Death by Sarcasm

Thirty-six

Even in the dim light, it was easy to make out the bodies.

One just four feet or so from the door. One sprawled in front of a wingback chair. Another slumped against a sideboard. And one halfway into the kitchen, only the legs were visible.

“Maybe this is some kind of modern art piece” Mary said softly. “Four old dead guys in living room. Artist unknown.”

She bent down to the nearest old guy.

Nope, it wasn’t art. It was blood. The kind that pours out of a body.

The bullet hole in the side of his head kind of confirmed it as well.

The .45 was Mary’s hand as she silently walked into the middle of the room.

The killer had come from the hallway, Mary thought. Had somehow distracted the guys and then silently appeared and started shooting.

Popped the guy in front of the hallway, near the chair. Then probably took out the guy standing near the kitchen, and the guy by the sideboard. And then the last shot took out the guy who’d almost made it out the front door, but not quite. Four fast shots. Four old guys, dead.

Mary went into the kitchen, stepped carefully over the dead guy.

Nothing there but a wide pool of dark blood. And there truly was nothing there. No soap by the sink. No salt and pepper shakers, grocery lists, food on the counter. It was as barren as North Dakota.

Mary went upstairs and found the same thing. Rooms, with furniture and working electricity, but no evidence that anyone lived there.

She went back downstairs into the living room and thought it through a little more. Mary studied what was left of the faces of the dead men and quickly realized that she recognized all of them.

Prescott. The tall one.

Mark something.

Frank or maybe Franklin. A chubby little bowling ball of a guy.

And the white-haired guy. His last name was Castro.

The last time she’d seen them, they’d all been snickering in Aunt Alice’s living room about Mary. Making bad jokes and lewd suggestions.

Well, they were still putting on a show, just not the kind they would have liked.

Talk about escalation of violence. All four of these guys, and then Mitchell.

Christ, there was no one left.

The phone rang and Mary traced it to the kitchen. It was hung on the wall and had a built-in answering machine.

Mary waited, wanting to get the hell out of the kill zone, but she desperately wanted to hear who was calling.

There was no answering message, just a beep.

And then a voice came on.

It was a voice Mary recognized.

“Mary, please…”

There was a crash and then the machine beeped. But Mary didn’t hear it because she was already out the door halfway to her car.

She had to get there fast.

Or Alice would die.

She drove like Stevie Wonder on crystal meth.

On the sidewalk when necessary, running red lights, blasting the horn nonstop. She managed to take out a couple city waste containers, a bike and a newspaper kiosk.

The Accord would definitely require some body work by the time she was done.

When she got to Alice’s house, Mary was pouring sweat and her car’s tires were smoking. But it didn’t matter, because she pulled off of the street and drove straight into the yard, at an angle. She hit the front door with the corner of her bumper and it crashed inward. Mary’s car shook with the impact, and then she was out of the car, gun in hand, sliding across the hood into the living room.

Later, Mary was never able to quite figure out what Whitney Braggs’ plan was. Because she was already raising her gun when he stepped out from behind Aunt Alice, who was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, held upright by Braggs. Had he planned to negotiate with Mary, using Alice as a human shield? Was it in his mind to kill her immediately?

She never knew.

Because she shot him.

It wasn’t that difficult. With Alice tied up, Mary knew she wasn’t going to make any sudden moves. So it wasn’t so much that she aimed at Braggs, she simply aimed up and over from Alice. If Braggs was there, great. If not, she’d try again.

But Braggs didn’t move. He only moved when the .45 slug ripped out his throat. He staggered back, his grip on Alice loosened and she sagged to the ground. The gun in his hand fired, and Mary felt a hammer blow to her left leg. It spun her sideways, but now she poured the bullets at Braggs in a tight pattern, high. She shredded his upper chest and he crashed into the wall, sliding down to the ground. His gun dropped at his feet.

Mary limped over to Aunt Alice and freed her. She sat up, rubbed her wrists and surveyed the destruction in her living room. “I knew I should’ve gotten Scotchgard for the carpet!”

Mary went to Braggs and knelt beside him, her left leg screaming in pain, her sock and shoe filling with blood.

She put the smoking barrel of the .45 against his temple.

“Tell me where she is,” Mary said. “Where is she?”

Braggs tried to answer, but blood gurgled in his mouth and then his throat made a horrible sound. Mary saw the damage her first shot had done.

She reached out and wrapped her hand around his throat and squeezed slightly, to compress what was left of the vocal cords.

“Where is she?” she asked.

He made another garbling sound but this time, she understood.

“The house.”