Chapter 5 Maddox
MADDOX
“Who is it?” I say, voice low, standing to the side of the counter where Shepherd found himself a place to sit.
I keep my attention forward so it doesn’t appear like we’re associated with each other.
Still, I don’t miss the men and women from the second rank within the Order, standing guard around the coffee shop.
Glancing back, I glare at Shepherd and the light reflecting off his bald head as he takes a sip of his coffee. Fucking Americans and their obsession with the drink. There’s a coffee shop on every corner, yet I haven’t had a decent cup of tea since moving to this damned country nineteen years ago.
I spy the barista making my order. It’ll end up in the trash once I’m a block away. The wanker’s insistence to meet at cafés has always been a means to fuck with me. An oh-so-pleasant reminder that I’m not in control.
Shepherd took me under his wing and trained me up to do the Order’s bidding not long after my family joined the society based here. Through my kills, they can continue controlling the city and meddling in politics, the economy, and everything in between.
Shepherd takes his sweet time sipping his drink before answering. “Matthew Collins.”
I wait a beat. Two. “That narrows it down.”
His annoyance is radiating off him, and I couldn’t give two shits. After being his bitch—apologies, protégé—since I was fourteen, working for him isn’t exactly my cup of tea anymore.
I’m Shepherd’s star pupil. So if he called for me, whoever this Matthew person is, he’s done a good job pissing the Order off.
Any acolyte would kill a man as long as someone as high up as Shepherd says so. But as they say, Pay peanuts, get monkeys. Send a neophyte if you want a mess, a paladin if you want the job done, a medicus if you want it done right, or me if you want to send a message.
Very, very few know what I do, but I excel at making a point. I advanced through the ranks quickly for that reason.
Only a handful of individuals are aware of who the Order’s boogeyman is. To everyone else, I’m just Roland’s son who fucks around with paint and clay. Some people within the society suspect that I’ve spent time training under Shepherd, but nothing eventuated from it.
Shepherd has plenty of people to carry out his kills for him. My morbid curiosity for all things macabre made me a natural—a fact Shepherd picked up on before anyone else did.
He introduced me to death. I learned on my own that it could become art, a form of expression, something I could create solely for my sake.
Whether I’ve chosen my victims because their eyes remind me of my father’s—cruel men who have never known good—or because Shepherd directed me to them, I see death for what it is: an opportunity.
A chance to be free from judgment, and experiment as I wish.
A black USB clatters at my feet. A moment later, Shepherd’s chair scrapes against the wooden floors and the bells above the exit chime.
I pocket the USB and leave without waiting for my order. Excitement thrums through my veins. If I’m being given information on their sins, it means I’m allowed to be creative.
Lack the vision? The understanding?
If only they knew.
“There are twenty-seven bones in the human hand. Do you realize how long it’s taken me to be able to break each and every one of them?”
The tears staining Matthew’s cheeks don’t dissuade me. Did he stop when his wife screamed and asked for mercy? Begged for God to grant her salvation from the monster before her? No, he didn’t stop until her jaw broke beneath his fists.
My father thought punching someone was barbaric. Heaven forbid he splits his own skin. His methods always involved another object when it came to me. For Mother, an open hand sufficed.
Shepherd’s file painted a pretty picture of how much Matthew deserves to suffer. His death will make a fine-art installation for the police.
If only it were Roland instead.
“Please.” Big, fat clumps of snot trickle down his nose, dampening my creative experience. “I’m sorry.”
They always say that. Sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word come out of my father’s mouth. I doubt he’d lower himself to say it, even when death is knocking at his door.
Usually, I wouldn’t have the slightest clue what they’re sorry about.
Whatever grievances they have with the Order are always left out of the file, unless Shepherd wants me to be creative with those with grave sins to atone for—the type of subjects I’d pick for myself. Men who prey on their own family.
Any kill authorized by Shepherd means I’m free from repercussions. Unless I’ve chosen the subject myself, the only question I typically have is whether or not to make it look like an accident.
The Order would never care for the domestic affairs of random citizens. If Matthew here isn’t in our ranks, whatever he’s done must have been bad enough to warrant my attention.
The first time Shepherd nudged me toward a target, slipped their file into my hand, and said “Let it all out” was a monumental point in my adolescence. I finally got a taste of true, unrestrained freedom. It would change any nineteen-year-old.
Normally, my own passion projects, as one might call them, take weeks of meticulous planning: storyboards, the perfect song to play in the background, color analysis, lighting, any subsequent paintings or sculptures inspired by their deaths.
All I’ve had with Matthew is forty-eight hours and a prayer to the art gods, and it’s paying off. New York’s finest will appreciate the beauty in this one.
They say every masterpiece requires a little suffering. I take that literally.
The blood-soaked mallet crushes the distal phalanx of his left index finger. He screams and thrashes, like he did with every bone prior. Ambience is an important part of the process, but the incessant screaming is more irritating than anything else.
“Have you been counting?” He might have. I wasn’t really listening.
I’m still not sure what to name this particular piece, or what to create from it.
“Please. I d-don’t know who you are. Take my money! You can have it.”
He cries when the proximal phalanx shatters.
“No, thank you. I have enough of my own.”
I carefully adjust him to keep the blood within a certain parameter. If it soaks into the rug, I’m going to be really upset. I may even need to start again.
“I—I have a wife and kids.”
“Ah yes. Linda. I visited her at her work. Lovely lady.” Nothing like my mother.
“My kids—”
“Are staying at a friend’s house. I’m aware.”
“You can’t—”
“Do this? I believe the word you’re looking for is shouldn’t do this.” I line up my next hit. “Let me make it easier for you to understand by putting it in a sentence. I, Matthew Collins, should not beat my wife.”
“No! I’m a family man,” he pleads. Roland says the same line during his high-saint reelection campaigns. “We go to church every week. I—I would never touch—”
“What number are we up to?” Another bone cracks beneath the mallet. “Thirteen,” I answer for him.
He screams, attempting to squirm his way out from under my boot. I press harder into his shattered elbow, worsening his wails.
I inspect my work. The blood from his knees, feet, shoulders, and elbows pool onto the wood. The bones in his hands are broken beyond repair, but there’s only a speck of crimson on the wedding band still wrapped around his crooked finger. That one’s for you, Mother.
Matthew is as naked as the day he was born, ready to be cleansed for a divine reckoning.
“Thirteen,” I repeat. “Two syllables, yet the number thirteen holds many meanings. Do you know what they are?”
He shakes his head, sputtering on his tears. “It’s—It’s the devil’s number.”
Well, yes. Close enough.
“Some ancient cultures believe that it means femininity for the number of menstrual and lunar cycles in a year,” I explain. “In Judaism, it signifies the age that a boy matures and—”
“I’m a good man. I—”
The last finger bone breaks. “Fourteen. It’s rude to interrupt.”
He whimpers and clamps his lips shut, muffling his pathetic cries.
“In Norse mythology, Loki was the thirteenth to arrive at a feast in Valhalla. The number thirteen is both good and bad. In your case, it’s the reason why I’m here.
” It’s not like he’s in any position to call me out on my lie.
“Thirteen. That’s how many times you’ve sent Linda to the hospital in the past four years. ”
Mother was never given the opportunity to seek professional care for her injuries—not unless it was a “car accident.”
I run the instrument over the grooves, feeling for the middle bone before I lower the mallet again with a gut-curdling thwack.
“For fuck’s sake,” I growl. Not only do I lack imagination, but apparently, I don’t have hand-eye coordination either. I’ve hit the bloody fourth bone as well.
“Fuck you!” Matthew howls, trying to hit me with his left arm. It’s an amusing sight since the chef’s knife in his wrist is effectively nailing his hand to the floor.
“Such vile words, Mr. Collins.”
There are eight bones in the human wrist, tightly bunched together to make it nearly impossible to break individually.
I hit it three times for good measure.
Three.
The perfect number.
Three phalanges in each finger.
The triad. The Trinity. Body, soul, and spirit. Past, present, and future. Beginning, middle, and end. Art, science, and religion. Heaven, hell, and purgatory. Birth, life, and death. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. Hands, head, heart.
Unfortunately, men are made with only two hands. If there were three, this process would be as perfect as the number.
No matter. Sacrifices must be made.
Moving to his left hand, I make my way through the fingers and stop at the one with the golden band. It’s hideously bruised and mangled.
It’ll do.
I hum beneath my breath as I rummage around my leather pouch for the correct chisel. This is what it feels like to be in my element. Just me, my tools, and a canvas ready for me to unleash whatever I desire.
No cotton canvas has stirred such a feeling from me in years, the way living flesh does. Killing has been the only art that proves I’m not an utter failure. There are no critics here—no rules.
I angle the cutting edge of the chisel in the small space where his finger bone meets the knuckle, directly beneath the webbing. With a single blow, the chisel slices through the skin, tears through ligament, nerves, tendons, and muscle, cleanly severing the finger.
There’s something so satisfying about seeing blood sputter. Like watching paint mix. It pools onto the carpet, soaks the woolen threads, and seeps into the floorboards.
“You’re a fucking psychopath!”
“I assure you, I feel plenty.” Rage, exhaustion, irritation, boredom. The occasional curiosity.
I purse my lips, holding up the severed finger, admiring the thickness of the phalanges. Three little bones. The possibilities are endless. I could grind it up like usual. Or carve it into a small design. Jewelry, perhaps. However will I choose?
The finger gets carefully placed into a cloth and neatly folded for safekeeping. Then I grab another trusted instrument: a knife.
An artist doesn’t need tools to create, but one sharpened just right can make a world of difference.
The steel glints under the light, and Matthew’s eyes widen. He thrashes, dislodging the knife from the floor, wailing, blubbering, and snotting up a storm. I roll my eyes. He’s trapped by the limitations of his own body.
The tip of the blade dips into his skin. “Confess. Last chance.” Warm spit hits my cheek. Slowly, I wipe it away and lock eyes with him. “Thank you for deciding for me. Your tongue does have to go.”
I see the moment my words register in his puny brain. But it’s too late for him to do anything. I’m prying his mouth open before he can say his goodbyes to the organ.
He screams.
Well, he tries to.
They all try to scream. It’s amusing, if you ask me. They always end up choking on blood or their own tongue. It makes for messy work, but it’s a necessary evil.
I tear a strip of duct tape, then slap it over his mouth, sealing it shut along with the appendage.
Finally, quiet.
Or at least it would be if Matthew didn’t ruin the silence.
Coughing ensues. The thrashing amplifies.
He manages to lift his hands and spray crimson over the perfectly white rug.
This motherfucker. It was meant to be ironic.
A bloody massacre beside a pristine, picturesque scene.
Juxtaposition. The duality of man, and the unreliability of what meets the eye.
Am I so incapable of creating a masterpiece now? This was meant to be my failproof Holy Grail, and—
I take a deep breath. It isn’t too late. I can still salvage this.
There’s no such thing as perfection in art. There will always be the one stroke that could have been better, or the dot spotted too late.
The tip of the knife trails down the column of his bobbing throat, down to the jugular, where the knife spears through skin and is dragged down his chest to the spot above his belly button. The second and third incisions follow, diagonal lines across his chest that intersect over his heart.
It isn’t straight enough.
He’s squirming too much. The cut is too jagged. I’ve ruined it.
No, I can spin this. It’s an imperfect line on an impure soul. It’s a metaphor. I have to trust the process.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I rise to my feet and scrutinize my piss-poor art piece. What is this? I don’t want the police to see this. It has to be my worst kill to date.
There are galvanized nails waiting for me in my kit. Yet I don’t have it in me to nail his eyes open. The concrete mixture I was going to pour into his ear is going to waste as well.
What would be the point of doing more? I’ve fucked the whole thing up already. My anger swells the longer I stare at the so-called art.
Out of touch.
Out of fucking touch.
I grab the lamp beside me and throw it across the room. The space plunges into darkness, so I no longer need to witness the evidence of my failures.
I was going to call this The Rule of Three, but this is too embarrassing to be given a name. I’m a pathetic excuse for an artist.
My hands wrap around anything I can get my hands on: beer bottles, tables, chairs, nothing is free from my grasp as Matthew swallows his last breath.
Furniture and ornaments go flying around the room in a haphazard mess.
I don’t stop until the fury boiling in my veins threatens to topple me over.
Only then do I step back to survey the destruction.
I know what this night should be called.
End of an Era.