Page 1 of Tormented
ONE
Sawyer
They never hold still, no matter how many times you tell them to.
“Please, man. I’ve got a wife, a baby on the way.”
“And that’s my problem how?” I roll out the canvas knife holder, laying it out flat and wiggling my fingers over the selection.
Hooch was skeptical about letting me return to work so soon after the shitfight with the old man, but when I damn near halved his whore count after two of the bitches thought it’d be a great idea to steal some of my stuff as “memorabilia,” he soon came around.
“Don’t you have family?” the junkie pleads.
“Nope,” I answer without hesitation. Relatives? Sure. Family? Not in the slightest.
Only me . . . .
Yeah. Only the fucking distant cousin that everyone tries to avoid at all costs.
I’m not that distant . . . .
No. When you’re in my fucking head, I guess you ain’t.
“My woman. What’s she supposed to do?”
“Find a guy who treats her half decent.” I slide my favorite knife from its sheath and turn it left and then right, laying the blade flat on my palm as I inspect its gleaming beauty.
Perfect . . . .
“What you doin’, man? What you got there?”
The guy’s eyes go wide when I turn back to face him. Schmuck is tied to one of his porch chairs by the same rope he used to weigh down the body he shoddily attempted to hide in the lake.
“Did it occur to you that the guy you shot had a fucking family?” I seethe.
Irresponsible fuckers like him make me itchy in the palm.
“No way, man. He didn’t look like the type to have anyone.” He’s lying to himself, trying to justify his crappy decision.
“No?” I take a couple of steps across his back porch so I’m toe-to-toe with him. “So he doesn’t have a daughter? A son? A wife who can’t work because she’s disabled?” Amazing what a person can find out with a little time on their hands and an Internet connection.
He attempts to lunge at me, making the chair jump. “You’re full of shit, you dick-suckin’ motherfucker.” The guy’s mood does a one-eighty from desperation to rage. “You’re just sayin’ those things to try and make me feel bad.”
It’s fascinating the emotions a person will cycle through when they know there’s no escaping their fate.
“Did it work?”
He sneers at me, jerking his arms desperately in his bounds.
“Truth is—as much as I’d love to be lyin’ to you—I’m givin’ you 100 percent fact, my friend. Ever occur to you that he might have had a reason for workin’ as late as he was?”
The guy shrugs as he gives up the fight against his constraints. “Didn’t think about it.”
“Didn’t seem odd,” I say, wrinkling my nose, “that your vic was out at midnight in a suit?”
“Nope.” The chair creaks as our toy gangbanger leans forward. “What’s it to you, anyway?”
“Right now?” I gesture to my knives. “Fuckin’ everything.”