“It was you. Last night in the woods,” she whispered and felt the metal press against each word. “Why?”
This time he laughed.
“I had to make sure you took them, that it looked like you’d gone over the edge. Everyone was supposed to be gone, but that boy ranger was still here. He saw me.”
“Oh my God. William. What did you do?”
“The son-of-a-bitch would have ruined it all. Then after the storm when I came inside and found you still breathing…” He dragged out the last word like it disgusted him.
“You’re the one who took the key from the park office door.”
“I knew you’d stop at work. It gave me plenty of time to get here.”
“You called me from here. The train whistle…”
“Make it easier on both of us, Maty. Where are your pills?”
He yanked her head against the cupboard and she thought she might black out.
“Okay,” she managed. “Stop, just let me get them.”
He let go. Shoved her away and backed up.
Maty rubbed at the back of her head and the tangled knot of hair. She eased herself toward the other end of the counter, hanging on for fear her knees might give out. She kept an eye on William even as she opened the zipper of her backpack and dug her hand inside. He stayed put, waiting, looking tired, impatient. She hardly recognized this man, his hair tousled and face dirty. He wasn’t her husband anymore. No, he was some deranged madman who had killed the park superintendent and was about to kill her.
When Maty pulled the Colt revolver from her backpack William’s eyes grew wide. Before he could react, before he could move, Maty shot him twice in the chest. The blasts made her jump each time.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. Her hands weren’t even shaking.
She laid the revolver on the counter. Stepped back, opened the refrigerator and poured herself another glass of orange juice. This time she sat down. She wondered if this was what it felt like for her grandfather when the madness took over.
She sipped the juice and said to herself, “Now, where to dump the body.”
ALEX KAVA has built a reputation writing psychological thrillers full of authentic details that blend fact with fiction. In Kava’s words, “If readers can’t tell where the facts left off and the fiction begins, I’ve done my job.” She is the New York Times bestselling author of seven novels featuring Special FBI Agent Maggie O’Dell, as well as two stand-alone thrillers. Before writing novels full- time, Alex Kava spent fifteen years in advertising, marketing, and public relations. She divides her time between Omaha, Nebraska, and Pensacola, Florida.
DEB CARLIN spent twenty-five years in the hospitality business, ranging from bars and restaurants to hotels, retiring with a stellar fifteen years at Darden Restaurants, where she helped write technical manuals and nonfiction business articles. She is the owner of eWebFocus, where she consults on business strategies for online presences. Her foray with After Dark is her first fiction endeavor, and she has plans to continue.
Wednesday’s Child by Ken Bruen
Had.
Funny how vital that damn word had become in my life.
Had… An Irish mother.
Had… Big plans.
Had… Serious rent due.
Had… To make one major score.
I’d washed up in Ireland almost a year ago. Let’s just say I had to leave New York in a hurry.
Ireland seemed to be one of the last places on the planet to still love the good ol’ USA.
And, they were under the very erroneous impression that we had money.
Of course, until very recently, they’d had buckets of the green, forgive the pun, themselves. But the recession had killed their Celtic Tiger.
I’d gone to Galway as it was my mother’s hometown and was amazed to find an almost mini-USA. The teenagers all spoke like escapees from The Hills. Wore Converse, baseball T-shirts, chinos. It was like staggering onto a shoot for The Gap.
With my accent, winning smile, and risky credit cards, I’d rented an office in Woodquay, close to the very centre of the city. About a mugging away from the main street. I was supposedly a financial consultant but depending on the client, I could consult on any damn thing you needed. I managed to get the word around that I was an ex-military guy, and had a knack for making problems disappear.
And was not averse to skirting the legal line.
I was just about holding my head above water, but it was getting fraught.
So, yeah, I was open to possibilities.
How I met Sheridan.
I was having a pint of Guinness in McSwiggan’s and no, I wasn’t hallucinating but right in the centre of the pub is a tree.
I was wondering which came first when a guy slid onto the stool beside me. I say slid because that’s exactly how he did it. Like a reptile, he just suddenly crept up on me.
I’ve been around as you’ve gathered and am always aware of exits and who is where, in relation to the danger quota.
I never saw him coming.
Should have taken that as an omen right then.
He said, “You’ll be the Yank I hear about.”
I turned to look at him. He had the appearance of a greyhound recovering from anorexia and a bad case of the speed jags. About thirty-five, with long graying hair, surprisingly unmarked face, not a line there, but the eyes were old.
Very.
He’d seen some bad stuff or caused it. How do I know?
I see the same look every morning in the mirror.
He was dressed in faded blue jeans, a T-shirt that proclaimed Joey Ramone will never die and a combat jacket that Jack Reacher would have been proud of. He put out a bony hand, all the veins prominent, and said, “I’m Sheridan, lemme buy you a pint.”
I took his hand, surprisingly strong for such a wasted appearance, said, “Good to meet you, I’m Morgan.”
Least that’s what it said on the current credit cards.
He had, as he put it, a slight problem, a guy he owed money to and the how much would it cost to make the guy go away.
I laughed, said, “You’re going to pay me to get rid of a guy who you owe money to? One, why would you think I can do it, and two, how will you pay me?”
He leaned closer, smelled of patchouli, did they still make that old hippy shit? Said, “You’ve got yerself a bit of a rep, Mr Morgan, and how would I pay you, oh, I’d pay you in friendship and trust me, I’m a good friend to have.”
Maybe it was the early pint, or desperation or just for the hell of it, but I asked, “Who’s the guy?”
He told me, gave me his name and address and leaned back; asked, “You think you can help me out here, Mr Morgan?”
I said, “Depends on whether you’re buying me the pint you offered or not.”
He did.
As we were leaving, I said, “I’ll be here Friday night; maybe you can buy me another pint.”
Like I said, I didn’t have a whole lot going on so I checked out the guy who was leaning on Sheridan.
No biggie but on the Thursday, his car went into the docks and him in it.
Some skills you never forget.
Friday night, I was in McSwiggan’s; Sheridan appeared as I ordered a pint and he said to the barman, “On me, Sean.”
He gave me a huge smile; his right molar was gold and the rest of his teeth looked like they’d been filed down.
We took our drinks to a corner table and he slapped my shoulder, said, “Sweet fooking job, mate.”
I spread my hands, said, “Bad brakes, what can I tell you.”
He threw back his head, laughed out loud, a strange sound, like a rat being strangled, said, “I love it, bad break. You’re priceless.”