Altered Fates A Christmas Tale
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Altered Fates: Christmas Gift free porn video
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WARNING: This message contains adult themes and subject matter; this will scar
emotionally unprepared readers, and cause years of therapy bills. If you are not
an adult, regardless of chronological age, do not read any further! Do not fold
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orifices. Please return your seat and tray table to the upright and locked
position.
Altered Fate: Christmas Gift
By R.C. Conrad
Lt. Barry Singleton drove through the snowy New England afternoon. The roads
were crowded with shoppers purchasing gifts in the last rush before Christmas.
Unfortunately, no such gentle errand had Singleton out in the December weather.
For the last eighteen months he had been investigating a number of
disappearances. At first they did not seem connected, one in June another in
September of last year. Then another woman disappeared in November, and quickly
another followed in December. The press picked up the story in February, with
banner headlines blaring the news of a serial killer in the sleepy towns of
central Massachusetts. Until the disappearances stopped as suddenly as they
began, the last woman vanishing in May.
Until another woman disappeared in October. This time the press picked it up
right away, not that it took a rocket scientist to make the connection. All the
women were slight, averaging only 5'1", all with slender builds. All the women
were either natural blondes, or colored their hair.
As was usual in this sort of case it was luck that gave them their break. A
woman had disappeared while Christmas shopping. Her parents had called the
police when she did not show up to pick up their granddaughter. Frustratingly,
the dispatcher did not refer the call to the detectives, insisting that the
woman's parents call back if their daughter did not show up the next day. By the
time the parents got through to the detectives the trail had gone cold.
Canvassing the local malls seemed like a fool's errand, but they struck paydirt
in Auburn. A woman recalled seeing a man struggling with a television carton,
trying to get it into his van. As she put her packages in her car she saw him
ask a passing woman for assistance. The next thing she saw as she started her
car, his van was pulling away. She read off the plate, but in the intervening
time, had forgotten most of the plate number. The mug book was even worse; she
wasn't able to pick out any face that matched her package man.
DMV had been able to provide a list of vehicles that matched her partial plate;
at that moment patrol officers were checking out the cars on that list to see if
the plate was stolen. Singleton was checking out the vans.
Singleton braked to a stop at the lights in front of the town hall in Worcester.
18 years on the State police hadn't been able to take the joy of Christmas from
him. Instead, it had instilled in him the deep regret that he did not have
someone to share it with. Since his mother had passed away ten years ago
Christmas had been a lonely time of year. Pride prevented him from wallowing in
despair. This time of year he had to clean up after enough people who couldn't
handle their loneliness and who had elected to end their lives rather than carry
on.
As the light turned green Singleton hit the gas carefully. Princeton was a long
way off and this snow wasn't going to make the trip any easier.
Twenty minutes later Singleton pulled up in front of the residence of one
Ferdinand Beauliaeu. With a sigh he turned to the keyboard of his computer and
entered a query for a record of Beauliaeu. He waited patiently until the reply
began displaying on the monitor. Interesting, it seems that Ferdie was out on
parole. He had served 4 months of a 6-month sentence for simple assault. And he
had been in from the end of May until September. That would fit the break in the
disappearances just right.
Picking up the microphone he keyed up and called for dispatch, "Michael 37."
Dispatch responded, "Go Michael 37."
"I am at 150 Somerville road in Princeton, out of vehicle to talk to suspect."
"Roger Michael 37."
Making sure he had his walkie-talkie with him Singleton stepped out of the
vehicle. The woods had that eerie hush of falling snow. The road still had
enough heat to melt the snow, but that could change quickly. As Singleton walked
up the driveway to the house he saw a gray minivan sitting next to the house,
the plate on it matched the partial the eyewitness gave; he detoured slightly to
inspect the van first.
Looking in the window Singleton saw a sight that gave him some hope that he
might find this woman alive. There in the back of the van was a large cardboard
box for a television.
Singleton walked to the front door and pressed the doorbell. Waiting, he tried
to calm himself and heighten his alertness. When the door was not answered it
was almost anticlimactic. Walking around the house he searched for another
entrance, trying to keep alert to prevent any unwanted surprises.
The back yard yielded no clues, but he did find an open basement door. Try as he
might he couldn't remember what the courts said about reasonable expectations of
privacy. Screw it, he thought, with the fact that this guy is a parolee, plus
the van and the box I can make a case for justifiable cause.
Calling out, "State police, anybody there?" He stepped inside the basement.
A basement lit dimly by several bare bulbs greeted him as a rank smell assaulted
his nostrils. A workbench with some tools on a pegboard was against the other
wall, one corner held some sort of tub, another corner was occupied by a washer,
dryer and water heater. A set of wooden stairs led to the first floor of the
house. Looking around Singleton saw some sort of footlocker sitting on the
workbench. With one eye on the stairs he walked over and opened the lid.
He had read about this sort of thing, but never did he imagine that he might
actually see it. Serial killers have many of the same traits; one of them is a
desire to save a memento from their victims, something to help them relive the
thrill of the kill. Singleton was looking at a box of odds and ends, clothing,
jewelry, hair combs, and newspaper clippings, all relating to the missing women.
Deftly, Singleton fished out a necklace; a fine chain held a medallion with a
tiny angel cast on it. He didn't recall this particular item from any of the
descriptions of the victim's as last seen dressed. Slipping his hand through the
chain and letting the medallion dangle from his wrist Singleton reached back
into the box and picked up a piece of red cloth. As his fingers touched it he
felt a thrill race through his body. It turned out to be a red silk blouse
matching the description of what the latest woman had been wearing. That was
confirmation enough; bringing his walkie-talkie up to his mouth he called for
backup.
"Michael 37."
"Go Michael 37."
"Officer needs assistance at 150 Somerville road. Suspect involved in kidnapping
and murder of multiple victims."
"Roger Michael 37, units are on the way."
Putting the walkie-talkie in his pocket, Singleton drew his service revolver.
Looking around the basement he walked over to the tank in the corner he
involuntarily wrinkled his nose, as the rank smell became stronger. Some sort of
pink foam floated on the brackish surface of the liquid in the tank. Stacked
between the tank and the wall were many boxes. Tipping one back with one hand
Singleton quickly read the label, Warning, contents corrosive, contains acid.
With a sigh he gave up hope of bringing this woman home alive. What was her
name? He couldn't recall. Sometimes it was just easier if you didn't think of
the names. Brenda, Brenda Palmer that was it. She has a four-year-old daughter.
Shit, it's four days before Christmas for Christ's sake.
A scuffing noise behind him brought him out of his reverie. Turning, he saw a
man standing in the doorway to the basement.
Quickly bringing his service revolver up Singleton yelled out in his best
command voice, "Freeze, police!" But his voice sounded impossibly shrill.
Moving to take a step, he tripped on his pants leg, which had somehow become
impossibly long. Falling, his elbow struck the ground first, causing his gun
hand to fly open, sending his revolver skittering across the floor toward the
man. When his chest struck the floor he was astonished by the pain he felt, so
much that he had to gasp and cover his chest with his hands. As his hands
touched his chest he knew something was wrong, something his mind just couldn't
get a handle on. His hands were full of soft and warm flesh, flesh that he had
felt before, but on a woman. What was more, his chest was telling him how hands
were cupping flesh that was somehow now his!
The man standing over him, blotting out the feeble light from the bare bulbs
brought him back to the here and now. Looking up, he just had time to recognize
that this man who now seemed so incredibly large and powerful was about to punch
him.
Grey light seemed to seep back to him. Forcing his eyes open was a painful
process. Finally, after what seemed like hours later, he managed to open his
eyes. He was in a hospital room. He could accept that, he felt like hell.
Looking down at his body he tried to take inventory. One glance at his hands
brought those last few moments of consciousness back to him and suddenly he
needed a mirror. Gingerly peeling back the covers he slid his far too shapely
legs out of bed. He actually had to let himself drop to the floor from the too
tall hospital bed. Padding quietly across the floor, he went to a door he hoped
was the bathroom.
Opening the door he was rewarded with the sight of bathroom fixtures, a large
mirror was attached to one wall. Looking back at him from the mirror was a tiny
woman, long, arrow straight hair cascaded down from head to mid back. Right now
her most noticeable feature was a bandage across the nose and two black eyes.
Even with all that he recognized the face, somehow he now wore the body of
Brenda Palmer.
How long he stood there, staring at the woman he now was he couldn't say.
Eventually the nurse came and chased him back to bed, but sleep would not come
for him. He lay there, his mind whirling, wondering what happened, and what
tomorrow now held for him.
In the morning, the police came to question him. His supervisor, Marty Cottle,
was Mr. Manners, trying to be as gentle as possible when he asked him if he had
been "sexually assaulted." Singleton almost laughed at him and said no, he
hadn't been raped. Marty actually looked embarrassed and looked away. Stumbling
over his words, Marty explained how they had lost a good man, but it had been
worth it as long as she was okay.
Barry's heartbeat frantically, they had lost a man? How? He demanded an
explanation. Marty tried to calm him down, explaining that when the back up
officers had gotten there they found Beauliaeu about to throw him into the acid
tank. Beauliaeu dropped him and went for a gun he had tucked into his waistband.
The gun had belonged to Barry Singleton, the original investigating officer.
Singleton's clothes had been found in the basement. Beauliaeu must have thrown
his body into the acid tank. When Beauliaeu went for the gun the backup officers
had shot him three times, he didn't survive.
With a sigh of relief Singleton realized that no other officers had died.
Instead, they thought he was dead. But how to tell them he wasn't dead? If he
began insisting he was Barry Singleton they would lock him up faster than you
could say certifiably insane.
Marty was continuing to talk in the background, something about a memorial
service for Barry the day after Christmas and would he want to come? Singleton
muttered a yes. Marty smiled and took that as a good time to stage a hasty
retreat.
Singleton's mind was a whirl. I can't go back to my old life, and I don't know
if I can go on with Brenda Palmer's life. Fear clutched at her guts, and for the
first time in many years, Singleton prayed.
Her prayers were answered by the delighted squeal of a child yelling "Mommy!"
Looking up she was greeted to the sight of an adorable little girl racing across
the hospital room to scale the wall of her hospital bed. An older couple, in
their fifties perhaps, but still vigorous, followed her into the room. Having
gained the parapet of the hospital bed, the little girl threw herself onto the
woman she took to be her mother and hugged her tight exclaiming, "I missed you
so much! I knew Santa wouldn't let anything happen to you."
Surprisingly, she felt tears start in her eyes at this exclamation of innocent
assurance. All she could do was hug her daughter and smile through the tears.
Her parents, seeing their daughter overcome with emotion joined in the group
hug, showering her with kisses.
Two days later, having been released from the hospital, she stood at Christmas
Eve mass. Her daughter stood beside her and they shared a hymnal. Right beside
her stood her parents, adding their voices to the congregation singing "Silent
Night."
Tomorrow she would attend a memorial service for the officer who lost his life
saving hers, or at least that was how it would appear to the rest of the world.
Singleton had been ready to walk away from police work, with nothing to walk
toward. Now, Brenda Palmer's family had something wonderful given back to them
and she would be discovering everything anew. Miracles really do happen at
Christmas.
The End
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