Prescription: Murder

With drink in hand, Barbara, showing her fatigue, slowly walked across the living room toward the entry hall.  It was now, for the first time, that she noticed something was wrong.

Looking directly into the dining room, she was shocked to see the drawers of the buffet left haphazardly open.  Linen napkins and a lace table cloth were strewn across the floor.  The silver candlesticks and the Mexican religious figure had been conspicuously removed.  Barbara’s face reflected shock.  Disbelief.  When she spoke, her voice was barely audible.  “Oh, my God!”

Accidentally, she dropped her drink on the floor, and the crystal glass shattered across the polished tiles.  She moved toward the buffet, opened other drawers and cabinets, and saw that they had been rifled, ransacked.  Her hand rushed to her mouth.  Her face took on a transformation from shock and disbelief, to sudden fear.  Instinctively, she moved toward the kitchen, where there was a telephone extension.  A dim night light filled the large kitchen with ominous shadows.  The light from the dining room cut like a knife, as Barbara quickly entered through the swinging door.  For a moment she stood motionless, peering into the darkness.

It was just when she took another step, that suddenly, from behind, D’Angelo grabbed her.  She screamed in horror as D’Angelo whipped the short piece of rope around her neck, and  began to tighten it.

Barbara moved further into the kitchen, frantically clutching at the rope.  D’Angelo moved with her, tightening the heavy cord as he did so.  The frenzied struggle continued, and slowly Barbara managed to turn, almost facing him.  Then, with some violent force she never even knew she had, she suddenly kneed him directly in the groin.  D’Angelo yelled out.  The pain was excruciating.  He released her and gripped his groin, trying to ease the throbbing jabs of fire.  With another sudden burst of strength, Barbara lunged toward D’Angelo.  He lost his balance and fell to the floor, hitting his head against a cabinet.  For a moment he was stunned.  Quickly, Barbara rushed out into the dining room.

Swiftly, noiselessly, Barbara ran up the curved stairway toward her bedroom.  Ignoring the ravished room, she crossed to a night table, flipped on the lamp, and quickly picked up the telephone receiver.  Frantically, she tried to dial the 911 emergency number.  The phone was dead.  She slammed the receiver down.

The swinging door to the kitchen slowly opened, and D’Angelo appeared.  His head was cut, and a stream of blood ran down his neck.  His white rubber glove was splotched with red.  In his hand, he carried a large kitchen knife which gleamed in the half-light.  On silent feet, he crept toward the main hall.

Barbara moved toward a nearby closet.  Swiftly rummaging  through several boxes on an upper shelf, she found what she was looking for—a small, black leather pouch.  She unzipped the bag, and pulled out a shiny, nickel-plated .38 revolver.  She checked the safety on the gun, then exited the room.

Clouds drifted across the moon, and the bright shaft of light piercing the tall stairwell window was suddenly diffused.  The stairway was thrown into a maze of light and shadows.  Slowly and cautiously, Barbara moved toward a darkened alcove near the top of the stairs.

Suddenly, D’Angelo appeared out of the inky blackness. Stealthily, he began to climb the long stairway.  Barbara hardly dared to even breathe as she waited for him, the revolver clutched tightly in her hand.  D’Angelo’s demented, pock-marked face looked hideous in the eerie light.  Except for his heavy, raspy breathing, there was no sound.  Barbara’s pulse quickened as she watched D’Angelo.  Now, he had reached the top of the stairs.  He was not more than twelve feet away from her.  Suddenly, she flipped a nearby light switch.  For a second, D’Angelo was blinded by the glare.  A huge chandelier over the stairwell lit up.  D’Angelo had reached the top step.  Barbara took careful aim—the gun blasted once…twice.