Black Bird

by Greg Enslen

  Stay and check the house, or follow them? It wouldn’t do any good to follow her - he’d have more luck waiting and getting her when she got home than following her and trying to do it in public. Jack had never been good at that sort of thing; he was much better at killing in more private, more intimate circumstances. Besides, they had to have a long talk, and maybe at the end of that talk he would decide to spare her. Yeah, right.

  Checking around to make sure no one was watching, he climbed down from his van and locked it, starting towards the darkened house.

  “Why are you drinking so much?” Abe asked, knowing the answer to his question already but wanting to confront her about the problem anyway. Her only family had just left town yesterday, off to seek his fortune in California, and it was only logical that she would climb back inside a bottle for comfort. A confirmed non-drinker, Abe had trouble seeing how someone could just give control of their life over to something like that, but he saw it all the time. Booze, drugs, whatever, it was all the same - pretending your problems were gone didn’t solve them, it only put them off a little while. And more times than not, it made them worse - like that whole thing with the Beaumont boy, running away like a little child instead of facing up to his problems and just dealing with them. Even in this seemingly idyllic little town, everyone had their vices. But it still made Abe mad that the woman could have so little self-control. Almost puking in his brand new car? That right there was justification enough for ripping her and her stupid nephew off. And this new car was just the first step - as drunk as she was, he could probably get her to just sign everything of hers over to him, including the house. It wasn’t his plan, but it still was fun to think about.

  She looked at him, her eyes bleary and having trouble focusing on him. She’d drunk a lot more than even she normally did, probably making up for the sober time before David had left. She knew it wasn’t smart, but right now, she didn’t care. “I don’t know, Abe. It’s just...with David gone...and the moving to a new place and all...I guess I just got a little down. I needed a pick-me-up, I guess,” she said. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  She sounded sincere and he looked over at her to look into her eyes and gauge exactly how sincere she was about giving up the bottle and he saw that she had a small hunk of vomit clinging to her lower lip. He shook his head and decided to concentrate on just driving her over to the new townhouse. A quick trip to the townhouse to sign the final papers and he could take her back home and get on with his evening. He had his weekly dinner with the boys tonight, and after dinner they were going into D.C. to a strip club. The sooner Miss Gloria Thatcher was out of his car and out of his mind, the better.

  She was looking at him, expecting a response, but none came, and in her dazed state she decided that she didn’t really care one way or the other. She reached absently for her purse to grab her compact and fix her hair and face, but it wasn’t there. No purse. It took a few seconds to register, as if the message had had to wade through the mire of alcohol to get to the cognizant parts of her brain, and then she turned to Abe.

  “Abe, I forgot my purse.”

  He looked over at her, glancing at her floorboard. “Oh, you’re kidding, right?” Abe just wanted to get this matter over and done with. He remembered grabbing her keys from the stand by the door and also remembered seeing her purse next to them, and he’d left after she had.

  Abe sighed as he turned the car around, heading back.

  Jack needed only a couple of minutes to ascertain that there was no alarm system protecting this house, and it only took a him a minute longer to find a window that was not securely locked. It always amazed Jack how careless people could be. And carelessness could get people killed - he’d seen it happen too many times.

  It was too dark in the backyard for Jack to see the large flock of different species of birds sitting quietly on the tall wooden posts and crossbars and gates of the back fence, watching Jack with so many tiny pairs of black eyes. One vulture flapped over off the rounded top of its wooden post and flew away on some unknown mission into the night.

  Sliding one of the blades of his pocketknife between the window glass and the locking mechanism, he pushed the lock to the side and opened the window.

  Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Jack boosted himself inside.

  The house looked just the same on the inside, but nothing could’ve conveyed the smell of it. The house smelled to Jack like a house that had been lived in way too long, as if the scent of the passage of many years could somehow be trapped in the tattered wallpaper or the threadbare carpets or the faded, peeling paint on the walls. Whoever had lived here had kept this place locked up as tight as a drum, never airing it out, and the musty, dusty smell of old rags and dust had penetrated everything. Jack figured it would take six or eight weeks of every window and door in this place standing wide open before this smell of dark, dusty old things began to fade away.

  Jack wandered through the house, trying to ignore the smell. He had come in through a window in the back of the house, and now he made his way through the kitchen towards the front of the house. The kitchen held a small stack of boxes, and he picked a few things from the boxes and examined them more closely. Here was a set of old dishes, the pattern faded and the edges chipped. Here was a stack of old books that looked like they would rather turn to dust than be moved. Here was a box of old kitchen utensils, looking like they hadn’t been used in years.

  The dining room and foyer also contained boxes, some sealed up tight, others still hanging open, the box flaps waiting for tape. Everywhere he found boxes of things, but none of them interested him until he reached the living room. It was a good-size living room with a staircase that led up to, presumably, the second floor and the bedrooms. In this room were more boxes, stacks and stacks of them, including the box that Jack had seen the woman knock over. This was the room he could see into from his van. The room also contained some uncovered furniture, a couch and a glass coffee table that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time, and a large, dusty fireplace on one wall.

  Over the fireplace was a mantle, and on it sat a small collection of things that had not been boxed up yet. One of these things immediately caught Jack’s attention.

  beaumont

  There was a picture of Beaumont on the mantle, and in it Beaumont had his arm around a young woman who was obviously pregnant. Standing next to them was a much younger version of the stumbling, drunk woman who lived here.

  The two women in the picture were obviously closely related, and the papers Jack had read though at the library had said that even though the sisters had been separated by a good span of years, they had remained close until the younger woman’s death during the delivery of little David Beaumont.

  The picture on the mantle showed all three of them standing together in a tight group under a large tree, and from the look of the leaves just starting to bloom on the tree, it must’ve been taken in the early spring. The picture must’ve been taken not too long before Jack had killed the poor slob.

  Next to this picture was another one, a picture of Beaumont and his wife only. Beaumont was wearing what looked like one of those lifeguard rings around his neck, and on the ring were stenciled the words ‘Majesty of the Seas.’ Jack could see a white railing and the open sea behind the smiling pair, obviously a cruise picture. Beaumont had one hand around her waist and holding some fruity drink in the other, and the smiles on their faces were unmistakable.

  Jack picked up the picture and turned it over, sliding it from its ornate gold frame.

  GRACE AND BILLY, HONEYMOON, October 1975

  They were married in the winter of ‘75, and the kid was born in September of 1978, almost exactly 18 years ago. A hideous, mischievous smile stole across Jack’s face as he folded and pocketed the honeymoon picture. He needed to finish this part quickly so he could move on to the boy. He was the true target, the only remaining blood relative of Sheriff William T. Beaumont. Jack could elimina
te this woman quickly and hopefully in a way that would signal to the boy that he was in danger. Jack wanted little David Beaumont to know that Death was coming for him.

  He moved around the knee-high glass coffee table and the couch it sat in front of, eyeing the box that the drunken woman had knocked over. It lay on its side on the carpeted floor, unopened, and on the side of the box, written in a slanted, backwards style with a large magic marker, were five words.

  FILES OF WILLIAM BEAUMONT, SHERIFF

  Jack’s heart leapt into his throat. Beaumont’s files! His personal paperwork! What did that box contain about Jack? Were there papers and files and other bits of information on the case that killed him? Jack would have died to know what Beaumont’s personal feelings had been on the case that finally killed him.

  Jack could taste the anticipation in his suddenly dry mouth. He was moving towards the box when a pair of headlights splashed suddenly into the room, lighting everything up impossibly bright. He bolted out of the light and headed up the stairs to the second floor, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that the car pulling into the driveway was the same car as before.

  Jack was sure he’d been seen.

  “Did you see something?” Abe asked, curious. Just as they had pulled into the driveway, he had thought he’d seen a dark figure inside the house, leaning over some of the boxes, but now the figure was gone if it had even been there.

  “See what?” she asked, befuddled. She was trying to remember where she had left her purse - and had something she needed to take care of in the bathroom, and soon.

  Abe glanced back up at the house, now well-lit by his headlights, but he saw nothing. He relaxed a little. “Oh, I guess it was nothing.”

  They climbed out of the car and he let her in with her keys, which he had pocketed, and followed her in. Even if he had only imagined the dark figure inside the house, it still didn’t hurt to be on the safe side. In the condition she was in, he would probably be helping her up off the floor sometime soon, anyway.

  Gloria scooted off to the restroom, evidently her first priority. Abe hoped it was just her bladder. He had a real problem with listening to people throw up - just the sound of it made him want to throw up too, and he had almost lost his lunch when she had upchucked early, sitting in his car out in the driveway. He’d seen an episode of Seinfeld once where they had talked about “sympathetic vomiters;” that summed up Abe to a tee. Of course, it was better if she threw up here in the house where he could try and ignore it, instead of doing it in his car again.

  He saw her purse on the table by the door and grabbed it, but it felt strangely light. Tugging it open, he saw it was empty. Who would leave an empty purse on the foyer table? He shook his head and called to Gloria, but got no response. Maybe she had the fan running or something. Abe turned into the living room and headed up the stairs to find her purse and wallet. All he wanted was to get her stuff and go so that they could leave and he could finish this business and get on with his night.

  Jack was hiding like a scared rabbit, momentarily shocked by the turn of events. He had planned on talking to the women when she returned home, and then probably killing her, if the mood suited him. But he hadn’t expected her home so soon. And now she had company.

  Oh well, sometimes people just get unlucky. This man with the new car, he just had a very unlucky day. Jack hoped that the man had enjoyed driving his new car for the short period he had had it. The man wouldn’t have another chance.

  Jack got up from behind the bed and stood behind the bedroom door, waiting.

  At the top of the stairs, Abe glanced down the short hallway on his right towards the spare bedrooms, still a little spooked by his imagination. The boy’s room was down that hall along with another bedroom that Gloria had said held all kinds of junk that she could never bring herself to throw away. No sounds came from anywhere in the house, and Abe relaxed. He walked left, down the balcony area that looked out over the living room, turning into Gloria’s room and flipping on the lights. Her room was a mess, stacks and piles of things laying around waiting to be packed, along with a few empty bottles of Vodka thrown in for good measure. A quick glance showed him that another purse lay on the dresser, and when he picked it up and checked the contents, saw her wallet and the bewildering assortment of useless things that most women tend to carry in their purses. Abe had never been able to figure out why women carried all that useless stuff around with them. He turned to head out of the room and back down the stairs, and stopped.

  There was a man standing in the doorway.

  The man was tall and nicely dressed and was smiling at Abe, but all of those impressions went in and out of Abe’s conscious mind in a flash of awareness. All Abe saw, and all he could concentrate on, was the man’s eyes, horrible beady intense eyes that seemed to pin Abe in his place. The man looked like an eagle or a vulture or some other wild animal, as if the body he wore could barely contain all that was inside it. And the eyes, they were so...

  A low, quiet sound escaped Abe’s throat. He couldn’t move as the man came closer, and Abe suddenly questioned his superiority - he’d spent a long time thinking he was better than most people, and now he couldn’t even get his legs to move...

  “Sorry, man.” the man said, his hand moving behind his back. The voice was low but powerful, and Abe realized that he had seen someone in the house, the realization finally coming to him. This realization didn’t break the spell that the man’s eyes held Abe in, and when the man stepped toward him, Abe didn’t even move.

  Swiftly, Jack brought the heavy glass jar of Vaseline around and whacked Abe solidly in the side of the head. The jar caved in on one side and shattered against the man’s head, and Jack saw clearly the little ribbons of red running down the man’s face as he pulled the man up. The man was out, unable to stand on his own, so Jack walked him over to the door and leaned the man against the balcony overlooking the living room. Jack leaned down and grabbed the legs, lifting the guy up and shoving him over the balcony railing.

  Abe, unconscious, fell the ten feet or so before he hit, face first, his head connected with the glass coffee table and shattering it. Large fragments of glass flew in every direction, littering the boxes and the couch and the old, threadbare carpet with long slivers of glass.

  Oh well, the guy had just been unlucky.

  Jack headed down the stairs, sure that the woman was on her way to investigate the crashing sound. Jack needed to come up with something for her, something special. But first he had to talk to her, and maybe he would even decide to keep her alive for a while. Jack had no other ideas about how to get the boy back here, except for the woman. David had left to go to California, and now Jack needed this woman to draw him back. Dead or alive, she was the bait, the key to getting the kid back here - Jack needed David to come back so they could finish this whole business and he could get on with his life.

  Gloria came out of the back bathroom, deciding to leave the fan on for a few minutes to clear out the smell. She had thrown up again, one of those where you just keep going and going and going until it feels like you’re throwing up organs and other things that you might need to keep. The dry heaves had finally stopped, and now she needed a drink to get that horrible taste out of her mouth.

  Some of the puke had come out of her nose and now it burned, making her eyes water even more, and her ears felt plugged from the effort of throwing up.

  A glance into the bathroom mirror had told her that she looked like crap, and now all she could think about was getting finished with this townhouse business with Abe so she could get back here and break the seal on another bottle of Stoli.

  She walked, unsteadily, into the kitchen, passing on the vodka for now and taking a long drink of plain, cold water from the ‘fridge. The door from the kitchen out to the garage was standing open, and it took her a moment or two to notice the cool draft from it. Had she left that open, or had Abe gone out there? He was probably looking for her purse, and maybe she’d left it out ther
e in the car. She didn’t drive much anymore, but she had run up to the store earlier in the week, and maybe that’s where Abe was looking for her purse.

  Walking around the smallish kitchen table, she glanced out into the garage, but saw nothing but her car parked there. The overhead light was on and she reached around the doorjamb to flick it off, and she closed the door, moving off towards the rest of the house.

  She walked around the corner into the living room and saw Abe. He was laying in a pool of his own blood, slowly seeping from a hundred small, jagged wounds. It took her mind a long moment to realize what was going on. She stared at the pieces of glass that lay all around the room, and she heard them crunch under her feet as she slowly walked into the living room, moving towards Abe. Her mind raced with a thousand questions, pushing and shoving their way through the thick Vodka fog in her head. What had happened - was he bleeding? Was he dead? Had he fallen off of the balcony? How could he be dead...but he’d been fine only a few minutes before. Abe couldn’t be...

  “Gloria?”

  She spun around quickly to find the source of the voice, barely managing to keep her balance, and saw a strange man sitting on the stairs that led up to her bedroom. He was a rugged looking man, with intense eyes that seemed to be studying and memorizing her, and her heart stopped its important work for one long moment before resumed its beating, almost reluctantly. Even through the alcohol she could see the man was smiling at her, toying with her purse in his lap.