Jim was a single parent, which was too bad. Maybe he’d have to settle for some punctured tires or something.
It’s a thought.
I won’t actually do anything, of course. Not my place.
Not my mission.
I pay attention to what happens in my neighborhood. Nothing’s going to surprise me on my watch. I also have an imagination and a right to my own opinions and fantasies. Jim and Tramp could romp all they wanted, but it would be hellfire on my soul before I’d sign off on it.
“What’s happening, Mr. Wheat? Enjoying some sun?”
“You kin call me Tim, Mithis Spadethwith. You know that.” I liked her. She didn’t care about the bad monster cover. And if she did, she still didn’t. Most in the neighborhood were pretty nice to me. Those that weren’t new, but uncomfortable with my looks, they still tended to keep some distance. That was fine. I kept mine, as well. With my second greatest love, it was better that way.
“And deny a gentleman his due title of respect? Never.”
“Your boyth having too much fun. Heeth gonna sleep like a bwick t’night.”
“Yeah, he probably will.”
“Mommy, Mommy, you gotta watch.” Donnie stood in the middle of the pool, black hair slicked wet against his head. “Time me!”
“’Ey, DONNIE.” I didn’t have to yell, but it just came out. Couldn’t help it. Seeing young Master Donnie, just standing there, just brought me back to the happy times.
“Hey, Mr. Wheat.” Donnie shot his eyes back to his dear mother. “Time me, Mom.”
“I will, baby. Do your thing.”
“Watch me, Mr. Wheat.”
I smiled that I would, knowing he was going to kill it. Boys saved asking their mothers to time them until they were well-practiced and ready to give a star performance, having already timed themselves over and over, readying their lungs for the big parent-brag.
And I was right.
Donnie had done pretty good for a boy his age. Held his own for a bit over a minute before coming up with a victory grin. Not like Frank had back at my house, after I’d poured the bottle of Drano down his throat.
A man’s home should be his castle, or so the line goes. I believe it. I’ve got mine and I’m thankful. It’s where I’m most free, maybe not my happiest—there’s the park and other places for that—but free. I can sing, not care about my cover, just be myself. Whatever. Plus, there’s my second love, and a man’s got to have a place to work for that.
My castle’s a four-bedroom split-story with a connected two-car garage (though I only own one modest Ford Taurus) and an enormous basement. Front yard isn’t much, kind of small, lots of gravel, shrubs and flowers, and a sculpted hedge that doubles as a fence, but a large-walled backyard: patio furniture, a fountain (the kind that has that grinning angel-kid pissing away, not the most flattering representation of childhood), well-maintained grass that costs a bit, marble birdbath, and five or six lawn darts that I just like to toss around in a kind of solo mumbly-peg sort of way.
All mine. Yes, it’s plenty of space for one guy, but I need it—a room to sleep, one for guests, an office, a room for trophies, basement to work. What more could one ask?
The bimonthly checks are nice, allowing me to engage in my second love without having to do something as cumbersome as working outside the home. Plus, they allow me to order out so I don’t have to do more than minimal cooking.
I hate cooking.
Sitting in my living room, I hit the couch with enthusiasm. It’s been a good day—fun at the park, and now back home, with nothing but more fun to come. I got the TV on, watching a recording of one of my favorite Millennium episodes, “Somehow, Satan Got Behind Me.” Then, I’ve got my bag of fried chicken, rolls, and beans from MY BROTHER’S BEST, a fast-food place run by some brothers, I guess.
Somehow, Satan Got Behind Me. What an episode. Lance Henriksen is one of my favorite actors, and I love the show. Loved it, anyway, seeing as how those bastards took it off the air. But though Lance has such little screen time, this particular show, watching those four bickering demons argue and brag about their techniques for soul-damning, is more than worth it. A real kick in the pants. The demons are funny, informative, and all too evil, and even though the show’s fiction, probably all too real.
I think so.
I know a bit or two about demons.
Chicken and grub gone, and demon palaver over—time to get to work.
I got up from my seat, cleaned my mess, turned off the tube, and disposed of the trash. It was time to get rid of a few other things, too: Michael’s clothes, shoes, and the rest of his shit.
Michael was in my workroom.
I headed downstairs, from my kitchen to the garage, and down, down, and down. The stairs are precisely forty-five steps; I know, because I count them every time I go down. The descent always hurts, and the counting takes my mind off the pain in my back. Sometimes there’s just a price to pay for doing what one’s been called to do.
Hitting the base of the stairs, I opened the door to the dungeon. I love it down there, can do whatever I need to, and do it without any fear of unwanted interruption, any fear of disturbing the neighbors (sure wouldn’t want that), any fear whatsoever. The reinforced and insulated walls and doors make sure of that. Here, I’m in charge, and monster or no, everything goes my way.
I looked at Michael, sitting in the hot seat, butt-naked and scared as hell. Good. I like ’em scared.
The seat rotated and could be locked into any number of positions. I’d set Michael to face the mirrored wall. All the better to have a grand view of what I’d done, of how when he’d fallen unconscious from his fourth beating with rods, I’d taken a Sharpie and drawn a jigsaw pattern all over his face, torso, arms and legs. I wanted him to be able to see my tools, too—the two trays, one with the acetylene torch, the other with the dental picks and probes, the scalpels, scissors, the spreaders.
Was why I’d left Michael an eye.
Before leaving in the morning to go to the park, I told Michael the lines drawn on his body represented the cuts he was going to be butchered into. He hadn’t liked that at all. In fact, Michael had looked pretty damned terrified.
The only problem with the chamber was the smell, that filthy aroma of shit-fear-piss-sweat. It all just mixed and coalesced and hovered, like a big nasty air-biscuit, waiting to be gobbled up—again and again and again. It was always present, even after a disposal and a healthy cleaning—though it would be toned down a tad.
On the other hand, the smell helped the torture. That was important.
“Hi, Michael! Are we ready to thtart?” I smiled. He stared back with his one eye, the other now only a leaking, ragged hole. He whimpered under his gag. I admired the hole. It was good work. Had used my special spoon for that one.
Mutilation’s a tricky thing. You don’t want to do too much. It dispirits the subjects. Makes them want to die. Gets them resigned to it, which isn’t good. Even with the rods, I’d been careful to not break any major bones, just a toe or two—maybe a finger. Mostly, I just attacked his muscle groups, turning his meaty portions into purple, swollen masses. And yes, I did do the eye. But that was it—no more. The subject has to be able to exercise his imagination. He has to be able to hope, even as he’s overcome with fear. He has to picture himself somehow getting rescued. It’s when the subject has hope to cling to—then you’ve got something to work with.
You also have to freak them out. That’s why I always make sure my subjects can see the IV bags hanging on their stands—even though they’re outdated and unusable. They don’t know that—and, of course, the tools, which are hardly ever used. I’ve also had great effect with my last fourteen with the marking-pen thing.
That always gets the imagination going.
“Leth thtart with dith one.” I held up a glistening scalpel, delicately, as if it were made of glass.
Michael stared, eye wide, sweat bathing his head and washing down his front, further streaking the
ink on his skin.
RRRRRRiiiiiiinnnnnggggggg
Ah, the buzzer. I’d timed this well.
“Thorry. Be right back.” Laying the scalpel on the tray, I picked up a black hood and placed it over Michael’s head before leaving to answer the door. Putting the subject in the dark, after leaving him for hours to stare at the tools, is also very effective.
My chamber, the dungeon, is fairly large, encompassing more than forty square feet of prime-time fun space. One door—soundproof, naturally—separates it from the rest of the basement: the laundry area, storage nook, a bathroom, and finally, the door leading upward, approximately forty-five steps. I’d designed the house, but I can’t remember why I’d wanted a basement so deep. No matter, everything had worked out fine.
Leaving Michael, I closed the door. He wasn’t going anywhere. It was only a short shuffle to the door to the stairs. That door was locked, of course, but only out of habit. A while back, I thought of putting in a peep-hole, but quickly changed my mind—it would’ve looked weird. Besides, I knew who was calling.
I opened the door. “’Right on time, ath uthual.”
“Good to see you, Tim.”
Greg looked good—athletic body, chiseled jaw, laugh lines in all the right places, and just enough wrinkles to show he’d grown into the kind of adult that, despite a bit of worn tread, still cared. A touch of late-night peach fuzz had started to grow on him.
“Is he ready to go?”
“Uh-uh. Be juth a minute.”
Greg nodded.
Not wanting to see the business at hand, he’d wait here. Greg had always been the sensitive type. That was okay with me. In fact, I thought it wonderful, a trait he’d kept since his boyhood—one, thank God, he’d never lost.
That was the thing that had worried me. I’d saved Greg from the worst of it, ended his victimization with one sure stroke of my blade. But he’d still suffered, poor boy. Thank God his injuries, bad as they were, hadn’t ruined his cover.
Greg had also been the first.
I gave my grown boy a friendly pat on the shoulder and went back into the dungeon; the door closed behind me.
Michael had been through the treatment long enough. He’d paid, not enough, I know. For his buggering crimes there could never be enough, not in this life.
The slip noose went around his neck fast. I cinched it tight, tighter—then a bit more.
The man jerked a bit, then stopped. I grabbed my camera.
Greg had been the first, but not the last, thank the Lord.
With him it had been so weird. I was walking down the street, and despite everything, had been enjoying the day. Even with the dark clouds jockeying for best drenching position, the cool wind cutting me with its bite, and my stomach grumbling from being ignored ... none of it, not a bit, had bothered me.
I had felt alive. My nerves on fire, like they’d been touched to some supercharged battery, but with no pain.
And I knew.
Knew.
Walking down that street, and all of a sudden—HIT. My nerves ablaze, and then a glance to my right. An average home: white, large porch, electrician’s van in the driveway.
And I knew.
The door was unlocked. I went in. As if by guided by a divine hand, I went upstairs—quiet as a shade ... hit the top of the stairs, then heard a man’s demanding voice ... moved closer, and then another demand ... for someone to do it—to do it—to kneel down and—
—DO IT.
Though I’ve no regrets, there are still the nightmares.
I never knew how much Greg might’ve endured, though it couldn’t have been much. In my heart, I’d like to believe not a bit, but I never tried finding out. Instead, what I remember is my body moving on its own, coming behind the man, arm out, then—knife in-hand—swinging in a hook, and unzipping the man’s soul, carotid to carotid.
A boy saved. At least most of him.
Michael sat still in the chair, the down payment on his debt paid, the rest, most assuredly, payable in Hell.
I walked back to Greg. “He’th ready.”
Greg smiled, a kind of forced affair. He liked these moments, when another piece of trash had paid and stopped breathing under the sun, yet I think every drop-off and pick-up takes him back to the time he’d lost his boyhood.
“I’ve got a favor to ask, Tim.” Greg looked a bit nervous and that surprised me. He could always ask me anything. “It’s a little out of your normal line, but I think it’s important.”
I beckoned him to spill it.
“There’s this kid goes to my son’s school. Sebastian’s his name. Anyway, this kid’s apparently hella-clumsy. Lots of absenteeism, black-eyes from doorknobs, that sort of thing—but not quite enough to do anything, officially.” Greg paused and looked down, his face barely hiding his shame. “My son’s asked me to do something. I’ve had to tell him I can’t.”
“Thatth bad, but I not—”
“I’m not saying the dad’s gotta be done. But maybe—”
“I underthtand. He’ll never hit the boy again.”
“Thanks, Tim. You’re special—you know that?”
“You’re thpethal, Greg. You’ve alwath been thpethal.” Greg gave me a hug, the kind of squeeze that warms the soul. His love for kids—for the boys and the girls—was as strong as mine.
Greg broke the embrace. “I’ll take care of Michael. Glad the bastard’s gone. He’d done four children, all under twelve. Killed one of them.” A tear escaped from Greg’s left eye. He quickly wiped it away. “Anyway, he’s done. And I appreciate it. Hell, we all do. By the way, the mayor wants to know how you like the fountain.”
“Tell him ith fine.” I didn’t really care for it, but it wouldn’t have been good form to show ingratitude.
“Good. I will. Also, the statistics are at an all-time low. Right now our county has the lowest case-count of child-related molestation anywhere. You’ve really cleaned the area up. The guys’re saying you’ll either have to cast a wider net, or we’re gonna have to start shippin’ them in.”
“Thath OK. I do what I can.”
Greg smiled.
I stepped around him, my picture in my hand, soon to join the other hundred-fifty or so in the trophy room. Greg would take the body and put it in his trunk. Then he’d join me for a few hours. We’d make some milk shakes, play some video games, maybe some rounds of I Spy or Twenty Questions. He was my friend, knew the games I liked. I love him.
Greg had been a good boy and had grown into a good man. Now he was a star detective. A man to be proud of. Greg, the other cops, the mayor, and others didn’t necessarily like this work, but somebody had to do it, put a stop to the terror. Somebody had to watch out for the children, had to love them.
And that was my mission, my mandate. I don’t claim to understand it, or to know whether it’s God or fate, or a genetic quirk, but I have a gift. I’m that crazy good. The police know it, I know it, and those I catch know it. I’m never wrong. I’ve directed law enforcement before, told them to check such and such, to search a house, a dump site, and I’m always right. They find the bad trophies, the diaries, the pictures—sometimes bodies. Those I don’t catch, the police do, and then they bring them to me. Sometimes the bad guys get processed through the flawed correctional system and end up getting early release, or end up making an easy escape—all so they can be brought to me.
They plead, beg, deny, whine, rage, and cry—but I don’t care. I know what happened to me, what turned me into a monster, and I can’t be duped. I don’t judge a book by its cover. I’ve been gifted to look much deeper than that.
I see the black and I put it down.
BLOODSHED FRED
BY MONICA J. O’ROURKE
In the envelope his client had forwarded to him, along with his usual 20K fee, was an address followed by a single line of instruction:
150 Beach Road
THURSDAY, 9:00 p.m.
No further instructions, which Fred knew meant a single target. E
asy job, ordinarily. Except ...
Fred knew that address all too well. He’d grown up in that house.
Was this some kind of joke?
He needed to know who’d ordered the hit, who the target was.
I’m walking into a trap, he thought as he fixed a cup of instant the following morning. He’d pick up a better cup at Starbucks on his way out of town. For now, taste didn’t matter, just caffeine.
But he didn’t really believe it was a trap. Besides, who would have set it? His parents? He hadn’t seen them in years and couldn’t imagine they’d have any reason to betray him—no matter how they might feel about him. He smirked when he thought about his overly indulgent mother and self-righteous prig of a father. Them? Set him up? He imagined the world’s most dysfunctional intervention.
He actually hoped his father did have something to do with this. Fred loved the thought of seeing the old man one last time because he imagined his fingers around the old asshole’s windpipe. Actually, high-tension wire was much more effective and pretty much untraceable, unlike the telltale signs of prints on someone’s crushed neck. Not that it mattered, since the Feds had no clue who Fred was and even less of an idea how to find him.
The rental car, an unassuming Ford something-or-other, rented using fake ID and a fake credit card, brought him “home” in a matter of hours. Once there he drove slowly up and down Beach Road, looking for ... what? Signs of trouble?
Uncommon Assassins Page 12
