“How’d you get in here?”
“I broke the window.” The guy gestured over his shoulder. “How do you think? The front door.”
“I haven’t seen you.”
“Been here all day. Now, seriously, get that light out of my eyes.”
Something wasn’t right, but he was so calm. And it wasn’t really Wayne’s business, not without an evident disturbance. He lowered the light to splash at their feet, the reflection bright enough still to see by. “You have some ID?”
“At home.” The guy looked sheepish, scratched at his head. “Left in kind of a hurry, you know? My wife was throwing plates, and she’s got a wicked arm.”
Marta wasn’t a plate thrower, but Wayne could relate to the desire to get to out quick when a fight started. He’d never liked conflict. Something Marta often pointed out when she suggested he might want to get another job, something with a bigger future.
Then his mind processed something he’d seen but not really noticed. “Wait.”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you wearing gloves?”
5
Well, shit.
Bennett laughed, ducked his head sheepishly, his left hand moving up to scratch at his temple again, hoping the first time had gotten the guard used to it. He said, “Funny story,” then, while the guard watched his left hand, he snaked his right behind his back, jerked the Colt, and brought it to bear. “That would be so I don’t leave fingerprints.”
The man stared at him, lips slightly parted. There was a crumb of something in his mustache and sweat on his forehead.
“Here’s the story, chief.” Bennett kept up the affable tone. “You’ve got a Taser, security issue—what is that, the C2?—so not even one of the bad boys the cops carry. And me, I’ve got a Colt Defender. There’s three ways this plays out. Number one, I shoot first. A .45 hollow-point is designed to expand on impact and shred internal organs like a blender. Not so good for you. Option two, maybe we both shoot at the same time. This distance, you can’t miss, but neither can I. So I get shocked for thirty seconds, no fun, but you get shot, so again, worse for you.” He paused, working the theater. “Option three, and this one’s the real doozy, maybe you’re faster than you look. You get me before I can pull the trigger. Thing is, you know what happens then? All that electricity slams through my system, and wham, my muscles start contracting—including my index finger, which means, yep, you guessed it. You get shot.”
The guard hesitated, ran a tongue along his lips. Bennett could see a vein jumping just above the fat man’s eye. “Basically, you’re outgunned, friend. Bad luck, but that’s life.”
“Put your weapon down and step over to the desk.” The guy’s voice squeaky.
“I’ve got a better idea. I don’t really want to shoot you. So here’s what I propose. You lower that thing. I’ll lower mine. Then we each go out the way we came. Five minutes after I’m gone, you can come in here, find the broken window, maybe you get to be a hero after all.”
A long pause, the guy thinking over everything he’d said. “How do I know—how do I know you won’t shoot me?”
“Why would I shoot you? Get homicide detectives looking for me? No thank you. I just want to walk out.” He held the moment, then said, “Look, it’s up to you. Be a hero or a corpse. But if you lower your toy there, I promise, I won’t hurt you.”
The air in the room was cool, the broken window letting in a November breeze. Bennett held his aim steady, the gun at waist level but square at the man’s fat chest. He could see the man thinking it over, could practically read his thoughts: the twelve dollars an hour he made, the dinner waiting at his desk, the way he desperately needed to take a piss. Saw the decision come over his face, a simple weighing of options, and then the guard lowered his weapon.
Bennett cracked him in the face with the butt of the Colt.
The man made a squealing sound, the Taser falling from his fingers as reflex brought his hands to his face. Blood rushed between his knuckles, and his eyes went wobbly. He staggered backward, tripped over his own feet, and fell.
Bennett picked up the Taser, tossed it aside. The guard was panting and keening.
“Funny thing,” Bennett said. “I’ve never understood it. Promise something, people tend to believe it. Even if the guy saying it has a gun pointed at them.” He reached for his whiskey, knocked it back. With the heightened senses that came of action, every taste bud glowed.
The guard scrabbled at the floor, pulling himself on his elbows. Bennett wiped the rim of the whiskey glass clean, then set it down and went behind the desk. Found the rock he’d thrown through earlier.
Fatso had a name tag, read Wayne Reynolds. Bennett sighed, then dropped down to straddle the man, pinning the guy’s arms down.
“No,” Wayne said, the sounds coming out boh through his broken nose. His eyes were wild. “Don’t.”
“Sorry. No choice.”
“Wait. No. I don’t know who you are. You don’t have to—”
“Unfortunately, once I’m gone, you’ll get brave again. You’ll call the cops, and they’ll look through the security tapes, and you, wanting to be a hero, you’ll point me out. And then they’ll see that I wasn’t wearing gloves when I came in earlier, and they might pull a print. And that, my friend, I cannot have.”
“I bohn’t. I won’t tell them anything.”
“Can’t risk it.”
“Please—”
“I am sorry about having to do it this way. Nothing personal. But this has to look amateurish.” Bennett raised his arm.
Wayne screamed, “Marta!” as Bennett brought the rock down.
The guy stopped yelling right away. But it took more hits than Bennett expected before he stopped breathing.
5
INT. HALL OF JUDGMENT—AFTERNOON
A square room made of heavy blocks of stone. Torches flicker on the walls, smoke rises to the ceiling.
There is a faint, solemn sound like waves in the distance.
DANIEL HAYES sits in a chair, elbows on knees. There’s something dark on his hands. He starts to touch one with the other, hesitates.
JUDGE 1 (O.S.)
Blood.
Daniel looks up, startled.
There is a table in front of him. Behind it sit three hooded figures. The JUDGES are tall and skeletally thin, and he cannot make out their features.
DANIEL Where am I?
JUDGES 2 & 3 (in sync)
Guilty.
JUDGE 1
Blood on your hands.
The judge’s speech is deep, sonorous, a voice from the bottom of a well.
Daniel looks down, sees that dark liquid now covers his fingers. He jerks, holds them out. A drop falls to the floor, and then another.
DANIEL
I didn’t do anything!
JUDGES 2 & 3