Elizabeth Smith, Part Three

Finally finished. Apparently this story only ended up a bit over 2,000 words long, but it sure felt longer. Took me forever. But anyway, here you go.

This album is a little similar to that Temporex album I posted last time. Good stuff.


“So who are you, exactly?” Teresa asked her, pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to Elizabeth.
“My name is Elizabeth. I’m like a case worker for animals,” Elizabeth responded. “I just check in with people who have adopted pets from the Lower Valley Humane Society.”
“I hope there isn’t a problem,” Teresa said.
“Oh no, no problem, just a little check up. How’s…”
“How’s Teabud doing?”
“Oh, he seems to be having a good time. He gets pampered a little too much here, probably,” Teresa said with a laugh.
At that moment, a large tabby cat walked into the room. He held his tail up with a slight curve down at the end, and carried all the grace and poise cats have in his walk.
To the normal eye, that was. Elizabeth knew. She knew the moment she saw Teabud. The slight twitch his tail did when he stepped down onto his front left paw. The tiny hesitation he showed before stepping onto it. His avoidance of Teresa’s eyes. Elizabeth knew.
Elizabeth knew more than that. She was able to read more than just animals. She knew about Teresa.
Teresa bent down to pick up Teabud, his back arching up as she did so to avoid her touching him, and she put him down in Elizabeth’s lap. The moment Elizabeth petted him he looked up into her eyes, gave a little sigh, and laid down on her lap. He was immediately at ease with her.
As Elizabeth and Teresa continued talking, Elizabeth pet Teabud. It appeared to be normal petting, but she was progressively searching his body for any sensitive areas, any lumps, any more signs. She wasn’t hasty, she had to make sure before proceeding.
And there it was. At his front left shoulder, a little spot that made him shudder and look at her disapprovingly.
“Has he gotten hurt at all since you’ve had him? Gotten in fights with other cats or anything?”
“Oh no, he’s an indoor cat. Just seems simpler that way. But no, nothing I can think of.”
Her voice was normal, unhesitating. Rehearsed. It was as good as a confession to Elizabeth.
“Well, I think that’s about it,” she said, finishing off her coffee and getting up. Teresa saw her to the door, but before Elizabeth had gone she spoke again.
“Oh, could I have your phone number? Just in case we need to… get in touch?”
She added to this a look at Teresa that fully explained what she wanted to get in touch about. Teresa held a surprised silence for a moment before coming back to reality. “Oh, uh, sure. It’s…”
The motive and the means. Elizabeth was almost ready to go. She just needed an opportunity, and she’d be ready to go, and that’s what she was about to get.
She picked up the phone and dialed Teresa’s number. She picked up.
“Hi Teresa, this is Elizabeth. The humane society person who came by earlier. There’s this restaurant that just opened recently nearby, I’ve heard it’s pretty good, and I was thinking of going. Would you like to come along?”
They set up a plan and Elizabeth hung up.
Teresa wasn’t a plant. She was legitimate. She didn’t even know we were coming. But we had kept an eye on her since Elizabeth set up a meeting, tapped her phone and knew about their date. We knew how the evening would go. “The Praying Mantis”, we called her. A seductress, a femme fatale, vagina dentata personified.
You get the idea.
I hadn’t even realized who Elizabeth was, yet. I didn’t know that I already knew her. We hadn’t found out everything about her past by that point. As it was, she was only a suspect, we didn’t have any conclusive proof on her. But that’s what that evening was for.
Mussel linguini in a cream sauce. Drinks for Teresa, enough for a buzz, decreased inhibitions, but not drunkenness. Drunkenness would dull pain.
Elizabeth was charming, clever, alluring as ever. It wasn’t long before Teresa was eating up anything Elizabeth said with a smile, giggling at the tiniest of jokes – although perhaps that was the alcohol. The date was going well, just as Elizabeth intended. If it was going well enough, then…
“I’ve got it,” Elizabeth said when the waiter came with the bill.
“You sure?”
“I’ve got it.”
After the waiter took the bill and they had finished their desserts, the crucial moment came. It all came down to this.
“You want to come over to my place?” Teresa asked, a slight tremor in her voice. “I have tea, we could… watch a movie or… something.”
“Sounds great.”
Motive, means, and now opportunity. Elizabeth had it all. It was happening.
She had grown more deliberate over the years. She made her targets less frequently, to avoid suspicion. She planned for days. And as a result, she always made her mark. She had never failed.
Back at the Teresa’s house (Elizabeth had driven, she wouldn’t let something stupid like a car accident mess things up now), they made tea. They had a glass or two of wine. They watched a movie.
And Elizabeth kissed her. Elizabeth knew Teresa had been hoping for this. It had been a long time since she had been with anyone. That made it easier.
A benzodiazepine overdose, compounded with alcohol. That would be the coroner’s report. Teresa had been using benzodiazepines regularly for some time, and they’d be found in her house. Her job was stressful, but they hadn’t been enough. She had taken her remaining stress out on Teabud. Elizabeth had a syringe in her sweater pocket that held a one-gram solution of alprazolam. That should be enough.
They continued kissing, more passionately. Teresa fell onto her back on the couch, eyes closed, Elizabeth laying over her. She removed the syringe discretely and prepared to inject it into Teresa.
The door burst open and four officers, myself included, rushed into the room. I held my gun at her. “Drop the syringe,” I commanded.
Teresa had startled as the door opened, sat up and looked at Elizabeth and the syringe in fright. Elizabeth clutched Teresa’s arm with an iron grip. She didn’t respond as the door opened, she didn’t look at me as I yelled at her. She moved the syringe towards Teresa’s arm.
“Put it down,” I said again.
“This is her punishment,” she said quietly.
The tip of the needle pressed against Teresa’s skin and punctured it, she slid the needle into a vein, her thumb moved to press the plunger.
And I pulled the trigger. A shot in the shoulder, not enough to kill her but enough to incapacitate her and save Teresa. She didn’t cry out, she simply fell to her side with an exhale of  breath. Teresa scrambled out from under her and stood by one of the other officers as I moved closer to Elizabeth and knocked the syringe away.
I rolled her over to look at her, and our eyes met and locked. My external senses lowered, all noise except that of my increasing heartbeat dulled. I understood, she understood. In that one split second we both knew we needed each other.
“Attack me,” I said under my voice.
She didn’t question it. She attacked me. I fired a second shot, one that looked fatal. She fell to the floor with a cry, I went to retrieve the syringe and, just for a moment pressed the needle into her and just barely pressed the syringe. It was our only chance. I didn’t know what was in there, though I guessed benzodiazepines based on our knowledge of Teresa, but I had to risk it for the both of us.
Her heartrate was slow enough and her blood pressure was low enough for them to be undetectable. She was pronounced dead.
But I got her back.
It wasn’t easy by any means. It’s hard enough to fake someone’s death normally, but having such little time to plan it made it exponentially more difficult. And I was a police officer as well, I wans’t used to this kind of thing, and still had to keep up appearances to keep my job.
My god, the kinks. I thought I had made a mistake at first. Thought I couldn’t handle it or keep up with her. But I learned, I caught up, and it was worth it.
I don’t let her out of the house, obviously. Sometimes I need to chain her up, only partially with her permission.
I realize I haven’t appropriately established my personality. I had few chances to, as this story isn’t really about me. Not until the end. But that’s not my problem, it’s not crucial to the story. If you really want to figure out what I’m like, just imagine someone who would fit into this story and it’s probably close enough.
I say that her sexual tastes are a more constructive way to work out her urges. Her hateful, violent urges. It’s painful, it’s dangerous, and a bit hard to cover up for my job. Slash across my face? Met with a drunk guy at a bar. Broken arm? Fell down my stairs. On their own, they wouldn’t be suspicious, but compounded… It’s a bit tricky to cover up.
But it’s worth it.
I said that Elizabeth Smith was dead. Or at least implied it. And I believe it’s true. Elizabeth Smith would be described as a psychopath, an incurable criminal, a serial murderer. But I was her antidote. The moment we met, I became the base to her acid. I neutralized her. And, I suppose, she neutralized me.
I regret it sometimes, sometimes when I’m hogtied and hanging from the ceiling and all safe words lost their meanings long ago. The moments I think I’m going to die.
But it’s fun.


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