PANTHER MCDANIELS WORKS FOR NO MAN by Jimmy Callaway

Panther McDaniels Works for No Man

“My boys have got this place surrounded, man,” Poncey said under his breath, “I roll deep.” He picked up a fry with his uncuffed hand and inched it into his mouth, taking one slow bite at a time.
Panther McDaniels, however, didn’t need to be told when he was being followed, much less when he was being surrounded. Didn’t need to be told to keep guys like Poncey close.
Margie the waitress came and gave them both a warm-up. Her hand shook and coffee slopped into their saucers, but her smile held rigid.
“You just open these cuffs,” Poncey said, chewing on another fry, “I walk out, and everybody goes home.” He pulled the brim of his purple fedora a little farther down over his eyes. “Everybody happy.”
Panther McDaniels smeared the last bite of his dinner roll in some gravy and placed it in his mouth. He looked straight ahead. A stainless steel pie case. To his left, a napkin holder. Wasn’t much, but after you’ve spent five years in the bush, I mean, shit. Might as well be mirrors.
Margie hovered near, not gonna have the cash register want for company aside from the two niggers handcuffed to each other at the counter. The cook stood behind his grill, arms folded. His paper hat sat atop a steel-gray buzz cut and a face only a blind mother could love.
“Ain’t nobody around, man,” Poncey said, “Ain’t nobody gonna know the new bad-ass skip chaser in town didn’t get his man tonight.”
On the street, directly behind them, two youngbloods, hands in their pockets, trying hard to look like they doing nothing. To the left, another one at the door. Surrounded, yeah.
“It happens, y’know?” Poncey said, “No matter how bad a motherfucker you are, there’s always a badder one out there, right? See, thing is, my boys was just supposed to follow you if you pinched me, wait until the time was right to pop your ass. But now, you done made all of our jobs easier, stopping off for a midnight snack. See? We can do this real quiet now, see?”
In all fairness, Panther McDaniels had to, quietly, see and admire the logic of a lowlife scumfuck like Poncey Wilkins. A man who beats his woman so bad, she still lying up in that hospital bed; so bad, her sister finally gets brave enough to press charges. So a man figures he can jump bond and lay low with one of his other bitches. And no cop, man, no establishment cat is gonna give a fuck, some street nigger put his old lady in traction.
And when word comes back to Poncey, there’s a new nigga on the block, this real bad motherfucker out there now, McDaniels, man, he after your ass.
Oh, yeah.
This motherfucker just begging to be made an example of.
“Tell you what, man,” Poncey said, “In my left hand suit pocket is three g’s. Three grand, man, which I know for a fact is more than whatever percentage you gonna pick up on my bond. It’s yours, baby, and there’s more where that came from.”
Some shit just never changes. These streets run deep in Panther McDaniels’ veins, since he was old enough to wipe his own ass. And it’s always the same with these assholes: the money. The money gets you everything, gets you the pride, the respect, gets you the cars, the pussy. Everyone’s got a price, everybody’s on sale, right? Yeah, that’s fine, let ‘em think that.
Let ‘em think that until they can’t think that no more.
“Yeah, there’s more where that came from, man,” Poncey said, “I could use a man like you in my organization. A big buck nigga like yo’self? Shit, who couldn’t use you?”
The V.A couldn’t, that’s who; the Marines couldn’t, not no more. The D.A.’s office, the police department? Shee-it.
So you use yourself. You put up the money, Marcus puts up the front. Yeah, with that big mouth of his, his taste for the finer things, the flashier things, yeah, nice and loud. Let Panther McDaniels do his work unhindered, behind the scenes, yeah. Let Panther McDaniels do his work.
“How that sound?” Poncey said, “Yeah, pretty good, huh, ‘cause you got to know the alternative by now. It’s just you in here, cuz,” Poncey said, “All alone, middle of the night, biscuits and gravy at the all-night diner. I ain’t even here, man, dig? For all intents and purposes, my narrow black ass already out the door. All you gotta do is open these cuffs.”
This is how it is. Didn’t matter you spent five years getting shot at, five years’ worth of gooks out to cut your balls off. Marcus said to him when they started up, “You think these niggas out here ever heard of Khe Sahn, any of that shit?” Telling Panther McDaniels, like he needs to be told, “You got to show these motherfuckers who’s the man, man, or they ain’t never gonna let up.”
Youngblood at the door pushes in, the bell above the door tinkles, and the two on the street slowly inch their way to the door, just outside, covering their boy’s back. Without moving his head, Panther McDaniels looks to his left, sizes the guy up. Recognizes him right away, running buddy of Poncey’s, a tall, skinny cat, scar up his left cheek, goes by Bear-Bear.
Where these cats get these stupid fucking names, nobody knows.
“There’s my boy now,” Poncey said, “Last chance, my nigga. Let Bear-Bear here escort me out or you know what the deal is. There’s two ways we can—”
The swinging doors to the kitchen slammed open, the hinges screaming, and there stood the cook. His shoulders hunched above his head like a bulldog, and when he racked his big ol’ shotgun, Margie the waitress screamed.
“Dave, oh, Dave, what’re you doing?” she wailed.
Poncey actually laughed. “Yeah, Dave, what you doin’, baby?”
Bear-Bear didn’t look as jovial. His gray eyes narrowed at Dave and the shotgun, his hand slid down towards the small of his back.
“Margie,” Dave said, “Get out the back way.”
“Dave, I—”
“Move, woman! Go!” Dave turned his attention back to the counter. “Now you listen to me: I dunno what you niggers are up to in here, but you’re gonna take it outside right now.”
“Get on back behind your grill, papa,” Bear-Bear said, and his voice slid out of his throat like a snake, “This here ain’t none’a your concern.”
“The fuck it ain’t! This here is my place!” Dave’s face reddened and then reddened some more. “My place, y’unnerstand? And it’ll be a cold day in hell before some spook tells me what to do in my own fucking place!”
And as Dave, eyes screwed up in fury, raised his shotgun, Bear-Bear’s arm whipped up and he hurled the knife from its place in his belt. The blade sunk itself halfway into Dave’s shoulder, and Dave’s shot went straight up into the ceiling as he fell backwards into the kitchen. Plaster snowed down onto Dave. His leg twitched once before he passed out.
Before the blade had sung its passage halfway to Dave’s flesh, Panther McDaniels brought his .357 from out his jacket, the barrel gleaming in the fluorescent, and blew Bear-Bear’s right knee off. The shot was enormous in the little diner, and Panther McDaniels felt Poncey tugging on the cuff, trying to flee to nowhere. Bear-Bear’s kneecap shattered, and a bit of bone bounced off of Panther McDaniels’ lower lip.
Panther McDaniels whipped his cuffed hand around, brought Poncey Wilkins in front of him like a shield, and raised his gun at the two youngbloods at the door. But they had already run off, the door left hanging open, their shadows not even visible in the streetlights outside. Poncey’s hat had fallen to the floor, and the purple velvet laid upside-down in a puddle of blood. The air inside was thick with Bear-Bear’s screams, high and reedy.
Poncey was a new man. With Poncey held in place in front of him by a forearm in his throat, Panther McDaniels could smell the sour-sweet of Poncey’s sweat. Poncey trembled in his arms like a girl on prom night, his low whimper in chorus with Bear-Bear’s screams. They stood like that until Bear-Bear was able to regain his speech.
“My fuckin’ leg, man!” Bear-Bear screamed, “You shot my fucking leg off!”
Panther McDaniels leaned down, taking Poncey by the natty hair with him, and waited for Bear-Bear’s eyes to focus on them. When they did, Panther McDaniels said, “Do you see this man?”
“You shot my fuckin’ leg off!”
“Tell your boy,” Panther McDaniels said in Poncey’s ear, “that he’d better answer me.”
Poncey whimpered. “C’mon, man, c’mon, man, don’t, man.”
“Tell him!”
Poncey whimpered again, and then Panther McDaniels felt Poncey’s chest expand as he breathed in and let out a yell: “Aaah! Bear-Bear! Listen to this motherfucker, man, he fuckin’ crazy!”
Bear-Bear continued to groan and pant, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. “Ah, fuck, man, my fuckin’ leg, man!”
“Do you see this man?” Panther McDaniels asked again and held the barrel of his .357 to Poncey’s head.
Bear-Bear bit at his lower lip and shouted, “Yeah, I see him, man! I fuckin’ see him. And I see a fuckin’ dead man, too, motherfucker!”
“This man,” Panther McDaniels said, “is worth two thousand dollars to me if I bring him in alive. He ain’t worth shit to me dead.” He felt Poncey relax, just the tiniest bit. Panther McDaniels said, “Did you hear that, Bear-Bear?”
“Yeah, I heard you, motherfuckah! Goddamn!”
“Good,” Panther McDaniels said and blew Poncey Wilkins’ head off. He allowed his cuffed arm to go slack as Poncey’s headless corpse dropped with a vicious thud onto Bear-Bear’s knee. Bear-Bear was silent for but a moment, and then his screams rose again. They rose out of the door and into the night. His screams bled all over the city streets. He screamed and he screamed until he passed out, cheek pressed to the cold floor.
Panther McDaniels holstered his gun and brought out a key ring. He opened the cuffs and stood straight, rubbing at where his wrist had chafed at the cuffs. The wail of sirens was coming closer, impending. Panther McDaniels took a second to inspect his handiwork, to stand away from the canvas for just a moment.
Then, with a nod, Panther McDaniels left a twenty on the countertop and left the diner.

BIO:

Jimmy Callaway lives and works in San Diego, CA. Please visit http://attentionchildren.blogspot.com/ for more good times.

SIDE ORDERS by Nick Quantrill

Side Orders – A Joe Geraghty story.

‘Ahmet’s paranoid, man.’
I turned to Darren and shrugged. Ignoring him, I continued looking out of the car window and into the Hull night, the city flashing by. ‘You’ve been robbed twice this week’ I said. It had just turned midnight. People were staggering home, the streets slowly emptying, but plenty of drunks still wanted their fix of fast food.
‘Bad luck, Joe. That’s all. It happens.’ Darren laughed. ‘It’s cool to have a bodyguard, though.’
‘I guess so.’ It’d make a good story down the pub, if nothing else.
‘People will you rob you of anything, even ten quid’ he said. ‘It’s not that unusual.’
‘How does it work?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The robberies.’
‘You’ve got to report back to Ahmet, right?’
I nodded and then yawned. ‘Later tonight.’
‘Anything to make a living?’
‘It’s not all glamour’ I said. The car stank of garlic bread and kebabs. It was enough to turn your stomach. It was my turn to laugh. ‘In fact, there’s no glamour at all.’
‘I could fancy being a PI’ Darren said.
We were driving around Hull in a modified yellow Fiat Punto, dance music hammering out. Discretion was likely to be a problem for Darren.
‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be’ I said.
‘It’d be great, man. We could even work together, once I’ve got my shit together. I’m not going to be delivering pizza forever.’
‘Good for you.’ I asked him again. ‘How does it work?’
‘Just bad luck, man. I’ve been jumped twice, some bloke with a knife. It happens. I just give him the money.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the best thing to do, isn’t it? If you don’t cause them any trouble, they’ll leave you alone.’
We pulled up outside the delivery address. Darren switched the music off and lent into the back of the car to pick out the boxes he needed. ‘Here we go, then’ he said.
I closed the passenger door and stood at the top of the pathway. I watched Darren knock on the door and hand the food over. I was on my guard, looking around, but there was nobody about, nobody lurking in the shadows. I looked across to Darren, who was counting out the customer’s change, sharing a joke with the man. I watched him unsuccessfully try to angle his body away from me. My heart sank as I watched him take a small plastic bag from his pocket and hand it over with the pizza.

‘Joe, my friend.’ Ahmet beamed at me and moved forwards, covering me in a bear hug. He was massive; twenty stone at least and his terrible skin bore testament to working long hours in a kitchen. ‘How is my friend, Don?’
‘Don’s good’ I said. Don, my partner, would be tucked up in bed, I thought. Not that I begrudged him that. He didn’t need the hassle at his age. It was horses for courses. Don had the contacts to bring work into the agency. I had the energy and stomach for the work.
‘I appreciate what you are doing for me. You and Don are true friends to me.’
‘Not a problem, Ahmet.’ I knew when Don told me about the job it was going to be long hours and potentially dangerous. It was more a personal favour. Don and Ahmet went back years.
I watched Darren walk over to the woman stood next to the till.
‘His sister’ Ahmet explained.
I nodded and looked around. The takeaway was still busy. A handful of small groups sat waiting for their food, shouting and laughing about the night’s escapades. At least some people had enjoyed their night. Behind the counter, Ahmet had two members of staff preparing the food. One was stood quietly at the kebab skewer, shaving thin strips of meat into a large vat. Ahmet took me through to the back of the shop. Closing the door to his office behind us, he sat down behind his desk, the noise and heat disappearing instantly.
‘Did you have any trouble tonight, Joe?’
‘Not as such.’
‘No one attempted to steal from Darren?’
‘No.’
‘Then that is good.’ He looked relieved. ‘I would still like you to continue for a while longer, if you are able to.’
I moved a pile of invoices off a chair and sat down. ‘There might be a problem with Darren, though.’
Ahmet shook his head. ‘Darren is such a good worker. He worked for my brother for a long time. Gus was always telling me Darren was such a hard worker. An honest man. I am very lucky that I could persuade him and his sister to work for me instead.’
So much for Darren’s bigger ambitions, I thought. I told him what I’d seen earlier that night.
Ahmet looked worried. He must have known how much trouble this could bring him. ‘We must sort this tonight, Joe’ he said to me.

‘I still cannot believe this, Joe’ Ahmet said to me. ‘It’s not the Darren I know. I have never had such trouble in all the twenty years I have been in this business.’
I turned the heater up in the car and continued to watch. Following Darren was easy. His car stood out, even in the dark. It helped that Ahmet was in touch with the shop, so we knew exactly where the deliveries were heading to. The first two drop offs went as normal and from the car it was impossible to see whether Darren added any side orders to the deliveries. We watched him get back in his car and set off towards the next address. I listened as Ahmet called the shop to check in. Knowing the address, I eased off and headed there using a different route.
Ten minutes later I was pointing at Darren. ‘There he is’ I said, switching the engine off. We parked a couple of cars behind Darren’s Punto and looked up at the tower-block. A handful of lights were still on, but the area was quiet; the kind of place which invited fear. The kind of place where anyone could ring and order food, give a random address and intercept you on the stairs.
‘I still cannot believe Darren is doing what you say’ Ahmet said to me.
I said nothing. Takeaway delivery was the perfect cover for selling drugs, whether Ahmet wanted to face up to it or not. We watched Darren press the buzzer on the communal door. He stood back until he got a response. Speaking into the intercom, he shook his head and started to walk away, the pizzas still in his hand.
‘What is that?’ Ahmet asked.
I leaned forward. A figure had emerged from the shadows. We weren’t far away and could see the knife. I was straight out of the car, running towards them. If I’d thought about what I was doing, I would have stayed in the car.
‘Alright, Darren?’ I asked, standing between them.
The guy holding the knife turned to me. ‘I suggest you fuck off, mate.’
‘Can’t do that’ I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt. He was a teenager, not much than a kid. He was scared but he didn’t want me to see the fear I knew he was feeling.
‘The police are coming’ said Ahmet, eventually catching up. His breathing was heavy and laboured. He wasn’t in shape for running. ‘I have called them.’
‘Put the knife down’ I said to the teenager. I made sure there was plenty of distance between us. ‘Just calm down.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’ The kid’s hand was unsteady, the situation spiralling out of his control. ‘This was supposed to be easy.’
‘It still can be’ I said. ‘Just walk away.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Course you can. The police aren’t going to be here for a while yet.’
‘No.’
‘Be on your way, son.’ We all turned towards the newcomer to the scene. The man was even bigger than Ahmet, but definitely family.
Ahmet shook his head. ‘Gus?’
‘Good evening, gents.’
I turned to Ahmet, looking for an explanation.
‘This is my brother’ he said, looking away from me.
I didn’t like what I was hearing.
‘Ahmet is my brother’ Gus said, holding his hand out to me, ‘and my business rival.’ ‘I swear to you, Joe, I didn’t know about this’ Ahmet said to me. ‘I wouldn’t have asked Don to send you if I had known the truth.’
I turned to Gus. ‘The robberies were your idea?’
‘I’m not proud of it’ he said ‘but yes, I had to send Ahmet a message. I cannot tolerate his behaviour in stealing my staff.’
I shook my head and turned to Darren, understanding the set-up. ‘You were in on it, weren’t you?’
Darren put the pizzas down. ‘I needed the money, man.’
‘For your bigger plans?’
He said nothing.
‘It’s not Darren’s fault’ said Gus. He turned to his brother and pointed. ‘If he could have just left my staff alone, none of this would have needed to happen.’
It started to make sense. ‘Darren’s sister would ring you, wouldn’t she’ I said ‘tell you where to send your man with the knife? Make it look like a robbery?’
Gus nodded. ‘Yes. She is loyal to me. She only left because Darren had his head turned by my brother. She wishes to return to my employment. As does Darren, really.’
Easy pickings, I thought. No wonder Darren was so relaxed about the situation. He was never in any danger. I wondered how many times he thought he’d be able to turn the trick before calling it a day. He probably thought he was bullet proof but your luck has to turn eventually. I heard police sirens in the distance. Turning to Ahmet, I told him there was no need for me to be here. He could sort out Darren’s side orders business if he wanted to. I wasn’t interested. The night was cold and I was tired. I’d tell Don to raise an invoice tomorrow. I put my hands in my pockets and headed back to the car.

BIO:

Nick Quantrill's novel, 'Broken Dreams,' featuring Private Investigator, Joe Geraghty, will be published by Caffeine Nights, late 2009. For more info, take a look here:
www.myspace.com/hullcrimefiction

RETRIBUTION by David Barber

Retribution

A single drop of blood fell from the tip of the knife and onto the pub floor. It’s amazing that in the movies there is blood all over the knife, but in reality there is very little. It’s almost as if the blade gets wiped clean as it’s pulled out. Granted, I mean if you stab a person multiple times then it’s going to be a bloodbath, it will be all over the blade, the floor and probably the walls, but one fatal stab usually leaves your knife quite clean.

Anyway, back to what I have to tell you. There was silence as the victim stared into my eyes, realising what had just happened. The blade had entered his body just below the breast bone in an upward thrust, piercing his heart. It’s funny that as his heart rate went from maybe 80 to zero, mine went from 60 to 120 in just a few seconds. You wouldn’t believe it but killing somebody can actually have a positive affect on your health as, as your adrenaline flows through your body, your heart rate races thus burning calories. I’m not too sure what amount of calories you burn in the few minutes that it takes you to carry out the act and come to terms with what you have just done, but I think it has got to be a fair few.

I’m drifting again.

All of a sudden there was an ear splitting scream that came from my left. My victim must have just still been able to register this, as his eyes went from my face to his right. His head didn’t move and his mouth stayed open in a silent wail. I turned my head and saw the woman he had been standing with staring at us in total disbelief.

“Gordon! Nooooooo! Pleeease God no, not my Gordon.” She wailed. She wasn’t a very attractive woman and maybe in her late twenties but looked older. She was certainly younger than the dying man slowly loosing his grip on my shoulders.

Gordon Wainwright was the man’s name, 58 years old and currently living, not for much longer, in the small village of Bowden, Cheshire. What many people were unaware of was that Gordon Wainwright was not his real name. He was not from the picturesque Cheshire village. He wasn’t even from Cheshire. He was from Blackpool and his real name was Ralph Perkins.

“You bastard!” the woman shrieked as her ‘Gordon’ fell to the floor in a heap. She fell to her knees, rolled him over and cradled his head. His lifeless eyes staring past her and up at the ceiling. If his spirit was waiting for the light to the special place, it was going to be waiting a long time. There was only one place that Ralph Perkins was going and the flames would be licking round his soul soon enough.

“Why? You fucking bastard, why? She cried rocking back and forth. “He’s never done anything to you. We don’t even know you, you murdering bastard!”

I stood looking down on them, motionless and then my eyes scanned around the room of the pub. It was the first time I had even noticed the people in there. On a quick count there were five men and two women plus the two at my feet. Everyone was staring at me open mouthed, fear etched into their faces. A large built man was making his way from behind the bar. I realised he must have been the landlord. He held his hands up in front of him as he approached.

“Take it easy now. Let’s just take it easy. Why don’t you give me the knife and we can call the po…”

I stopped the big man before he could finish his sentence by lifting my knife hand, only to open the right hand side of my jacket. In the inside pocket I took out an envelope and offered it to him.

“You should look at this before you call the police.. It may change your mind.”

“Careful George,” one of the men by the bar said. I looked at him and still holding out the envelope assured the man that it wasn’t George who I was after. Nor was it any of the other people inside the pub.

“I came for one person and he is now lying dead at my feet. I have no other business here.” I told the people looking at me.

George took the envelope from me and stepped back. The woman was still sobbing on the floor next to the now dead Ralph Perkins. I looked down at the woman.

“How long have you known Gordon?” I asked her.

“Not…..long….enough. And…now….you’ve…taken…..him…away…from....me!” she replied between sobs.

“HOW LONG?”

“Two…maybe three weeks.” She replied, this time looking up at me. Her mascara had run down her cheeks, her eyes were red and I couldn’t help but think that I was looking down at Alice Cooper.

“How much did he pay you?”

“What?.......How do you kn…..?” her reply was cut short.

“What did he make you wear?” I pushed.

“Wha….”

“Answer me NOW!”

“Uniforms,” she blurted, “School uniforms,” tears ran freely down her cheeks.

“What else? What else did the sick fucker make you do?”

“Wrap hand….towels around myself….and make me suck….dummies. Oh m..m..my god. Pleeease god…..wh…what have I…..”

“How old are you?”

“Tw…twenty…..two,” was her reply.

“Fuckin’ hell,” I sighed, “you need to get yourself sorted out. Keep up what you’re doing and you’re going to end up like Ralphy boy there,” I finished, looking down at the stiffening corpse at my feet. It was then that I noticed blood on my t-shirt between my open jacket and a small pool of it around my left foot.

“Oh….bastard!” I sighed more to myself than anything.

“Ralph?”

“Shut it! Get up and go, now. Don’t ask questions, don’t turn round. Just go!”

The woman hesitated a moment too long so I bent down and grabbed her under her left arm, lifting her to her feet.

“GO!” I snarled into her ear, “Go home and forget about what has happened here. You’ll understand soon enough. Keep an eye on the TV. You’ll thank me for saving your life. Go.” I finished, pushing her towards the pub entrance.

During this time, George the landlord had been watching the proceedings and not opened the envelope. He stepped in front of the leaving woman.

“I don’t think that is too good an idea. The police will want witnesses so I don’t think anybody should leave,” he offered, putting a hand on her shoulder.

I looked George directly in the eyes. “Open the envelope George and let the woman leave. She won’t say a thing to anybody about this. Neither will anybody else here when they know.”

George reluctantly let the woman leave and then slowly opened the envelope. His eyes darted from side to side as he read the information on the paper. His eyes welled with tears as he finished the first page and started the next. Outside blue lights flashed in the darkness of the night.

“George, George. I need a back door. George….?”

George looked up at me, a tear running down his cheek and falling from his chin. He sniffed and wiped a large hand across his face. He passed the documentation to the man who had warned him earlier and walked towards me, placing a hand on my upper arm.

“This way,” he said, ushering me towards the rear of the pub.

“That’s not the police out there. It’s a special team who will come in, move the body and clean up with no questions asked. They don’t know my identity and I don’t know theirs. It will be like nothing has ever happened” I told him as we walked down a short hallway.

“It doesn’t make it right you know. It’s still murder. Cold blooded murder,” George said opening the back fire door.

“I know George. It’s not right. But it wasn’t right that my four year old boy was taken from me. That too was cold blooded, but he didn’t choose to have his life taken away. The likes of Ralph Perkins chose that for him and there’s still many, many more out there and if I can eradicate as many as is humanly possible while I can, then I can sleep at night. Ralph Perkins served two years of a five year sentence for…”

George cut me short. “I know, I read the document, but…..” he hesitated, “it won’t bring your boy back.”

“No, George, it won’t. But each one I take away from the public, because this fucking government and the do-gooders that are part of won’t, then I can save other children from the same fate as my son. I will meet my son again George, when the time is right but until that time I have to do this. Right or wrong.”

As I finished what I was saying my mobile buzzed in my jeans pocket. I fished it out and looked at the screen, reading the text message.

Chorlton, Manchester. More details to follow.

“Got to go George,” I said and walked out into the night, hearing the door being pulled shut behind me.

* * * *

My locations are set up for me by, well; we’ll not go into that right now. I get my text message and make my way there, and I get the job done within two days. More information is then sent via text once I’m there and I suss out the place and the victim.

Ralph Perkins was my fourth. It gets easier with each one but the first was obviously that hardest thing I’ve done in my life. Only because of my son was I able to carry out the task. I cried for days on and off but then realised that I really hadn’t done anything wrong. I think maybe the tears were for my son more than anything. Maybe one day I’ll tell you about the previous three, I’m sure you’d be interested but at this moment in time I’ve got things to do. I won’t give it two days for this one. I seem to get more of a hunger for it with each one.

I’ll be in touch soon enough with my latest news and maybe fill you in on one of my previous victims, but until then take care..

* * * *

Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Vincent Mitchell, father of Ben Mitchell and ex husband of Fiona Mitchell and for advice; there are more legal ways to burn calories.

Bio:
Manchester born and bred, but now living in Crieff, Scotland with wife, Lisa, and our two daughters, Imogen & Melissa. Wrote some years ago but have recently been inspired to write again by an old and good friend (Col Bury) and the beauty that surrounds me up here. Always reading - when not entertaining my girls and working - crime and horror…and now writing.

Rapid Posts

Hey all, I've just posted a few great new stories all in one bash. Make sure you don't miss the latest from Lee Hughes, Paul Brazill, AJ Humpage and James C. Clar...plus these come hot on the heels of some other great stories so be sure to check further down the listing on the right to make sure you haven't missed anything.
Matt

KINGDOMS SIN by Lee Hughes

Part Eight of Lee's epic, The Osseous Box

Kingdoms Sin


"Hello?"

Billy stopped what he was doing. He recognised the voice from by the river the night before. He looked down into the face of the man he was throttling with a length of kettle flex.

Billy caught the flicker of hope in the man's baby-blues. He could see him conjuring up one last burst of survival strength.

He couldn't let that happen. He'd chosen to strangle the man because it was less barbaric. After having opened a man's skull with a baseball-bat Billy had decided there was a level of violence that wasn't for him. Strangling was like putting them into a permanent sleep, it was peaceful.

Now, there was no option. He reached for the knife on the counter and planted it into the man's face. Something inside the man switched off instantly.

"Hello?" Louder this time.

Billy let go of the knife and stood.

"One minute. Hold your horses." Billy rushed for the man's bag and rummaged through it for the cook's uniform.

It wasn't a bad fit. He donned the white cap to conceal his lank hair. The shoes didn't fit. He'd have to go barefoot. He'd just have to try and keep them out of sight.

He made for the door, something caused to him glance back. He looked at the folded form.

He wondered when murder had become so undemanding.

He knew it was when the Devil had made Billy His shoe-leather.

*

The man and the woman looked at him as he walked to the counter. The woman twisted in her seat embarrassed for staring and began to bother the salt and pepper shakers.

Billy smiled.

“Sorry about that. It's just me here today, what can I get you?” He asked it as though it were his proper job.

The man nodded.

Billy could tell straight away that the man was dangerous. He'd proven it the previous night.

The man asked. "I was wondering if we could have a look around the visitor's centre?"

Billy paused for a moment, running through scenarios in his head.

"I have a couple of things to do first. Can I get you any refreshments?"

"I'll have a coffee thanks." The man said. Billy watched as he looked to the woman. She was nice-looking, in a plain way.

She smiled. "Cup of tea for me, please."

Billy managed another smile even though his jaw throbbed.

"Coming up." He turned and limped back to the kitchen.

*

Billy unwound the flex from the man's neck and plugged it back into the kettle. He leaned up against one of the worktops whilst the water boiled and decided what to do.

It was all down to him. The beast wouldn't come until dark. Everything was at his doorstep and failure was something Billy didn't even wish to think about.

He scribbled down their order on a piece of paper to make it look as though the whole sham was above board.

With the knife hidden down the back of his pants he was ready.

*

The order ticket fluttered to the floor. Billy made an attempt to pick it up. The man moved to help.

Billy didn't pause or dither. He pulled the cook's knife and stepped around behind the woman and set the blade tight to her gullet. Tight enough that she would know that any more pressure and she'd be bleeding, any deeper after that and she'd be blowing bubbles through her neck.

Billy liked the look in the man's eyes. The man clearly didn't like being fooled.

"Don't be an idiot." The man said.

Billy said, "Take it you were the one that blindsided me last night?"

The man surged forward in his chair. Billy didn't think twice, he added a little pressure and could feel the lip of the blade sink through her skin.

The man stilled, and then eased back.

Billy smiled. He'd just seen a weakness; the man was a good-guy. If it had been a film he'd have been wearing white.

"You wanted to see the visitor's centre, so let's go. You've got some digging to do." Billy nodded with his head towards the door and asked.

"What's your name?"

The man had already started for the door. He didn't stop or look back. "Jon."

"Well, Jon, I'm, Billy. Go and pull the cords down from the blinds over there please."

"Why?" Jon looked around this time.

"Two reasons. The first being, I said so. The second being, that I want you to tie up that dog of yours. Take it you brought it with you?"

Jon's eyes hardened.

"Don't take me for an idiot, Jon." Billy gave the knife a little wiggle and freed some more blood.

Jon swallowed hard. He looked into Beth's eyes and nodded to her to show her everything would be fine.

That was the hardest look he'd ever given. He could see the blood on her neck, no longer a thin beaded necklace. Now it was more of a cravat. She didn't look to be handling it well either.

He couldn't blame her for that.

Jon walked without a word over to the first set of blinds. He didn't care about delicately removing the cords, he grabbed and he yanked and he brought down most of the rig. He planted a foot on the slats and tugged the cord free.

He did the same to the next. He paused to hitch in a couple of breaths to calm himself. Being in a rage was no way to sort this out. He bundled up the cord and headed to the door. He looked back at Billy.

"You coming?" there was a level of dare in it.

Billy gave a smile and a 'Wish-I-could' shrug' and said, "I'll wait until you've got the Littlest Hobo secured. Make those knots tight, I don't want to make any sudden movements."

*

Jon sucked in the crisp morning air.

The dog was looking up at him.

Jon tied the two lengths of cord together and spied the drainage pipe at the corner.

"Come on."

The dog looked at Jon and then at the door. It was as if the dog knew that something was going on inside. It looked at Jon with a questioning tilt of its head, and then limped after him.

*

Jon was expecting the dog to fuss as he put the lasso over his head. It stayed still, not even pulling at the cord once it was tied off.

*

Jon opened the door. "The dog's tied up."

"Head over to the Visitor's Centre and un-lock the door." Billy tossed the key over.

Jon snapped it out of the air.

He concluded that the man was a psycho, but he wasn't an idiot. He wondered about the cook. He knew he would be dead. He knew whoever was supposed to be manning the Visitor's Centre would be dead too.

*

He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The top hit a medley of bells that instantly grated on Jon's nerves. He reached and pulled then from the hook and tossed them to the ground.

That's when he saw the feet. They were sticking out from behind the counter. Jon ventured deeper.

He looked over the counter and shook his head. The woman had been in her fifties. Jon could still see the man's fingers stained into the soft of her throat. He hated seeing people strangled. Eyes nearly forced from their sockets. Tongue fat and seeking freedom through blue lips. He could smell her piss and shit in the air.

Jon found a throw and covered her with it.

"I had to." Billy said from the doorway.

Jon looked past Beth who had the same vacant stare that she'd had the previous night in the car.

"I'll say the same, once I'm done with you."

Billy ignored it and tossed the shovel they'd brought with them down on the floor.

"The floorboards should come up easily enough. If I were you I wouldn't dawdle. You'll want to have the digging done and be on your way before it gets dark. There won't be anyone to save you when the beast comes."

Jon picked up the shovel. "You'll kill us anyway."

"Just dig up the box and I'll let you go. The beast won't."

Jon set the blade of the shovel in-between two of the floorboards and put some weight behind it causing the wood to creak.

*

As he levered the first board up he knew he had to bide his time. Besides, he was digging and that had been what he had planned to be doing anyway. The original idea didn't involve Beth being held at knife-point.

An hour in and he had his shirt off. The palms of his hands were red-raw. At least the majority of the floor-boards were up.

Two hours in and he'd ripped a couple of strips from the shirt to wrap around his hands.

A couple of times the aches slowed him. Those times he'd just look at Beth in the corner with Billy standing behind her.

*

The soil was solid and rocky as hell. Jon had discarded the shovel and was excavating rocks by hand.

*

Near the end of the third hour he needed a few moments rest. He didn't ask permission. He took his sweat-greased body over to a chair and sat down.

"Thirsty?" Billy asked.

Jon stared at Billy.

He wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But part of him, the thirsty part wanted water.

"Yeah." He looked at the hole and kept quiet about feeling the blade of the shovel connect with something that was neither soil, nor stone.

"We'll be back in a minute. Don't do anything foolish." Billy pulled Beth towards the door.

Jon waited until the door closed and rushed and dropped into the hole and began to clear away the coating of soil. His heartbeat quickened, he'd found bone.

*

Beth felt the knife leave her throat. She could see the crook of the man's arm so knew that the blade wouldn't be too far away.

She spied the dog watching them from where it was tethered. Its body wounded yet its eyes were keen as it followed them.

She couldn't help but see those feet in her mind. The ones that had belonged to the woman in the visitor's centre

So many deaths, undoubtedly there'd be many more. She tried to count them in her head as she was led over to the standing fridge.

She knew of the nun, Sister Gail had died for the cause. Mordecai had been slain by the beast. Two workers here and God knew how many Billy had slaughtered on his travels.

"How many people have you killed?" Beth asked.

Billy took a bottle from the fridge.

"Do you want a bottle?" He asked with his mouth beside her ear.

"How many?" Beth persisted.

Billy took that as a no and started moving her back towards the door. He was doing the maths in his head.

"Since I got mixed up in this I've killed a man with a baseball bat, strangled two, stabbed another, and hurt countless others. But if it's either them or me, it's not even a question."

"And you'll be adding me and Jon to that tally." There was a hollow feeling in her stomach. This was all her fault, she should have been wary of an attack. Instead she had let this poor excuse of a man make a prisoner out of her, out of Jon too.

"Depends on whether you both play the game my way."

"Bullshit!" her anger came fast. She even surprised herself. If she stopped and thought about it that was the first time she'd sworn in over a decade.

"Easy." Billy warned as he opened the door and moved her through it.

"Do you know what Jon will do to you?"

"Absolutely nothing whilst I've got you." Billy could feel her body tensing. She was cracking up. It didn't surprise him; it wasn't exactly a normal run of events that she'd found herself a part of.

She knew it was the truth. Jon would remain a prisoner as long as she was.

"You, you're evil. The Devil's in you all the way! And you'll keep on killing and hurting until someone kills you!"

"Probably." He opened the door and moved her through.

Jon was still sitting where they'd left him which was good figured Billy.

*

Jon quickly covered it again with soil and retook his seat. He decided he'd dig around it and then give the plan he'd come up with a try. He figured it would work. At the very least it would get Beth away from Billy.

The door opened. Jon watched as Beth came in. Her eyes were wild, the knife up close and personal with her throat.

Billy had a slight look of concern on his face. "Jon, tell the lady to calm down."

"Beth…" Jon began.

But Beth's eyes had gone to the wild state. "Jon, you have to stop him."

She grabbed Billy's arm to keep it still and thrust herself neck-first onto the blade. She knew the moment she breathed steel she had freed Jon.

"NO!" Jon roared and dived forward.

He knew it was too late.

He altered his course.

Billy was stunned, giving Jon the upper hand. He grabbed at the knife arm and twisted it as they both fell.

Jon heard the satisfying crack of Billy's arm being snapped at the elbow joint. He ignored the knife and began to pummel Billy into unconsciousness. Jon didn't stop there. He got the shovel and busted open Billy's head like an egg.

Jon fell back. He didn't need to be a doctor to know a dead person when he saw one. He'd killed Billy just as he'd killed all those others.

He crawled over Billy's body to get to Beth's.

She laid there, her eyes finding great interest in the ceiling. Her throat was open in a wide grin, the blood still flowing. Her lips were twitching, trying for a smile.

Jon reached and held her hand for comfort as she journeyed away. He closed his eyes. He'd known her all of a day, but it made him hurt just as if he'd known her for an eternity. It wasn't love, it was guilt. He'd brought her out of the safety of her library to use as a map. He'd gotten her caught up in all of this…this shit.

Jon looked away, sick of the sight of death. All his eyes found were the feet of the woman Billy had strangled.

He felt dizzy. He clambered to his feet and staggered over to the large hole that he'd been digging. He picked up the shovel. He gripped it tight enough to purge fresh blood from the gashes in his knuckles that he'd earned from beating Billy.

He raised the shovel over his head and looked down to where the box was hiding beneath a thin sheet of muck, the box that was the cause of it all.

***

Bio:

Lee Hughes's short fiction has, or is due to appear on, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, A Twist of Noir, Powder Burn Flash, FlashShots, Blink-Ink, MicroHorror, Every Day Fiction, Daily Tourniquet and in Cern Zoo: Nemonymous Nine.

Visit http://www.leehughes.net/

DECEIT by A J Humpage

Deceit


Darkness descended quickly. Orange tinted clouds rolled and billowed forward. Grey layers began to form above the forest like a bank of fog.
The rain was coming.
Dan Foster closed the sash window. A few silvery beads of rain hit the pane, then some more, leaving intricate, vein-like threads clinging to the glass. Water reflected the low light from the cottage as it rolled towards the window ledge, collecting like shuddering mercury pools along the sill.
A reflection in the glass caught his eye.
Her shadow moved.
He turned to face his 15-year-old stepdaughter. Her hair was down, released from the ponytail that she always wore. It softened her delicate features. She looked somehow older. Beautiful. More appetising.
He licked his lips. Thinking about what was to come. His expression was cold, despite his deceptive smile.
A stilted silence curled around them. The rain came heavier against the windows, quickly replacing the hush of the previous hour.
‘I’m going for my shower,’ Louise said. ‘It’s freezing up there. Can you stoke the fire or something?’
His blue eyes glittered through the darkness, easily pulling her into his gravitational field like a wayward satellite. His voice was like sandpaper. ‘Sorry, love. I’ll get some more wood.’
Her tongue flicked behind the curl of her lip. ‘Good, ‘cos it always gets cold in this place. My other stepdad kept some firewood in the shed. Should be plenty in there. There’s a torch in the utility cupboard.’
‘It’ll be toasty by the time you’ve had your shower,’ Dan said, glancing at the time. It was approaching 7.30pm and he needed to call his wife, Diane – Louise’s mother – to let them know they got to the cottage okay. They had left London that afternoon for their long weekend in the Lake District.
Diane would follow as soon as she finished work. She’d been talking about it for weeks, and planned a romantic weekend.
He’d planned death.
He removed the mobile phone from his shirt pocket, dialled Diane’s number, and heard her voicemail. He realised she was driving, otherwise she would have picked up. ‘Hey, it’s me. We got here okay. I got a bottle of red waiting for you. Watch out for the rain. See you soon.’ He placed the phone on the side table and grabbed his jacket from the back of the sofa.
Louise stopped on the stairway and watched him.
Dan opened the utility cupboard in the kitchen and found the torch. He noticed Louise watching him, her expression galvanised with a frosty veil. She was still, askance eyes silently gauging him.
An hour didn’t seem long, but he desperately wanted to take her before Diane arrived. There would be enough time afterward to enjoy the girl even more.
He closed the cupboard and opened the back door to the darkness.
There was little wind - just the soft hiss of the rainfall through the trees, and a hint of coolness. He stepped out, panned the torch across the darkness. An eerie, maligned forest glowed briefly in the flashlight before sinking back into the blackness. Water cascaded down his face and into his mouth. It tasted tinny.
He made his way down a narrow path towards the outhouse. Slick paving slabs glowed beneath his light. A rickety old shed emerged from the gloom.
He lifted the latch and stepped inside, listened to the downpour as it drummed softly against the corrugated roof. Dust particles flitted through the amber torch beam. Thick, gauzy cobwebs wavered in the draught seeping through the old windows. He sensed movement, flashed the torch.
Long legged shadows scuttled along the far wall.
He shone the torch around the worktops, gazed at the stacked firewood by the windows, and slowly grazed the light across rusty tools hanging from hooks on the far wall. A large shovel stood against the worktop.
But it was the large rusty screwdriver on the edge of the counter that made his eyes dilate, and mouth salivate. He could almost hear the its raw sound, the squelch of metal against bone. It would cause maximum damage and minimum fuss.
Adrenaline squirted into his stomach at the thought of driving it into Louise’s skull. A pulse shot into his groin. He grabbed the screwdriver and slipped it into his back pocket.
He moved the shovel to the corner, by the door, then reached for the logs. He managed three in his arms and made his way back outside. He looked up; saw Louise hovering at the window like a distorted reflection. She remained expressionless, yet there was something in her pale aura that intrigued him, invited him. She vanished from view.
He pulled the logs in tight to his chest and angled the torch towards the back door. Silver flecks of drizzle danced in the torchlight and guided him back towards the door.

* * *
Louise stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and quickly dried herself to stave off the cold.
Beyond the bathroom door, the darkness heaved; the stairway creaked.
She looked up, held herself still. No other sound came.
The light from the bathroom cast an eerie glow cross the landing. But there was no evil shadow lurking, except in her imagination. She eased forward, peered around the door.
Through the banister rails, she could see Dan in the front room, stoking the fire. Relieved, she quickly dressed in fresh underwear and left the bathroom.

***
Dan looked up at the thick umbra clinging to the landing; saw her shadow casting elfin sprites across the walls.
He slipped the screwdriver into the back of his trousers and slowly ascended the stairs. He reached the top, stood at the edge of the darkness clouding the hallway.
Light from her room cast a harsh diagonal slash through the dark.
He oozed forward, placed a hand against her door and slowly swung it open.
She was facing the mirror, dressed in her underwear, her long, dark hair caressing the small of her back.
Darkened thoughts pounded his frontal lobe like a persistent headache.
Two years had drifted by since he first met her mother. At first, his disposition was naturally cautious with her, after all, she’d just lost her husband in a terrible, freak accident. But he was patient. He rarely stayed longer than a year with any of them, but this widow came with a prize worth the effort of entering into marriage with her – her newly acquired fortune from her late husband.
And this one came with an added bonus: the girl.
Of course, thirteen was a little too young for his tastes, so he patiently waited for the onset of puberty. Now Louise was ripe and oozing sexual odour.
She would be his first child.
Sometimes the urges felt like a strong wind, blowing anti-clockwise around his mind, whipping up the dust and debris before settling swiftly into dark recesses. He had no control over them, especially since Louise’s recent flirtations. He knew the esoteric glances, the calculated flashing of her legs or a naked shoulder served only to entice him into her subtle sexual games. She teased him, she knew what she was doing, but he somehow kept from imploding.
He had been looking forward to the chance to get both of them alone. He’d been planning this for months. The cottage was perfect, on the edge of a forest, isolated. No one for miles. No interruptions. No distractions. No help.
He could do what he wanted once he’d killed them – he could play with them, bathe them, dress them and fuck them.
He’d planned everything. Right down to the lies he would tell the police.
Now his urges were swelling with each kill, and so was his fortune. He’d come here to kill, to finish what he’d started two years ago. Diane’s fortune, the townhouse back in London, and the cottage, would become his. Then he could move on to the next poor bitch.
Movement brought him to, and he glanced up.
He crept forward.

* * *
Minutes. That’s all it took for him to pin her to the wall and rip at her underwear. He slipped his hand into her knickers.
Her stomach contracted, churned. She squeezed her eyes shut. Fluid spilled from her pores and dribbled down her face.
He could smell her fear. He knew he was hurting her. Her whimpers made him swell and he quickly unzipped himself and forced himself inside her.
She winced; skin sickened.
The more intensely he looked at her pain, the more excited he became. He slipped his right hand behind his back and grabbed the screwdriver from his back of his trousers.
Tears formed in her eyes, gluing together her eyelids.
The smell of sweat clung to the air like dusted particles; the sound of sex sullied the silence, but another sound broke through the atmosphere, and it made Dan stop.
The slow drip...drip...drip of dripping water filtered through the hallway.
He looked to the darkness beyond the bedroom door, his heartbeat stifling his thoughts. He turned back to Louise.
Her eyes clouded with fear. He continued, but the constant drip made him look again at the doorway. He thought the sound was drawing closer.
A sound spilled from Louise’s mouth; hot breath over cold lips. ‘No…’
Dan looked down at her. His grip tightened around her throat; a red handprint seared her alabaster flesh. He was still inside her. He had to finish, had to kill her. He continued to thrust, his body pinning her to the wall as he neared orgasm.
He grabbed the screwdriver, swiftly aimed it at the centre of her skull.
She saw it; her eyes shot wide, body jolted.
He held her firm; thrust the tool down towards her face.
A scream punctured the silence and startled the darkness into momentary retreat, quickly followed by a muffled thud. A long, pitiful moan clung to the walls for some time before eventually petering out.

***

Blood oozed across the wooden floorboards. The table lamp flickered from the floor where it had fallen, intermittently highlighting startled, ghostly faces.
The body sprawled near the door twitched for a while as severed nerve endings struggled to function. Red sinew and cartilage glistened; muscle bulged through the deep laceration across the neck. Veins continued to pump blood for a short while.
Diane Porter threw down the shovel. Droplets of rain threaded down her face. She looked at her daughter.
‘What the hell took you so long? A second later and would have had me.’
Diane stared down at her husband. He was still twitching. The bony white of Dan’s spine poked through the sliced muscle and seemed the only thing keeping his half-decapitated head attached to his neck.
‘I couldn’t find the damn shovel,’ Diane gasped. ‘Son of a bitch must have moved it.’ She stepped over the body. ‘Anyway, what does it matter? It’s done.’ She couldn’t hide her exhilaration. ‘We did it, Lou. I can’t believe it went exactly to plan. You had him right where we wanted him.’
Louise’s voice was cold. ‘Two years’ deception well spent, don’t you think?’ She stared down at her dying stepfather. ‘Fucker didn’t see that comin’.’
Diane’s eyes were like blackened stones. ‘At last his money is ours.’
Dan was the third man they had despatched in the last four years. A rich, stupid fool.
Louise slowly wiped Dan’s spattered blood from her mouth and neck. She smiled, licked her lips. Her body tingled from the adrenaline. The urge to do it all again was strong, needy, but that was the trouble with deceit. It was like an addiction – and she couldn’t wait to do all it over again.

***

BIO:

AJ works full time for a local authority, but in her spare time she write articles for local business magazines, short stories and poetry, and has just completed her first novel.

STORMY WEATHER by James C. Clar

TKnC welcomes James with some...

Stormy Weather

“I'll never understand it, Rich, how could you do this to me?”

Karen Atwater turned away from her husband and looked out the sliding glass door leading to her lanai on the tenth floor of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel on Waikiki Beach. The normally bright yellow sun was a pale orange. Gone, too, were the white, fluffy clouds. They had been replaced by towering masses of black, violet and indigo. The clouds reminded Karen of three-day-old contusions. Hurricane Felicia was bearing down on the islands. The trade winds, too, had all but disappeared and it had been extraordinarily hot and humid for most of the week. Forecasters were fairly certain that the system would weaken to the level of a tropical storm by the time it hit Oahu, but even that didn't lift the young woman’s spirits

“Come on, Karen,” Rich Atwater replied. He came up behind his wife and placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. Karen pulled away without even attempting to hide the aversion she felt at his touch. “I had no idea Cindy was going to be here at the ‘Royal the same time we were.”

Upset as she was, Karen couldn't help but laugh.

“It’s bad enough that you're having an affair, but don't you dare insult my intelligence like that. You've been fooling around with Cindy Drake for months now, everyone knows it. You surprise me with a ‘dream vacation’ to Hawaii. You say you want to start over. You insist we stay here, one of the more expensive places on our list, and you expect me to believe that Tom and Cindy Drake just happen to be staying in the same hotel as we are at precisely the same time?”

Before her husband could respond, Karen grabbed her purse from the foot of the bed and headed out the door. “I'm going for a walk,” she said over her shoulder. “I have my keycard. I don't know when I'll be back. I'm sure you can find something … or someone … to occupy your time.”

***

“Run through it for me again, would you, Mrs. Atwater?” HPD Detective Higa urged the attractive but distraught woman sitting on the plastic chair across from him in a small back room of the Waikiki police substation on Kalakaua Avenue five hours later. Noise from the snack bar and surfboard rental kiosk next door seeped in through the thick, double-pane windows. Not even the lousy weather was enough to keep the visitors – or the locals for that matter – off the beach and out of the water.

“It’s like I told you before. My husband and I had another stupid argument. I left our room and went for a walk. I went all the way down the street and past that convention center. You know; the building with all the glass and the roof that looks like waves?

Higa folded his hands on the cigarette-scarred table in front of him and nodded. “Then what happened?”

"I came back toward the hotel along the canal. I ended up over there at the International Marketplace. Just like I said the last time I told you. There was an old woman in a booth beneath that big, weird-looking tree in the middle of the complex. She was advertising potions or lotions to cure everything that ails you or to fulfill your every desire. It was called ‘Aunty Alina’s’ or something like that. I've never gotten the hang of all those crazy Hawaiian names. Anyhow, I was so hot and tired. I figured what the hell? Maybe there’s still some magic left in the islands like they say in all those tourist brochures.”

Higa smiled wanly. His partner, Detective Kanahele, shook his head briefly but definitively as he turned to look out the window at the ocean and a red and yellow catamaran making its way slowly east toward the Ala Wai Yacht Harbor in the phosphorescent twilight. A long frigate bird soared high overhead. Everything seemed etched with a particular vividness by the gathering storm. Kanahele had, of course, already checked. No one had ever heard of this “Aunty Alina” Karen Atwater was claiming to have consulted. Standing quietly in the corner of the room, the investigator was mystified. Why anyone would be “steppin’ out” on this Atwater ‘frail in the first place was, so far as Kanahele was concerned, the only real mystery that needed to be solved.

“I asked the old lady if she had anything that, you know, might stop my husband from playing around. I mean, I was at my wit’s end. I had nowhere else to turn,” Karen explained. “She gave me that stuff in the bottle you guys confiscated. I was desperate. When I got back to the room, Rich was there … which kind of surprised me. I suggested we have some wine and talk things out. When he wasn't looking, I put a few drops in his glass, just like the lady told me to.”

Sobbing again now, young Mrs. Atwater dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

“Yeah, well,” Higa responded with the barely restrained cynicism of a veteran policeman, “the old Aunty was right. Your husband won't be playing around on you anymore, that’s for sure. Guess she just forgot to tell you that he won't be breathing again any time soon either.”

Higa closed his notebook and stood up. He and Kanahele left the room. Damn, they both thought at the same time, years of working together had given them an almost eldritch synergy, this storm’s worse than a full moon!

***

BIO:

James C. Clar's work has been published in print as well as on the Internet. Recently he has placed short fiction in the Taj Mahal Review, Golden Visions Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Word Catalyst Magazine, Orchard Press Mysteries, 365 Tomorrows, Flashes in the Dark, Shine:The Journal of Flash, Everyday Fiction, Powder Burn Flash, Apollo's Lyre, Antipodean Sci-Fi, Flashshot, Orchard Press Mysteries and the Magazine of Crime & Suspense.

CRIMSON TRAIL by Paul D. Brazill

Crimson Trail

The stage coach shook and rattled, like a drunk in the first stages of withdrawal, invading Frank’s dreams and dragging him into consciousness. He opened his eyes but the day was as bright as a migraine and he clamped them shut again.

He counted to ten and slowly peeled back his eyelids. The coach was hot and cramped. A little old man with a bushy beard snoozed close to to the window, beside him a beautiful blond with a red ribbon tied around her neck sat reading the bible, eyes filled with tears.

All Frank could see outside was desert until a flock of screeching vultures, looking more like bats, sliced across the sky. The woman glanced over at him muttering to herself. He fiddled in his jacket pocket for his canteen of whisky and took a drink. It was empty.

How the hell had he ended up here? Was he leaving Tuscon or returning? His sleep had been fitful and stained with disturbing dreams. Or were they memories? Frank wished he could drink the whisky and wash away the dark and dingy thoughts that lurked in the murky corners of his mind. He took out a scarlet bandanna and scrubbed the encrusted blood from his hands as the stage coach came to a small town.

Tombstone. Well, it looked like Tombstone but why was everything painted red? He shivered as he remembered coming here with Becky. A picture of her naked on a bed, a slash of lipstick across her mouth, turned into an image of her splattered with blood. The sound of a Colt .45 echoed through his thoughts until the old man jolted him out of his reverie.

‘Frank,’ he said, ‘You’re here.’

The coach stopped and the horses screamed. As Frank and the blond got off , he realized the ribbon around her neck was blood. The main streets spilled with cavalry and Frank guessed that it must be some sort of holiday.

Was it Christmas? He couldn’t remember. He turned and saw that the old man was still on the coach waving as it rode away. The stage driver, his eyes glowing red, tipped his crimson stetson and laughed like a maniac. It was getting hotter as he walked down the Main Street, passing the deserted salloon and whorehouse. And it was getting harder to breath. Dark memories skewered his thoughts. Then he heard screams .

The sky got redder. Everything got redder. And Frank finally understood where he was and why he was there. It had been stupid of him to get involved with a woman with a history. Especially Becky’s tainted history. From their first night together, they were on a trail that was bound to end in tears. And blood.

Hers. Or his.

‘It’ll be a cold day in hell when I let you walk away from me,’ Becky had once said. She was wrong on that account. It was a red hot day. And it would only get hotter.

***

Bio:

Paul Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England and lives in Bydgoszcz, Poland. He has had stories in Powder Burn Flash, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Six Sentences, A Twist Of Noir, Thrillers Killers n Chillers and Beat To A Pulp and other such classy joints.. He can be found stalking ‘you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ at http://pauldbrazill.blogspot.com/

Polite request

While Col is out of action having just had an operation to rectify his broken hand can I ask that any submissions be sent to me at the email address in the welcome message. We might be a little slow in posting this week so please have patience while we have a patient (get it?).

Col asked that I tell you all he now knows how much pain a woman goes through in child birth!

THE ROOM NEXT TO ROOM 5 by Eric Beetner

The Room Next To Room 5

Of the four fluorescent tubes that attempted to light the room, three of them were burned out. The only help came from the ring of dingy grey light over the bathroom mirror, as if there was anything worth seeing in it. Rooms like this are made for temporary use so the motel managers can get away with slack maintenance. Most people who checked in to this room before probably stayed only long enough to shoot up or get off, often both. A room like this looks better in dim light anyway.
A man has choices, Levi thought. This is one of mine right here. He tried to think back over all the decisions he had made in life but came up blank, as if this was the first thing he’d ever had to choose. More like it was just the only one that mattered. He rationalized to him self; I guess that’s how it is between living and dying. It’s the only choice really worth making.
Levi sat on the edge of the twin bed staring at nothing. He was a man so ordinary and so average in every way that he spent his entire life denying he was someone else. “Do I know you?” people would ask. “Didn’t we go to high school together?” “Aren’t you Rachel’s brother?” “Didn’t we meet at a party last New Year’s Eve?”
Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, generic haircut and no distinguishing features will do that to you. He often wondered if he shouldn’t get a tattoo of some wild scene or even just his social security number across his wrist in case he was found dead one day and the coroner couldn’t identify him. He’d be piled him a room with all the other John Doe’s who look exactly the same. I bet none of them are in a mess like this one, he thought.
Used to be we had debtor’s prison for people who borrowed beyond their means. Then there’s chapter eleven bankruptcy but that requires that you get the money legally. (Get it before you lose it all, that is.) For Levi there was no paper trail, no receipts. There was just his word, a handshake and the promise of repayment at any cost. He never dreamed that constituted anything but cash at a substantial interest rate. Certainly not murder.
Sitting in the courtroom two months ago watching Cheryl’s trial was painful enough but when bail was set it was all Levi could do to keep himself in his seat and not try to leap over the fake wood railing and throttle the judge to try and squeeze a little reason into him. $50,000 was a lot of damn money, even if Cheryl did stab that girl and even if that girl was the daughter of a city councilman. What the hell was the little princess doing buying crystal meth then, if she’s Daddy’s good little girl? But the judge had spoken and Levi had to sit and watch his girlfriend get escorted out of the courtroom and back down to the basement holding cell to await trial. Cheryl was stoic but then she always was stingy with her emotions. Levi felt tears come to his eyes but he fought hard and they never dropped.
Until Cheryl stabbed that girl with a pocketknife (so small it could hardly do permanent damage) only Levi had been on the receiving end of Cheryl’s short temper. That had involved, over the three years since they bought the doublewide over at the Hiawatha RV and Trailer park, two instances of thrown coffee mugs – one full, one empty. A scar on his right cheek from a nail file and three across his left forearm from the nails it sharpened. One forceful kick to the testicles that caused vomiting, swelling and an elaborate lie at the Emergency Room. One hot hamburger patty lifted right out of the skillet and hurled, with alarming accuracy, by the spatula landing on Levi’s neck causing second degree burns and more lies. The loss of two toenails after Levi’s foot was shut firmly in the shower stall door.
Cheryl’s prior record of assaults on classmates and friends in high school is the stuff of rumor and legend but Levi remained unaware as he had never met anyone in Cheryl’s life. She never spoke of family, never invited friends over except when Levi was out. Levi became her blood and meth became the air she breathed. She could scarcely inhale without it.
As she was led from the courtroom, the sickly orange of her county lockup jumpsuit cast a jaundiced pallor over her face that was framed by limp hair with dark roots. Levi’s eyes moved down to her shackled hands and he could see they had cut her fingernails to the quick and she was weak like Samson because of it.
But that was then and this was now.
He had shaken hands and given his word for the bail money and now it was his responsibility. After he presented the court clerk with the cashier’s check for $50,000 Cheryl didn’t have to stay in the basement cell any longer. She kissed him, hugged him and said thank you and then went out to celebrate with her friends, which Levi knew meant getting high on crystal meth and stumbling home to the trailer after two a.m.
She didn’t come home. That was three weeks ago.
It had been four days since he checked in to the motel. He was told to wait so he did. Room 5. Don’t go out. Meals will be provided. No TV. No noise so you can hear if he shows up or not. No explanation of who “he” was. Here’s your gun. Now wait.
There it was, the tool to his salvation. 9 mm. Is that the size of the bullet? The barrel? He didn’t know. Each time he lifted it he was again struck by the weight.
One squeeze of the trigger and his debt was forgiven. One motion with only two knuckles of one finger and he was free to escape and start over. Only now his new life would be as a killer. To be a killer of men you need very little job experience. One time behind the barrel of a gun and you achieve tenure, even if you never do it again; which Levi had no plans to do.
Choices.
The bullet offered escape in more than one form. The notion had struck him long before he took up residence in Room 5. Before his first night listening into Room 6 through thin plaster covered by thick paint. The nagging thought returned each time he eased open the door a sliver to check if his white paper bag with his complimentary meal had arrived. Mornings brought a blueberry muffin tightly wrapped in plastic, which infected the taste much more than any ghost of a blueberry. Cheeseburger and soggy fries at lunch. Another cheeseburger for dinner with soggy fries and cole slaw plus a plastic wrapped cookie that claimed to be home made, complete with a picture of a smiling grandma.
His choice of targets remained: the mystery man expected to check in to Room 6 or the man who looks less and less familiar as he stares back from beneath the dull fluorescent ring in the bathroom mirror. Either way, Levi would be done with this. A bullet in his head or a bullet in mine. Only difference is what direction I point the gun.
When it first became apparent Cheryl wasn’t coming back, Levi regretted never learning about anyone else she knew. He had no idea where she might have gone beyond the threshold of the doublewide. He got in his truck once but didn’t even start the engine because he knew the futility of looking for her. He was her blood but she chose the air and left him with a bill for $50,000. Add bail jumper to the list right after coffee-mug-thrower and nail-gouger.
Somehow he knew, though, if he tried to run they would find him. Bail bondsmen have a reputation as a pretty tough lot but the kind of bail bondsmen that aren’t listed in the yellow pages and that don’t try at all to look intimidating, but in not trying end up looking twice as much so, these are the guys to watch out for. They’re also the guys to go looking for when you need $50,000 in a hurry and have nowhere else to turn.
All his dealings with them had been generous enough. When he told them he could not pay back the money there were no broken ribs, no cigarette burns,
no pinky finger taken as payment but when the proposal to get rid of his debt came up, Levi was not so foolish as to say no. One gesture of good will deserves another.
So here he waits. He unplugged the TV and put it in the closet to practice “out of sight, out of mind” but his mind was so otherwise occupied he had no interest in TV anyway. Out of boredom Levi read from the Gideon Bible and was confounded by it. So many names, so many stories. He found himself not reading the words but pulling the pages between his fingers and wondering how they got the paper so impossibly thin.
He began to play games with himself to help him in his decision.
If that last light tube goes dead, I’ll do myself. If I get something other than a cheeseburger, I’ll do him.
His getaway car sat in the lot outside, though he had never seen it. The keys were to arrive with his last meal. That would be the signal that the man in Room 6 was the right man and should immediately be shot. Levi contemplated if they intended that he should eat his meal, then shoot him or simply take his soggy fries with him to his new life in, oh what the heck, Arizona. New Mexico maybe. Or north to Montana. Note to self: get an atlas and find out least populated state. Go there.
Maybe making plans at all was for a sucker. Maybe another sap who can’t pay the bill is in Room 4 waiting for him. Let’s not forget the type of men we’re putting our trust in here.
Maybe they could find Cheryl. They have resources. After all, it’s really her debt, not mine.
Through the wall, he could hear movement. Levi imagined Room 6 as a mirror image of his own and he stalked the floor following the sound. Something heavy hit the bed. The bathroom sink turned on, and then shut off. The TV clicked on (lucky bastard).
Levi looked at, but did not lift, the gun. He thought the man in Room 6 must have done something really bad. Why else did he deserve to die? He thought up many scenarios in which this man must be involved including child pornography, killing his own Mother, drug trafficking to grade-schoolers and the slave trade of underage Filipino women. We’re all probably better off without him walking the streets.
Justifying it to himself didn’t help Levi much because he knew that most likely this was a simple and petty difference of opinion or a misunderstanding. Shit, anyone can make mistakes. Who really deserves to die? Who doesn’t?
More deals. I’ll open the Bible, point to a page and that will tell me what to do. Corinthians. Something about sheep herding. God dammit.
A thin rope of light under the door shone from the parking lot overhead lamps. A small shadow moved in and broke the rope. Levi crossed to the door.
A white paper bag. He snatched it through the narrow opening.
Inside a set of car keys and a tuna sandwich. Levi stared a long moment at the white bread and the tiny chunks of celery. A deal is a deal, even if it’s with himself. Eat the sandwich later, he decided.
Levi stepped over to the gun and was surprised by how heavy it lifted from the dresser. Overhead the fourth and final tube of fluorescent light blinked twice and then went dark.
“Shit,” Levi thought. Choices.

***

BIO:

The Room Next To Room 5 began as a short story and morphed into a novel. A novel with a lot of potential. A novel that needs work. I'd love to hear if anyone finds a guy like this in a situation like this a decent enough hook to keep you reading. If you're eager to read something right away, my debut novel co-written with JB Kohl is One Too Many Blows To The Head and it will be available in October. That one has already had all the work and it shows. Megan Abbott loved it. So did Nick Quantrill. What more do you need to know?

http://ericbeetner.blogspot.com