“I want payback payback.”
Jane’s response had been unambiguous.
“If he wants to try again, I don’t want to let him. I agree with Sarah about what the evidence presents, I think that Joe did it, and you already see the facts. I want payback.”
She was correct. Michael did see the facts as laid out before him. Sarah had put together a short list of what they already knew, reframing it in a way that placed Joe in the basement with a wooden knife at just the right time. If the weapon had been less distinctive, perhaps, or if Jane had fought him off in a way that did not involve an obvious physical injury, then he would have required more evidence and further explanation. But this was not a what-if. And Jane’s choice had been as clear as the scabs on her throat.
Sarah had asked for a chance for interrogation. Jane had shut her down. She had been disappointed, clearly, but he could still see the ambition in her eyes. He was expecting her to ask him to investigate Brad as soon as he had buried the next body, to get his experienced hands turning over every stone in reach. Assuming there was substantial evidence, or the potential for entertainment, he would agree. And there did seem to be the potential for entertainment when it came to Sarah.
This was not entertainment. The paring knife, sharpened far past anything required for culinary purposes, was not entertainment. The empty body bag slung over his back and clutched by gloved hands was not entertainment. The car keys buried in a small hole several feet from his car, parked on the side of the road, behind fenced-in backyards with a thin passage between the property lines, was not entertainment. It was work. The way things worked. He had work to do.
The grass was quiet underneath his steps, plant matter compressing into the shape of his bootprints with a quiet whoosh and the gentle sound of moving dirt. His hand brushed the knife in a duct tape sheath attached to his belt loop, fingertips moving past it to graze the lockpick set tucked into his waistband. He had no knowledge of the schedule of Joe’s parents, apart from the fact he was an only child, but he expected to be able to catch Joe himself alone easily enough. If he was forced to cut and run, he could easily grab the body and run back to his car as fast as he could, depending on how far away his exit point was. But it would likely be quiet, expedient, and without being witnessed.
Michael rounded the corner of the fence, Joe’s front yard coming into view, only to be greeted by a sidewalk lined by cars in either direction and music blaring from somewhere inside. He froze in his tracks, mentally checking the date.
It was Saturday.
James had never given him the address of the party he had been invited to.
“Oh, no,” Michael muttered.
This would be somewhat more difficult.
He took a few steps forward into the yard, looking up at the house. Two stories, windows in what appeared to be every room, likely a basement as well, and a large amount of people inside. A brief count of the cars pointed to ten people inside, possibly higher, based on how people liked to share cars. He decided on fifteen as a higher estimate, took another step forward, and looked through one of the ground floor windows.
The music was loud, but muffled by more than the glass. He assumed it was coming from the kitchen or somewhere else central in the house, and would be an acceptable cover for noise inside, if he kept the level low. Joe would likely be near the source of the music, given that the party was at his house and he seemed to be hosting, which left the location of assassination limited. The pantry, perhaps, or catching him off guard in a bathroom he left unlocked. If it was locked, he would have seconds to pick the lock, which would require luck. A poor thing to rely on.
He snuck over to a different window, taking in the view of the stairs to the second floor and the living room. Somebody was lying on the couch in all black, face turned towards the cushions and unidentifiable. A shadow lingered near the outside of the room, the individual at the source unclear but certainly holding a drink. Two boys, one with a ponytail and one in a bright white baseball cap, stumbled down the stairs as he watched, all laughing with each other. The person on the couch lifted their head up at that, and Michael recognized her as Kelly, Brad’s ginger friend and likely co-conspirator. The boys laughed at her, and somebody shouted at them from upstairs before they ran off towards the kitchen. Brad came thundering down the stairs, furious, and said something to a confused Kelly before jerking his thumb towards the stairs and running off after the boys. The shadow tried to stop him, only to get shoved aside, the person casting it stumbling into view of the window.
It was James, his hoodie covered in a band decal and his hand holding a red plastic cup full of something dark and alcoholic. He threw an annoyed look in the direction of Brad before taking a sip from his drink and leaning over the back of the couch, attempting to engage Kelly in a conversation. She waved a limp hand towards him and turned back into the cushions. Too much, too fast, then, or perhaps just a headache. Whichever was the case, she likely wouldn’t notice his entry or exit, or care too much if she did.
He backed away from the window, looking for the lock, but the movement caught in James’s gaze unexpectedly. His head jerked up in surprise, eyes wide, and a smile appeared as he gestured for Michael to come inside.
Michael froze mid-step, slowly shaking his head. Terrible move. He should have been more careful. He had underestimated James, and that had been a mistake, clearly. A terrible start.
James kept smiling, and Michael raised a finger to his lips, attempting to shush him. James did the opposite, walking over the window and fumbling around for the latch before flipping it and pulling the window open, his giddy expression growing brighter with every second that Michael spent standing there.
“Whatcha doing here, Mikey?”
“Nothing, James.”
“Dude, are you nervous to come inside? It’s just a party, Ken’s not even here. I mean, I know Brad is, but–”
“I am not here for a party.” Michael uttered the words with all the meaning he could put into them, willing James to understand the message hidden between the syllables. James stared at him in confusion, sticking his head out of the window to look around the empty front yard as if searching for additional answers.
“Well, that doesn’t make sense,” he said. “You don’t seem like the type to go for a booze run, do you even have a fake ID? I know you have a lot of–oh.
His eyes looked over Michael’s shoulder and past his head, at the point that he knew the body bag broke the silhouette of his shoulders with a jagged vinyl disruption. James knew what body bags looked like. He had seen Michael sort them in his closet enough times to be familiar with them, even if he had never handled any himself.
Realization washed over his face like a cloud over the moon, swift and shadowy, draining the light from him in a way that was both gradual and instantaneous. Michael saw it happen in a few moments, arms tensing in preparation. James would never beat him in a fight, but he could easily shout that he was there and ruin the plan.
“Can I join in?”
The question came from behind disturbed expression that was slowly becoming interested, surprising Michael. He tilted his head in confusion, and James took a sip from his drink again before continuing. “I mean, if you’re here to kill somebody, can I join in? I could totally spin that as a good thing, honestly! James Donovick, best friend of Michael Jay and just as deadly. I can help you bury it, I’ve brought my car, it’s all good. I don’t get why it took until now, heh, but hey, I’m down.”
Oh. This was a misunderstanding. James thought that he was doing this for social reputation, a selfish motivation to propel himself up the ladder. He would have been correct, if breaking and entering and murder held any more entertainment for him. But they didn’t. They especially didn’t when he was doing this because of rules. Because he had to.
“No, James.” Michael shook his head. “I’m not here to kill somebody for fun. I am here to execute a wish for payback.”
“What?”
He looked behind James, past the face full of confusion and disbelief, watching inside to see if anybody else had stepped into the room. Kelly was still on the couch, her sleeping status an uncertainty, but her breathing was steady and what he could see of her posture was relaxed. If she didn’t react to his next sentence, then he could continue along stealthily. If she reacted, then he would need to be fast. He did not expect her to idly stand aside on this issue.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Joe Walnut,” Michael said, “made an attempt on Jane Polera’s life approximately a week and a half ago, on last Tuesday. She appealed to me for assistance in investigating the culprit and doling out payback. The evidence pointed towards Joe, I was convinced of his guilt, and am here to deliver the payback on Jane’s behalf, in accordance with the rules.”
There was silence between them for a long moment, stretching out as one of the songs from the kitchen wound into its ending, and another one started up, louder and harsher than the last one. A handful of cheers echoed through the house, joyous for something Michael didn’t see, but James was as still as the girl unconscious on the couch behind him. Michael took a step forward and planted his hands on the windowsill, pulling himself inside past James’s shocked form. He paused before putting his feet down, inspecting the soles of his boots for any dirt that could have stuck to the rubber. He found none, and gently set his feet down on the hardwood, weight still resting on the windowsill.
“Mikey, dude, not now, man!” James’s whisper was hushed and urgent, his head whipping around in paranoia. “Brad’s here! You can’t just kill one of his friends when he’s right here! Do you know how mad that’s going to make him?”
“I don’t care for his anger.” Michael slowly stood, ears open for any approaching figures. None came. Kelly still didn’t move from her place on the couch, breathing quiet and smooth. Asleep, then. Convenient.
“But he does! He’s absolutely going to try and kill you for this, man, and–and what about Ken? How’s he going to react when you kill somebody he hangs with? I don’t think it’s gonna be great, man, and then he’s going to be really mad at us!”
“Neither Ken nor Brad will do anything,” he said over his shoulder. “They both acknowledge the rules, and are bound by them as much as all of us. Just because they put more stock into what those rules than I do, doesn’t mean that they are any more willing to fight back against me doing something that I have to.”
“Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, please man. Please. Brad’s going to be furious, Ken’s probably gonna be mad, there’s so many people that you’d be making mad. You can always back out, just pretend that nothing happened. Just back away.”
James put his hand on Michael’s shoulder, trying to hold him back from proceeding into the house, and Michael turned around to look at him.
“Mikey,” he pleaded, “Just back out.”
“Do you care about the rules?”
James froze for a second, looking at Michael as if the answer was obvious. It was. He cared more about the rules than Michael did, in ways. He put so much more stock into them, in how intractable they were for forming social networks and connections. He thought that two hands gripping the same knife connected them, wove them together, and wrapped the getaway driver and alibi provider in as well. James thought the rules of Ravenville as certain and unchanging as the flow of blood, ordained by gravity.
He nodded, slowly and sadly.
Michael pulled away from his grip and looked towards the stairs.
“Where is Joe?”
James sighed. “Upstairs. Aaron and Louis dumped a whole bottle of beer on him earlier, and they keep sneaking up on him to ruin whatever shirt he’s changed to. He’s been complaining about the laundry load all night.”
A nod, and James sunk to a seat on the windowsill, still looking at Michael with a plea in his eyes. Michael didn’t flinch, merely glancing to Kelly to ensure she was still asleep, and began walking towards the stairs. The music was still loud, sounds of laughter and partying muffled through the walls, and he proceeded up the steps one at a time, each motion smooth and intended to create as little noise as possible.
The lights were off in the hallway the stairs ended at, the only illumination drifting up from the lights on downstairs and through the open doorway at the far end and to the left. Several towels sat on the floor, the imprint of absorbed liquid clear on them. Michael pressed himself up against the wall and crept down the hall, placing his feet evenly and without hurry. The echoing sounds of the party were closer, but muffled at the same time. His steps were muffled under the noise, faintly creaking wood inaudible in it all. His right hand slowly moved towards the sheathed knife, refraining from grabbing the handle yet remaining prepared to swiftly draw it.
The air smelled of bleach as he crouched down and peered around the edge of the door frame, blinking at the sudden brightness. It was sharp and sterile, digging into his nostrils. The source was a bottle, he observed, open on a table in the center of the room. A wet rag sat next to it, alongside a messily assembled pile of shirts. Beneath the bleach, Michael could make out the faint smells of alcohol and soap, and the sound of scrubbing.
He looked further into the room, left hand bracing against the doorframe in his lean, and saw him. Joe stood at the other end of the room from the door, furiously scrubbing at the front of his shirt with a washcloth in his uninjured hand. The sink was running in front of him, and the closet besides him was empty, only a single towel remaining on the recessed shelves. He muttered as he moved, grumblings about a subject Michael couldn’t make out.
No steps betrayed incoming presence. There was only a single way out of the room, and a direct route to an exit from the house. The windows of the laundry room were shuttered, but real.
It was time.
Michael stood, fully stepping into the room and drawing the knife. Joe noticed something, and turned around, wet rag still in his hand. He stilled, his eyes wide, expression fearful and yet unsurprised.
“Michael,” he rasped out.
There was no moment of silence. Michael simply moved. He lunged for Joe, grabbing his shirt and shoving him into the closet. Joe stumbled into the shelves, unbalanced, rag dropped to the floor. Michael darted into the closet with him, his left hand pulling the door shut behind him. His right hand snapped up to the opposite shoulder and swung out, a single movement through the air and Joe’s neck. Blood burst from two severed carotids, a shattered windpipe wheezing as Joe slumped, gasping for breath that would never come. Michael reached down and tilted his head back, guiding the blood back into his open throat. His other hand took the single towel and pressed it to the base of Joe’s neck, wrapping it around the base of his twitching muscles to catch any blood that did not simply flow into his trachea. He was gurgling now, final grasps for any breath he could manage. Michael just kept the towel in place, letting it soak up stray blood.
The gurgling stopped.
Joe fell still.
Michael waited a moment, releasing the towel and reaching a hand towards Joe’s chest. There was no heartbeat.
The work had been done. But he was not done yet.
He released Joe’s head, letting it lull forward, and bunched the towel up around the wound to prevent more blood from escaping and leaving more evidence. An inspection of the closet revealed that no blood had struck the walls or the door, the splatter contained to his black hoodie. One shoulder dipped, and he let the body bag fall off of him, wiping the knife on the towel before sheathing it and unfolding the bag to its full length with both hands.
Joe’s body was only just dead, and not stiff yet. Michael folded the knees up and pressed the head into them, inducing something like a fetal position and keeping the towel in place. Gently and carefully, he lifted the body up and set it back down within the bag, checking for any blood that had hit the wall behind Joe. None had, and he zipped up the bag with deliberate haste.
Joe was heavy, Michael noted as he carefully picked the bag back up, winding the strap over his shoulder and pulling it tight. Keeping it tight across his back would leave his movement mostly unimpeded, but he would need to reach his car quickly. An ear to the closet door gave away no cues of peril, and he pushed it back open to an empty laundry room and a sink nearing full.
He switched it off as he left, his much heavier steps muffled by the still-blaring music from the kitchen. Stealth was no longer his greatest priority, now that the work itself was done. He merely needed to escape to his car and drive to the burial site, and then he would go home, take a shower, ensure his gear was clean, and sleep.
Nobody waited on the stairs, the chatter from the kitchen much quieter and more distant. Kelly was gone from the couch, and Michael did not dare to look further into the house to see where she had gone. It was of no consequence now, the wheels of the rules having moved to their final conclusion. His exit out the window was simple and brutal, swinging both legs over the sill and sliding off, landing with a jarring impact that pushed the air from his lungs in a whump.
The front yard was no longer empty.
A handful of students were milling around, some holding drinks and some fidgeting with their phones, but all froze when they caught sight of him. None moved to attack or take any other action, just staring, and he began walking towards the backyard when he was interrupted.
“Michael!” A voice boomed out. “What the fuck is this?”
He turned around and saw Brad pushing the others aside, face red with insobriety and indignation. “Are you fuckin serious? You’re showing up where you didn’t even get invited and killing the fuckin host?”
“Joe failed to kill somebody,” he stated. “He left himself open to payback, and I’ve carried that out.”
“Oh–fine, yeah, sure. Whatever.” Brad flailed his arm around in a gesture Michael couldn’t understand. “Look dude, this was overkill. It was a tiny thing. There’s probably some way you can walk this back–”
“There isn’t, and I have no plan to.” Michael shut him down. “There is no way to change what’s happened, and there is no reason to. Joe failed to secure a kill. He messed up. This is what happens when you mess up.”
Brad was sputtering again, an incoherent barrage of spit and sound coming from his lips, but he wasn’t moving. Michael turned back to the dark and walked off, between the fences, following the path back to his car. Nobody followed him.
Jane had wanted payback, and he had delivered.
The same as it always was.