“Are you really with the FBI?” Ray asked. It had never occurred to him that the list could spread that far. Another blow came swinging down.
“What did you do with it?” The little man didn’t seem to be angry; wasn’t yelling or gesturing at all. He asked the question quietly and gave Ray a moment to answer before hitting him with the butt of the gun again. It went on like that for minutes.
How long will this take to be over, he thought. His tongue darted to the corner of his mouth. Blood.
Ray knew his life was coming to an abrupt end. He let his arms sag against the ropes and let out a deep sigh.
An unhappy wife, too many bills, an occasional twinge that made him wonder what might be going wrong just underneath the surface of his skin. It all seemed so pointless now. All that wasted time.
The butt of the gun swung down again, landing neatly against Ray’s right ear replacing the sounds of the three men ripping through the room with a round, expansive tone that rang in his head. The folds of his ear momentarily flattened out as his head snapped hard to the left, wrenching his neck.
His arms pulled hard against the ropes wrapped around his wrists holding him fast to the back of the dining room chair. His shoulders ached. There was a pause as the wooden chair teetered for a moment; his right foot taped to the leg that was hanging in the air before gravity pulled it all slowly, back down to rest.
He grunted, sweating hard to right himself back into a normal position, head on straight, chin up, shoulders down.
His eyes opened briefly, the lids barely raised, taking in the orderly trickle of red hitting his favorite shirt. It was soaked in large patterns of sweat and blood. A small white button, its face upturned where his belly hung out over his belt, held a drop of blood that was slowly seeping through the four tiny holes, staining the white threads.
Round, even drops fell onto the neatly pressed pocket from the tip of a long lock of misplaced brown hair. It bothered Ray to know he’d be found with his bald spot exposed.
Panic came over him again, bile filling his throat. He tried to focus instead on all the times he had worn the shirt, putting himself in another room with different people.
He took in another deep breath and let it seep out between his lips, surprising himself. Something inside of him let go and the panic subsided.
It’s almost done, he thought.
Knowing he was at the end was making it a little easier. He stopped trying to figure out when things might get a little better. It was all a downward spiral from here.
There’s a certain satisfaction in that, thought Ray.
The pain in his head momentarily subsided as Ray took another quick inventory of his body, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn’t see the end coming. He was sure the moment was upon him and he didn’t want to know the precise second there would be no more chances, nothing left to worry about or hope he might get someday.
Ray silently counted the seconds between each blow, trying not to throw up. Another minute passed. Poor Stanley, he thought, as he watched the blood continue to trickle down his shirt. But I can’t let it happen to the others.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
One of the other men looked up at the small man before going back to pulling out drawers and shaking books.
“You know he had it with him,” said the little man.
“Yeah, then find it. You’ve had your fun, move on.”
Ray let out a small nasally whimper, his mouth quivering as he tasted the blood dripping from his swollen lips. “The Lord is my Shepherd,” he whispered, as he raised his head and opened his eyes for a moment just before a pillow exploded, its contents flying as his head slumped.
Chapter Three
Disasters happen slowly. But by the time everyone’s wringing their hands and calling their friends to let them in on the details, it’s done. The substance, the moments when the tragedy is agonizing and painful, happen in bits and pieces unseen by all but a few. Alice was figuring that out.
She stood in front of the 1993 green Chevy Celebrity that she’d always kept as neat as a pin, looking at the remains of her windshield. The splintered glass that spread out over the front seat sparkled in the late afternoon light making the vinyl appear fancier than its usual faded grey-blue.
Alice wasn’t even surprised at the destruction. She saw it from halfway across the lot and felt relief it was such a quiet message. She could explain this away to the garage.
It occurred to her to look back at the squatty yellow brick building she’d just emerged from to see if anyone else had noticed. She was struggling to appear more than resigned. The parking lot was deserted.
I don’t need this, she thought. I can let go and leave everyone to their own devices. If everyone doesn’t survive, so what. I didn’t start it. I don’t have to finish it.