Deadliest Intuition

by E. Raye Turonek

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

A heart-pounding psychological thriller of how far someone will go to keep their secrets …
He has one gray eye, the other as dark as the deepest parts of any ocean. The often misunderstood Ronald Doolally lives his life as a single man with few attachments. After the death of his father, he hasn't a person left in the world.
Until he meets Gertrude Liberal, who immediately shows interest in the odd stranger. The outspoken, natural beauty sees his distant demeanor as endearing.
Eventually wearing down his defenses, Gertrude finds a place in his heart against what Ronald would call his better judgment. He once thought of himself as being steered through life by a keen intuition, but that now manifests into something much more sinister.
As Gertrude unearths the Doolally family's secrets, she begins to question the man she's found herself entangled with. Who is Ronald, and how does he always seem to read people's minds? Will Gertrude's curiosity be her demise, or will Ronald be able to control his innermost thoughts once his secrets are unearthed?

Release date: August 3, 2021

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Tearing out of the building into a torrential downpour of rain, Joe made a beeline for his pickup truck. A shimmering full moon obstructed by storm clouds neither helped nor hindered his way, thanks to the lights atop strategically placed posts landscaping the parking lot. He kept his head down low but flashed his badge at the security guard manning the booth at the gate’s entrance. The uniformed man exited without pause as the liftgate whipped back upon the guard’s approval. Now he was only fifty feet or so before making it to higher ground. His ten-hour shift at the youth correctional facility had ended. By the time Joe hopped inside his pickup truck, all he wanted to do was get home to a cold beer and a pair of dry pajamas.

“Gonna be one helluva storm,” he remarked, wiping the fog from his windshield as he attempted to peer out into the nearly empty lot.

The once-over he had given the glass not doing the trick, Joe started his engine, then turned on the defroster and wipers.

“It’s looking like a helluva storm out there. Hopefully, everyone is home, tucked safely inside and not out there on the road. Those of you who are out there navigating this monster of a storm, Godspeed,” the radio disk jockey commented just as the radio had popped on.

Joe flipped through the AM stations, searching for some sports talk before beginning his journey home from work. The old melody “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” being played in the background of a commentator’s rhetoric prompted him to settle on the current station. Patriotic rhetoric was one of Joe’s favorite forms of entertainment.

A tall, lanky figure stood at the road’s edge cloaked in a translucent rain poncho with hands resting on his hips as he surmised his dilemma. The conversion van he was driving just minutes earlier had slid off into a ditch, trapping the front tires in the mud. No matter how many times, or alternate angles he had tried to reverse it, the tires would merely spin in place. There was no way he was getting out of there without assistance. Lucky for him, there was a truck coming up the road right toward him.

From afar, Joe could barely see the man. What he could see was the vehicle seemingly stranded on the side of the road. He fought with himself about if he should lend a hand, but by the time the headlights of his vehicle illuminated the shimmering, chrome badge clipped on the man’s waistbelt, there was no question of what he needed to do.

Joe pulled up to the ill-fortuned stranger, lowering his passenger window. “Looks like you’ve gotten yourself in a pickle.”

“I’m stuck in the mud. I think I’m going to need a tow,” the stranger responded over the sound of roaring thunder.

“I have a hitch and tow on the front of my pickup. I can hook it to your frame and try to pull you out.”

“Thank you. I think that would do it,” the stranger replied as he seemed to hold his trembling arm at his side.

“Anything for a fellow man of service. Let’s get you out of this storm. You may want to go and get that arm checked out if you hurt it in the crash,” Joe rambled on as he hopped out to attach his tow to the conversion van’s underbelly. “I’m Joe, by the way. What can I call you?”

“Ronald. Ronald Doolally.”

“Nice to meet you, Ronald Doolally. I wish it were under better circumstances, I must admit.”

Before Ronald could respond, a loud click sounded off. “That’s it. It’s hooked. You can go ahead and hop inside. When I flash the lights at you, put it in reverse and start backing up.”

Ronald climbed inside of his van as Joe climbed into the driver’s seat of his pickup. Within a few seconds of tugging, the plan had proved fruitful. Ronald’s conversion van was out of the mud and back on solid ground.

Joe hopped back out of his truck, ready to receive kudos for the brilliant idea and save, but once he made it to Ronald’s driver’s-side door, something else caught his eye. “Your front tire is nearly flat. That’s probably why you couldn’t get out of the mud on your own. You really shouldn’t drive with your tire like that. It’s way too slick out here,” Joe warned.

Ronald climbed back out to assess the damage.

“I have a spare. I can change it,” he calmly replied as he opened his side door to grab a tire iron and jack.

“I’d love to be of more assistance, but I just worked a ten-hour shift.”

“No need to explain. You’ve done enough. Besides, I have a raincoat on. You should probably get home and out of those wet clothes. I appreciate your help.”

“Like I said, it’s a pleasure helping a fellow man of the shield. I hope your night gets better from here.” Joe tipped the brim of his hat, then turned to head back to his vehicle.

“Much better than yours, I’d imagine.” Ronald lifted the tire iron above his head, then came down with such force that the blow to the top of Joe’s skull knocked him out cold, sending his limp body crashing to the ground.

When his lids opened, he found his legs had been bound at the ankles and arms at his wrists and tied to a metal beam supporting the ceiling. The duct tape covering his mouth kept his lips sealed. Screaming for help wasn’t an option. His eyes studied the hollowed-out cement structure still in the early stages of being constructed. Steel beams lined the ceiling while drywall sat off to the side waiting to be installed. There were holes made for windows but no glass encasing them, which allowed rain from the storm that had yet to let up to pour inside. Joe had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there, for that matter. The last thing he remembered was pulling Ronald’s conversion van out of the ditch.

What the hell is going on? Why would he do this to me? Joe thought as he struggled to break free from the bondage holding him captive.

That’s when he heard the steel door open, then slam shut. Footsteps neared him second by second until they stopped alongside his head.

Ronald bent over, ripping the duct tape from Joe’s face with one quick snatch.

“What the fuck is going on here, man? You need to let me go. I work for the county, ya know? You’re making a big mistake. Hey, I helped you. Don’t you remember? The guy who got you out of the ditch? Why would you do this to me? Is this how you repay a Good Samaritan?”

“You’re no Good Samaritan. You’re what we call a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“What the hell are you talking about, man? I’m no threat to anyone. Look, I’ve got a wife and kids. You’ve got the wrong guy,” Joe pleaded.

“We’ll see about that. You yell for help, you die,” Ronald threatened before hooking the winch and cable to the rope around his ankles. He untied the rope keeping Joe attached to the beam before leaving the room, yet left his arms bound.

Joe sat up immediately, fueled with the motivation to get the hell out of there. First, he had to get his wrists and feet untied before his captor would return. He reached for his ankles, but before getting a grip on the rope, his body started to slide across the floor. It was slow, initially, giving him the impression that he had time to loosen his restraints. Then, suddenly, his body yanked back. Head slamming against the concrete floor, he was dragged out of an opening in the structure.

Joe hollered out in horror, fearing he would surely plummet to his death, the sound of his screams drowned out by sounds of crackling thunder. He dangled there in the air, upside down but eye to eye, with Ronald seated in the wrecking ball crane. It only took Joe a moment to realize his body had replaced the missing wrecking ball.

“How many?” Ronald asked, assuming Joe knew why he was hanging there.

“How many what, man? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe contested as the blood rushed to his head, leaving veins protruding and his face beet red.

“I know what you’ve been up to, Joe. This is your opportunity to confess and avoid being buried alive.” Ronald maneuvered the controls, swinging Joe’s body hard to the right.

“No! Please . . .” The fresh grave Joe had found himself hanging over did plenty to convince him that Ronald meant business. “Come on, man. I’ve got a family to take care of. You can’t kill me.”

“Then for your family’s sake, you better get on with it.”

Joe yelled in frustration, knowing there was no way he was weaseling out of the situation. “I don’t know how many, man. I didn’t keep count.” He let out an exhaustive sigh.

Ronald scoffed, disgusted at the very sight of him. “People like you always keep count. How many?”

Joe hesitated before eventually muttering the answer under his breath, “Twelve.”

“Louder, so that we can hear you,” Ronald demanded.

“Twelve,” Joe screamed. “Twelve. Got dammit. What else do you want to know? You want to know where? When? How? I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, you fucking psychopath.” Secrets having been laid bare, Joe released his fury in an onslaught of insults. “How dare you sit there and judge me? Look at what you’re doing. You think you’re better than me, you sick fuck? How many people have you hurt? Huh? How many, you fucking reject?”

Ronald allowed Joe to air his grievances over panicked breaths before launching his body further right, then abruptly left, driving him toward the building as if he were wrecking ball.

Joe protested, fearing it would be his end. “Stop. Nooo.”

“Lights out,” Ronald teased just as Joe’s body collided with the cement structure. “The chickens have come home to roost, Joe.”

The next morning, Ronald lay atop the leather sofa, yet again recalling the day his life had changed for good....

That fateful afternoon back in 1972, the pitter-patter of little feet echoed through the old wooden, two-family flat on Gable Street—wood creaking as infectious giggles bounced off the walls.

“Knock it off, you two. It sounds like you’re going to go through the floor,” Mrs. Doolally called out to her children as she rubbed the porcelain saucer dry to place it inside the cupboard. A soft smile wrinkled her cheeks near the edges of her mouth. Still, she shook her head, that not having been the first time she had to instruct her rambunctious twins to settle down. The sound of her children’s laughter, although distracting, touched the warmest spaces of her heart. Mrs. Doolally loved her little family . . . herself, her husband, and 7-year-old twins, Ronald and Cecilia, both pale with freckled cheeks and thick, ginger coils.

Cecilia’s pigtails bounced atop her shoulders as her brother gave chase through the kitchen, past the apron-draped woman who then stood swatting a hand towel in their direction. “If you two don’t get out of here with that,” she threatened, shooing them from the room.

The pair didn’t skip a beat, Cecilia being the first to tackle the basement stairs. After dashing halfway down the staircase, she grabbed hold of the banister, swinging beneath it as a shortcut into the Michigan basement. The moment her red Chuck Taylors hit the cement, she darted off into the darkness.

“I’m gonna get you, Cecilia,” Ronald vowed, having kept on her tail until then.

Cecilia was as smart as a whip with a keen intuition to boot. Once, a neighbor attempted to lure her into his home under the pretense he’d give her mounds of sugary sweets. Something about him, though, told Cecilia the man was bad news. So much so, her hand had begun trembling at her side. It was her way of determining when she could not trust the energy around her. She could sense it, the evil in him.

Her big, gray eyes widened, attempting to see beyond the blackness in front of her. “You’ll never catch me, Ronald,” the little girl teased, rounding the living space.

The basement, spanning the length of the home, was a circle with a furnace room at its center. Cecilia had landed in the laundry room but made her way around into the other rooms, ducking behind dampened bed linens hanging from cords lining the ceiling. If not for the clanking of the buckles affixed to the suspenders of her blue jean overall skirt, he would never have found her there hiding underneath the table in the dining area.

“Told ya I’d catch ya,” he whispered at the base of her earlobe, having snuck up beside her.

His presence sent a shock wave through her tiny body, catapulting Cecilia off into another escape attempt. That time, she shot up a separate set of stairs, leading to a large, wooden door. A loud, dragging sound erupted as she pulled the door open, allowing beaming rays of sunlight to shine in. Ronald missed her by an inch, almost laying a hand atop her shoulder before she took off into the big backyard. Attempting to tire him out, Cecilia took a couple of laps around their aboveground pool. Ronald, most times, would succumb to exhaustion, leaving his twin sister the victor. But let’s just say that day Ronald had eaten his Wheaties.

Being the reigning champion, Cecilia had a few more tricks up her sleeve. She took her chance tearing off toward the humongous, blooming apple tree, kicking fallen green apples from her path along the way. Her target was the garage alongside the rooted monster. Anyone could tell it was ancient. Other neighborhood children found it frightening. Torn bark depicted the image of a face howling in pain, a fact that didn’t stop Ronald and Cecilia from finding solace between its branches. They often climbed its limbs to hop over onto the roof of their garage, the pair’s star-gazing spot.

But alas, then was a time to play chase. She leaped with one hand in the air, her foot catching a groove in the tree at the same time her hand grabbed the branch above her head. From then, the little girl was off to the races. Once she reached her exit spot, Cecilia paused, testing her mode of transport. She gave it a tug or two, approving of the safety the branch would provide. One big swing and she safely planted her feet on the garage alongside them. Cecilia made her way across the roof, then looked down over the edge, eyeballing the basketball rim affixed above the big metal door. Should I do it? She turned to see what progress her brother had made just as he’d made his landing. As she had expected, he was closing in on her.

“I’m coming to get cha, Cecilia.”

“Never,” she proclaimed before climbing down onto the rim.

She used it to hang as low as she possibly could to get the leverage needed to get on the roof of her mother’s old banana-colored Chevy Malibu. Cecilia sprinted across the hood, then windshield, the bottoms of her Chucks leaving dirt impressions on the glass. Her frame was small enough not to cave in the roof of the vehicle as she shot across, then down to the opposite end.

“Mom’s gonna kill you,” Ronald warned, feeling a bit sour due to the butt kicking he was receiving courtesy of his sister.

Currently under construction, the soon-to-be house across the street had become one of their spots of exploration. The two were fascinated by the rock piles, cement blocks, and heavy machinery outfitting the half-acre lot.

Cecilia took her chance darting across the street after glancing both ways to ensure the coast was clear. “Come and get me, brother,” she challenged him, tackling the fifteen-foot gravel pile in front of her. It took her less than a minute to reach the top, then to stand there victorious.

“Dun dada dun dun dun dada dun,” she stomped, singing the Rocky anthem with her fists held high in celebration of the accomplishment.

“Don’t be a show-off,” Ronald complained, finally reaching the summit’s peak.

That’s when the rocks shifted. Cecilia’s foot came down on sliding gravel, taking her down into a hole that the workmen had dug for the basement.

“Ronald, help me,” she squealed, a look of sheer terror in her eyes as she plummeted.

“Cecilia!” His brows wrinkled with worry over his sorrowful brown eyes as the boy stood in disbelief at what he was witnessing. He’d reached for his twin sister’s hand but a moment too late.

Cecilia’s little body had rolled down the slope, only worsening the pile’s instability. When her frail structure hit the bottom of the pit, an avalanche of rocks began to topple down on her.

“Ronald, please, help me.” For the last time, she called out to her brother for help as a white cloud of dust permeated the air.

One second, he could see her hand reaching up out of the rocks, then the next, her body had become completely covered with stones. Cecilia had been buried alive, and there was nothing Ronald could do to save his dear twin sister.

“Cecilia,” Ronald called out in terror. Tears welled up in his ducts.

A soft, monotoned voice calling out to him pulled the now fully grown man back to the present.

“Ronald, can you hear me?” His psychiatrist snapped her fingers.

The scruffy-faced gentleman opened his eyes—one brown, the other gray. “I hear you,” he replied, staring fixedly at the dimmed light fixture in the ceiling.

“How does it feel remembering that day?” Dr. Martyr pressed on, keeping her voice as passive as she could.

“It feels like torture.” He turned to her. “I feel helpless. I feel like,” Ronald paused, fighting the aching lump in his throat more than the truth he hesitated to admit. “I could have done more to save her.”

“Ronald, as long as you harbor guilt over the death of your sister, the inner turmoil you’re facing will never cease. You must release it. Ronald, you have to release her.”

She peered into his sorrowful eyes with intent.

He knew she meant well and that her concern was genuine enough. But to be quite honest, she had no idea what she was dealing with. Neither did Ronald, for that matter.

“That’s easier said than done, Doc. She’s my twin. Sometimes, I feel like she’ll never leave me.”

“Are you ready to talk about what triggered your episode last week?” she inquired, intertwining her fingers before placing them atop the ledger on her lap.

Dr. Lisa Martyr, the youngest psychiatrist in her practice, had just earned her doctor of medicine. As a child, she was always attracted to the wounded. Even if they looked put together outwardly, it was as if she could sniff out the pain in a person. Healing that pain provided her fulfillment. Ronald happened to be her favorite patient. She fancied him yet would never reveal her true feelings, as it was against her code of conduct. Besides, he was nearly twelve years younger than she. Dr. Martyr would often describe him as a handsome young man, barely legal to drink.

“Do you need more time?” the doctor continued, sensing his hesitation.

Stuck in his head, Ronald flashed back to the episode in question.

Crouched on hands and knees, beads of sweat poured down Ronald’s profile out of his long, curly, red coils as he frantically burrowed into the ground, bare-handed.

“Ronald?” Her voice yanked him from the memory, pulling his focus back to reality. “You’ve been very distracted lately. Have you gone yet to get that MRI I referred you for?”

“They put me on a list,” he responded, huffing as he lifted from a lying position on the plush leather sofa.

“Ronald, do you want to be cured?” his psychiatrist asked in the softest voice she could mimic. She didn’t want him to feel as if she were antagonizing him. Her inquiry was genuine.

“What kind of question is that? I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to fix what’s happening to me. You think I want to live like this for the rest of my life? Coming in here to tell you about how I can’t get over the deaths of my family isn’t something I particularly enjoy, Doc.”

“I believe you, Ronald. I believe you want to live a normal life. Maybe even have a family of your own someday. For you to do that, though, we have to work through these blocks. We need to find out what it is about your sister’s death that you can’t seem to let go of.”

“I’ve heard that same line since my adolescence.”

“I promise, I’m going to help you, Ronald. I know it has been a long, hard road for you, but you can get over this. Tell me, when was the last time you went out on a date?”

“I don’t have time for a date.” Ronald blew off the notion.

“How so?” she frowned. “Has school become too demanding?” his psychiatrist pressed forward.

“Between work and school, it’s hard to find free time.” Ronald had to tell Dr. Martyr something besides the truth. If she knew he was seeing his sister’s apparition while he was awake, she’d have him committed. Coming to her gave Ronald someone to talk to. She was his last remaining outlet. Unfortunately, he had absolutely no confidence in the fact that she could help him.

“You should try it. Have you seen anyone you might be interested in?”

“I can’t say I’ve been looking.” Ronald stuck to his guns.

“Ronald, you attend a university full of beautiful, intelligent beings. You should try mingling.”

He looked down at his wristwatch, not wanting to open that can of worms. “I think it’s about time for me to go.”

Dr. Martyr glanced down at hers realizing their session was due to end in several minutes. “Oh . . .” She pushed one side of her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear. “Well, I guess you’re right. No worries. We can pick back up where we left off on Wednesday.” She stood, tugging at the helm of her black business skirt to assure its length was appropriate. “Don’t forget, Wednesday at eleven o’clock,” she reminded him, hoping he would show up.

“Thanks, Doc.” Ronald headed for the exit.

“That’s a very nice broach, if I must say so myself,” a waiting patient schmoozed the secretary just outside Dr. Martyr’s office.

“Why, thank you, sir. I appreciate you saying so, again,” she remarked politely, a bit put off by his constant compliments each visit. Fratern. . .