by Hunter Shea
Looking back at my Lumina, I contemplated just going back home. A brief sparkler of pain singed the part of my brain that was behind my left eye. A rapid buildup of pressure made it feel as if it might pop out of its socket.
“Ow, ow, okay, I’ll get in.”
As soon as I sat behind the wheel and closed the door, the pain was gone. The relief was instant.
How was this possible? If it weren’t for the periods of relief between flash-bursts of misery, I’d think I was having an extended delusion…or an aneurysm.
But aneurysms didn’t make red Mustangs appear.
Unsure what to do next, I started up the car and waited. It didn’t take long for the Bluetooth screen to alert me of an incoming text to voice. The tone was comfortingly feminine, but somehow I knew a man was behind the words.
“Right on time,” it said. “Now, turn left on 302 and drive until you get to Wyndham. Once you cross the line, the online navigation system will take you the rest of the way.”
“I’m not killing Marcellus,” I muttered, putting the car in drive.
To my utter shock, the speakers blurted out, “Yes, you are! He ruined you and others today. People like him have come to the end of the line. You’re going to make things right.”
I just made the light, passing the gas station and heading east to the town of Wyndham.
“By killing a man?” I said. The car must have been bugged or something.
“By making things just.”
“I’ve never killed anything before, other than some bugs and spiders. You picked the wrong pony for this.” I didn’t mention the pet newt I’d let starve to death, its body fusing to the rock, when I was ten. Death by neglect didn’t constitute murder.
I drove past the drive-in, recalling how thrilled we’d been to go there for the first time when we moved up here. I hadn’t seen a drive-in since I was a little kid. I’d thought there weren’t any left. We’d been to it several times since. Katie loved being able to watch a movie outside in her little folding Disney princess chair. Candy and I had felt like kids ourselves.
As I crossed from Bridgton to Naples, I slammed on the brakes. There were no cars coming from either direction on the long stretch of road.
“I’m not doing this,” I said. There was no way I was going to throw my life away just because some phantom lunatic was telling me to kill my boss. I’d lost my job. So had a ton of other people all across the country. We’d find a way to get through it. As long as I had Candy and Katie, nothing else mattered.
“You have to.”
My eyes rolled in my head and I could no longer see the road. My brain was flooded with images of Marcellus. I watched him cook the books with our CFO, have multiple affairs, delight in the misery of others, abusing his power in his little fiefdom. I saw the monthly report his assistant provided, updating him with any negative news culled from social media on former employees. I could feel the thrill that ran through him when people he’d fired or had quit fell on hard times. Asshole. When the vision stopped, my heart was racing, and I couldn’t control the swell of anger threatening to burst from my chest.
“That’s why,” the voice said from the speakers.
I floored the accelerator, blazing through the Naples Causeway, not giving a flying fart if there were any speed traps.
The First Act
Chapter Four
Marcellus Hanson’s house was a two-story ranch on steroids. It was nestled a quarter mile off the main road, a refuge of peace surrounded by nature. It had a three-car garage. There was a gazebo in the front yard.
Bad quarter my ass, I thought. This guy was living high on the hog while the rest of us struggled to make ends meet. Even in good years, our raises were barely in line with the cost of living standards.
You won’t have to worry about those crappy raises anymore.
“I guess this is how you keep the bad stuff from coming to your home,” I said inside the car. “Fuck everyone else over so you look like the hero and make your bonus.”
I’d felt like a man possessed since the little freak show movie of Marcellus had spun through my cranium.
The lights were on downstairs. Marcellus’s BMW was parked outside one of the closed garage doors.
“Look in the backseat,” AO’s female computerized voice said, startling me.
There was a long, black case on the floor. I reached around and placed it on my lap. Three clasps ran along one side of the case. I flipped each one open and looked inside.
“Holy…”
A long sword with a curved blade sat atop a blanket of black felt. It had a red leather handle. The craftsmanship was nothing short of divine. It must have cost a bundle.
“Do you like the scimitar?” the voice inquired.
“It looks like it could carve through brick,” I said.
“It won’t have to work quite that hard tonight.”
Did the text-to-voice function just chuckle?
“He’s about to leave his house. Get out of the car and cut off his head.”
The scimitar was heavier than I thought it would be. A sliver of moonlight was snared by the blade’s polished surface.
“I can’t cut off a man’s head,” I said, feeling my rationality return.
An HD vision of Marcellus laughing when he made the decision to cut me loose rocked me. I could feel his satisfaction in getting rid of the Florida twerp.
Before I knew it, I was outside the car and striding to his porch.
Marcellus opened the door but didn’t see me. I could smell his cologne from ten feet away.
You arrogant dick. You’re not going to use your flavor saver tonight.
When he finally noticed me, I hid the scimitar behind my back.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said, eyeing me like roadkill.
“I just wanted to talk,” I said. “You never even gave me a chance to say a word in your office today.”
“Look, what’s done is done. If you don’t leave, I’ll call the cops.”
“What if I beat the shit out of you before they get here?” The words stunned me. I’d never spoken like that before—not even in dreams!
He took a step back, closer to the safety of his door.
“I’m not kidding,” he said, reaching for his cellphone. I ran up the wooden steps, brandishing the scimitar. His hand sliced away cleanly from his wrist, the cell phone still nestled in the palm.
The blade was so sharp, I didn’t even feel any resistance as it cleaved through bone. The blood splatter was even kept to a minimum.
Marcellus cried like a deaf cat, clutching his arm.
“You sick fuck!” he wailed.
“Not me,” I said. “I did everything right and played by the rules. You’re the sick fuck, Marcellus. You lie and cheat and steal and think nothing will ever come back to bite you in the ass.” I looked at his hand, twitching on the porch. “Well, chomp, chomp!”
“Please, please, call an ambulance! I need help! Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because you earned it.”
My hatred for the man swelled to an agonizing crescendo. There was only one way for this to go.
I brought the scimitar down into the center of his skull. It thunked all the way to his nose. One of his eyeballs rolled across the porch, flopping into an azalea bush. I pulled the scimitar free, flicking the blood off and onto his reddening shirt.
I heard his body hit the floor as I walked down the steps and back to the car. I put the scimitar in its case and started the Mustang. Every nerve and muscle in my body was humming as if I’d stuck a fork in an electrical outlet.
“Good work,” AO said when I started the Mustang. “You can leave the car in the Food Mart lot and go back home. Candy and Katie will wake up several minutes after you’ve cleaned up and thrown your clothes in the fireplace.”
&
nbsp; “Huh?”
I looked down. My shirt and pants were dotted with flecks of blood.
Driving back to Bridgton felt like an out-of-body experience. I couldn’t concentrate on the road. Luckily, it felt as if the Mustang was driving itself.
You just killed a man. You didn’t even give him a chance.
I looked at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror.
“He didn’t give me one either,” I said, steering into the lot.
* * * * *
True to AO’s word, after the fire had consumed the last of my shirt and pants, Candy and Katie awoke with twin yawns. It was almost eleven o’clock. The movie had stopped long ago, the menu playing on repeat.
“Wow, it’s late,” Candy said.
I went over to the couch, kissed the top of her head, and scooped Katie into my arms so I could carry her to bed. My legs were still a little shaky, but not so much that I’d drop my daughter.
“You were both really tired,” I said.
How can I act so damn normal after killing a man? Despite my smile, I wanted to cry and bare my soul to Candy.
She turned the TV off and rearranged the pillows on the couch. “I’ll meet you upstairs,” she said.
“Daddy, are you sick?” Katie asked in her sleepy voice.
“No, honey. Why do you ask?”
The stairs creaked under my feet.
“You feel really hot, like when you have a fever.”
She was back out before I slipped the sheet over her.
When I walked into the master bedroom, Candy was there, naked, waiting for me with a lustful look on her face that was usually reserved for special occasions.
“Take off your clothes and fuck me,” she purred, parting her legs so I could see she had shaved herself bare earlier.
Despite everything that had transpired over the past six hours, I felt myself hardening.
“What got you so worked up?” I asked, lifting my shirt over my head. I climbed onto the bed, cupping her breasts, making her nipples stiffen.
“I think I need to take night naps more often,” she said, pulling me in for a passionate kiss. “I don’t wanna sleep, so you’re going to have to keep me occupied.”
Guiding my head down to her slick pussy, I forgot about everything.
Chapter Five
When the alarm went off at six, I was tempted to throw it out the window. We’d just fallen asleep a few hours ago. My body was as sore as my mind was troubled. The sex had been amazing, momentarily erasing my firing and subsequent murder of my boss. At one point, when I’d entered her from behind, she’d gasped, “My God, your cock is so hard and hot. Just fill me and stay like that for a while.”
I didn’t even remember having sex this good on our honeymoon. For a few hours I was a stud, on top of the world, or at least, on top of my smoking hot wife.
With the light of a new day, my insides clenched as the gravity of my situation slammed me like a pouncing tiger. I kissed Candy and said, “You sleep in this morning. I’ll get Katie ready for school.”
She mumbled something into her pillow. I assume it was thanks.
I went downstairs to make Katie’s lunch and packed it in her lunchbox. Getting her up and ready was a chore. My daughter is not a morning person. There were tears, pleas for mercy, and a fit when I picked out the wrong outfit. How was I to know she wanted to wear her Dora shirt and not the Princess Jasmine top?
Her preschool was just a few blocks away. It was a mild morning, so I walked her instead of taking the car.
“How come you’re not driving?” she said, her little hand in mine.
“I thought it would be a nice day for a walk.”
“Are you going to walk all the way to work too?”
Her innocent remark reminded me of the conversation I’d have to have with Candy later. I squeezed her hand.
“I think I’ll take the day off. That way, I can pick you up later. Maybe we can go to the park. Does that sound good?”
Her face lit up. “I love you, Daddy. Can we get pizza too?”
I longed to be her age again, when a trip to the park and a slice of pizza were all you needed to be happy.
“Sure.”
As soon as she spotted her best friend Emma, she broke free from my grasp and went running with her into the school. I stood for a long time, just staring at the little building and wondering how on earth I was going to break the news to Candy. More importantly, should I tell her about Marcellus?
* * * * *
Candy was up when I returned, and in her short robe that revealed the bottom curves of her bare ass when she lifted her arms above her head. She did not wear that robe when Katie was around.
“Taking a sick day?” she asked, filling a mug of coffee for me. “I wore you out pretty good, huh?”
A news commentator was talking about leaked information on Muslim jihadist sleeper cells in the Midwest and New England. Candy turned the radio off as she sashayed her way to me.
I felt sick to my stomach. I’d taken my box of belongings from my car and dropped it on the floor by the front door.
She wrapped her arms around me, nuzzling her head into my chest. “You haven’t had a hooky day since we moved here. We could watch some movies and do a little you-know-what when the mood hits.”
Taking a deep breath, I said, “We need to talk.”
She stiffened. “Okay,” she said, suspicion in her tone.
I told her that I’d been let go the day before. First she was angry for my not telling her last night, then freaked out wondering what would happen to us. I let her go through all the stages of unemployment grief. When her panic crested, she pulled me into her arms, consoling me.
“We’ll be okay,” she whispered in my ear. “We have savings. We can both get jobs. The pay up here isn’t good, but we won’t starve.”
Would she feel the same way if she knew she was holding a cold-blooded murderer?
I was figuring out how to tell her what I did to Marcellus, dying inside at the thought of losing not just her but her love, when that heart-stopping pain returned. I went into a full body clench. She hugged me harder. “Don’t worry, Peter. You’ve got me. Forever, no matter what.”
She must have thought I was holding back tears, wracked with grief.
How was she to know I couldn’t confess my crime without having my brain explode?
* * * * *
Things settled down and we never got around to watching any movies. Nor did we do the other stuff she’d hinted at. But we did sit and talk and remember the early days of our marriage when we were broke enough to qualify for food stamps if we hadn’t been too stubborn to apply for them. Instead, we existed on whatever pasta and tuna was on sale. At one point, I think I ate linguini with butter for ten days in a row.
Time flew by. I looked up at the kitchen clock and saw it was 2:00.
“I promised Katie I’d pick her up,” I said, searching for my sneakers. “I said I’d taker her to the park and for a slice of pizza.”
Candy grinned. “We’re lucky to have you. Bring some pizza home for me. Let’s take the weekend off from everything and just have fun. We can figure everything out later.”
“I’d like that.”
I gave her a long kiss and headed for the preschool. I got there just in time for the final bell. Cars and parents, mostly moms, were everywhere. I noticed one woman wearing a white surgical mask over her nose and mouth. She was either ill, or one of the lemmings who were easily led to panic by a media bent on instilling fear in a country already in the throes of 24/7 anxiety. I smiled her way but couldn’t tell if she smiled back.
This was my first time picking Katie up from school. I was normally at work now, lost in budgets and ad copy. Two dozen kids spilled from the front door, four teachers (or were they helpers? I had no idea of the hierarchy in
preschools) watching to make sure each child went with the correct parent.
Katie jumped into my arms. A heavyset woman with long, gray hair in a French braid said, “Is that your father, Katie?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s taking me to the park!”
The woman gave me the once over, then nodded. “Have a nice weekend.”
A man bumped into me as he tugged his son along. The little boy’s mouth was pulled into a tight line. He did not look happy. Neither did who I assumed to be his dad. The portly man wore a well-practiced scowl as he towed his child into a waiting car, an old Nissan with faded paint and two crushed fenders.
“You want to walk to the park?” I asked.
“Okay,” Katie said.
I could get to enjoy this. Time at home with Candy, getting fresh air, making Katie happy.
If I hadn’t just killed a man, I might be able to savor these moments. Sure, Marcellus had been a monumental prick. From what I knew of him and saw in those weird visions, I didn’t think he’d have a long line of mourners. But I had murdered him like I was some kind of maniacal vigilante. In the long run, was I any better than him?
Or was I worse?
It was only a five-minute walk to the park. I took a bench so I could watch Katie hit the slides.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
There was a text from AO. I was tempted to toss the phone in the garbage. I wondered what the pain would be like if I did. Jesus, it took less than twenty-four hours to condition me like a lab rat. Was it weak of me to admit how soft I’d become? Did a double negative make a positive?
Stop making jokes. There’s nothing funny about this.
Feeling my acid reflux kicking in, I opened the text.
AO: That man u bumped into rapes his child.
I looked around furtively, worried that another parent or child had seen what was on my phone.
I wrote back: How can you know that?
AO: You’re going to help his son tomorrow.
I knew where this was headed. Everything got very dizzy, very fast.
AO: The Mustang will be parked a block from your house. The man’s address will be programmed. This one will be even easier.
