All In A Day's Work

by Gary Resnikoff

  Jackson stared at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly, “but you have.”

  “I do think the companies that came on today were rolling over for you without a fight,” added George. “That would be one good thing that comes of this.”

  “You think they are scared to go up against me?” asked Jackson.

  “It sure felt that way to me,” answered George.

  “So, what do we do?” asked Jackson. “Do you think I should tone it down a bit?”

  “I don’t think that would hurt,” said George.

  “The police asked if we kept records of all the contractors we deal with. Maybe we should start keeping better logs of our calls?” added Steve.

  Jackson didn’t like the direction the conversation was going. He wanted contractors to respect him—maybe even fear him a little—but if they rolled over too easily, the show could get boring. Much of the appeal of the show was the struggle between him and the businesses he confronted. If the show turned into a boring help line, it would lose its appeal for him—and probably his audience. But then, there was the problem of public outrage. If the politically-correct contingent felt his show was promoting violence and murder, they could easily shut him down. He wished that reporter hadn’t made the connection.

  “I need to think this over,” Jackson said and walked out the door without another word.

  Julia turned to George and Steve. “Do you think we should notify the police of the connection?” she asked.

  “You don’t think the police already know? Geez, I’m sure they read the newspaper, too,” said Steve.

  “You guys really believe a connection exists, and it’s not just a coincidence?” asked George.

  “Two people have been murdered after we talked about them on our show,” answered Julia. “You don’t see that as a connection?”

  “We are not connected to these murders,” shot back George.

  “Well, maybe not directly but if the murderers pick people from our show, isn’t that a connection?” asked Steve.

  “A loose one, I guess, but that’s as far as it goes,” answered George.

  “I think we should call the police and tell them about the possible connection, just in case they haven’t read the paper,” suggested Steve.

  “If the police do think there is a connection, do you think they would shut down the show?” asked Julia.

  “That would kill Bob,” said George quickly. “This is his whole life.”

  “Bob has been acting strange lately,” observed Julia.

  “What do you mean?” said George, sounding annoyed.

  “I don’t know, but he seems distant. More agitated lately. Even aggressive.”

  “You would be, too, if your livelihood was on the line. I hope you aren’t suggesting anything more than that,” George said threateningly.

  “I’m not accusing him of anything, but this is so weird.”

  “Well…” George paused. “If that is what is happening, that would be devastating for us. We have no control over it, though. We certainly aren’t telling the killers who to go after.”

  Julia wouldn’t let it go. “I don’t know. Bob gets so angry with these people. He calls them names and tells them how worthless they are. Maybe the killers take their cue from that.”

  “Careful what you say, Julia,” George warned her. “Suggesting that Bob is involved, either directly or passively, in any way, will not sit well.”

  She looked away from George sheepishly.

  “I don’t think she is accusing Bob of anything. Are you?” asked Steve.

  “No, but you guys can’t tell me that you didn’t think this is odd.”

  The room went silent.

  George was torn. He and Jackson had been close friends from the day they met, and he knew him as well as anyone. It was inconceivable to him that Jackson could be involved in any way, shape, or form with the murderers. The idea that Jackson’s very nature could be putting people at risk was one he had not considered and didn’t want to. Julia hadn’t exactly accused Jackson of direct involvement, but it was clear she’d considered it. For now, he would keep that conversation to himself, but something about Julia’s sudden attitude bothered him. As far as he was concerned, she was expendable. She worked hard, but she could be replaced, and George wasn’t going to tolerate having anyone on the team who wasn’t fully committed.

  George gathered a few of his things and headed toward the door. Before he stepped out, he turned and said, “Let’s not jump to any conclusions or go tossing around any outrageous theories. I believe all this is just a coincidence. If these Revengers are targeting sleazy businessmen, it makes sense that those same guys found their way onto our show. It’s just a coincidence. Period.”

  And he left.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I love the old way best, the simple way of poison, where we too are strong as men.”

  —Euripides

  Bill Maley woke up in a daze, his head pounding. He opened his eyes slowly and was startled to see two people dressed from head to toe in black, kneeling in front of him. They were busy, each with a roll of duct tape, wrapping him up like a mummy. He tried to speak but realized his mouth was taped shut. Attempted words were followed by a muted scream, but the two figures taping him up ignored his muffled groans. Confusion soon gave way to fear as he watched them wind the tape around his ankles and then through the holes in a large cinderblock. He tried to reach down and stop them, but his arms were securely taped to his sides. Now, his fear turned to utter panic; breathing was becoming difficult.

  Who were these people? What was going on? Thoughts raced through his mind with no answers. He’d had nightmares in the past that felt real, but this was no nightmare, and it made no sense. It had to be a dream. He couldn’t remember anything that would lead to something like this. He shut his eyes in the hopes that when he opened them again, this would all fade away and turn out to be a bad nightmare. When he reopened them, he realized the horror he was experiencing was real. The people binding him up like a mummy were real, and the cinderblock was also real. His mind flashed back to old gangster movies with bad guys fitting their enemies with concrete “boots”. He wiggled his body and moaned, but the figures in black ignored him.

  “This has to be a mistake. Please let me go,” he said, but the words were incoherent, even to Bill. How could he reason with his attackers if they wouldn’t let him speak? Whatever was going on, it was just a big mistake, and if it was a joke, it was cruel and not very funny.

  Unable to get their attention, Bill focused on his surroundings. Hopefully, someone was nearby and would come rescue him. It was dark, but he could see that they appeared to be on a causeway by the edge of a lake or a reservoir. There were no landmarks that he recognized, and no one was nearby. As he considered the possibilities of what might come next, he almost wished he would have a heart attack to spare himself.

  The two dark figures rose up and looked down at him and their handiwork. He could make out that they were a man and a woman, neither of whom he had ever seen before. The man bent over and tugged on the tape that was attached to the cinderblock. Satisfied that it wasn’t going to come loose, the man fished in his pocket and pulled out a plastic baggie with a piece of paper sealed inside it. Tearing off a large piece of duct tape, the man secured the baggie to Bill’s forehead and wrapped it around a couple of times for good measure.

  Bill watched as the two figures dressed in black calmly put their supplies in a black duffle bag and zipped it shut. Then, without a word, the man took hold of Bill by the shoulders, and the woman took his feet, and they lifted him into the air. As they walked him closer to the water’s edge—which was about ten feet deep at that point—the man spoke for the first time.

  “Hello Bill. In case you haven’t heard the news lately, we are the Revengers. Unfortunately for you, you’re our next victim.”

  Bill shook his head—or at least, he tried to. His breathing had reached a crescendo,
and he squirmed as much as he could, hoping to stop what he knew was coming next.

  “Goodbye.”

  Bill had read about the Revengers, but he’d never thought he would be one of their victims.

  The two killers made eye contact, the man said, “Ready? On the count of three.”

  They swung Bill back and forth, and when the man reached, “Three,” they let go in unison. Bill was now airborne, but only for a second. He hit the water with a loud splash that only the two killers heard. The ice-cold water shocked Bill and made it difficult for him to hold his breath. The cinderblock dropped quickly to the muddy bottom, pulling Bill along with it. It was just deep enough. Bill’s head floated two feet below the surface. He could see his killers standing on the edge of the bank, looking down at him. He held his breath, hoping that they would reconsider and pull him to safety, but as the realization that no one was going to save him sunk in, his fear turned to anger. He tried to pull his feet away from the concrete blocks holding him down, but it was to no avail. The effort only hastened the inevitable. His lungs expanded, and the urge to exhale was overwhelming. As he exhaled, he could see the girl smiling at him through the bubbles. His last thought was that she’d enjoyed killing him.

  The Revengers watched from the bank, and when Bill stopped squirming, they knew it was over. The man turned to walk away, but the woman stayed on the bank, mesmerized by the swaying body. She was still grinning when the man whispered, “Let’s go.” She didn’t move. He raised his voice and through gritted teeth said, “Snap out of it. We need to leave now!”

  When she still didn’t respond, the man grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

  Reluctantly, she allowed him to lead her back to the car. They took off their paper booties and gloves and placed them in a trash bag, which they placed in the duffle bag. They would make sure there were no traces of dirt from the lake in the car that could be traced. Before they left, the man dropped a roll of duct tape by the edge of the lake. It would serve as a marker, so the police would have no trouble finding Mr. Maley.

  There was still one more stop on the agenda for the night. The man was a stickler for plans and schedules, and he was determined to adhere to them.

  He drove straight to their next destination. The route was familiar to him, and there was no need for the GPS. All of their victims had been meticulously scoped out, and nothing was left to chance.

  There was no list. There didn’t need to be. It was all firmly implanted in the man’s brain. Next on the agenda was Stan Childs, a Denver-based electrical contractor with years of experience. But, as with all their other victims, Stan’s reputation was tainted. It was a wonder he was still in business, given the string of dissatisfied customers who’d had the misfortune to hire him. Whenever possible, Stan cut corners on materials, and his workmanship was on par with an amateur. It was only a matter of time before he would lose his license, but the licensing board moved slowly. The Revengers didn’t.

  Stan lived with his wife in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood. Since he never did any work too close to home, his friends and neighbors had no idea he was responsible for such shoddy work. The man and woman had gone by Stan’s house enough to know they could park a couple of blocks away and walk to his house unnoticed late at night. But as usual, the man took no chances and had them approach the house from different directions. The city was on alert for two people striking late at night. No one would pay any attention to a person walking alone. He had to remind the woman that the key to their continued success was sticking to the plan.

  The man went quietly into the backyard and waited for his partner to get into position. From their previous reconnaissance visits, He knew that Stan and his immediate neighbors didn’t have dogs that would bark at strangers late at night. He also knew that Stan and his neighbors typically went to bed early. Stan’s house and the neighborhood were quiet as he radioed the woman that he was in position. She was near the front yard, keeping an eye out for anything or anyone that might foil their plan, and responded, “Coast is clear.”

  The man pulled out a lock release gun and used it to open the back door. It made a small click, but nothing that would disturb the sleeping occupants. When he was safely inside, he radioed for the woman to join him. Even though Stan was an electrical contractor and knew all about alarm systems, he’d never bothered to install one in his own home. The man was confident in the knowledge that the sign in front of the house, which said it was protected by Allied Security, was a fake. The woman arrived at the door, and he let her in. They each took a ballpeen hammer from the duffle bag, and the man put a stun gun in his back pocket for extra protection. He had an untraceable revolver, as well, but that was only for emergencies.

  Satisfied that no one had heard them enter, and that the occupants were sleeping soundly upstairs, he motioned for the woman to follow him. Quietly but swiftly, they climbed the stairs and made a beeline for the master bedroom. Stan began to stir, possibly sensing a new presence in the room, but before he could react, the man in black cracked him over the head with his hammer. The sound was louder and more disturbing in the silence than he had anticipated, and it woke Mrs. Childs. She saw the man in black standing over her bleeding husband and let out a cry that rivaled any scream from a B-horror movie. Startled by the scream but not immobilized, the woman jumped into action and swung her hammer down on Mrs. Childs’ head, instantly silencing her.

  The man pulled two rolls of duct tape from his duffle bag and handed one to his partner. It took only a few minutes to bind and gag Stan and his wife, so they looked like silver mummies. The man peeked through the curtains to make sure that the scream had not woken the neighbors. The house was still dark and silent. Mr. and Mrs. Childs had children, but they were grown and lived across town on their own. Details. The man always confirmed the details.

  The entire operation went like clockwork and only took a few minutes. Other than the Mrs. Childs’ scream, everything was going according to plan. They carried the two mummies downstairs, occasionally bumping the victims’ heads on the stairs. They left Mr. Childs by the door to the basement and carried Mrs. Childs to the front door. Peeking out the front door, the man confirmed the coast was clear. Together, the Revengers carried Mrs. Childs out to her husband’s service van. With the keys that they had found on the kitchen table, they opened the van, placed the mummy in the back, and locked her in. Unlike previous murders, when they’d taped the murder note to the victim, this time, they taped the plastic baggie with the note in it to Mrs. Childs’ forehead. The killers quietly closed the van door and glanced around to make sure they had not been spotted. Satisfied that they were undetected, they sprinted back to the house.

  Stan was on the floor where they left him, still unconscious. The man grabbed Stan by the shoulders, and, without help, dragged him down to the basement. Each step produced a thud, and Stan’s head hit every step going down. At this point, it didn’t matter how much damage or pain they inflicted on their victim. He wasn’t going to survive the night, anyway. There was a blood trail on the stairs from Stan’s head wound, but it couldn’t be helped. The Revengers tried not to step in the blood, but it was unavoidable. No matter; they wore booties and would destroy the evidence once they left, anyway.

  When they reached the basement, they found a metal folding chair and propped it up against one of the support beams near the water heater. They lifted Stan into the chair and taped him securely to the metal beam so that he wouldn’t topple over or escape.

  Stan woke up with an enormous headache from all the abuse he had suffered. Through the dripping blood in his eyes, he was barely able to focus on two people standing near the furnace, neither of whom were familiar to him. As his head began to clear, he realized where he was and that he was bound to a chair. The gag in his mouth made it difficult to breathe or speak. He tried to free himself from his bonds, but the effort only made his head hurt more. The people working on something by the furnace glanced his way, but when they saw he was still se
curely attached to the chair and post, they turned back to their task.

  Stan’s first thought was that this was a robbery. But why were they in the basement? He didn’t keep money or valuables down there. If they wanted his money or his wife’s jewelry, they would need to release him, so he could open the safe upstairs. He tried to explain that to them, but the gag made any sounds unintelligible. Looking around the room frantically, he didn’t see his wife anywhere. Maybe she had escaped somehow and gone for help, he thought, but more likely, she was upstairs, lying in her own blood. He shuddered.

  Then, he heard someone humming a Christmas tune. He looked to where the tune was coming from and was horrified to realize it was from his tormenters. They were pulling items from a black duffle bag and singing, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Who were these people? Then, he realized that they were unraveling a string of Christmas lights. Confused, he watched as they carefully laid them down on the floor around the furnace and attached them to a small, electric timer. When they broke the outer glass on a few of the bulbs, careful not to damage the filament inside, he realized what they were up to.

  The man looked at his watch and said, “I think four hours should be just right,” as he programmed the timer.

  Stan began to panic as he watched them scatter shredded newspaper around the broken lights. He knew that when the timer went off, the paper would ignite.

  Who are these people? he wondered. Why are they doing this? The thought of a simple robbery was no longer an option as he watched the man blow out the pilot light on the gas water heater. They meant to blow him up and burn him to death. Struggling was no use; the bonds were too tight and too secure.

  As the gas fumes started to permeate the room, Stan wondered if the gas would kill him before the explosion and subsequent fire. It would be merciful if it did.

  The Revengers started up the stairs, and the man paused and turned back to Stan. “Don’t worry, Stan; your wife is safe outside. She didn’t rip anyone off. Oh, you look confused. Or is that fear? Well, here’s the thing. We are the Revengers, and you are about to be punished for your crimes. Adios.”