The Fate Merchant

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

     Paul’s doorbell rang. He glanced at his watch. It was 12:30am.

     About time, he thought. He opened the door, and Arnold Gleason shoved a bottle of champagne into his hands.

     “Congratulations,” Arnold said, stepping inside.

     Paul closed the door.

     “Why is it so dark? Turn on a light, and we’ll have a toast.”

     The baseball bat whistled as it cut through the air. It connected with the back of Arnold’s head, cracking the skull, the sound like the snapping of dried twigs, the momentum slamming Arnold into the wall next to the door.

     The bat whistled a second time, more twigs snapped, and a smattering of blood warmed Paul’s cheek.

     Christ.

     He wiped his face. He’d make a lousy serial killer; the feel of another person’s blood on his skin was something he didn’t think he could get used to. 

     Paul turned on the light in the hallway. Arnold lay face down on the floor, the right side of his head a mess of blood, hair, bone, and a grayish substance that Paul guessed was brain matter.

     Shit. During his hour and a half on the road when he’d arrived at the conclusion that Arnold Gleason was a loose end he couldn’t afford to leave untied, he hadn’t considered the possibility that he would have to get brains out of his carpeting. How did one do that exactly? A spoon for the large chunks, then a good steam cleaning?

     Even in death, Arnold Gleason was being a pain. He wanted to resurrect him for one brief moment so he could knock his lights out one more time for good measure. All of this could’ve been avoided if he and Barry had simply minded their own business. He hadn’t been hurting anyone. And what had Arnold expected? That he would bloody his hands, risk arrest, jail, and possible gang rape in a shower only to let him walk around with the secret he’d just killed to protect? That he would trust him to keep it?

     A man with a lot to lose is capable of almost anything.

#

     The basement steps creaked as Paul descended them one at a time, Arnold slung over his left shoulder like a side of beef -- 180 pounds of dead weight pressing down on him, crushing his shoulder, compressing the discs in his lower back. Sweat beaded his forehead and trickled down his shirt, making his neck itch.

     The freezer stood against the back wall, twenty feet from the base of the steps. Twenty agonizing feet. Now ten. Now five. He reached out with his right hand, grasped the handle on the lid, flung it open and let Arnold slide off his shoulder. Arnold’s head thumped against the freezer wall as he landed in a crumpled heap, his pulped skull streaking the white surface red.

     Paul massaged his shoulder as he walked to his workbench. He slipped on a pair of gloves, picked up the bloodstained hunting knife, and wiped the handle with a cloth, readying it for Arnold’s prints. He would drive over to Arnold’s and hide the knife in his garage. Tomorrow the police would receive an anonymous tip, nothing too specific, just enough to get the ball rolling on a search warrant. He could see the headline: Prominent architect murders partner. The search continues for Arnold Gleason.

     And Roy Harper lives happily ever after.

     But first…

     He walked back to the freezer, reached inside Arnold’s jacket, and pulled out his cell phone. He tapped the icon for the instant messenger, and a list of names popped onto the screen. Arnold’s wife’s was first on the list. Technology is a wonderful thing, he thought as he opened the conversation. Arnold’s last message to his wife was a question she had yet to answer: Is your sister’s ass still the size of Texas?

     “Classy, Arnold.”

     He tapped the message bar. The keyboard slid onto the screen, and he typed: I know about you and Barry. I’ve known for a while and I can’t take it anymore. You’ve destroyed me. Decided to do some destroying of my own tonight. The backstabber got what he deserved. Don’t look for me.

     Roy hit send. He considered the message for a moment, then brought up the keyboard and typed: Bitch. He hit send, and smiled. A part of him wished he could share this moment with someone so that they could acknowledge his cleverness.

     He returned to the workbench, and tossed the phone onto the wooden surface. It landed with a clatter. He had a vague notion that cell phones could be tracked using GPS. A hammer would fix that. He removed a nice shiny one, barely used, from a hook above the bench and slammed in down onto the phone, the hammer’s steel head crunching plastic and shattering glass.

     Upstairs, his own cell rang, a brash old-timey ring that he thought was fun and retro, but drove nearly everyone around him bonkers. He looked up at the ceiling and counted the rings. One, two, three, four, five.

     Silence.

     He hammered the phone two more times, pulverizing it, and had raised his arm for a third blow when his cell erupted again.

     “Christ.”

     He bounded up the stairs and caught it on the fourth ring.

     “Hello?”   

     “Hi, Paul.”

     The voice was deep, muffled. He checked the screen: Blocked call.

     “Wrong number.”

     “Fifty-two people died in that mall collapse, Paul.  How do you sleep at night?”

     He disconnected and tossed the phone across the living room as though the past had reached out through the phone and slapped him: Wake up, buddy. Roy Harper doesn’t get to live happily ever after. I won’t let him.

     Barry must’ve spoken to someone. He thought of Canada, again, of running, but pushed the thought from his mind. If that phone call proved anything, it was that the past would find him. Exhaust him, if he let it. There was no point in running.

     He headed for the basement. He’d finish what he started, deal with Arnold, and if the mystery caller didn’t have the good sense to leave well enough alone, he’d deal with him, too.

     It was a big freezer.