Текст книги "Guest Of Honor: A Novelette"

Автор книги: Mark S. R. Peterson

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 4 страниц)

 

VIII.

Vigilante Extraordinaire

The Larson’s are seated around the dining room table.  A sheet has been draped over the headless body of Bart Simms, a large spot of dark crimson staining the middle like a Rorschach blot.  A thin pool of blood has seeped onto the floor right around the sink.

All of the food and dishes on the table have been cleared away.  In their place is the framed photograph from the back bedroom.

“Samantha was our first born,” Dean says.  “She was also the first in our family who had aspirations of going to college.  We didn’t really understand it, but figured it was just the way she was wired.  She had already saved a few thousand dollars, and even when she added up all of the scholarships she received it wasn’t enough.  She was also turned off by how pushy the loan officials were at the school, and figured there had to be a better way.  Then, one day she told us about good-paying job where she could set her own hours so it wouldn’t interfere with homework.”  He hangs his head.  “Guess I should’ve asked what it was.  But I trusted her.”

“We all did,” Karen says.  “Then we got a call from her cell phone in the middle of the night.  Of course, we think it’s her having car problems.  It wasn’t.  It was the cops.  Bud was the one who found out who the killer was.”

“Sam was clever,” Bud says, shaking his head.  He looks over at his parents.  “She took a picture of each guy’s car.  Then, she’d text it to an e-mail account, which then auto-forwarded it to a second account.  This one wasn’t hooked into the phone.  I figured this was in case anything bad happened to her.”

“Why didn’t the cops do anything?” Megan asks.

“They said they went through her phone and such, but didn’t find anything useful,” Dean says.  “He must’ve gone through her phone afterwards and deleted it.  Besides, I believe given the nature of her business, the cops didn’t spend that much time on her.”

“I found her second e-mail account in her apartment,” Bud says.  “I printed off the picture of the car along with its license plate.”  He points out the front door.  “It was that car right there, his Cadillac.  We showed the investigator, and he even talked to the guy, but couldn’t press any charges because all he had was the picture.  He denied it, of course.  He told the investigator that she could’ve taken a picture of anyone’s car, even though the time and date stamp on the e-mail was close to her time of death.  There was no other evidence found at the scene that could link him to her, like fingerprints or fluids or anything, so the investigator moved on.”

“We then decided to take matters into our own hands,” Dean says.  “We kept tabs on him the best we could.  We could never seem to catch him in the act.  It was hard too, all that snooping around.  We had a farm to run, which is normally a full-time job, but between Bud and me and Karen, we made it work.  I don’t know how many times we drove up and down that Interstate from the farm to the Cities.  Probably spent several thousands of dollars in gas.”

“But it was worth it,” Cindy says, finally speaking for the first time.

“Then, a month ago, I saw him coming out of an alley,” Karen says.  “As soon as he was gone, I ran over and found the girl.  I made an anonymous call to the cops, and even gave a description of the vehicle.  Unfortunately, it was a rental, and he paid for it in cash.”

“Sneaky bastard,” Dean says.  “We thought about just shooting him many times, but that might’ve led back to us and then we’d be the ones in prison.  Not him.  We then devised this scheme to get him up here.  It was the only way we could stop him.”

“Who’s place is this?” Megan asks.

“By chance,” he says, “we had a neighbor who had relatives up north here that passed away a while ago.  All of the property had been sold except for the house.  That was . . . oh, about four years ago.  This place has been abandoned since then, so we took our chances.”

“How in the world did you ever get him up here?”

“Made up a bullshit story about him saving my uncle’s farm.  Since he worked in estate law, he probably had clients that fit the bill.  We begged and pleaded for him to come up north here, and it wasn’t until we told him he could bill us for the entire trip that he consented.”

The evening sun pierces through the trees like thin daggers of golden light.

Megan sits on the porch steps, contemplating what to do next.  She has a woolen blanket draped across her legs.

Dean and Bud tossed Bart’s body and head into a wide, coffin-shaped hole in the back yard.  Dean then piled logs neatly on top, doused it with an entire gallon of kerosene, and added a lit match to complete the pyre.  When the flames eventually died down, dirt was poured back onto it.  Afterwards, they drove the Cadillac into one of the barns.

The door opens.

Karen sits next to her.  “What are your plans, dear?”

Megan sighs.  “I don’t know now.  Everything’s changed.”

“How so?”

“I lost my parents long ago.  Not just last month when they died, but when my brother Sandy was killed a few years back, there wasn’t anything I could do to make them snap out of it.  I was invisible to them.  So, I rebelled and rebelled and started doing horrible things to my body and mind.  They didn’t care.  I think if I met the same fate as your daughter, they wouldn’t have done what you did.”

Karen lays a hand on her shoulder.  “People grieve in different ways.”

“But you risked everything for your daughter,” Megan says, looking over Karen.  “I’ll never abandon mine.  Never.”

Karen shifts even closer, embracing her with both arms.  “You’re so young.  It’ll be years before you have a child to worry about that.”

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence grows in abundance, save for the occasional clang and bang coming from the barn.

“That’s why I was heading to the Cities.  I didn’t want another child to be hurt by her mother.  I’m only nine weeks along.  I was going to abort it.  Not now.  I want to keep it.”

“What about the father?  What does he say?”

“I don’t even know who it is.”  A deep sobbing erupts inside of her.  She wipes her eyes.  “I f-feel like such a loser.  But I can’t change the past.  I can only change what is to come.  Can I go with you?  Just so I can figure out what I’m going to do with my life?  I promise I won’t be a burden.”

Megan lifts her backpack onto her lap.  She unzips one of the pockets, then digs out a check from a local auctioneer.

“I should have enough to help pay for my way.”

The check is for over ninety grand—which, in a way, is chump change, for she has the benefits of her parents’ life insurance policies sitting safely in a savings account, the total edging the seven-digit mark.

A stream of tears trails down Karen’s cheeks.  “You keep that,” she says.  “We would be honored to have you as our guest, for as long as you like.  We have plenty of room.”

“But I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Oh, dear, you won’t be,” Karen says, standing.  She holds out her hand.  “You can use Samantha’s old room.  Let’s go tell the boys the good news.”

As they walk off towards the barn, Megan rests her hands on her abdomen.

If it’s a daughter, I’ll name her Samantha.  Sam, if it’s a boy.

AFTERWORD

“VIEWS FROM THE OUTHOUSE”

Story ideas can spark to life—like a photograph or a short movie clip—and sit in the foreground of your mind until you do something with them.  Most people out there (and I’ve sure met a lot of them over the past twenty-plus years) have an oh yeah, I got this one story idea floating around in their melon.  Like most, that idea sits and brews, and nothing is ever done with it.

They’re afraid.

Afraid of what?  Failure?  Partly.  Success?  That’s more like it.  Author Dan Miller at 48 Days.com talks about the fear of success on his blog and weekly podcast quite often, and how this is what keeps people from putting themselves out there, to realize their potential.

But don’t most people dream of that one day when they make it big?  Yes they do.  That’s where it stops though.  They dream.  They don’t do.

Most also have an unhealthy notion of success.  They look at J. K. Rowling or even at some of the classic writers like Salinger or Harper Lee and think, “All I need is that one story and I’m set for life.”  Sorry, buddy, even Shakespeare had a plethora of tales at his disposal.  I will agree, some successful writers seem to have that one hit that sets them apart from the rest—I know Blatty wrote more than just The Exorcist, but he will always be known for the one work that defines even the realm of horror movies.  Most, however, have an immense backlist.

During the summer of 2012, I watched both the 1974 and the 2003 versions of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  Although both films had similar plots when it came to a group of young kids, heading to a concert, getting sidetracked and finding themselves in a house of horrors—both narrated by John Larroquette (yes, the same guy who played the sleazy public defender on the TV show Night Court)—the original 1974 film had a visual rawness that was hard to keep out of my head.

There’s a scene where the young lady dressed in white sits around a kitchen table with Leatherface’s family on either side of her.  It’s this scene, where she knows she can’t escape this psycho family and their maniacal laughter, which grew to the inspiration for Guest of Honor.

Since you’ve already read it—unless you have a habit of reading this section first, and if you did, you may want to stop right here and read the story—the scene in the kitchen where the lawyer gets knocked to the floor and decapitated was the one clip I kept seeing over and over again.

But instead of the lawyer being the helpless victim, it was revenge on the highest sorts.

This visual, of the lawyer being thrown back and beheaded, stuck with me for a long time.  I knew the story would be called Guest of Honor and that the lawyer, from the Twin Cities, would be traveling up to northwestern Minnesota as a family’s guest.  The rest grew as I wrote the story.

November, for the writing world, is NaNoWriMo time: National Novel Writing Month.  In the thirty days of November, one is to write 50,000 words of a new novel.  The goal is to get people in the habit of writing everyday.  Now, most novels are longer than this, but the first 50,000 is a good start.  Guest of Honor was going to be my NaNoWriMo in February story—November, for me, seems to be a busy month.  Besides, I like to write everyday, regardless that it’s November or any of the other eleven months.  Needless to say, it took me less than a week to write and is nowhere near the 50,000 word mark.  It is a novelette, as it is roughly 10,000 words.

If you are a follower of my blog Views From The Outhouse, you know I am not an outliner—I am what is called a discovery writer.  What I do ahead of time may be construed as outlining, for I roughly sketch out a few points in the story and maybe a few visuals (like the beheading in the kitchen), and that’s about it.  I call it brainstorming, a low-level version of outlining.  The majority of the story, from her brother Sandy to the sudden reveal at the end about the reason behind her trip to the Twin Cities, was made up on the fly.

I think it turned out rather well.  Please let me know what you think.  My e-mail is: marksrpeterson@gmail.com

Happy reading.

Mark S. R. Peterson

April 9, 2013

DEDICATION

To Melissa: for never calling this a pipe dream . . . ever.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

Mark S. R. Peterson is an author of thriller, horror, fantasy, and science fiction.  He frequently blogs at Views From The Outhouse and can also be found on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.  His website is Mark S. R. Peterson.com and can be reached at marksrpeterson@gmail.com.  He currently lives in northwestern Minnesota, and is a loving father and husband.

 

If you enjoyed what you just read and want to read more, consider joining my mailing list: Author Mark S. R. Peterson.

Want more to read?  For a list of all my books by your favorite retailer, please click on this link for a complete listing. 

 

 

Bonus Feature

“Hatchet Harry”

Short story written by:

Mark S. R. Peterson

 

Kevin Stubbs walks into the dispatch area of the Charity PD, and scans the list of complaints.  Nothing new since the end of yesterday’s shift.  Doesn’t surprise him, really.  In this small northern Minnesota community, their department averages two or three incident reports daily, and the worst is usually either a fight at the bar or a domestic assault.  They don’t have big-time felons, like serial killers, that the larger cities do.

“The Bemidji FBI just called for you,” the dispatcher, Cindy Wiggum, says, a cup of coffee poised right in front of her face.

“They did?” he asks, ready to bolt over to his desk.  He’s always dreamed of being an FBI Special Agent, ever since he watched the movie Silence of the Lambs.  He attended Bemidji State University, declaring a major in Criminal Justice.

Upon hearing of Kevin’s bold ambitions, his college advisor, Dr. Walter Bradley, said, “You’ll have a better shot at the FBI if you major in Accounting.”

“Why?  Aren’t they a law enforcement agency?”

“Most of the crimes they investigate are white-collar, like tax fraud and such.  Accountants are their number-one picks.”

“But I don’t like Accounting,” said Kevin.  “Had to take it in high school and nearly flunked out.”

“Well,” Dr. Bradley said, shrugging, “I guess you’ll have to work with what you’ve got.  But you’ll have to stand out to get the FBI’s attention, to set yourself apart from the thousands of other applicants.”

“I know a lot about serial killers,” Kevin said.  “Will that do?”

“How do you know so much about them?”

Kevin went on to explain that it all started with the Lambs movie, in which he discovered that part of it was inspired by a serial killer from Wisconsin named Ed Gein.  From there, he read several books on the subject, including all of Ann Rule’s books as well as those from John Douglas, a real-life FBI profiler.

Dr. Bradley leaned back and folded his hands together, his fingers forming a steeple under his chin.  “Like I said, you’ll have to work with what you’ve got.  That may not be enough to get their attention, but . . . heck, stranger things have happened, I guess.”

He graduated with a dismal 2.8 GPA, which was good enough to meet the 2.5 minimum entry requirements for the FBI.  He applied three times before he was offered an interview, albeit he never moved forward in the hiring process.  Instead of reapplying at that point, he took a full-time job at the Charity PD, beating out only one other applicant, for he had a bold plan to get himself noticed.

Cindy lowers her cup, revealing a wide Joker-like grin.  “Agent Rockford was just wondering where your next hot tip is,” she says.  “He was getting tired of waiting.”

Standing behind him, Police Chief Al McGregor bursts out laughing.

“Oh, ha ha, that’s so funny,” Kevin says, retreating to the coffee machine.

Kevin’s bold plan was simple: to catch a serial killer.  The FBI would have to notice him then!  And the only way to find one was to scour the FBI Wanted Persons posters, sent to every law enforcement agency across the country, as well as study their top ten list.

However, an odd thing seemed to happen.  He started seeing the criminals in the posters.  Right here in Charity!  It quickly became a running joke between the Bemidji FBI field office and the Charity PD with his continuous sightings.  Sightings, of course, which turned out to be fruitless.

A few years ago, his obsession took a turn for the worst when he stopped a gray-bearded motorist and swore it was Osama Bin Laden, despite the valid Minnesota driver’s license and social security card telling him differently.  Kevin almost lost his job over that one when the guy threatened to sue the city for millions—a two-week unpaid suspension and a heartfelt apology kept the legal process from moving forward.

Before the Chief walks back into his office, he says, “But you might want to check out the Wanted board though, Kevin.  We just got in a new one.  And you might even have a shot with this one.  He’s from St. Paul.”

Kevin marches over to the clipboard hanging on the wall opposite the coffee machine.  It’s over six inches thick with wanted posters.  Kevin leans in.  “Harry Albert Hines AKA Hatchet Harry.”  He reads the narrative: Hines, a St. Paul native, was convicted of murdering four people with a hatchet.  It was rumored that “choice cuts” were served at a neighborhood get-together, but there was no proof to the contrary.

He also escaped from Stillwater eight weeks ago.

* * *

At noon, Kevin drives by his home, but remembers they have no left-overs.

“I guess it’s Rose’s then,” he says, suddenly hungry for her hot roast beef sandwich.  He suspects that she gives him a more heaping portion of mashed potatoes and gravy than the others—all the more reason to explain his ever-growing midsection.

He notices a U-Haul van parked in the driveway next door.

“Looks like we finally got some new neighbors.  It’s about time.”

The neighbor’s house has stood vacant for the past six months.  The family who lived there moved down to the Twin Cities.  Kevin wanted to buy it for a rental property, but his wife Barb—who has a strong head for accounting—advised against it due to their already tight budget.

When he turns down the next street, he glances in the rear view mirror.  A man walks out to the U-Haul.

Kevin slows to a crawl.  He then digs in his briefcase, and pulls out a thick folder.  He opens it to view his latest addition.  His hands quiver when he compares the man with the photograph.

“Hair is darker, but he could’ve colored it.  He also must’ve shaved the goatee.  Other than that . . . God, it sure looks like him.”

His entire morning, aside from a twenty-minute reprieve for a funeral escort and a brief traffic stop, has been eaten up with his nose in his cell, researching everything he could find on Hatchet Harry.  He even downloaded two Kindle ebooks.

He turns around and drives by.  The man waves at him, then walks inside with an armload of boxes.  Kevin shakes his head.

How many times have I called the FBI with tips that turned out to be nothing?  Hell, I was almost fired over one!

He sets the folder on his lap, then adds the other two from his briefcase, all of near equal thickness.  He drives off, drumming his fingers along the top cover, and ends up behind Rose’s Kitchen.  He parked next to the dumpster.

He rolls down the driver’s side window.

“Apparently this is the best I’m ever going to be.”  He glances around.  Two boys ride by on their bikes.  They wave at him.  He waves back.

The back door to Rose’s swings open.  It’s Rose herself, hefting a pair of bulging black garbage bags in each hand.

“Hey, Kevin,” she says, then tosses the bags into the dumpster with such ease, they could’ve been filled with leaves.  “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good.  Come on inside and I’ll fix you up with a nice hot roast beef sandwich with a side of potatoes, just the way you like it.”

He smiles.  “I’ll be right there.”

Once she’s inside, he holds up the folders.  “I’d hate the big city anyway, and I’m sure that’s where I’d end up if I was with the FBI.  Al is probably gonna retire in a few years.  I could be Chief then.”  He puffs out his chest.  “Police Chief Kevin Stubbs.  Kind of a nice ring to it.”

He tosses the folders in the dumpster.

* * *

 

After a long afternoon, where the only action he encountered amounted to nothing more than writing two speeding citations to out-of-towners and lecturing some kids for tearing around the alleys on their four-wheelers, Kevin finds a note from his wife on the dining room table.  It reads in plain block lettering:

I’m at the neighbor’s house.

He’s invited us over for a barbecue.

Could you bring something to drink?

Love, Barb

“Why didn’t she just text me?”  He checks his cell and finds no recent texts from her.  “Oh, well.  She probably lost her cell again.”

He quickly changes out of her uniform, and grabs a six-bottle pack of Miller Genuine Draft and a few Bartles & Jaymes strawberry wine coolers from the fridge.  He walks next door.  He rings the doorbell and waits, twiddling his toes against the roof of his shoes.

When Kevin sees the man who answers, he steps back and nearly drops the drinks onto the sidewalk.

“You okay?” the man asks, reaching out to him.  “You must be Barb’s husband.  Kevin, right?”

My God, it looks like him—no, it can’t be.  Why would Hatchet Harry come up here to Charity of all places?

Kevin shakes his head and says, “Sorry.  Just thought I recognized you from somewhere.”

The man smiles.  “Honest to Pete, it happens all the time.  Most think I look like that hatchet-guy from St. Paul.  Too bad I can’t look like Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp instead of some crazed maniac.  Oh, there I got, blabbing on and on again.  Come on inside.”

“Thanks.  Yeah, I’m Kevin, Barb’s husband.”

“Henry Hutchinson.  From Fridley.  Your wife is in the bathroom.  Let’s go out back.  The first round of steaks is almost done.”

When they walk out to the backyard, a tall fence gives the area an aura of seclusion.  Kevin sets the drinks onto a picnic table, next to a wooden cutting board with two thick slabs of uncooked meat on it, a thin river of blood trailing across the board and onto the grass.  A hatchet-like cleaver is stuck erect between them.  A sweet odor permeates from the smoking barbecue.

“Those steaks smell good,” Kevin says, grabbing a beer.  He hands it to Henry, and takes one for himself.  “If you’re a chef, Rose’s Kitchen is in need of once since her last chef won a hundred grand from the lottery and moved to Florida.  She’s got a punk working for her now, but she still has to do double-duty since he’s not that good.  I could talk to her for you and put in a good word.”

“Thanks, that would be great,” Henry says, retrieving a metal spatula.  “I do a lot of business online, like selling stuff on eBay and such.  I make a decent living, but honest to Pete the costs are so high down in the Cities, I had to move.  How long have you been up here?”

“A little over five years.  I really wanted to be in the FBI, but needed a job in the meantime.  So, I applied and got a job as a city cop.  What brought you all the way up here to Charity?  Why not someplace bigger like Bemidji or Thief River Falls?”

Henry grins and says, “You may not believe this, but honest to Pete I’ve always wanted to move up north here.  I don’t know if it was the traffic down in the Cities or what.  So, I put a map of Minnesota on a board and threw a dart.”  He spreads his arms out.  “Here’s where it landed.”

“A dart?” Kevin asks, suddenly remembering he recently read something about a dart.

But what?

“Honest to Pete, a dart.  Just a second.  I’ll be right back.”

Henry heads back inside.

Kevin looks around, then moves over to the barbecue.  As he grabs the lid handle, he spies a ring on one of the small wooden shelves.  A diamond ring.

He picks it up.

Looks like Barb’s.

“Do you think this Rose would let me use my special marinade?” Henry asks, coming back outside.

“Huh?” Kevin asks, nearly dropping the ring into the grass.

“Honest to Pete, I have this special marinade,” Henry says.  He takes a swig of beer.  “Just some secret ingredients, I’d say.  Would you mind turning the steaks for me?  Here’s the flipper.”  He hands Kevin a metal spatula.

“Sure.”

Kevin opens the barbecue cover, a thick roll of smoke curling out from underneath.  He brushes his hand to fan away the smoke, his eyes starting to water.  He thought the odor was sweet before, almost like a caramel smell, and now he detects a thick fragrance of mesquite.

“Wow, these do smell great.”

He flips one of the steaks, and is about to flip the other when he notices an odd-shaped piece of meat along the side.  It’s small, charred almost black, but pointing away from him the odd shapes he swears look like . . . fingers.

In a flash, he remembers a photograph of Hatchet Harry being led from the courtroom.  The caption underneath read: “Hennepin County deputies escort Harry Hines past reporters.  ‘Honest to Pete, I didn’t do it!’ Harry yells to the crowd.”

Then, in the second book Kevin downloaded, it delved more into Harry’s past.  Originally from Los Angeles, Harry did a five-year stint with the Navy.  Afterwards, he wanted to be as far away from the ocean as he could, so he set up a map of the United States and threw a dart at it, to see where he’d settle down.

St. Paul was the lucky winner.

He glances at the ring still in his hand.

This is Barb’s!

Kevin turns in time to see Henry swinging a cleaver at him—the cleaver which greatly resembles a hatchet.  He whips the spatula up, tossing the second steak up somewhere onto the ground, and connects with the cleaver, blocking the strike.

Henry swings again and again, each time the knife nicking him once in the arm, then along the wrist.

Kevin circles around, back to the beverages still left on the picnic table.  He whips one bottle at Henry, who successfully ducks out of the way, but doesn’t move in time as the rest of the pack follows soon afterwards.

With Henry stunned, Kevin sees his chance and bolts into the house.  He sprints to the front door—and finds it locked!

He fumbles with the deadbolt, but sees that it’s no use.  It’s a double-lock, the kind where a key is needed both inside and out.

He scrambles back through the living room, sees a hallway and ducks into a dark room.  It’s a bathroom, for he nearly slips on the hard tile and rams his foot into the side of the tub.

He slams the door shut, flips on the light, and searches for a lock.  This one has a lock on the knob.  He pushes it, knowing it won’t save him much in the event a psychopathic madman wants to bust his way inside.

Taking out his cell phone, he quickly punches in the speed dial number for the PD.  But as he’s about to hit SEND, he turns around.

If the phone happened to be an inch to the left or right, it would’ve hit the tile and quite possibly would smash, rendering it inoperable.  As luck would have it, it bounces off of his foot.

As the months and years go by after this fateful evening, and he recalls the horrific sights in the tub, he doesn’t know what’s the most shocking.  Quite simply, it could’ve been all of the blood, splattered across the back of the tub and pooling along the bottom.  Then there’s the handless stump, the one which held the ring Kevin put on when they got married.  Many of the other body parts are undistinguishable, as Hatchet Harry—not the Henry Hutchinson from Fridley, eBay seller extraordinaire—already cleaved several of the choice parts into future meals.

Of all this, the one part he truly remembers is seeing his wife’s face staring back at him, mouth open, her head propped up along the soap catch, sliced off from the rest of her body.

I should’ve known.  God, why was I so stupid!

The note Barb left for him wasn’t written by her.  Even if she would’ve misplaced her cell, she still would’ve called him on the house phone.  And even if she wasn’t able to do that, she would’ve added her traditional heart signature to her name: ♥

There was no such heart on the note.

He squeezes his eyes shut, only allowing a few tear droplets to fall onto his cheeks.  The image of his wife staring back at him sears into his mind, burning a deep hatred within himself.

“Oh, Barb, I’m so sor-”

A wooden thud bangs behind him.  The knob is being turned from the outside.  Only the depressed button keeps the vile killer from entering.

Stuffing the cell in his pocket, he whips open the medicine cabinet.  All of the shelves are bare.  He opens the cupboard underneath the sink.  That, too, is empty.  Next to the toilet is a plunger.

He grabs it as the door bursts inward.

Before Hatchet Harry can launch at his next victim, Kevin shoves the plunger into the killer’s chest, forcing him back into the hallway.  A fiery rage propels him like a linebacker, crushing his shoulder into Harry’s chest and causing him to drop the cleaver.

Kevin double-teams Harry, one with his bare fist and the other with the plunger, now with the rubber end coming off and landing somewhere in the hallway.  Harry lands on the floor, screaming, holding his hands up for meager protection.  Kevin continues to pound away, adding a few kicks into the mix.

He soon stands over Hatchet Harry, his fist and the plunger stick red with blood.  Harry’s face is a mask of crimson.

“You can’t do this!” Harry cries out.  “You’re a cop!  You have to arrest me and give me a trial!”

Kevin drops the plunger handle.  He takes out his cell.  Instead of the PD, he punches another number on his speed dial.

The phone rings once . . . twice-

“FBI, Special Agent Rockford.”

“Brent, this is Kevin from Charity.”

“Hey, Kevin, long time no hear from.  Who is it this time?  Another Bid Laden sighting?”

Harry holds his hands out, gasping for breath.  “I need . . . to be . . . arrested,” he says.

“Try Hatchet Harry,” Kevin says.  “I’m standing right over him.  He murdered my wife, and tried to kill me.”

“What—you serious?”

“I wouldn’t kid about my wife being murdered, Brent.  Get your ass on over to Charity and help clean this mess up.”

“Is he alive?” asks Brent.

Kevin peers down at Hatchet Harry, who’s starting to inch his way over to the door.

“Kevin?  Is he alive?  Hatchet Harry?”

Kevin reaches down and picks up the discarded cleaver, the blade resembling a hatchet.  “No, I’m afraid not.”

He disconnects the call.

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