A Winning Ticket

by J. Michael Stewart

  They were brothers.

  Or at least they used to be.

  Benjamin felt his eyes well up and his lower lip start to quiver. He wasn’t sure if the overflow of emotion was due to anger or sadness—he guessed maybe both.

  Harrison was lying. He had no intention of letting him stay here. He would force him to sell the farm and leave. Benjamin had no doubt about that. Harrison despised the farm and everything about it. Deep down, he must hate his own brother, too. Why else would he pull him away from his whole life? Everything he knew?

  Everything he loved?

  Harrison would take all the money, too. They had always agreed to split the jackpot if they were ever fortunate enough to hit it, but the fact was, Harrison had purchased this particular ticket, and if it came down to a lawsuit, he would win. Benjamin knew what would happen to him—he would be left destitute. The money was now Benjamin’s bit and bridle, and he had no doubt Harrison would use it with great effectiveness. If he refused to leave the farm, Harrison would refuse to share the money with him. There would be no way he could keep the farm operating. He would be bankrupt in a few months.

  No money…No farm…No anything.

  Benjamin’s stomach churned with anxiety. How could his brother do this to him?

  He opened the cabinet and pulled out another glass. He was so upset he forgot what he had done with the other one he had prepared on his way to bed. It seemed like a lifetime ago now. He grabbed a few ice cubes from the freezer and poured himself a glass of ginger ale. He hoped it would settle his stomach.

  He heard Harrison pick up the remote control and restart the DVR. A beer commercial was on, full of bikini-clad women partying it up on a beach somewhere—probably Florida.

  How appropriate, Benjamin thought.

  He turned and looked out the kitchen window. The snow was falling faster now. He raised the tumbler to take a drink. His hand was shaking so violently, the ice cubes made a clanking sound against the glass.

  His anger was growing inside. His brother had been his best friend—really, his only friend—ever since he was a child. They had grown up together in this house.

  Worked the farm together.

  Been there for each other when their parents were killed.

  Now Harrison had become Benjamin’s very own Benedict Arnold.

  He was going to lose the farm, one way or the other—his brother would make sure of that—and he sure as hell wasn’t going to move to Florida or California, or anywhere else, for that matter. He might as well just go ahead and use his grandfather’s pistol and end it all.

  His hatred for Harrison began to grow.

  Benjamin knew it was over. He would never get any of the money. And he would lose everything he now cherished in life.

  Damn him…damn him to hell.

  His pulse began to race.

  His breathing became more rapid.

  Benjamin took another long drink of the ginger ale.

  He continued to stare out the window. Harrison was still celebrating in the living room, but Benjamin had drowned him out—his brother now just a cacophony of high and low sounds, no longer intelligible.

  Even though the temperature in the old farmhouse was rather cool, Benjamin began to sweat—first his palms, and then his forehead became wet with the salty liquid.

  He couldn’t let Harrison do this to him.

  He didn’t deserve to be treated like this.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Harrison had to be stopped. Stopped from pissing away all that money. Stopped from walking away from the farm. Stopped from ruining his life.

  He heard Harrison mumble something again in the background.

  Benjamin suddenly felt hot and struggled to catch his breath. He cracked the window open a few inches and let the cold, winter air waft in. He drew in a long, cool breath.

  He took another drink and set the glass down on the counter.

  Then he saw the ten-inch butcher knife he had used a few hours ago while preparing dinner lying in the bottom of the sink. He must have forgotten to put it away when he cleaned the dishes earlier. Washed out light from the forty-watt bulb on the front porch shone through the window and made the blade seem to glimmer and dance in the aluminum sink.

  Maybe it wasn’t an accident that the knife was still in the sink. Maybe fate had intervened and was trying to tell Benjamin something.

  Yes, that had to be it. It was a sign—an irrefutable sign. He had never been a superstitious man, but this was a clear message from someone or something that it was time to stop being a victim in life.

  Stop being the local fool that everyone else uses as their doormat in life.

  Stop being screwed over by his own brother.

  Seize his destiny.

  Now Benjamin began to craft a plan within his mind.

  No one would doubt his story that Harrison had just left the farm and moved away. What business would it be of theirs anyway? Benjamin had always been an upstanding citizen of the community—never in any trouble—so why would they doubt what he said?

  The storm would be the perfect cover. He could dump the body on the east side of the house, where the highest snow drifts always piled up during blizzards. It would be buried in a matter of an hour or so—certainly before daylight. He could decide how to permanently dispose of it later.

  The ticket shouldn’t be a problem either. Although both brothers were well known around town, they looked enough alike that no one would be able to prove for sure that Harrison bought the ticket instead of Benjamin, even if they had security camera footage. Both of the brothers always used cash as well, so there would be no traceable credit card number.

  Yes, it would go off without a hitch. No one would question his story.

  No one.

  It had to be done. There was no way around it. No other option available, at least as far as he was concerned.

  Quickly.

  Yes, it had to be done quickly, before Harrison called someone looking for financial advice or just bragging about his good fortune. He would not keep something like this to himself for very long.

  If anyone else found out about the money, the plan would fall apart. He had to act.

  Now.

  He began to breathe deeply and forcefully, blowing the warm air out between his teeth—like a professional fighter psyching himself up for a big match.

  He looked at the shiny blade once more.

  The black handle was calling him. Urging him on. Drawing him to itself. Benjamin felt the tug deep down in his soul.

  This was his destiny. Fate had intervened to make it so.

  Now, it was up to him to seize it.

  Benjamin slipped his hand from around the tumbler and reached for the knife. He felt a surge of electricity move up his arm as he wrapped his fingers around the cold wooden handle. Streaks of light danced off the steel blade as he raised it toward his face. He stood for a few seconds, mesmerized. For the first time in his life, he felt empowered.

  Benjamin Zimmerman was through being a victim.

  He turned back toward the living room and began to step toward Harrison. He moved quietly—with purpose.

  He lowered the knife and placed it behind his back.

  Benjamin seemed to be walking through a long, black tunnel, the only thing at the end was his brother sitting in the recliner. All other distractions were drowned out—his brother’s laughter a mere distant and irrelevant annoyance now.

  He took another step closer.

  And another.

  Harrison was looking at the lottery ticket in his hand.

  Another step.

  Benjamin began to slowly raise the knife above his head. He was less than two feet from his brother now.

  Harrison must have heard the heavy breathing behind him, because he slowly turned and looked up into Benjamin’s face. He was still smiling for the split second before he saw the knife in Benjamin’s hand.

  Benjamin saw terror quickly flash over Harrison’s face. His eyes
wide with panic.

  Harrison began to mouth the word No—but instead just screamed.

  Benjamin moved the knife forcefully in a downward arch. His movement too quick for Harrison to defend himself.

  The blade struck home, and Benjamin felt it glance off a rib as it punctured the abdominal wall and entered Harrison’s left chest. He thrust the knife upward, toward the heart, and twisted.

  Harrison was still screaming.

  Now Benjamin was outside his body—observing the whole scene unfold as a spectator. He watched himself withdraw the knife from Harrison’s chest and plunge it in again—and again.

  Harrison screamed once more.

  The screams began to ricochet within Benjamin’s head. He couldn’t take it anymore. They had to be stopped. He grabbed a small pillow from the recliner and forced it over Harrison’s nose and mouth.

  Harrison struggled against the pillow and fought to free himself from Benjamin’s clutch, but it was no use. He was a dead man—or soon would be.

  Sheer anger took over now, and although Benjamin seemed to be watching himself murder his brother from a distance, he could feel the rush of anger and hatred flow through him. It burned inside him with an intense, hot energy that only fueled his rage further.

  Controlled him.

  Owned him.

  Benjamin gave himself completely to it.

  He withdrew the knife once more and stabbed again.

  And again.

  Benjamin kept stabbing until his energy gave out and he collapsed onto his brother’s corpse.

  A few moments later—Benjamin wasn’t sure how much time had actually passed—he pulled himself off Harrison’s body and looked down at his hands. They were entirely crimson stained. Blood spatter covered the ceiling and walls, too. A large, red pool was expanding from the base of the recliner. Benjamin’s clothes were soaked with the warm fluid.

  He felt the sudden urge to vomit, but fought it back down. He steeled himself for what had to be done next.

  You’re done being a victim, Benjamin. Stick with the plan. Don’t lose your nerve now.

  He went onto the back porch. The wind had once again picked up, and snow pelted his face. He hadn’t taken time to put his shoes on, and now he was wading through five inches of snow in his bare feet. He began to shiver within a few seconds.

  He looked for something to wrap the body in—the darkness and snow making it impossible to see more than a couple of feet in front of himself. He finally spotted a tarp they had used last summer while repainting the kitchen, still folded neatly on the back of one of the old rocking chairs. He retrieved it quickly and hurried back inside.

  He took a moment to warm up, and then he spread the tarpaulin out on the floor in front of the pair of recliners. He moved toward Harrison to pick him up.

  As he approached his brother, he tried to avoid looking at his face. As Benjamin bent down toward the body—yes, that was all it was now, just a body—he noticed Harrison’s left hand was closed in a fist, resting on the arm of the recliner. A small edge of paper extended from between his middle and ring fingers.

  The ticket.

  Benjamin had forgotten about it in all the excitement of the last few minutes. He began to pry Harrison’s fingers away from the balled-up lottery ticket. It was wrinkled badly, but otherwise unharmed. It had been shielded from the bloodbath by Harrison’s own hand. That was good. It would have been awkward explaining to the authorities why the winning lottery ticket was covered in blood when he went to claim his prize.

  He stared at the ticket. It was finally his.

  All of it.

  He would be able to keep the farm until he died. No more worries about money. Fate had indeed shined on him, and everything had worked out in his favor.

  He smiled.

  He turned toward the bookshelf that sat just to the left of the television. He would place the ticket in one of the books for safekeeping until the cleanup was finished. As he took his first step, he felt his right foot slip on the blood-soaked hardwood floor.

  He lost his balance.

  He felt his feet fly out from under him, and he landed hard on the blue tarpaulin. He tried to pull himself off the floor but was unable to. He realized he must have had the breath knocked out of him because he was having difficulty breathing.

  Then he felt a warm liquid move over his lips.

  The taste of copper flooded his mouth.

  He moved his left hand toward his mouth and wiped it across his lips. When he pulled it away, frothy, bright red blood covered his fingertips. He spit onto the tarp, and a stream of blood poured from his mouth. Maybe he had knocked a tooth out.

  Then he saw it.

  The butcher knife was plunged deep into his chest, near his heart.

  He must have been carrying it around in his left hand ever since he had attacked Harrison. He had not even noticed he was still holding it.

  And now it was buried deep inside him.

  He coughed again. Spit up more blood. Coughed. Spit. He couldn’t catch his breath. He was drowning.

  He tried to raise himself off the floor once more, but collapsed again for good. He was too weak to move now.

  His vision began to blur, and the dark tunnel he had experienced right before he attacked Harrison returned. He could barely see the television.

  Channel 6 was coming out of a commercial break, and he could just make out Melissa Black and John Jackson sitting behind the news desk.

  His breathing was becoming more labored.

  His pulse weakening.

  The tunnel surrounding him closed completely, plunging him into eternal darkness.

  His sense of sound was still functioning enough that he could hear Melissa begin to speak.

  “Welcome back. We have a slight correction to make. Earlier in the broadcast we unintentionally aired the incorrect lottery numbers on our graphic prior to the commercial break. The correct numbers are 26, 30, 49, 15, 45, and the Superball is 24. Channel 6 sincerely apologizes for any inconvenience this may have caused our viewers.”

  Author’s Note

  I got the idea for this story while driving home from work one day. The nation was in the midst of lottery mania. If I remember correctly, the jackpot was somewhere around $375 million, and I have to admit, it was fun to think about what I would do with that much money.

  But as I was driving down the road and listening to the radio reports of people standing in line just to purchase a chance at all that money, I started thinking. What would happen if two people with a seemingly ordinary relationship won the money? What changes would it bring to their lives? What hidden character flaws would rise to the surface? And, most importantly, what lengths would they go to in order to keep it? Since I’m a fan of thrillers, my mind naturally drifted to the darker side of things.

  I have to thank all of my friends and family, especially my wife and parents, who encouraged me to keep writing. Without their constant nagging, I doubt I would have ever published anything! I am also grateful to my editor, Winslow Eliot, for sharing her incredible knowledge and for the patience to put up with this novice writer. Thank you. And to my proofreader, Melissa Gray, you are amazing.

  Finally, there have been numerous stories of people who have seemingly solved all their problems by winning a large sum of money, only to find out the real problems were just starting. But there are also lots of instances where family members, or even co-workers, win money together and everything works out fine. This story is not meant to be a judgment of the lottery, or for that matter, brothers who live on a farm in Nebraska. It is meant to be first and foremost a great read.

  I hope you enjoyed it.

  J. Michael Stewart

  About the Author

  A WINNING TICKET is J. Michael Stewart’s first published work. He is also the author of his debut novel, SMOKE ON THE MOUNTAIN: A Story of Survival, scheduled for release during the fall of 2013. He is currently working on several other projects as well. An avid fly fisherman, he lo
ves to go to the mountains and spend time on a trout stream whenever possible. He currently lives in Nebraska with his wife and daughter.

  To contact him, or for more information about J. Michael Stewart, please visit www.authorjmichaelstewart.com.

  Coming Soon

  SMOKE ON THE MOUNTAIN: A Story of Survival

  32-year-old Atlanta attorney Cody McAlister had everything: his dream job, a healthy bank account, and a beautiful wife. But two years after a bitter divorce and a bout of heavy drinking, Cody is still struggling to put the pieces of his once-idyllic life back together. In an effort to regain his sanity, he embarks on a five-day backcountry fly fishing trip to revitalize and reassess his life. When the unthinkable happens, Cody finds himself in a fight for his life. It’s a battle that no courtroom drama can match—a test that will challenge his own basic beliefs about success, happiness, and what it means to truly live. With the help of a widowed fly shop owner and a determined park ranger, Cody must dig deep within himself to survive.

  A WINNING TICKET copyright © 2013 by Jason Stewart

  Cover design by probookcovers.com

  A WINNING TICKET is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Jason Stewart, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Trademarked names appear in this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.