Confession by Gary Whitmore - HTML preview

Chapter 3

Two weeks had passed, and since Allan was weaker, Becky moved him into her spare bedroom to watch over him.

It was their computer and exercise room, so she had Marty move those items into other rooms.

She even bought him a new laptop so Allan could write when he had the strength.

And there were plenty of family pictures on his dresser.

Becky took a leave of absence from her Publix cashier job to give him the constant care he needed.

Allan sat in deep thought in bed with his new laptop. He stared at a blank Word file and pondered whether he should pursue his new book idea. Then he opened a White Pages website on the Internet and searched for a phone number, and soon, he found the number he needed.

He turned off his laptop, set it on his bed, and walked out of his room, looking like he was on a mission as he walked down the hallway.

“Where are you going, dad?” Becky asked while Allan walked down the hallway and headed to the front door.

“I feel like taking a little walk.”

“Want me to tag along?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I want to walk alone.”

“Okay, but if you’re not home in ten minutes, I’m looking for you,” she replied, still looking worried.

“That’s fair,” Allan said while leaving through the front door and outside.

Becky rushed over to her living room curtains and peeked out. She watched Allan, who appeared to have the strength to walk down the sidewalk.

Sam Woods lived in a house in a neighborhood across A1A by the beach in Daytona Beach, Florida. Sam now had a head full of white hair. He relaxed on his back porch, drinking a cup of coffee, and quit drinking booze after he moved to the Sunshine State.

His phone rang from the kitchen. He got up.

Sam entered his kitchen and picked up the phone. “Hello,” Sam answered the call.

“Ah, is this Sam Woods? The retired FBI agent?” Allan replied from the phone.

“Yes, it is. How may I help you?”

Allan quickly disconnected his end of the call.

Sam stared curiously at the phone.

“Who was on the phone?” asked Cindy Leinbach, Sam’s girlfriend for the past five years.

Sam hung up the phone and saw Cindy at the entrance to his kitchen.

“I don’t know, Cindy. Someone called and asked if I was Sam Woods, the retired FBI agent, and then hung up.”

“That’s weird,” she replied.

“I know,” Sam responded, then shrugged it off.

“Well, I need to get home. I’ll pick you up tomorrow, and we’ll take my granddaughter Kristen to the movies,” she said, walking over and picking up her purse off one of the counters.

Sam escorted her out of the kitchen.

In Kissimmee, Allan walked back to Becky’s house in deep thought.

He went back into his room and relaxed on his bed with his laptop. Then, he opened a new Word file and started a new manuscript. On the title page, he typed out A Killer’s Tale by Allan Stein.

After he wrote “Chapter 1,” he stared at the monitor and pondered if he should start this new book. He nodded that he should and began typing.

“My name is Jimmy Nalla. Have you ever wondered why humans kill other humans?” Allan typed as the introduction. The need to write this new book before he checked out became a strong desire.

“How was your walk?” Becky said while she entered his bedroom.

“It was gratifying,” he replied with a smirk.

“That’s good,” she replied, then looked at his monitor. He quickly minimized the Word file.

“So, what were you working on?” she curiously asked.

“Oh, while I was out, I had an idea for another book and started jotting some thoughts.”

“I’ll give you some privacy so you can get your creative juices flowing,” she said, then left the room.

Allan quickly maximized the Word file and typed more stories.

It was early March, and Allan looked thinner and sicker, and it was apparent his days on this earth were numbered. But the drive to finish his last book, A Killer’s Tale, was so strong that he mustered up all his energy to complete his first draft. This story came more naturally for Allan to bang out in record time than his other books.

Becky entered the bedroom. She saw his manuscript on his monitor while he typed away. “How’s the new book coming along?”

“I’m tweaking the final draft now,” he replied while he closed the file.

“I’m ready to do some editing.”

“We’ll see as Rodney is itching to get his hands on the manuscript before I depart.”

“What about the Murder At Night manuscript? Did you send it off to Rodney?” she asked while sitting on the corner of his bed.

“Not yet. I’ll send it along with this manuscript.”

“Good. In this new book, does this killer get away like most of your killers?”

“It depends if the FBI agent got smarter over the years,” he responded with hopeful eyes.

“It sounds interesting. So why can’t I edit it?” she asked, a little confused.

“No, baby, I want you to read this one after it’s published.”

“I don’t understand. You’ve always let me edit your manuscripts.”

“Don’t worry. It will make sense when it gets published,” Allan said, then gave a fake warm smile.

Becky knew he would never cave in, so she gave up. Then she looked at the dresser, where she placed a couple of family pictures.

She picked up one picture of herself when she was three, with Allan in his Army fatigues. “I still wonder what I looked like as a baby.”

Allan got irritated. “I’ve told you a thousand times, we weren’t into photos when you were first born, the way parents are these days, with digital cameras and whatnot.”

Becky placed the picture back and rolled her eyes as she hit that familiar sore spot with Allan.

“I know, and I also wished I had a brother or sister.”

“We decided only to have one child since you were the best kid a parent could ask for.”

Becky smiled over his compliment, walked over, and kissed him on his forehead.

“I’ll let you work on your book,” she said, then left his bedroom.

Becky walked into the living room, and suddenly, this creepy feeling became overwhelmingly strong.

She walked over to her living room windows. She peeked out her curtains and saw a brand new Chevy Impala parked across her street. She got furious the second she saw Billy was outside stalking her house.

She rushed out of the living room, down the hallway, into her bedroom, and then out of her bedroom and down the hallway again.

She rushed through the living room to the front door.

She opened up the front door and stepped outside.

Inside Billy’s Impala, he saw Becky standing outside by her front door and watched while she pulled a Glock pistol out of her back pocket.

“I want you to stay away, or I’ll call the police!” Becky yelled out at Billy’s car.

Billy knew she was a good shot because Allan would tell him stories about how they practiced at a local gun range when she was a teenager. He started up his car and drove away, not wanting the attention of the police.

Becky went back inside her house and closed the door. She turned around and saw Allan standing four feet away down the hallway.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, being concerned.

“Uncle Billy was parked across the street,” she said, then walked away down the hallway, still pissed.

Allan followed her into her bedroom, where she tucked her Glock back into the closet.

Allan thought for a few seconds. “Becky, could you find it in your heart to forgive Uncle Billy?”

“No!” she snapped back.

“Becky, that happened so long ago, and he’s sorry. Can’t you please find it in your heart to forgive him? He’ll be your only family with the money to care for you.”

Becky got visibly upset and glared at him. “I’m going to ignore your forgiving him for that horrible act!”

Becky stormed out of her bedroom.

Allan left her room and went back to his bedroom. He sat back on his bed with his laptop, opened his new manuscript, and his eyes welled up while looking over his new story.

It was April, and two weeks ago, Allan mailed the manuscripts for Murder at Night and A Killer’s Tale to Rodney.

Becky and Allan sat, with a blanket around his legs, on the living room sofa. He weighed one hundred and fifteen pounds. Flabby skin remained where that pot belly once protruded. A wheelchair was near the sofa since he did not have the strength to walk.

Allan glanced at some paperwork in his hand. “Rodney’s expecting this release, as it will give you all my royalties from the sale of my new books and any royalties from my other books,” he strained to talk, then handed her the signed papers. “Use the money for Michael and Nancy’s college fund.”

Becky took the papers, and her eyes welled up. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything. I hope my new book becomes a best seller like Rodney believes it will,” he said, coughing.

“He believes that?”

“He does, and I hope it works out how I want it to,” he strained to tell her.

“How’s that?” she curiously asked.

“I don’t want to spoil the big secret, so you’ll have to wait,” he said, looking like he wanted to fall asleep any second.

“I hope it’s not Army secrets.”

Allan nodded his head to disagree with half-closed eyes.

Allan got remorseful and then coughed a little. He mustered up some more strength. “Listen, I changed my mind about Uncle Billy,” he said, then took a rest for a few seconds. “Don’t let him near my house or you. I have something. I don’t want him to get his hands on it,” he said, taking a few seconds to catch his breath. “I want you to find it and,” he said, stopping to catch his breath as talking wore him down. “I want you to do what’s right,” he concluded, satisfied that he had finally completed his words.

“That’s clear as mud. Can you help me out a little?” she said and looked confused.

“Read A Killer’s Tale,” he strained to tell her.

“You and your mysteries. Marty should love this one.”

“I’m tired,” he said and closed his eyes.

Becky got up and assisted Allan off the sofa and into his wheelchair.

She wheeled him out of the living room, into his bedroom, and to his bed.

She assisted him on his back, ensured he was comfortable, kissed his forehead, and walked out of the room.

His eyes closed, and he was soon asleep.

After dinner, Becky went into Allan’s room to check on him.

Allan lay in bed with a blank stare at the ceiling.

“Dad,” she said while she walked up to Allan’s bed. Allan remained silent.

She got suspicious, so she felt for a pulse. She did not get one and immediately knew he passed away.

She dropped to her knees and cried by the side of his bed.

Marty, Michael, and Nancy heard Becky’s cries, and they rushed into the bedroom.

“He’s gone!” she cried while holding Allan’s hand.

Michael and Nancy’s eyes welled up over the loss of their grandfather.

A few days later, Allan was buried in Heavenly Peace Cemetery in Orlando next to his wife, Beverly.

A week later, Becky, with a potted flower and a trowel in her hand, Marty, Nancy, and Michael, stood and stared at Allan’s headstone.

“Allan Stein, Loving And Caring Father, Born September 11, 1936, Died April 12, 2005,” was written on his white granite headstone.

Becky knelt and planted the flower by his headstone.

Nancy knelt and assisted Becky.

They stood up, and tears ran down Becky’s cheeks.

Nancy looked up at the sky and blew a kiss. “I love you, Grandpa. Kiss Grandma for me.”

Marty placed an arm around Becky. “We better go,” he said.

She removed a Kleenex from her purse and nodded in agreement while she blew her nose.

They walked away from Allan’s grave.

They got about fifty feet from Allan’s headstone when Becky got an eerie chill. She stopped dead in her tracks, and Marty noticed.

“What’s the matter, honey?”

Becky turned around and saw Billy standing at Allan’s headstone, and she got pissed. “He was told I didn’t want him here!”

“Who’s that man by Grandpa’s grave?” Nancy asked while she eyed Billy.

“Nobody. Let’s go,” she told Marty.

Becky grabbed Nancy and Michael’s hands while she rushed them away.

Billy watched Becky and her family leave. He pondered his next move while he stared at Allan’s headstone.