Physical Address
304 North Cardinal St.
Dorchester Center, MA 02124
Just Rewards
He would teach her, all right. He strode down the airport terminal and saw the way she looked at him, that other man standing near her. She laughed and threw her head back as if she’d known him her whole life. Who did she think she was fooling?
How could she? His envy rose and fell with the tide of anger. How dare she? How big a fool was he not to see it sooner? He’d walked fifteen minutes waiting to see her, he turned the corner, and she was preoccupied. Not a rush to greet him, no display of open arms, not even a smile. She was crafty, all right.
How many had she lined up while he was away? He fell for the bull about her lonely nights, her sadness of being so alone. She was alone, oh, he could see how alone she was. That guy standing with her stood rigidly. What was his problem? Who was he trying to impress? He was standard-issue military, no officer rank. What did she see in him? Was he worth it?
The question burned in his mind with the rage of an arsonist’s flames. Was it worth it? Did he do something special? Something that couldn’t be done by her fiancé? She would learn.
He had to think of something good to make her pay. Should he cheat, too? No, that was too childish. Any high school child could pull that one. Besides, he wanted her to suffer in many other ways.
The dreaded thoughts of homicide drifted through his mind. He didn’t hate the thoughts of killing so much as the risk. If that’s what he thought of her, why should he regret slaughtering her in any way he felt appropriate?
He hated being angry, damn her for bringing it out in him. It was all her fault. If she would just stay alone when he came around. She could have all the men she wanted as long as he didn’t find out about it. For when he found out, it was time to pay the devil for his song.
He’d had to do it before, but certainly never got caught. He lived with a woman in Nebraska, had to beat her up over a man. She refused to be sensible. In Georgia, he’d buried one. They were still looking for her, as they would always be. Somehow, they never understood precisely how deep that old quarry lake had been. They claimed to drag it, but obviously didn’t do an effective job.
That was his first murder. Now, this. His woman with another man, talking, laughing, she didn’t miss him. She had no indication of the slightest twinge of longing. If anything, she looked elated to see the stranger, just as much as he appeared to with her.
It wasn’t fair. Why did he have to draw in all the teases in life? Why were women always so estranged to him? He didn’t appear out of the ordinary, or too ordinary. He considered himself an attractive, outgoing person. Yet, always, when he got close, they drifted away.
He was through with women. That was the final attempt, sorry Dad. He couldn’t have the disinterest his father had. He didn’t have the appetite for women or the lust that could override common sense. He wanted to be faithful for personal reasons, not because it was acceptable. But no one was faithful to him.
His fury well-hidden, he tapped on her shoulder. Wasn’t that the slap in the face? He had to tap on her shoulder to let her know he’d arrived.
“Hello, sweetie.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ve missed you so much!”
He brushed her cheek to make it appear he kissed back. The military man responded, “Well, it was good seeing you again. I really need to run. I shouldn’t have stayed so long.”
She kissed him goodbye as well, further infuriating his wounded pride. Damn her. She deserved a brutal thrashing for humiliating him. He imagined every person in the airport watching, all wondering what she was doing. Waiting for him to blow a fuse and dramatically scorn or adore her. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of watching, nosy idiots.
He held her hand as she babbled on about the day. Had she always babbled so incessantly? She didn’t seem to need air as she went on and on. When she started talking about Eddie, his attention came back to her. It was “Eddie” this and “Eddie” that, on and on. She had Eddie on her brain and up her ass.
They walked out to the parking lot. His eyes scanned the cars and the light poles. No security cameras, no other pedestrians. No people sitting in cars as far as the eye could see. The dusk had quickly turned to night and life slowed at the airport.
They got in the car, she still babbled like an idiot. Why wouldn’t she shut up about Eddie? He didn’t want to kill her, but he was getting ready to. He wanted them to make a fresh start, but how could they with her constant chatter?
He took a deep breath and turned to face her. She still talked with the rapidity and annoyance of a magpie. He reached both hands to her throat, her soft and fragrant throat, and squeezed. She didn’t put up the fight he expected.
Her eyes bulged. She made terrible sounds of choking and wheezing. Yet, she didn’t provide the fight he expected. Disappointing. She was just as big a disappointment to murder as she was to date. She was pathetic.
He couldn’t believe how easily she passed out. He closed her airways and waited for her body to respond. It convulsed momentarily, desperately seeking oxygen. Then it went still. That problem was over.
He felt sorrow for having to do that to her, the elation for the trial being over. It was finished, he’d never have to hear about Eddie again. It was an elating moment, his chest swelled with Machiavellian sentiment for himself. He was good, of course he’d never be satisfied with someone as mundane as she.
The car started without a problem. He took it as a sign. He did the right thing.
The road went from interstate, to highway, to a small two-lane ribbon of asphalt. The last turn brought him onto a gravel road. He couldn’t find any streetlights or any houses. Perfect, he could dispose of her and pretend he never met her.
But…
What if the asshole she was flirting with said something about him? What if he narked? That could be a hard situation to get out of. He didn’t consider his value as a witness. Any prosecutor would adore the corn-fed military punk’s testimony.
Why did these technicalities always find their way into his life? He just wanted to live simply, contentedly, without suspicion or his intuition blaring night and day. His instincts were finely honed and sharp as a scalpel, ready to cut apart any opposition, real or soon to happen. Yet, that scalpel dulled when he saw her with that guy. His judgment clouded, he foolishly let his feelings take over. He punched the dash. Something was always screwing up his life.
He peeked over to her when the road straightened. She looked like she was sleeping, her eyes had returned to their normal size. Her chest was still, no rise and fall. So, that was it. He’d killed again. He never felt bad for killing people who deserved it, he hated the cleanup. The constant stream of questions from nosy detectives, their stupid concerns, as if they didn’t have anything better to do. Cases were a dime a dozen, wasn’t everyone doing something they shouldn’t? But they had to cloud over him like a black, buzzing colony of hungry flies, eager to digest his words and find any potential contradiction.
He sort of knew this road, he’d traveled it enough to have a general idea of its destination. He had no idea of where the turns led or where the branch roads might take him. He assumed they were the driveways of people who preferred isolation to civilization. That lifestyle became more appealing to him as he drove, to live free and without bondage or nosy neighbors. They were pretty damned brilliant.
He passed by a house that had blackened with age. He’d never noticed it before. It was strange, but easy to see how he could miss it. The gravel popped and his car skidded in places as he continued.
He flipped on the radio, but no station would register. He turned through the AM and FM bands with no luck at all. It figured, he was stuck out on the road with no music or news. He reached over and punched her again, it was her fault. Damn her.
The road curved left and he followed, his tires slid in areas of loose gravel. He slowed down. If he wrecked, he’d be as dead as Chantel. She was heartless, he admired her sly moves. He’d never noticed her infidelities if not for seeing her at the airport with the asshole. Unlike most women, she hadn’t given herself away with girlish sentiment or sudden changes. She’d been coy, yet cunning.
He took another turn and passed an old house. He slammed on his brakes. It was the same house, the very same one he’d passed minutes earlier.
He stopped the car and got out. God, what was this? How was it possible? There was no way on Earth the car could’ve turned in a circle, he knew his direction enough to get him out. It wasn’t possible. He knew he would’ve noticed at least one house on the road, if there were more than one.
A light shone from deep within the dilapidated house. That was strange. All the windows were gone, the front door hung from the top hinge, yet someone lived there? It wasn’t possible.
He went back to the car and got in, locking the doors behind him. He sped away, forgetting about the threat of wrecking. He could make it, the most important factor was getting away from the road. His instincts suddenly betrayed him. In his cloud of thought on getting rid of her, he’d missed their initial qualms. It was all her fault. If he wasn’t so panicked, he’d stop the car and set her body on fire. He growled in the empty car, “You stupid bitch. It’s all your fault.”
From deep within his brain, he developed an expectation that she would fight back. That he hadn’t killed her at all and she would wake up at any time. He watched the road, something was wrong. The main road didn’t go in the familiar direction.
He held his breath as the same house came by again. The light twinkled from inside the structure. It was ridiculous. Why did he even turn on this road to begin with? He could’ve chosen a shorter route.
Opportunity…
Was it an opportunity to save himself from another session of endless detective encounters? What if there was someone in there? Couldn’t he just pin her death on them, whoever they were? What was stopping him from rushing in and scaring them, then pretending they murdered his fiancé?
With any luck, it would be an old hermit, mountain man. They were stupid enough to hold mysterious and incomprehensible values and priorities. That’s exactly what he would do. Maybe it was just luck that brought him to this house again and again.
He pulled into the grassy entrance. There were traces of gravel beneath the growth. He shut the engine off and got out of the car. Who was in there? The shrill music of a fiddle echoed through the hull and out to greet him. The situation grew more bizarre by the moment.
He stepped up to the front door and knocked on the hanging door. There was no answer, but the light and the music continued to radiate through the glassless windows. He moved the door aside and stepped in.
“Hello?”
There was no answer. He guessed he was in what used to be a living room. A fabricless jumble of springs sat to his side. It was an old couch, the pink remnants of stuffing clung to the sharp edges of the metal pieces. Springs poked and prodded out in every direction.
He tiptoed on the floor, aware that he could plummet through the floorboards at any time. It was a dangerous place, how could someone live here? He reached the threshold into the rear of the tiny house.
“Hello?”
“Ah, Frank.” An old man stood. “I’ve been waiting on you.”
What? He was stunned for a moment. How did the old man know his name?
“How the hell do you know my name?”
“I know a lot, Frank. As a matter of fact, I have a lot I want to tell you.”
“About what?”
What could this old man tell him? Nothing he hadn’t heard already.
“For starters, care to sit?” He motioned towards another heap of metal. The springs and frame were covered by a thin, ragged quilt.
He stared at the furniture until the old man laughed. “No, you won’t fall through.”
“What is this place?”
“Well, just an old house. What can I say? I’m just an old hermit, mountain man.” He winked at Frank.
“What is all this? Who are you?”
“Just call me Old Sam, Frank. I’ve been a fan of yours for some time.”
“Sam, really, I need to go.” He felt like running. Old Sam would be a perfect candidate for framing, strange and unusual. He was bound to be known as eccentric and, with any luck, unstable.
“Now, what’s the rush, Frankie?”
Frank hated that name, he loathed it. Yet the mountain man used it with a laugh. He stood again and Sam grabbed his arm, his hands were powerful. That was odd. A frail old man didn’t have a powerful grip or a steady arm. Sam had both.
“I need to go.”
“No, you need to sit. Chantel is fine, no one can find her.” He said it and turned back to his chair. A fire burned in the broken fireplace, the flames seemed to laugh at him. The house was hateful and he didn’t like his companion. Frank had passed curiosity, he was afraid. Who cared how the old man knew what he did? The most important thing was getting the hell away from him.
“Tell me, Frankie,” he exaggerated the name. “You consider yourself a catch, don’t you?”
“What?”
That confirmed it, Old Sam was nutty. Crazy. Devoid of logic.
“You heard me. You think the ladies like you, don’t you?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, yes. You think the ladies like you, yet somehow they’re always cheating on you, huh?”
“I refuse to discuss this with you, it’s none of your busi—”
“Why, Frankie? Am I hitting a sore spot? Oh, that’s right, you have a fragile ego.”
That was it, he lunged for the old man. He was too shocked to continue the assault when the old man just pushed and he flew back against the wall. He slammed into the broken wall so hard the roof shook. He fell down onto the couch.
“How did you do that?” He shook his head, he still felt the hit in his bones. What the hell was that?
“Old Sam’s full of surprises, Frankie. Now, where were we?” The old man stood, the previous struggle forgotten. “Ah, yes, your fragile ego.”
“My ego is fine.”
“Are you sure? You’ve certainly murdered enough over it.”
“I have never murdered over ego.”
“What? What do you call Chantel? Victim of a freak accident where you fell and just so happened to crush her windpipe?”
Frank sat in silence. How did Sam know so much? How did he know anything? As a last resort, he tried to make the old man believe he was losing his mind.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Chantel is asleep—”
Sam roared with laughter.
Frank continued, ignoring the interruption. “She is sleeping and I must see her.”
“Come on, Frank.” The old man stood straighter, the previous frailty disappeared. It was all an act. “Let’s be real here. Did you like it?”
“I did nothing wrong.”
“I see. She was merely talking to a distant cousin, one she hadn’t seen in years. But you did nothing wrong, huh?”
“What?”
He stood. It was impossible, that wasn’t her cousin. Was it? That couldn’t have been her family, it just couldn’t. A void of question opened up beneath him and he was consumed by it. He killed Chantel because she talked to a cousin? Someone she hadn’t seen in years?
“Yes, her cousin, Frankie. And how can we forget Helen?” He shrank at the mention of the murdered girl’s name. “She talked to the people at work. Wow, big indication of cheating. Especially since she was a grocery store clerk. I just don’t know any clerks that talk to their customers, do you?” He mocked.
“Now, she was cheating.”
“Well, admitting it now, are we?” Sam grinned. Frank felt a wave of foreboding come over him. Suddenly, Sam had all his teeth and they were too white. They were more perfect than his own.
“As a matter of fact, she wasn’t cheating. She was trying to fix her friend up with one of her customers. But that didn’t matter, did it?”
Helen, she was a beauty to him. Until he figured she was cheating. She had to be. The potential guilt for his actions was overwhelming, a tidal wave of regret and agony. It wasn’t possible, though.
“You don’t know anything, Sam.” He feebly fired back. “You don’t know anything.”
“You think you’re the first jealous killer, Frank?” Sam leaned over him. “Are you so arrogant as to believe yourself any better, or more justified, than any other senseless murderer?”
“I’m not a murderer.”
“I think some would have to disagree, Frank. I hate that I have to do this, if only you’d been honest with me.”
He straightened back up and went towards the door. Did it go to the bedroom or outside? He grabbed the knob slowly and opened it, smiling as the individuals behind it came in.
“Frank, please let me reintroduce Helen and Chantel, as you made them.”
The two women came in. Helen’s skin was grainy and her internal material sloshed when she walked. She sounded like a bag of water. She came over and kissed him. Her breath smelled of formaldehyde and she reeked of decay.
“Long time no see, Frankie.”
She knew he hated that, knew he loathed that name.
Chantel was in much better condition. She was freshly dead and didn’t have the odor about her. She greeted him in the same manner, her lips were cold and hard.
“Was it worth it, Frankie?”
Sam closed the door behind him. “Now, we can spend some time getting to know one another all over again. I enjoy company.”
“I have to leave.” Frank bolted upright. “I have to leave now.”
He ran as far as the threshold to the living room and the floor fell through. Below, a deep pit. He watched the floor fall until it was out of sight, and there still was no sound of a stop.
Frank turned and flew past Sam. He threw open the back door, and a pit loomed below.
“Go ahead, Frank,” Sam urged. “Go ahead and jump, but I have to tell you, I don’t rightly know if there’s a bottom to catch you.”
“What is this place?”
“You are receiving your rewards, Frankie.” Helen stood. “Your just rewards for such an exciting life. Imagine it all. You know, we could’ve been married and had kids.”
Chantel spoke, acid in her tone. Helen looked at him with the same secretive loathing.
“Yes. And to think, all that arrogance, but his insecurity says many other things.”
“I’m not insecure, damn it.” He paused. “I was convinced you were cheating.”
“But why?” Chantel took the floor. “Why? Did we change towards you? No. Did we become secretive? No. Were there strange phone calls where the caller hung up when you answered? Not even close.”
Helen chided with her. “Oh! Don’t forget, were there strange cars around our houses? No. Did you hear about us with other men? No. Did we go out by ourselves and demand you stay home? Nope. Let’s see. I never had a strange phone number on me, did you?”
“Not once,” Chantel answered. They were good friends. Frank wished he could kill them both again. They didn’t know what they were talking about.
“I didn’t have any money missing, no secrets that carried any weight, nothing. What about you, Chantel?”
“Not once. I was an open book.”
“Imagine that.” Helen stopped and both women turned to look at him.
“Really a little man, isn’t he?”
“Tiny.”
“Will you both shut up?”
“Sorry. Can’t do that.”
Sam raised his hand and the women silenced.
“Well, Frankie boy. What do you think? This is your eternal reward.”
“Eternal?”
“Yes, don’t you remember your car swerving at that nasty turn? Well, you went over with it.”
“Bullshit. I’m right here.”
“Are you?” Sam looked curiously at him.
Frank looked down and he was intact. He looked normal. He strained to see back out the front door, the car was gone.
“Where the hell is my car?”
“Wrecked.”
“Stop saying that!”
“Crashed and smashed against a dirt bank. Would you believe it if I showed you?”
That was it. Sam would take him there and he would be free of this house.
“Sure,” he calmed.
There was a bright flash and he was standing outside. How did Sam do that? He looked across the road and broke into a run. He would prove them wrong, he wasn’t dead.
He jumped down the embankment and looked in the driver’s side door. He was there. He was looking at himself.
“What the hell?”
He opened the driver’s side door. He lay against the steering wheel. Blood had dripped out of his eyes and ears. His jaw was smashed, it didn’t look human.
“See, Frankie, see?” Sam was now standing at the top of the bank on the gravel. “Did I lie to ya?”
“You leave me alone.” Frankie scrambled up the other side of the bank. “You just leave me alone.”
He dodged the barbed wire fence and started through the field. It was promising. He was going to be far away from them all.
“I don’t think so,” came from behind him.
Right behind him. Sam was standing less than two feet from him. He whirled and broke down.
“Get away from me.”
Sam patted his back, his hand was solid and felt like a rock.
“Can’t do that, Frankie boy. You’re stuck with us.”
Another bright flash and he was stuck in the house again. The two female corpses crowded around him.
“Isn’t this cozy?” Chantel laid her head on his shoulder. “Just the three of us forever.”
“Would make a Hallmark.” Helen hadn’t lost any of her biting remarks. She was never one to swear, she had no use for profanity. But her ability to cut and to scorn with words was unmatched. As always.
Frank sat back. He had company, he supposed he deserved it. Sam stood over them all, his gray hair had turned black. His cataracted eyes were clear and icy blue. He walked to them.
“Welcome home, Frankie boy.”
