been able to work around this if you’d just driven the damn truck.”

  His eyebrows knit together and his nose wrinkles. He’s either working hard to figure this out or he’s constipated.

  I bring my hand out of my pocket. He doesn't see the taser, but he feels it. A fleeting moment of panic passes behind his eyes before they flutter wildly. His body convulses. His foot leaves the brake and the truck starts to roll. I take my finger off the trigger, wriggle my leg over his, and jam my foot on the brake. Then I slam the gear into park and sigh. Complications irritate me.