Vengeance(8)

“I don’t,” Martinez said.

The rookie’s face expressed the joyful anticipation of a fisherman who’d just snagged a big fish … or of a big fish who’d just swallowed a hand-tied fly. Peace settled into Ebanks’s soul, not unlike what he used to feel when he and Sonia were in his boat on the lake.

They ordered their brats, enjoying the thin warmth of the sun while the vendor assembled them. The scent of cut grass and freshly turned earth wafted on the breeze. Spring had finally arrived.

Ebanks had been a little worried that the judge might recognize him from Sonia’s trial, although it had been four years ago. He remembered their day in court, even if the judge didn’t. The jury came back after two hours with a seven-figure verdict against the trucking company whose driver had been amped on speed when he broadsided Sonia’s car. The money would have paid for the experimental treatment the insurance company refused to cover. Ebanks still couldn’t figure out what their lawyer, a chubby little bald guy in a bargain-basement suit, had done to offend the judge’s sense of order and justice. Whatever it was, the JNOV killed their chance at the miracle cure. Now his wife was serving a life sentence in a prison of pain, and the judge was still spending every weekend at his lake house.

Ebanks chewed his hot dog and thought about the half-finished Parachute Adams in his pocket. He knew exactly where he’d leave it when they went back to Dolan’s place. There’d be no stopping Martinez once he found it.

The only time he’d been back to the lake since Sonia’s trial was the night the Dolan jury hung. Maybe after his retirement was official, he’d take his Sage rod up there and see if the trout were biting.





LOST AND FOUND

BY ZOË SHARP


He waits. No hardship there — he’s waited half his life. But now, tonight, finally you provide him with that perfect moment.

The one he’s been waiting for.

In the alley, in the dark, just the distant glitter of neon off wet concrete. And he’s so scared he can hardly grip the knife. But anger drives him. Anger closes his shaking fingers around it, flesh on bone.

He tries not to know what the blade will do.

But he knows. He’s seen it too many times. He remembers them only as a slur of violence, swirled with a lingering despair.

And he can’t remember a time before you. A time when he was innocent, trusting. You taught him misery and guilt, and he’s carried both through all seasons since. A burden with no respite.

Tonight, he hopes for respite.

Tonight, he hopes finally for peace.

There should be lights in the alley, but he’s taken care of them. Something else you taught him — not to let anyone see.

It’s fitting you should die here in the dark, amid the rats and the filth and the garbage. You are what they are — the detritus of life.

And he is what you made him.

He hopes you’re proud.

But right now he just hopes you’re ready. That he’s ready. He’s dreamed of this so often down the years between then and now that he feels suddenly unprepared, naked in the dark.

Shivering, he’s a seven-year-old boy again, with all the majesty fresh ripped out of him, howling as he’s punished for truth, punished for faith.

Punished for believing, when you told him you would take very special care of him indeed.

He’s punished himself and those around him ever since. Lived a life stripped to base essentials, where “refinement” means cut with stuff that’s only going to kill you slow.

Lost.

And now he’s found you again, and he thinks, if he does this right, he may find himself again too.

He hears the footsteps, familiar even loaded by the drag and stagger of the years. He folds his hand tighter around the knife, takes in the sodden air, feels the pulse-beat in his fingertips.

Feels alive.

It’s a privilege only one of you can share.

Attuned, he sees your figure sway into the open mouth of the alley, hesitating at the unexpected gloom. A stumble, a smothered curse, but he knows you won’t play it safe. You never have. Going the longer way around will take time, and you’re loath to be away from your latest pet project, whoever that might be.

He wonders if he will be in time to save them — not from what’s been but from what’s to come — even as he steps out of the recess, a wraith in the shadows, the knife unsheathed now and eager for the bite.

At the last moment you hear his lunge of breath and you begin to turn. Too slow.

He is on you, fast with the lust of it, strong with the manifestation of his own fear. His hand grasps your forehead, tilting your head back for the sacrifice. Is it instinct that tries to force your chin under, or do you know what’s coming?