Dark Advent

by Rick Jones

  That left Cooch and his two boys.

  But it was Beef-Neck he wanted most of all.

  #

  Unlike Jesse, Billy-the-Blade tumbled out the window as if he was already dead. There wasn’t the pin-wheeling of limbs in futile desperation, no cries or screams from a man who realized his pending death, just a body that seemed boneless upon its descent.

  After a quick study of Billy-the-Blade’s body, Cooch turned his head to the seventh-floor window and stemmed the tide of rage that wanted to surface. Kimball was silhouetted against the backdrop, watching.

  Then Cooch grabbed Beef-Neck and shoved him toward the flight of stairs that led upward into the building. “You wanted a piece of him, now’s your chance.”

  Beef-Neck looked worried, then he looked up at Kimball, then back at Cooch. “By myself?”

  “You got your piece, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You just told me how much you wanted to be there---that you had just as much of a beef with him as these two.” He pointed to the badly twisted bodies. “Have at it.”

  “Cooch--”

  “And don’t come back until it’s done.” Cooch gave him a no-nonsense stare, one that said it’s-either-him-or-you.

  Beef-Neck removed his firearm, swept a fat arm across his sweaty brow, and began to take the stairs.

  #

  Kimball took the knife and maneuvered it in such a way that he could saw off his bindings. As soon as the cuffs fell to the floor, he went to the window and looked down. Cooch was issuing orders to Beef-Neck, who removed a firearm from his shoulder holster and began to take the steps.

  Kimball pulled away from the window.

  Now the real fun was about to begin.

  #

  Beef-Neck struggled along the steps, having been tapped out of strength by the time he reached the third level. He stopped, leaned over and looked up. Four more flights might as well be forty, he thought. Then he moved on.

  By the time he reached the sixth level, he surely believed his heart would misfire in his chest. One level to go.

  Then he heard the popping of the fluorescent bulbs being smashed, the lights dying. He would have to fight by the light of the moon coming in through the banks of windows along the side of the building.

  When he reached the seventh level he remained riveted. Nothing moved but the eyes within his sockets, first darting from left to right then right to left, then repeating this for several seconds before entering the large factory floor with the point of his weapon leading the way.

  “So my mother screamed like a bitch when you killed her, huh?”

  The voice seemed to come from Beef-Neck’s left. He turned, quickly, and fired off three shots, the muzzle flashes lighting up the area.

  Nothing but pooling shadows.

  “Come on, kid. I’ll make it quick.”

  “Did she sound like the first guy who went out the window? She sound anything like that?”

  Impossible. Now the voice sounded as if it was coming from his right. If Hayden had crossed his path to somehow to get to the other side, he should have seen him cross the floor in the moonlight. He saw nothing.

  Beef-Neck turned and sent off another volley, this time four shots. Though muzzle flashes lit up the area, the quick bursts of light revealed nothing but cement columns. Kimball Hayden was nowhere to be seen.

  “Come on, kid. You really want to mess with me?”

  Then from what sounded like Kimball speaking hollowly from the opposite end of the room, Beef-Neck heard Kimball say: “You killed my mother.” Which was soon followed by a terrifying silence. All at once Kimball Hayden seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

  “Kid!” Panic was beginning to set in Beef-Neck’s voice as he advanced further onto the floor.

  Then something slid across the floor to his right, a kicked stone.

  Beef-Neck cried out and spent the last of his ammo shooting at shadows and ghosts. In a panic he tossed the gun aside and raced toward the steps to begin his descent. But a hand reached and grabbed Beef-Neck by the collar of his suit and dragged him back inside the room. Beef-Neck’s eyes were wide with fear that was absolute. His breathing was labored. And his bladder released a trickle that couldn’t be controlled.

  In the shadows of moonlight Kimball Hayden stood before him, a massive outline of a man wearing a hoodie to cloak his face, a man who was large and formidable. More so, Beef-Neck could sense Kimball’s rage coming off him like a scorching blast from an oven when, realistically, it was his own racing heart that made him hot under his collar.

  Beef-Neck lashed out with feeble blows, each easily countered by the shape. Then a large hand reached out as quickly as a serpent striking, latched onto Beef-Neck’s throat, and gripped it tightly. “You murdered my mother.”

  Then Kimball forced the man to the railing. Beyond it was a seven-story drop.

  “Kid, please, it was business.”

  “Business? Killing a God-fearing Christian woman who didn’t have a vicious bone in her body is business?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I care to. But one thing is for certain.”

  Beef-Neck’s eyes flared. What’s that?

  “She died of a broken neck. Therefore, I have a promise to keep to myself.” Kimball reached out with his second hand, placed it along the line of the man’s chin, then put his other hand behind Beef-Neck’s head, and twisted.

  The crunch and snap of the man’s neck was audible as it echoed loudly down the stairwell.

  Then lifting Beef-Neck to the railing in a sitting position with his head lolling sickeningly on a completely severed spinal column, Kimball then gave him a mock salute before sending him over the side.

  The man bounced heavily from one railing to the next, ping-ponging from side to side of the stairway until he landed on the bottom floor in a hail of dust.

  Now he had to deal with Vinny Cuchinata.

  #

  Somebody was coming down the stairwell. And not via the stairway, either.

  Cooch and the Well-Dressed Man waited by the vehicles when they heard Beef-Neck bouncing from one railing to the next en route to his collision with the bottom floor. When he landed great plumes of dust boiled out from underneath him. Then as soon as the dust settled, Beef-Neck laid there with his eyes eerily directed at Cooch and the Well-Dressed Man, the moment quite unsettling.

  Cooch looked up at the seventh-story window.

  Nothing but darkness.

  Then he turned back to Beef-Neck, his body all twisted.

  “Get me out of here,” said Cooch.

  Cooch got into the rear of a sedan whereas the Well-Dressed Man got behind the wheel. After the vehicle started, the Well-Dressed Man stomped on the pedal. The wheels spun for traction kicking rooster tails of dust and dirt into the air. In the process the car fishtailed dramatically until it eventually straightened out and moved forward.

  But as the cloying dust shifted and floated about before settling, the shape of a man stood behind a veil of circling dust motes the color of desert sand and watched the car drive away. In his hand was a device, perhaps a knife, opening and closing with repeated maneuvers.

  . . . Open . . .

  . . . Close . . .

  . . . Open . . .

  . . . Close . . .

  And then the shape fell deeper behind the wall of dust . . .

  . . . with the sweeping sounds of the knife opening and closing starting to fade . . .

  . . . And completely disappeared.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  When the gates leading to Cooch’s estate opened and closed behind them, the Well-Dressed Man parked the sedan at the end of the cul-de-sac before a flagstone walkway that led to the front doors of the house. Then he opened the rear door of the vehicle to allow Cooch out, with both hastening to the safety inside the home.

  Once inside, Cooch issued orders to the two remaining staff members to man the grounds with their assault
weapons. The Well-Dressed Man was to stay by his side.

  “You think he’s coming, don’t you?” asked the Well-Dressed Man.

  Cooch reached into his desk and pulled out a black-lacquer box. “Wouldn’t you?” When he opened the box a gold-plated pistol seemed to give off an ethereal glow as he lifted the lid. It was a smart-looking Colt with an oyster-shell grip. The six-shooter was already loaded with hollow-point rounds. It was laying within a perfect molding of red velvet. After grabbing the firearm, he hefted the weapon liking the feel of it in his hand. “Let him come,” he added. “I’ll give him a gift that’ll keep on giving. That is, until the last bullet’s spent.”

  Cooch went to the window and pulled back the drape. It was dark outside. But he could see his people walking the grounds with their weapons held at the ready, meaning that the mouth of the barrel was directed forward. Then he let the drape fall back into place and took the seat at his desk. He laid the gun on the desktop and looked directly at the Well-Dressed Man, whose face had seen much better days. “You’re a mess,” he remarked. “I guess you’re lucky he left you alive. Probably thought you were dead.” Cooch brought a hand to his chin and started to rub it, a nervous habit he often retreated to when times became difficult.

  “You worried, boss?”

  Cooch stopped rubbing his chin and gave the Well-Dressed Man a penetrating stare. Obviously it was the wrong thing to ask. But Cooch’s appearance slowly softened as he warmed up to the question. The Well-Dressed Man was asking for the truth. And if nothing else, Vinny Cuchinata wasn’t one to lie. Lying, he believed, came from the mouths of cowards, a circle he would never join. “Yeah,” he said. “I am. This kid shouldn’t be walking. He shouldn’t be alive. But he is.” Suddenly Cooch hiked the corner of his eyebrow and pointed a finger at the Well-Dressed Man as if to make a point. “You know, that kid just ain’t right. He’s different. But not in a good way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cooch dropped his finger. “I don’t know exactly. I know---I feel---something unstoppable about him. I don’t know if he moves by the sheer force of his ego to get revenge . . . Or if he’s motivated by something far more dangerous. One thing’s for certain--” He thought of a fitting quote from Shakespeare: By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.

  “Yeah, and what’s that, Cooch?”

  Cooch moved only his eyes until they settled on the Well-Dressed Man. “He’s coming our way because he has unfinished business,” he answered. “And tonight it ends.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  When they got to the Blue Star Motel on Route 99 in Saugus, there was little, if any, discussion between Kimball’s father and Becki Laurent. After a room was paid for, Becki immediately got into the bathtub and felt like a queen over something so simple; having the luxury to sit in a vat filled with hot water.

  The stench and the dirt of her filth came off like a second skin. Though she still looked like an emaciated refugee from a Nazi genocide camp, she at least looked marginally better than someone with more than one foot in the grave.

  After wrapping a towel around herself, she exited the bathroom. Sitting with his elbows resting on his thighs and his hands to his face, Kimball’s father sobbed. He was not the same man she remembered him to be, that person who walked about with that macho-posturing veneer of a puffed-out chest and pulled-back shoulders. Nor was he the man with an acid tongue. This man was in complete contrast by appearing small and withered, a feeble remnant of what he used to be.

  As soon as he realized her presence, he sat up and wiped a forearm across his face to wipe away the tears. But instead of squaring his shoulders and thrusting out his chest, he continued to eye the floor with his shoulders sagging forward.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him.

  “Are you decent enough?”

  “I’m wrapped,” she said.

  He gave her a sidelong glance to see if she was covered.

  She was.

  Then again from Becki: “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he lied. He sounded softer and gentler, like a man who had given up hope long ago and spoke only because he had to.

  “You’re worried about Kimball.” This was not a question but a statement.

  He shook his head. “I should be alongside my boy in this,” he said. “He’s my son. My only one.” His voice started to crack.

  Becki walked up and stood beside him.

  To the old man she smelled as fresh as scented flowers. When he turned to look at her, his eyes had that raw look to them. “I should be with my boy,” he said. Then a tear slipped from the corner of his right eye. “My son. He shouldn’t be alone in this.”

  “He knew I needed you,” she told him. “He knew I needed someone like you to protect me . . . He believed in you.”

  His face did a slow shift as his chin started to rise and his shoulders began to straighten. Here he was, a man protecting someone who couldn’t protect herself. He was Becki’s savior. And for this he felt proud and needed with a full sense of purpose.

  “He believed in you,” she repeated to him in a whisper. As soft as her words were, she penetrated the man’s exterior right down to his core.

  The old man leaned into her with his face pressed against the towel and wept. He would see this through. And no matter what, he would see Becki Laurent safe. Even if it came down to surrendering his life in order to preserve hers.

  For the first time in his long and miserable existence, he finally felt a sense of self-worth.

  The old man wept.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Kimball stood in the pitch-dark shadows across from Cooch’s estate, which was really a ranch-styled house surrounded by an eight-foot, wrought-iron fence. Two guards manning automatic weapons continuously surveyed the grounds.

  Their routine was set in a pattern, considered Kimball. One walked clockwise around the estate while the other counterclockwise, both meeting on at least two occasions during their rotations. Then he timed their routes. It took them two minutes to complete a circular route around the house. At two points the guards had to pass one another, once in the front and once at the rear, Kimball knew they would be together and accounted for, which would allow him to breach the property without being compromised. But the window to do so would be a short one, maybe ten to fifteen seconds before the guards began to round the home from the rear and make their way to the front.

  He waited.

  He watched.

  And as soon as the guards began their circuitous route that led to the rear of the house, Kimball responded by racing toward the front gate.

  The bars were thick with points designed to look like the tips of spears, which were meant to serve as security deterrents.

  The window was closing, he thought. The guards, given their pace by his estimate, were about to pass each other in the back and were soon to round the corners of the house.

  Kimball grabbed a bar and began to pull himself up as if he was scaling a gym rope, and reached the top in less than two seconds. The points were honed to razor sharpness, which would take time to mount safely. But the clock was ticking. The guards had passed each other in the rear and were beginning to move to his location.

  Kimball hoisted himself up, making sure he was careful of the points, and positioned himself for the leap to the other side when he saw the first guard round the corner of the house. The man was a dark shape against the backdrop, the figure walking forward with his weapon drawn and pointed in Kimball’s direction.

  Kimball realized that time had drawn to a close and was forced to cast caution to the wind. He had maybe a second or two before the figure came close enough to spy a glimpse of him, so Kimball attempted to hurdle the spearhead tips to the other side, only for a tip to catch and slice a deep groove in Kimball’s calf, a perfect line that lightly scored the muscle.

  When Kimball landed he did so awkwardly, coming down hard on his left leg and bending the knee in a direction it
was not meant to bend. Kimball stifled a cry as an electrical charge of white-hot pain shot up his leg.

  The guard was coming. And soon he would be met by the other guard as they made their circuitous connection.

  To Kimball’s left was a well-manicured privet hedge, though small. He belly-crawled to the hedge and took refuge with his leg throbbing painfully.

  The guard came out of the shadows and into the light, coming closer. The other guard had yet to round the house, but was surely getting close to doing so because time was closing.

  Kimball reached into the pocket of his hoodie, drew out his butterfly knife, swung it open, and held it with a firm grip.

  The guard drew closer.

  #

  The guard had made his pass with the other guard at the rear of the house, and was beginning to make his way to the front.

  It was quiet. The time was late. And a brisk chill filled the air to the point of seeing his own vaporous breath every time he exhaled.

  As soon as he rounded the bend of the home and made his way toward the front, he thought he heard something that sounded like a muted thud, which was followed up by absolute silence.

  The guard approached with his weapon held forward for a possible quick burst.

  A privet hedge stood before him, the shrub trimmed to resemble a perfect globe.

  As soon as he rounded the bush with his weapon poised to kill, he saw something lying on the ground. It was a hoodie. As soon as he prodded it with the point of his weapon, a hand closed over his mouth and a blade ran across his throat, opening a wide gash as the lips of his wound pared back to reveal the workings inside the man’s throat. The guard’s eyes rolled up into his sockets, and then his knees buckled as his life quickly slipped away.