Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TRISTAN
Murder is a great way to vent when your crush is upset with you. Daphne’s still not speaking to me, and I’m about to go mad waiting for her.
Furt’s been on my hit list for months now, but maybe offing her boss will make Daphne less upset with me.
Furt’s alone, and with a few taps on my phone, I’ve disabled the electricity in his home. I slip through the back door as he heads towards the basement door to check the circuit breaker.
Then he catches sight of me. Game on!
Outrunning a geriatric man isn’t hard. Furt hobbles away from me, his recent knee replacement probably aching as he hustles over to the knife block on his kitchen counter.
I lunge and jab the needle right into his fleshy backside and squirt the paralytic so far up his ass he cries out. I almost pity him… Almost. Pedos don’t deserve pity. Or mercy.
Furt slumps to the tile floor in a pathetic heap.
I nudge his shin with my steel-toed boot that’s so big, my foot slides forward an inch. I should have stuffed tissues in my boots, but oh well. I’ll have to make do with clown shoes.
Furt’s unresponsive. No movement. No sound. The senator gazes up at me, his stare slack with paralysis.
“I think we need to have a chat.” Lifting with my knees, I haul the senator up and over my shoulder.
Can’t risk throwing my back out in the middle of a future crime scene.
Carefully, I settle him onto the marble kitchen island.
His body spans from one end to the other, giving me enough space to work.
“You know, Mr. Senator, I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.
It’s an honor to meet you.” I lean into his ear and whisper, “You see, a little birdie told me you’ve been having meetings.
Meetings about a certain bill. I warned you to stop it.
I warned you all when McArthur died. But no, instead of killing the bill, you ignored me.
In fact, you were planning on taking Senator Troy on a trip to Thailand to get the Committee on board.
Bribing him with the local flavor. Sound about right? ”
Daphne texted me last week about Furt’s trip.
When I called, she didn’t pick up. She’s still upset with me, and damnit, I hate having her shut me out.
If only she’d talk to me so we could work this out.
Maybe targeting Furt is a way of apologizing for not holding up my end of the deal.
Flowers didn’t cut it as an apology. I sent her three bouquets, and each one ended up in her trash can the next day.
The chocolates I sent her were eaten, judging by the empty gold Godiva box beside a bouquet of yellow daisies.
I thought she’d get the Gilmore Girls reference, but maybe not.
It’s been over a week, and my calls are still unanswered.
I guess she never asked for the additional Secret Service detail since I was able to waltz up to her house in the middle of the day and check her trash can.
When Furt doesn’t respond, I retrieve my backpack from the floor and pluck out my knife from its leather holster. A tear slips down Senator Furt’s crinkled face.
Oh, if this man weren’t paralyzed, he’d be begging for mercy. I’m not a sadist, but damn, I want to hear this fucker beg.
“That’s a strong paralytic, isn’t it?”
Still nothing.
“You know, it’s rude not to answer. So, let’s try that again. That’s a strong paralytic I gave you. Isn’t it?”
More nothing.
Slap!
My gloved hand collides in a softened blow across Furt’s cheek. It’s not as satisfying without the force from skin-to-skin contact, but it serves my point.
Another tear slips down Furt’s face, racing toward his hairline beside his temples. I rest the edge of my blade under the tear to stop it from falling any further.
“Now, I know you can’t move. But I also know that you can feel this.” I run the knife lower before tilting the tip inward. The triangular tip of the blade nicks Furt’s cheek. Red blends with the tear, the watery mixture gliding off the edge of the blade.
“I hope you got travel insurance, Senator. You won’t make it to Thailand.”
Lifting his tie, I run my blade under the loop and slice it clean around his neck.
Then, working my knife between the buttons of his starched designer shirt, I cut downward like a bespoke-suit butcher, severing buttons until they scatter across the marble counter and onto the floor.
My knife winds its way back to Furt’s throat.
“I could make this quick,”
The blade glides under the collar of his white T-shirt before sliding down his chest, and the melody of fabric ripping sounds like music.
“But I bet you didn’t make it quick for those Thai kids.” I set the blade down for a moment to unbuckle his belt and pull it loose. “Did you play games with them, Senator? Did you play Go Fish? Or hide and seek? Or did you skip right to hide the pickle?”
My knife slides under his waistband before skimming down one pant leg, then down the other, shredding his…
Gross.
“Tighty whities?”
My knife makes quick work of those, cutting them away.
I grab onto his shoes and tug them off his feet.
“Something tells me you’re the kind of guy who leaves his socks on when he fucks, so you’re going to die with them on.”
Beneath Furt, his shredded clothing outlines his body like chalk lines at a murder scene.
“So, let’s get started, shall we. Ever heard of a board game called Operation?”
Another tear slips down Furt’s cheek, and I shake my head.
“No? Tsk. Tsk. It’s a classic. Say, did you play it with those kids? Or did you only force them to play doctor?”
My stomach twists into something monstrous and angry. The longer Furt’s watery eyes stare at me in pure fear, the angrier I get.
Those poor kids never had a choice.
Now, neither will Furt.
“This game was one of my favorites.” I run the tip of the blade up Furt’s leg, not hard enough to break skin. “My dad used to have a family board game night. Just him and his kids. This was one I’d always pick.”
Furt’s chest rises and falls rapidly. If I keep toying with him, he’s going to die of a heart attack.
Dad died from a heart attack. That’s too good a way for Furt to go.
“Well, where should I start? I always went for the rubber band in the leg. You know, the ankle bone connected to the knee bone? Remember that little song.”
I hum Dem Bones as the tip of my knife digs into Furt’s right ankle. My stomach rolls, and I ignore the squeamish, unsettled feeling in my gut. This is the bloodiest kill I’ve ever planned, and while it’s a work of art, I didn’t factor in that my stomach is weak and blood grosses me out.
Red liquid cries like tears as my knife works its way up the ulna before reaching the kneecap. The tip slices through his flesh until it circles around to meet the initial cut, a giant rubber-band-like oval from one end to the other.
“Now that we’re done with one ankle, let’s move to the other. That’s the wrenched ankle, remember. Get it? Wrench?”
With care, I trace a wrench deep into his skin. The first few digs are easy, but as blood smears across his leg, it’s harder to make sure my design is symmetrical. I’m sure the police will get the picture, though.
“And while we’re on this leg, let’s do water on the knee.”
I dig the tip of my blade in hard over his knee replacement. Furt’s paper-thin skin gives little resistance as I draw a water bucket on his knee.
“You know, I wasn’t much of an artist when I was a kid.
Maybe if my school could have afforded an art teacher and some basic supplies, I could have been the next Warhol.
But no, that didn’t happen. You see, our governor cut funding to arts programs the year I was in third grade.
So, no arts and crafts for us poor public school kids. ”
I dig deeper than I intended as I carve the bucket’s handle from one end to the other—blood pools behind the crux of his knee against the kitchen counter.
“So, what now? Should we keep moving up? Next is a charley horse.”
I take my time with this one, working from the bottom up in a horse drawing that would make a caveman laugh at my rudimentary attempt. By the time I’m done, my carving resembles a dog more than a fucking horse. It’s disappointing, but it’s not like I can erase it and start over.
“What’s next?” I pull out my sketch from my back pocket and check. “Ah, yes. The funny bone.”
Digging into the fleshy part of Furt’s arm, I carve something that looks identical to the wrench—stupid lack of art classes. I’m blaming the American education system for this botch job.
His skin’s blanched so pale now, it’s only a matter of time before he bleeds out. I was careful not to nick his femoral artery, but he’s losing a lot of blood below his belt. I didn’t expect him to make it until the end, but I thought he’d at least hang in there until I got to his spareribs.
“Next is the writer’s cramp. Now, I don’t want this one to kill you, so I’ll cut on the top part of your arm. I’m a nice guy like that.”
God, Daphne would crack up if she heard me call myself a ‘nice guy.’ I’d never live it down.
My pencil looks like shit. A rectangle with a triangle at the end, and I still manage to carve a crooked triangle.
Kindergarteners could do a better job. I should have practiced.
Bought a pig belly and practiced on that before making dinner, but no.
I had to go in blind. Practice makes perfect, and I’m the idiot who didn’t bother to practice.
“Well, that’s the arms and legs. How about the belly? You can tell this is a kid’s game because instead of a beer belly, they call it a breadbasket.”
My water bucket and breadbasket could be twins, so I slice my crisscrosses along the basket to resemble a weave pattern. That’s better.
“You still with me, Furt?”
His glassy eyes gaze up, and his skin is chalk white. His chest is still.
I don’t think he’s breathing.
I rest my fingers along his neck, checking for a pulse. Nothing.
“Well, that’s rude, Senator. Leaving before I’ve finished my act.”
One by one, I carve the remaining pieces into his body, from his chest, all the way up to a poorly-swirled ice cream cone on his forehead. Luckily, his bleeding is minimal.
All things considered, it’s not too shabby. I take a moment to admire my handiwork. Blood smears along his legs and arms to the point I can barely see those designs, but the images get clearer along his torso, neck, and head.
Satisfaction rolls through my muscles at a job well done. I feel ten feet tall. Invincible. Like I’m fucking Superman.
I can’t eliminate evil—but I did eliminate one evil man. People think murder is the worst crime of all. Sure, it’s terrible, but sometimes it’s justified. Kill the one to save the many.
Those kids will be safe, at least for a little while. I have to believe that. Otherwise, I’ll spiral.
Furt’s clothing soaked up most of his blood, which worked like a dream. Who knew designer wool was so absorbent?
Careful not to step in any red stuff, I rinse my knife off in the kitchen sink before grabbing a tea towel from the oven handle and wrapping it around the knife.
I’ll bleach it properly when I’m home. In the meantime, I don’t want any of his blood ending up in my bag.
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, as Dad used to say.
Opening my bag, I pluck out a copy of the bill from a Ziploc bag along with a red Sharpie. Setting it onto the counter beside Furt’s corpse, I scrawl out the words in my non-dominant hand in an intentionally odd way.
“Thanks to you, this is the only operation most Americans can afford. Kill it, or you’re next.” Capping the sharpie, I toss it back into my bag and pull out my little vial of gunpowder, leaving a circle around the document as some of the powder mixes into the blood pooled on the counter.
Now that’s a work of art the American education system should be proud of.
“Voilà!” Turning to Furt, he stays, well, dead.
I shake my head in disappointment. “Nothing? Oh, come on. This is art. Give me something to work with, Senator. I’m dying over here.”
And of course, his corpse remains still.
Admittedly, I would have shit myself if he’d moved, but come on, that would have been badass if he sat up and started clapping.
Dropping my empty gunpowder vile and Ziploc bag in my backpack, I scan the floor, double-checking that I didn’t leave any footprints in the blood. My two-sizes-too-big shoes squeak as I strut my flipper-sized boots to the back door.
“Laa-gàawn. That’s goodbye in Thai.” I give my new friend a wave goodbye before strolling out his back door. I hustle across the backyard to the pickup truck I have parked behind the stables.
Of course, this rich fucker has horses. I bet they eat better than I did as a kid. Fresh apples and carrots, and all the healthy vitamins and minerals they need. I doubt his horses ever starved because they couldn’t afford a damn box of pasta.
I can’t believe I’m jealous of a fucking horse.
Tossing everything into the passenger seat, I peel my gloves off and drive away, careful not to speed off and spook the spoiled horses on my way off the senator’s Texas estate.
Twenty-one hours. Twenty-one hours on the road until I’m back home. I’ve got a stop planned in a small Podunk town in Arkansas to get some shut-eye, then a long drive ahead of me tomorrow. Right now, I could use a Big Mac and a nap as the adrenaline wears off.
Maybe this time, Congress and President Fox will listen.
If not, Daphne’s going to hate me. Because, with each kill, her dad moves closer to the top of my list. I didn’t think things with her would get this far. Soon, she’s going to know I lied to her.
I can live with blood on my hands, but I don’t know if I can live with Daphne Fox hating me.