The Good Kill

by Kurt Brindley

  DeBlanc shaved his neck with long, upward strokes. “I think you going to Houston has less to do with me and more to do with you getting to fly on my private jet.”

  Ruby smiled seductively. “But I’ve never flown on a private jet before, lover.”

  “Soon enough, I promise,” he said with disinterest as he inspected his shave. “I’ll have you chauffeured downtown tomorrow after I fly out so you can spend the afternoon shopping New Orleans’ finest stores for whatever it is your pretty little heart desires. I’ll be gone for only a few hours and when I get back we’ll go out for a nice dinner. How does that sound?”

  “But we just did all that today. Are you sure the real reason you’re not taking me with you is because daddy’s poor, sensitive eyes couldn’t handle the sight of a woman as colorful as me on the arm of his heir apparent?” Her hands moved on from DeBlanc’s chest to more southern parts of his body.

  DeBlanc took a folded white towel from the countertop and wiped the remaining cream from his face. “You got that right,” he said seriously. “Not only are my daddy’s poor eyes too sensitive, but I’m quite sure if he knew of my preference for beautiful black women such as you, his poor, sensitive heart would just break from disappointment.”

  “And I suppose that’s the same reason why you made me wait in the SUV with your guards today instead of letting me attend the hospital ceremony with you,” Ruby said, again in her pouty voice.

  DeBlanc walked abruptly away from her. “No.” he said coldly. “The reason I didn’t take you with me to the ceremony wasn’t because you’re black, it was because you’re a whore. A very expensive whore who I purchased from a very exclusive website that auctions off other expensive whores just like you.” He stood before his dresser and began putting on a Jeager-LeCoultre watch with a pink gold rectangular face and chocolate-colored alligator skin strap. After winding the watch, he put on a pinky ring, which was a simple gold band that at one time was his deceased grandmother’s wedding ring. Finally, he put on a thin gold necklace with a small gold cross, which the same deceased grandmother had received as a gift for her First Communion.

  As he donned the necklace, he looked at Ruby through the angled section of the mirror and said, “So, how about instead of us focusing on the things you can’t do because you’re a whore, we focus on the things you can do because you’re a whore, like putting on that sexy little two-thousand-dollar dress I just bought for you, and then accompanying me to dinner and allowing your beauty and your breasts to distract the slobbery Bulgarian whom we’ll be dining with so that I can secure from him the best possible terms as he and I begin the negotiation for the contract of the hotel he wants me to build for him.” After his little outburst, he gave her a smile absent of any humor or warmth. “Is that something a whore like you can do for me, Ruby?” Without waiting for a response, he walked into his closet.

  If what DeBlanc had just said affected Ruby in any way, she didn’t show it. She just followed in right behind him. Inside the closet, she stopped him from flipping through his vast wardrobe and pulled him close to her. “Of course, it would be my pleasure to do that for you, lover,” she said before leaning down to kiss him deeply. She pulled off the towel that was wrapped around his waist and let it fall to the floor. “And there’s one other thing I would be happy to do for you, too,” she said as she dropped slowly to her knees and began kissing her way down his body.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BEFORE

  The snow flurries kicked up again and were being driven horizontally across the northbound stretch of Interstate 270 by the late December sub-freezing winds. Diego slowed down his already slow pace and tightened his already tight grip on the steering wheel, around which his normally brown-skinned knuckles shined white. Had he been able to take his concentration from the slushy and slick road before him, he would have realized that his entire body was as tense and tight as was his grip on the wheel. It stayed that way until the snow and wind had finally abated soon after they had passed through Frederick, Maryland and were heading north on U. S. Route 15.

  Diego drove in a heightened state for some time, even after the weather had calmed, before realizing that the conditions were no longer as perilous as they recently had been. As he unclenched himself from his complete concentration on the road, he glanced over at Killian staring out the passenger window. He had been silent since leaving the hospital. Diego wondered what he was thinking and if he should risk interrupting his thoughts to engage him in conversation. Leading up to his release from the hospital, Killian had shown occasional glimpses of his old self. While never discussing anything too personal or related to the extent of his injuries, Killian had been willing to talk with Diego about the more mundane things in his life, mostly regarding the goings on around him in the hospital. However, most of the time they spent together during Diego’s visits was in silence, either while in concentration over a chess match, or while each read their books and magazines, or while Killian just lay in bed and Diego just sat in quiet contemplation.

  Diego could only wonder about the cause of the change in Killian’s behavior because Killian never offered any explanation. And Killian’s doctor wasn’t much help either since Diego wasn’t an immediate family member and Killian never authorized the doctor to discuss his condition with anyone. All the doctor could tell Diego was that, due to Killian’s brain injury, there would always be the risk of dramatic mood swings and erratic behavior. Diego had tried several times to broach the subject of Killian’s injuries, but Killian would always grow irritable whenever he did, so he never pressed. Based on Killian’s reactions to questions regarding his own health, Diego never felt comfortable enough to again bring up the topic of the death of Killian’s father.

  What Killian had said about his father’s death, that it was no accident, had weighed heavy on Diego’s mind and he thought about it often. Perhaps now it was time to bring it back up. He cleared his throat to speak but then had second thoughts. Or maybe it was best not to bring up such a demanding subject on an already demanding day for Killian. He let the moment slip by and continued on in silence.

  When they passed the sign welcoming them into Cumberland Township, Killian’s hometown where most of the Battle of Gettysburg was fought during the Civil War, Killian, for the first time during the long, slow trip turned from looking out the passenger-side window to looking over at Diego. “Tell me about my father’s death,” he said.

  It wasn’t long after they had crossed the border into Pennsylvania that the snow and the wind had picked back up, which meant that Diego was once again wholly focused on his driving. Killian’s sudden and unexpected voice startled him and jarred his clenched, whole body concentration on the slippery road, causing him to jerk the wheel reflexively toward Killian. This caused the car’s back end to go into a brief, sickening slide on a patch of ice before catching the asphalt again.

  “Are you okay, Father?” Killian asked. “Why don’t you let me drive us the rest of the way home? You must be exhausted.”

  Diego’s heart was pounding violently from the scare. He wanted nothing more than to not be driving the car. “Oh, no. No, Killian. Everything’s fine,” he said, trying to sound as in control as he could. They passed a road sign announcing the Taneytown Road exit. “Look, two miles until our exit.” He dared to take his eyes off the road just long enough to look at Killian and offer him a brave smile.

  “You’re right,” Killian said. “We’re almost there. We can talk about my father some other time.”

  “Well, I really…” Diego’s eyes darted back and forth from Killian to the road. “Why don’t you just come and stay with me? Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. It would be—”

  “Please Father. We already talked about this.”

  “But, Killian… With the main house burned down, who knows what state the old farm house is in it’s been so long since anyone’s been in it. I’m sure it’s a dusty mess. I can’t let you stay all alone in a dirty old house like that during Christm
as.”

  Killian’s voice turned hard. “I said we already talked about this, Father. I know my parents’ house has burned down. I know the old farm house is probably a mess. I don’t care, and I don’t want to talk about it again.”

  Diego didn’t respond, he just kept his stern eyes locked on the icy road ahead.

  After a moment of silence, Killian took in a breath. When he released it and continued speaking, the tone in his voice had softened. “Look, Padre, you know I practically lived in that old, beat-up farm house as a teenager, and that I spent most of my adult life as a SEAL living and sleeping in much worse conditions.” He laughed softly. “Besides, if a dirty old barn was a good enough place for the birth of Baby Jesus, then a dirty old farm house is good enough place for me on his birthday.”

  Diego put his blinker on for the exit and smiled. “How can I argue with that?”

  “You can’t. Besides, my shrink said it would be good for me to get settled as soon as possible. Get back to a routine.”

  The snow had turned into an icy mix. As Diego turned right onto Taneytown Road, the tires spun before catching the asphalt, throwing a bolt of fear into his heart. He made a quick left onto Solomon Road, and quickly realized that the winding country road was in need of salt and a plow as the tires fishtailed hard on the turn.

  It was a moment before Diego could speak again after gaining control, yet he was unable to calm the shaking in his voice. “So, what do you think your typical routine will be now that you’re… you know, a civilian?”

  Killian thought about the question. “Well, as my father’s executor I’ll have to get his estate settled. But as for a routine, my main priority is to start working out as soon as possible. Need to get my edge back.”

  “Get your edge back?” Diego asked looking at Killian, his concern for his friend’s health momentarily overriding his concern for the road, which was now barely discernible before him. “Killian, your heart. You can’t possibly be considering any strenuous activity.”

  “Yes, believe me, Father, I know the risks,” Killian said, his anger rising. “The doctors went on and on about it. If I listened to them I’d never get out of bed from fear.”

  “They nag about it because it’s serious. You should listen to them, Killian,” Diego said. He then said something in Spanish under his breath as he made a slow right turn onto White Church Road.

  “Well, shouldn’t I also listen to my shrink?” Killian asked sarcastically. “He says I need to try to get back as close as I can to the life I had before the all the injuries. Well, my life before the blast was my job, and my job required me to be in top physical condition. The thing with my heart is what it is. I’m not going to let one tiny scrap of metal dictate how I live my life.”

  Diego’s own heart was pounding more now from his frustration with Killian than from the perils he faced from the snow-covered road. He didn’t know how to respond without making them both more upset, so he remained silent and tightened his grip on the wheel.

  Killian ran his hands through his long hair and leaned his head back on the headrest. The conversation was giving him a headache. The pain concentrated just over his left temple and throbbed with the rapid beating of his heart. His heightened level of anxiety – he refused to call these episodes that he now frequently experienced panic attacks – had him breathing in quick shallow breaths, had his hands shaking. The hot air blowing out from the car’s vents was suffocating him. He broke out in a cold and chilling sweat. He wanted out of the car. He needed fresh air. He couldn’t breathe. He knew the way he was behaving was hurting his friend. He had to let go of the anger.

  But it was hard. Because it was always there, the anger. Ever since waking from the coma it had such a tight, constant grip on him that he could barely breathe. And because it was something he had never experienced before it was especially hard for him to deal with. Anger, to him, had always been seen as a sign of weakness, especially when it was used, weaponized, as a means to physically intimidate others; whereas to him anger was really nothing more than an embarrassing display of one’s inability to overcome a negative situation with a positive mindset. At least that was how he used to feel. Now he realized that there were some forms of anger – his anger – that were uncontrollable, uncontainable. He felt absolutely incapable of restraining it or doing anything about it, as it was always there somewhere within him, lurking, seething within his gut, his lungs, his heart, a low flame steadily burning like a pilot light that could easily, often for no apparent reason, light him up like an overheated furnace, its angry flames raging to the surface as a burning blinding madness that would consume him and make him want to thrash out heatedly at those nearest to him, no matter even if they happen to be those dearest to him.

  His therapist had explained that the best way for him to release, or at least control, his anger was to understand and accept why it was there. The anger, for the most part, was not there of his doing, nor was it there of the doing of whomever or whatever it was that had triggered it. The anger was there because of the blast. It was the blast that hurt him, rewired him to be angry. And it was the blast he should be angry at, not his doctors, not Diego, not the world, not himself.

  Killian squeezed his eyes shut and tried to visualize the blast as his anger. He watched from a safe distance in his mind as it exploded into a white hot blinding ball of unmitigated fury, and then fizzed away to nothing like a dying sparkler, leaving behind in him the sudden calm, a dark, timid calm, that only one who has ever survived the savage hell of battle could ever know.

  When he opened his eyes some of the tension in his forehead had released. “You know, Father,” he said calmly, “I really do appreciate everything you’re doing for me. I know it hasn’t been easy for you. I haven’t been easy for you…” Killian had more to say but he wasn’t sure how. As far back as he could remember Diego had been a presence in his life, a friend. Not just at the church or as his priest when Killian was a child, but later, after his mother’s passing. Especially then. He owed Diego so much. He just didn’t know how to put it into words just then.

  Still, Diego’s smile beamed through the dark of the car from what Killian had been able to say. “I’m just happy you’ll be close now so I don’t have to drive so far to lose to you at chess.”

  Killian allowed himself his own tight smile.

  Diego couldn’t see the smile, but he could feel it and it filled him with a sense of joy that he hadn’t felt since learning that Killian had come out of the coma. He turned right onto Rust Creek Road, now only a few miles from Killian’s farm.

  “Killian, do you remember when you and I first spoke about your father’s death?”

  “Why?” Killian asked flatly.

  Diego felt the positive vibe evaporate from the car. “Never mind,” he said quickly. “We don’t need to talk about it now. Like you said, we’re almost there anyway.”

  “You want to know how I knew my father was dead, right?”

  “Yes. Yes.” Diego said eagerly. “That, and why you feel his death wasn’t an accident. I spoke with both the police detective at the scene and the fire ch—”

  In his excitement to finally be discussing Luc Lebon’s death with Killian, Diego began unconsciously to speed up. He was going too fast on the narrow, snow-covered road when the car came upon the one-way bridge that spanned Rust Creek, the muddy, iron-laden stream with its rust-colored banks that snaked its way through Killian’s farm and into the vast countryside beyond. Overreacting to the bridge’s sudden appearance, Diego slammed on the useless brakes. The car slid. He panicked and didn’t hear Killian hollering at him to release the brakes and steer into the slide. He spun hard on the steering wheel in the opposite direction of the slide and slammed even harder on the brakes, so hard, in fact, something somewhere – his knee? his hip? his back? – something popped. A fiery pain stole his breath and exploded white before his eyes.

  The car spun left, making not quite a full 360-degree spin, and plowed driver’s si
de into the stone wall lining the right side of the bridge. Before coming to a full rest, the car lurched forward and slid down the steep, slick bank into the stream, not stopping until the front tires were sucked deep into its thick red mud.

  The stream had come to a calm acceptance of the unnatural intrusion and lapped quietly at the tires as it passed. Killian awoke to these lapping sounds not knowing where he was, not knowing how long he had been knocked out. He hung forward, restrained from falling completely into the dashboard by his seatbelt. He remembered the car spinning then slamming hard into the wall. The car was illuminated by the phosphorescent blue glow from the snow-covered forest that loomed over the stream. Where his headache had throbbed before, it now was burning with pain. He touched the spot and found a hot, swollen lump with a thick gash running through it. His fingers came away sticky with blood. The passenger window, he saw, had a round crack in the middle of it where his head must have whipped back into it after the car slammed into the wall.

  Killian remembered his friend and looked over at him. The former priest also hung from his seatbelt; however he was unmoving, his body had gone limp. Blood was dripping, almost streaming, from his nostrils onto the steering wheel.

  “Diego,” Killian cried out. Still hanging by his seatbelt, he reached over and shook his old friend’s shoulder. There was no response.

  Astaghfirullah! Astaghfirullah! Astaghfirullah…

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  That Toni would be a favorite on stage, Savage never had a doubt. From the moment seeing her in the sex room, he had realized her potential. However, he could not have foreseen just how much a favorite she would prove to be. Since the first night she had started dancing for him, the club’s weekly revenue had come close to doubling. Not even her twin sister Ruby Black had made such an impact, despite their near identical appearance. As he thought about this, he came to believe that the difference between Toni and Ruby when it came to their earning potential, beyond just the different color of their eyes, was that Ruby was of the people of Fantasy Plus, she knew their kind well, and they knew well hers. They were all of the same code. Whereas Toni, in the way she thought, the way she talked, was completely foreign to them and as different from any other Fantasy Plus dancer as she could possibly have been. While she was not a stranger to them, she was a Sandtown girl after all, she was strange to them, but an alluring kind of strange, one that men on the hunt desire most.