Spes Magna Games

I’m participating in NaNoWriMo 2020. I’m not quite following the rules since I’m taking back up my story about Jared, psychopomp and assassin in the employ of Management. I’ve started out with some revising and editing of what I’d already written.

Here’s part of chapter 1.

Tony opened The Supply Room at oh-seven-hundred every day except Sunday. By oh-seven-thirty, people sat on at least half the stools at the bar. That early, they were all regulars, and all men. Guys getting off a graveyard shift, looking for a beer before heading home to sleep the morning away. Guys heading to work, hoping a morning beer or a couple of shots will help get them through the day.

I pulled into the parking lot, maneuvering around the worst of the potholes to park in the spot marked Reserved for Auction Winner. There’d never been an auction. I hadn’t won anything. As I walked through the front door, Tony gave me a nod. A moment later, he set two fingers of Scotch and a manila envelope on the table in front of me.

“Morning,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s morning, alright.”

Tony gave me another nod and returned to the bar. I downed the Scotch with a swallow per finger, and then bent up the metal fastener on the envelope, lettings its contents slide onto the table. There was a letter-size envelope, a Ziploc baggie, and a manila folder. I peaked in the envelope. Cash, like always. The baggie held a gold chain with a heart-shaped charm on it. A bit of glass mounted in the center of the heart. Costume jewelry. Maybe gold-plated at most. I put the cash and the baggie back in the envelope. I didn’t need to count the money, and I’d touch the necklace back home.

I opened the folder. Two photographs were paper-clipped to the inside front. One showed a pretty young lady. Medium length blond hair, green eyes, a confident smile. A slight tilt to her head, and the shine of laughter in her eyes. I unclipped the photo, flipped it over. An adhesive file label on the back. On the label, a typed name and date of birth: English, Priscilla. She’d celebrated her birthday for the last time about a month ago. She’d been eighteen.

The other photo showed a man in a dark suit, red tie, white shirt with cuff links. Certainly not gold-plated. His watch was the real thing as well. He looked in his mid-30s. Gym membership to be sure, but the thickness under his clean shaven chin told me he wasn’t too zealous about working out. Treadmill, maybe a little racquetball with the bosses, who’d he let win. Professional haircut. Dark brown hair with a little gray. Light brown eyes. The label told me his name, work address, and home address. Prestigious law firm and a high-end neighborhood. He didn’t earn that neighborhood with his salary. Probably born into money.

Paper-clipped to the inside back of the folder was a neatly typed dossier on the girl and her killer. I put the photos back in the folder, closed it, returned it the envelope. I’d read through the dossier when I got home before I touched the necklace. I’d need to know how to explain things. Explain what had happened, and what was going to happen as a result.

“Yo,” Tony said from behind the bar closest to me. “You want another?”

I nodded, and Tony took the bottle from the shelf. One of the regulars commented on how it wasn’t fair some people got special treatment. I ignored him, and Tony asked who the hell ever said life was fair.

Tony slid onto the bench across the table from me, setting the bottle between us. I’d known Tony for the better part of a two decades. We’d met as privates at Bragg, full of piss and vinegar and ready to make the world safer for democracy. Tony hadn’t changed much. Sure, his face sported a few more wrinkles, especially when he laughed, which he didn’t do too often, and his hair, what there was of it, was grayer. Still sported a high-and-tight, still wore combat boots and his dog tags. I was about four inches taller, not that I’m that tall, but Tony’s shoulders and chest were wider than mine. So was his gut. He tapped the bottle with his prosthetic hand.

“You expect me to pour it?”

I shrugged. “You’re the bartender. I’m the customer.”

“Customer my ass,” he said, pouring two more fingers in my glass. “You haven’t paid for a drink since I opened this place.”

Two more swallows emptied the glass. I set it down, and put my hand over it when Tony reached for the bottle again.

“What you got planned for the day?” he said.

“Usual. Go see the Sergeant. Go home and do some work. Talk to the client.”

Tony frowned. He never said it out loud, but what I do scared him. He’d left the life behind after catching bullets in the elbow and bicep. Opened The Supply Room, got married to his high school sweetheart, had two beautiful kids before cancer took his wife. I’m sure Management paid Tony well when he mustered out. I never asked Tony, and I hadn’t spoken directly with Management since they’d hired me.

“How’s the Sergeant doing?”

“Shitty most days, but he’s been like that as long as I’ve known him.”

The next part of the conversation went unspoken. Tony knew my father was a sore spot, and he didn’t poke it. I slid out of the booth, putting the manila envelope under my arm.

“Catch you later.”

“Roger that,” Tony said, policing the table before returning to the bar.

Tags: fiction

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Management was as efficient as usual. Guxem Bogdani. The man with the camera. The man in the room who filmed Jones murder Sharon. Bogdani procured young girls, usually runaways or undocumented immigrants. He had served time in both U.S. and Albanian jails.

Jared leaned against the bus stop shelter’s exterior. He wore jeans, running shoes, a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. He’d slung a backpack across one shoulder. He watched across the street. It was nearly lunch time. The parking lot across the street was half full, mostly with economy-class cars belonging to the people in the laundromat. Next door to the laundromat stood Shqipëri, a restaurant.

The picture window was mirrored. The Albanian flag, red with black, two-headed eagle, painted on the window. One public entrance. Bogdani had just arrived. He stood near his BMW, Italian suit shining in the mid-day sun. Two other men were with him. A third exited the restaurant as he neared the door. Hugs all around. Old friends meeting for lunch.

Jared recognized the third man. The pictures in the hall outside Jones’s bedroom. One showed Jones standing shoulder to shoulder with an older man, his full head of silver hair impeccably styled, a gold nugget pinky ring glinting the light of the flash.

“Who is he?” Jared said as he crossed the street. Jones followed, modestly covering his genitals even though no one driving or walking by could see him.

“Tom Jaworski. He’s a senior partner at Felkin. He was my mentor.”

Jared walked slowly past the parking lot, noting the make, model, and license plate number of the Escalade into which Jaworski climbed.

“He’s one of you, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Jones admitted, and Jared detected for the first time a hint of shame in his voice. “He’s the one who, uh, introduced me to my first girl.”

A couple of women, arms laden with boutique shopping bags approached Jared along the sidewalk, looking at him worriedly. The one closest to him clutched her purse a bit more tightly. Jared smiled and touched the brim of his cap.

“Ladies.”

They picked up their pace, their heels clacking on the concrete. A few steps later, Jared was behind the wheel of his car. Jones sat in the front passenger’s seat.

“Why is Jaworski meeting Bogdani?”

Jones turned away, staring out the window, biting his lower lip, but it didn’t help. He still answered. “They must be arranging another party. Tom doesn’t trust e-mail or phones for the arrangements.”

Jones turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb into traffic.

“Tell me about these parties. Be thorough.”

Jones was, and Jared fought back the urge to send the ghost away rather than listen to the confession. The “parties” were nothing of the sort. They involved a cabal of wealthy, well-placed men from several cities. Men of influence, men of renown. Most would be described as pillars of a community. All of them were rapists. Many of them were sadists. More than a few were murderers. And Bogdani and his organization provided the girls upon which these men’s lusts fed. This same organization also provided the location and the security for the evening’s depravities.

“I don’t know,” Jones said. Tears wet his face. “I’ve never been to one of the parties. Tom’s told me about them. Said I’d be on the guest list ‘soon’ if things worked out.”

“By ‘worked out’, you mean if you killed Sharon?”

Jones’s jaw trembled. He nodded. “But I don’t know where the party will be held. You, you killed me before I was told.”

Jared pulled into a grocery store’s parking lot, and parked in the closest space. Engine idling, air conditioning blowing cool air, he nevertheless felt warm. He closed his eyes, rubbed the sides of his neck with his fingers. The thud thud of pain behind his eyes matched his pulse.

“How do you find out the time and place?”

Jones shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess Tom would tell me. Like I said, he prefers face-to-face. No way he’d call or e-mail. Not about something like this.”

Jared punched the steering wheel. The horn barked. Jones flinched.

“Go away, damn you.”

Jared sat in his car with nothing but his pain and anger.

Tags: fiction, Lilacs

If you’ve missed the earlier parts of Jared’s story, here’s a table of contents:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Jared arrived early. He sat in his car outside the Klein Building. Prescott Investigation’s offices were on the third floor. The blinds were open. Vehicles occupied about half the spaces in the parking lot. Clouds had rolled in from the north since the morning. Sunlight filtered through, dulled and gray. Rain was coming. The wind blew in fitful gusts.

Ira pulled into the parking lot. He still drove the same Karmann Ghia he’d bought his last year in college back in 1971. It was still bright yellow, lovingly maintained. Ira pivoted on his rear before using the door to help him up to his feet. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his briefcase from behind the driver’s seat. He shut the door, double-checked the lock. His shock of white hair, like a ragged halo, caught the wind. He wore khakis, a pull-over turtleneck, and a sweater vest. The sole of one shoe was noticeably thicker than the other. Ira walked slowly with a slight wobble.

“Good afternoon, Ira,” Jared said, catching up to the older man at the elevator.

Ira smiled, extended his hand, which Jared shook. “How does life treat you, Jared?”

The bell preceded the elevator doors opening. Jared pushed three. “I can’t complain,” he said. “How about you?”

Ira looked up at Jared with shining eyes. His glasses reflected the overhead lights. “Most days are okay. On the others, I survive.”

Third floor. The elevator doors opened. The hall, carpeted floor flanked by faux wood paneled walls, ran left and right before turning at both ends, forming a rectangle. Frosted glass windows. Heavy doors with neatly centered placards. Signs next to the doors with suite numbers. Jared walked slowly, keeping pace with Ira.

Jared pushed the button next to the door announcing “Prescott Investigation”. A faint buzz sounded through the door. Another buzz and a click let the two men know they could enter the brightly lit office. The room, square and professional, held a single desk behind which sat a tanned, dapperly dressed young man. Neatly trimmed hair, clean shaven, manicure. The nameplate on his desk informed clients that his name was Charles Benoit. Behind him on the wall hung a painting of Regency Era people, handsomely dressed, enjoying a picnic and games in a park. Opposite the desk stood three chairs. Two more chairs faced the entry. Two more doors, both closed, led out of the atrium. Centered about eye level on one door was a nameplate that read “Rebecca Prescott”. The other door was unmarked.

“Ms. Prescott will be with you shortly,” the man said. “Please have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

Jared settled into one of the chairs while Ira set his briefcase on another. Ira asked for coffee, two sugars, one cream. Jared declined. Charles nodded, departed through the unmarked door.

“He’s new,” Ira said. “Does he know?”

Jared nodded. “He knows. He was read in after the usual vetting. Seems reliable and efficient.”

Charles returned, cup of coffee balanced efficiently on a saucer. Ira thanked him, sipped loudly. The door to the boss’s office opened inward, almost silently. A short, heavy set woman with a bob haircut advanced, smiling. As she said her hellos, she accepted a kiss on the cheek from Ira, shook Jared’s hand.

Rebecca Prescott stood aside, gestured for her guests to enter her office. She wore a dark gray blazer, calf-length red skirt, white blouse. Small diamond stud earrings, a thin gold chain, a wristwatch of gold and silver. Her shoes were flats, closed toe, and matched her skirt.

“Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen,” she said as Jared and Ira entered her office. “Charles, please make sure we’re not disturbed.”

“Of course.”

The office door shushed closed. Rebecca’s office was nearly three times the size of the atrium. Her desk was small, modern, and facing the far corner. Two laptops sat on the glass desktop. Both were open. Screen savers active. Landscapes faded into resolution and lasted a few seconds before fading into different scenes. Adjacent to the desk was a bookcase holding law books, reference guides, and a jumbled collection of worn true crime paperbacks. Family photos hung on the walls. Rebecca with her three children and husband. School pictures, family outings. Ira was in several of the pictures. Two diplomas were displayed, one a Masters of Science in criminology, the other a Masters of Science in information technology.

Jared and Ira sat at the rectangular conference table. Ira was unpacking his briefcase, setting up two laptops. One he faced toward Jared, the other toward himself. Rebecca pulled a chair around to sit next to Ira. The computers were synced. Ira opened up the library of portraits on Jared’s computer before opening the facial reconstruction program on his own.

“Ready when you are,” Ira said, leaning back in his chair, right hand on the mouse, left hand resting on the table. Rebecca took his hand her hers. He squeezed her fingers and smiled at her.

Jared sighed, rolled his head to flex his neck, and pulled the Ziploc baggie with the toothbrush. He took the toothbrush from the baggie.

“Lilacs,” Ira whispered.

Jones stood in the far corner. Reflexively, he tried to cover his nakedness with his hands.

“They can’t see you,” Jared said. “Or hear you. Move over here so you can see this computer.”

“Why?” Jones asked as he did as he was told.

“We’re going to do some facial reconstruction,” Jared said. “Ira used to work for the Bureau. He pioneered the use of computers to create composite images from witness descriptions. You’re going to help us identify the man who filmed you with Sharon.”

Jones looked at the screen. Face after face, each one slightly different than the one before.

“The partial image from the video gives us a reasonably good starting point,” Ira said. “I’ve already narrowed the parameters. Ready when you are.”

For the next hour or so, Ira asked questions, and Jared repeated Jones’s answers. With each click or sweep of the mouse, the portrait took shape. The face narrowed. The cheek bones became sharper. The eyes, dull green and set wide across the bridge of a nose that looked to have been broken and poorly set. Head shaved bald. Cauliflowered ears, the left one pierced and sporting a diamond stud. Thick eyebrows. A neatly trimmed goatee, brown so dark as to be almost black, but flecked with gray.

“That’s him,” Jones said. “I mean, that really is him.”

Jared repeated Jones, and Ira looked in Jones’s direction.

“Good, good,” Ira said to the ghost. “Then, we’re done here.”

A few more clicks of the mouse set the printer to humming. Rebecca took the page from the output tray and held up the portrait for all to see. Then, she set the page on the table.

“I’ll get this picture to Management,” Rebecca said. “If he’s in the system, we should have his identity in two or so days. After that, Management will meet as usual to discuss the next step.”

Jared rolled his head, flexing his neck and shoulders, listening to the crackle of his bones. He sighed.

“I’m done with you for now,” he said, and Jones vanished. He looked at Ira, at Rebecca, and drummed his fingers on the tabletop, the staccato taps the only sound other than the faint hum of the air conditioner. “The next step has already been decided, Rebecca. With or without sanction, I’m taking it.”

Jared stood. Ira did also, using the table as leverage. Rebecca held Jared’s stare as her father stepped over to the much taller man. Ira reached up and laid a gentle hand on Jared’s shoulder. The old man’s fingers were slightly crooked with thick knuckles, the back of his hand covered with a web of dark veins.

“God bless you,” Ira said.

Jared looked down at Ira and grinned, but he didn’t say what he was thinking. Instead, Jared said, “Thank you, Ira. God bless you, too.”

Tags: fiction, Lilacs

Four days later, Jones’s murder was still news. The police still issued little more than boilerplate statements. The housekeeper had found the body. The police had found Sharon’s hair and the news article about her disappearance. Scrutiny fell on Sharon’s surviving family members, but nothing came of it. No evidence connected them to the murder; they all had alibis. Even if thoroughly interrogated, none of them could tell the police anything. Jared had had no contact with any of the family. Miriam, Sharon’s sister, would have received the necklace by mail already. The envelope had no return address. The postmark was hours away from Jared’s home.

Jared switched from the radio to CD and walked to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee. Placido Domingo as Leandro defended Morala. Leaning against the counter, cup in one hand, phone in the other. A thumb pushed buttons.

After three rings, a woman’s voice answered. “Prescott Investigation.”

“It’s me,” said Jared. “Anything?”

“I managed to isolate a reflection. It’s partial, but pretty clear. Voice analysis concludes the camera operator was male, definitely foreign, probably Albanian. He was tall, maybe close to your height. All in all, I doubt there’s enough for identification.”

“Call Ira. Your office.” Jared glanced at the clock. “One o’clock.”

The line disconnected. Jared walked back to the living room, sat on the sofa, placed the cup of coffee next to the bottle of Excedrin. Also on the table was Jones’s the toothbrush in a Ziploc baggie. Two pills later, Jared pulled the toothbrush from the baggie. He held it between forefinger and thumb. The familiar scent of flowers announced Jones’s appearance.

“What the hell!”

Jones stood in the middle of the room, nude, bearing the signs of his last minutes alive. He staggered away from Jared. Jones’s bare feet made no sound.

“You! You son of a bitch! What did you do to me?”

Jared leaned forward, looked Jones in the eye. “I killed you. You’re dead. Calm down.”

A calmness spread over Jones, through him. He looked at the hole in his hand, and the discolored wrist. He touched the gash in his chin, looked down at the bullet holes in his chest.

“How is this possible?”

Jared pointed to the chair across the room from the sofa. “Sit down.” Jones sat down. The cushion didn’t move as Jones was now weightless. “I enlisted in the Army when I was eighteen. Infantry. Ranger training. Half way through my second tour, I applied for Delta Force and was accepted. Made it through. My life really changed after that. I hunted high-priority targets, first in Iraq, then later in Yemen.”

“You were an assassin.”

“No,” Jared said. “Then, I was a soldier, and I was a good soldier. I became an assassin later. After several years with Delta, I was recruited by the Central Intelligence Agency. Real black ops. More training. I was the killer man’s son and then some. In the tangle of lies and spies, I lost my way. I stopped being a soldier.”

Jared took a deep breath, sipped his coffee. Jones studied his killer. The last time Jones had seen him, Jared had been nearly naked, armed, wired for violence, quick to inflict pain. He was different now, sitting on his sofa in his living room, dressed in sweats and T-shirt, sipping coffee, talking about his past and lost ways.

“What the hell does that have to do with me? Being here? I dead, but I’m here. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be at all.”

Jared chuckled, but only briefly. “Your file said you were an atheist. You were raised Southern Baptist. Your father was a deacon.”

“My father was a violent drunk,” Jones said. “There’s no God. All that church stuff is a load of crap.”

“Right,” Jared said. “When you die, you’re nothing. Just worm food.”

Jones looked away from Jared’s stare, from his knowing grin. “You’re telling me it’s true? Heaven and Hell, Jesus Christ and the devil?”

Jared shook his head. “I don’t know about that. I just know I can call spirits, ghosts, whatever you want to call yourself, from wherever you were before I called you. I know. I know. You don’t remember anything after you died. Every one of you tells me that, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I was working black ops. I’d stopped being a soldier. I’d become an assassin, a murderer. Then, one day years after I’d started that part of my life, I took a bullet.”

Jared pushed his hair back, exposing the scalp at the hair line just to front of his left temple. The flesh was scarred, a rough circular pattern.

“I was dead for nearly five minutes. There’s still a small fragment of skull lodged in my brain. When I came back, I was medevaced to Zinjibar. In the hospital, I could see the recently dead, walking around, confused, sad. Happy some of the time. They never lingered for long. When I was well enough, I was shipped back stateside. I had a souvenir. A kris I’d taken from a terrorist I’d killed. When I touched it, he appeared. Scared me. I dropped the weapon, yelled at him. He vanished. That’s how I found out.”

Another sip of coffee. Jared rubbed the back of his neck, massaging down the rising pain.

“I did some research. Necromancer. Psychopomp. Medium. I don’t know what I am, or how I can do what I can do, but I know what I can do. You’re mine until I choose to let you go.”

Jones’s jaw trembled. “Then what?”

Jared shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you go to Hell. Maybe you just cease to be. Until then, you’re going to help me.”

“How?”

“Sharon, the girl you killed, the girl you raped while she was dying. You didn’t find her on your own. She was brought to you. Right?”

“Yeah,” Jones said, and then looked confused. “Why did I answer you?”

“I told you that you’re mine,” Jared said, “and the dead speak only the truth. You can’t lie to me or to yourself. Not anymore. That’s why you’re going to help me. I’m going to find those responsible for Sharon’s death.”

“And then what?”

“And then I’m going to kill them all.”

Tags: fiction, Lilacs

Just over a half hour later, Jared stood in shadow against the wall around Jones’s property. Jared checked the time on his phone. It was nearly midnight. The street in both directions was clear as far as he could see. It was very unlikely anyone home across the street would be able to see him over their properties’ walls.

Jared pulled on his gloves. He took a few steps away from the wall and then ran, jumped, caught two of the projecting fleur-de-lis atop the wall, and then vaulted up and over. Jared landed in a crouch, almost entirely concealed from view from the house by a tree and adjacent bushes. He waited, counting off the seconds.

Two minutes passed before he moved. Jones’s house was quiet. The yard lights were on. So too was the porch light. The soft glow through downstairs and upstairs windows showed that hall lights had been left on, but the other windows were dark.

He pulled the Ziploc baggie from his jacket pocket. He opened it, and then pulled off a glove with his teeth. Carefully, with forefinger and thumb, he pulled a hair some of the way from the baggie. The cool night air filled with the scent of flowers. She stood nearby, still nude, still marred by the violence that caused her death.

Jared whispered, “It’s time. I need you to shut off the alarm and unlock the door.”

“That won’t be easy,” she said.

“The code is star, four, zero, six, three, zero, star. Repeat it.”

She did, and added, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can. Focus on what he did to you. Focus on your pain, your fear.”

She looked down. Tears dropped from her yellowed eyes, but they vanished before they touched the ground.

“You’re almost done, Sharon,” Jared said, looking away from her grief. “After tonight, you can rest.”

The restless spirit of the murdered young lady nodded. She walked across the lawn, visible only to Jared. She cast no shadows. She had no motion that sensors could detect. The front door was no obstacle to her. She passed through it as easily as the night breeze passed through the tree branches. A few short minutes later, she passed back through the door, stood on the porch, and waved. Jared sprinted from the wall, across the lawn, up the few stairs between the columns onto the porch.

“Thank you,” he said, opening the door and stepping into the foyer. She followed as he closed the door. “Wait here.”

Sharon shook her head. “I have to see what happens.”

Jared sighed. The muscles in his shoulders and neck tensed. The headache would follow soon. A chandelier, set to its lowest setting, cast soft yellow light over the foyer. Almost silently, Jared walked across the oak hardwood floor to the circular rug underneath a round table. A crystal vase atop the table held fresh orchids. Jared set the vase on the floor, moved the table to the side, and sat down. Quietly, quickly, he stripped down to his briefs and then put his boots and gloves back on. He rolled the Ziploc baggie into a tight cylinder and slipped it into one boot. He unholstered the HK45CT and screwed the suppressor into place. He unsheathed the knife.

Jared climbed up the thickly carpeted, circular staircase to the second floor hall, the pistol in one hand, the knife in the other, walking past expensively framed photographs, most of them showing Jared in formal dress, hobnobbing with politicians, celebrities, and men and women of wealth and taste. Sharon was waiting for him. The light from the chandelier spilled up into the hallway, sending long shadows angling from floor to ceiling. A long rug ran the length of the hallway. The master bedroom door stood half open. The rug softened Jared’s footfalls.

Franklin Montgomery Allan Jones snored softly in his four-poster bed. Opposite the bed in front of the bay window looking out onto the balcony facing the backyard was a dark wood desk. A widescreen monitor attached to a laptop and speakers stood on the desk. Two high-backed, cushioned chairs flanked the desk. A golf bag full of clubs leaned against the wall behind one of the chairs. Built-in closets occupied the far wall. Next to them, French doors led to the balcony. In the far corner, an open door showed some of the master bath.

Sharon waited in the doorway. Jared crept around the bed. He set the pistol near the foot of the bed, shifted the knife into an icepick grip. Jared’s attack was quick. With his free hand, he grabbed Jones’s right wrist and shuffled backward, turning as he did so, jerking Jones from the bed onto the floor in front of the bathroom door. Bones in Jones’s wrist cracked. Jones cried out in pain and alarm. Instinctively, he curled into a ball to protect himself. Jared snatched the pistol from the bed and shot Jones through the left knee cap. Jones’s scream was much louder than the suppressed report of the firearm.

“Quiet!” Jared growled through clenched teeth.

Jones screamed again, and Jared lunged, landing across the older man’s chest, his knees pinning his arms to the floor. In his left hand, the knife slashed across Jones’s chin, opening a gash that bled profusely.

“I said, ‘Quiet’,” Jared repeated, aiming the point of the knife toward Jones’s right eye.

Jones choked back a third scream. All that remained of it was a strangled whimper. Jared could smell that Jones had soiled himself.

“I’m going to stand up,” Jared said. “If you attack me or try to escape, I’ll shoot you again. Nod if you understand me.”

Jones’s eyes, wide and glistening, looked up into Jared’s eyes. Jones had taken hundreds of depositions as a lawyer. He knew what a lie looked like. He knew what doubt looked like. He saw neither in Jared’s hard, arctic gaze. Jones nodded. When Jared stood up and backed away, the lawyer’s hands came up to his chin, came away covered in blood, then moved to his ruined knee.

“Wh-who are you?” Jones stuttered.

“Don’t talk. Listen. Nod if you understand me. Good.”

Jared jabbed the knife into the mattress, squatted, and pulled the rolled Ziploc baggie from his boot. Sharon stood at the foot of the bed. She was crying again.

“Tell him,” she said.

“I will,” Jared said. “He’ll know why before he dies.”

Jones gaped at the nearly naked man in his room. “Who are you–? Oh shit. You’re insane.”

Jared threw the baggie at Jones. It hit his chest, stuck to the blood that had poured from his chin.

“See that picture? That’s Sharon Washington. You killed her.”

Jones started trembling. He grabbed the baggie and tossed it away, recoiling from it.

“No!” Jones said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t! I –”

Jared shot Jones through the palm of the right hand. Jones screamed for several seconds before he regained a modicum of control. His breaths came in hard, huge gulps. The trembling increased. At the foot of the bed, Sharon turned away.

“You’re going into shock,” Jared said. “We don’t have time for lies. Where is Sharon’s necklace? Where’s the video? The truth, or I’ll use my knife on your face again.”

Through chattering teeth, in between sobs that convulsed his body, Jones said, “In the closet. There. There’s a safe.”

“Tell me the combination, Mr. Jones.”

A couple of minutes later, Jared crouched on the floor a few feet from Jones. He still held the pistol. On the floor in front of him was a silver chain with a pendant, a heart around a cross. An umarked CD in its case was next to the necklace.

“Do you know why I’m going to kill you?”

Jones nodded. He wept, a deep sobbing full of sorrow and fear.

“Close your eyes.”

Jones closed his eyes. Jared shot him once in the head and twice through the heart. He pulled the comforter from the bed and spread it over the body.

“You can look now.”

Sharon turned and looked at shape under the comforter. She smiled, but it was a sad smile. With a shaky hand, she pointed at the necklace still on the floor.

“You’re sister will get it,” Jared said. “I’ll mail it to her.”

“Will she be safe?”

Jared nodded. “There’s nothing to connect her to any of this.”

“Thank you,” Sharon said.

“You’re welcome.”

In between blinks of Jared’s eyes, Sharon vanished. The faintest scent of flowers lingered for a few more seconds. Jared sighed, closed his eyes, rolled his head in a circle, right shoulder to back to left shoulder, chin to chest. The headache had arrived in earnest.

He cleaned up in the shower, meticulously washing away the blood that had spattered on him from the knife work and close range pistol shots. He then wiped down the shower. He took the towel he used with him. Down the stairs, wet boots squishing, he put on his clothes. He had left the contents of the Ziploc baggie by Jones’s body. The baggie, wrapped around Jones’s toothbrush, was back in a jacket pocket. He tucked the CD and the necklace into the other pocket. He left the front door open. The housekeeper would arrive in a few hours. She’d discover the body and call the police.

Several minutes later, Jared was back behind the wheel of his car. The pain from the headache made spots swim before his eyes. He drove home, almost in a daze, the headlights of oncoming vehicles sending needles into his brain. He fell into a fitful sleep almost as soon as he flopped onto the sofa. Dreams full of blood and ghosts accompanied the drumbeat of pain in his skull.

Tags: fiction, Lilacs