Kwik Krimes (32 page)

I confess to you in all shame that I had harbored lust in my heart for my neighbor Amanda for many years—yes, lust in my heart despite the fact that she was tied in bonds of holy matrimony to Orrin Gallagher, the sheriff of our county. I had wrestled vainly with the devil of my desire, hunkering in my darkened house night after night, looking in secret through Amanda’s windows across the way. I had railed in my soul against her rightful husband, cursing his cruelty to her, horrified by the brutal beatings and obscene enforcements he visited upon her with crushing regularity.

All these I had witnessed from my house. And yes, of course, I had called the police. But they would do nothing to curtail their colleague’s violence. I had even confronted Sheriff Gallagher in
person, only to find myself looking down the barrel of his service revolver, threatened with death. In the end, I was forced to look on helplessly as he tortured and tormented that sweet and beautiful creature—to look on helplessly even on that awful night he hurled her down the stairs. She never again rose from her wheelchair after that. As I myself testified at the inquest, she became a virtual prisoner in her second-story bedroom. I could see her up there, I told them, sitting helplessly by her window during the incident in question.

I would like to call that incident a tragedy, but I simply can’t. I know that any man who harbors anger against his brother shall be subject to judgment, but I harbored anger against Brother Orrin, I admit it. And when, in a fit of drunkenness, he sat himself down at the kitchen table and lifted his revolver to his head and blew his brains out, I was not sorry for it. I was glad—yes, glad—though I witnessed the whole gory spectacle. I could see the sheriff’s crippled wife in her bedroom prison upstairs; I could see the man himself in the kitchen right below her, struggling in the coils of his guilt and shame. When I saw him begin to toy with his gun, I called the police from my phone at home. I was in my house, on that phone with them, even as the final shot was fired.

It was in the aftermath of Orrin’s suicide, my friends, that I recognized the emptiness of my life. It was then that I began a search for…I didn’t know what—didn’t know at all until I walked into Brother Jeremiah’s service at the old Belmont Theater on State Street. It was there I saw Amanda roll her wheelchair down the aisle; there I saw Brother Jeremiah lay his hands upon her and command her in the name of the Almighty to rise and walk. And I tell you now, my friends, Amanda struggled from the confines of her chair to stand on her own two feet. Yes. Full of the spirit, she walked with faltering steps back up the aisle, past the awestruck faces of the gasping and applauding believers. With tremulous
tears of joy and faith and gratitude, she stumbled to where I stood at the back of the auditorium—where I stood marveling in very wonder at this mighty miracle. And as she fell exhausted into my arms, she cried in a loud voice to the multitude, “I can walk! Hallelujah! I can walk again!”

And I tell you in that moment—in that very moment—I believed and I was saved.

Can I get an amen?

Andrew Klavan is the author of such internationally best-selling crime novels as
True Crime,
the basis for the film of the same name directed by Clint Eastwood,
Don’t Say A Word,
made into a film, starring Michael Douglas, and
Empire of Lies.
He has been nominated for the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Allan Poe Award five times and has won twice. He has published best-selling thriller novels for young adults and wrote the screenplay for
A Shock to the System,
starring Michael Caine.

K.A. Laity

“I
could do it,” Tony said as I started the engine. “Believe me. Easy.”

I backed the Subaru up, then eased away from the curb. An old lady in a Ford pulled into the spot almost before I got out. Life in the congestion zone. “Might better open up a car park. You’d get rich a lot quicker. Especially around here.”

Tony shook his head. “A car park is a finite investment. There’s no end of growth potential for religion.”

“Growth potential? You’ve been watching those YouTube videos again.”

“Sidney, the knowledge of the ages is free for the taking if you know where to look.”

I checked the map and made a right at the corner. “What, Wikipedia?”

Tony sighed. He thought I lacked ambition. “You really need to develop your online presence.”

“I’m not getting on Friendface.” I shot him a look as we idled at the light.

“Facebook! Criminy, you don’t even know what it is. You might as well live among the Neanderthals.”

I shrugged. “I got plenty of friends. They drink at my local. Why would I need friends I can’t drink with?” A muffled shout from the boot made us both turn around. Some impatient stockbroker behind me tooted the horn of his Mercedes, and I stepped on the accelerator.

“Think we need to pull over?”

“Nah, it’ll be all right.”

Tony turned around to face front again. “You might be content with your lot in life—”

“I am.”

“I’ve got ambition, Sidney. I want something better.”

“Your own religion?”

“Small investment, low overhead at the start, then huge results.”

I laughed. “What about those vows of poverty?” The evening sky had that pink glow that never lasted for long but made the old city look new again.

Tony laughed. “That’s for the low-level minions. You ever been to the Vatican? Untold wealth. Same thing for all major religions. Mecca. Taj Mahal. Crystal Cathedral. Scientologists.”

“They got a church?”

Tony shot me a look of withering scorn. “They’ve got the whole of Hollywood! Hands in everything. All those rich actors and directors—they’re all dues-paying Scientologists.”

“Not Jason Statham.”

“Well, no,” Tony admitted, “but then he’s not really Hollywood, is he?”

Another muffled scream from the boot, more of a sob really. “So what’s your religion going to be about?”

When he thinks he’s got a world-beater, Tony gets this smug look that begs for a punch to the kisser. “Happiness. What everyone wants and nobody’s got.”

“I got it.”

“You don’t count, Sidney. Most people are miserable. Hold out the possibility of happiness and riches, and you’ll have people eating out of your hand.”

“You don’t say.” I looked at the map again as I found myself facing the wrong end of a one-way street. “You’re going to offer them riches? Won’t that deplete your own quickly?”

Tony sighed. He could sigh for England. “You don’t give people riches. You hold out the possibility of riches. Like car commercials that hold out the possibility of sex with supermodels. You ain’t getting it, but you think you might.”

“So you’ll be advertising?” I slowed the car, squinting into the thickening dusk.

“All modern religions advertise. I’ll have my own website, Facebook page, and YouTube channel. I’ll be an Internet sensation.” Tony looked properly smug.

“We’re here,” I said, turning into the building site. I pulled around behind a large skip filled with rubble. Old Bill said they would be pouring concrete in the morning. All seemed quiet.

“Looks wet.” Tony sighed.

“Well, let’s dig first, then see about the baggage after,” I suggested, opening the rear door to grab the shovels. I handed one to Tony, who frowned at it. “They don’t come with golden handles, mate.”

He scowled and pointed. “Here?”

“Looks good to me.” The dirt was wet, but the shovels cut through it with ease. Nonetheless, we soon sweated profusely. “Not so young anymore, are we?”

“Speak for yourself,” Tony retorted. “Prime of my life.”

“Think it’s deep enough.” I scanned the horizon. All remained quiet. People having their tea about now, surely. “Let’s get the baggage.”

“So what was he?” Tony stared at the face without recognition.

“Someone who made a serious error in judgment. You want feet or hands?” We dragged him over and dropped the baggage in the hole.

“Face down so he can see where he’s going,” Tony snickered.

“Will there be a hell in your religion?”

Tony considered the thought, which meant he leaned on his shovel and let me do the work. “Carrot and stick really, eh? You need to have both.”

“Dig.”

“If there were no fear of punishment, more people would end up like this baggage. But you can’t have it too grim or people won’t be attracted. Gruesome punishments but easily avoided.”

“Like fairy tales.” I heard a sound and whipped round. The biggest dog I ever saw stood by the skip, hackles up, a low growl rippling from its throat. I lifted the shovel, figuring I could bash it with the blade. Tony stared.

The dog crept closer. I wondered if he were diseased or something. Tony joined me, keeping the corpse between us and the mutt. The dog lunged forward and grabbed the baggage’s hand in its mouth and started pulling at it, growling even louder.

“S’pose it’s his? Trying to rescue him?”

“Bit late.” At least the dog didn’t seem to want to attack us. Inspired, I leaned forward, brought down the shovel, and sliced through the wrist. The dog, who’d shied away at first, made a lunge and sank his teeth into the hand. Then he turned and ran off with his prize.

I laughed until I cried. Tony scowled. “What are we going to tell Old Bill?”

“Nothing. He won’t mind him being a hand short. Or is that against your religion?”

“Maybe my faith needs a dog.”

“Well, dog spelled backward—”

“Stop that.”

“Hand of glory—”

“Shut up and shovel.”

T
HIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN
S
PINETINGLER
.

K.A. Laity is author of
Chastity Flame, The Claddagh Icon, Unquiet Dreams,
and more, as well as editor of the Fox Spirit Books’ anthology
Weird Noir.
Her stories have appeared in
Drunk on the Moon, ACTION! Pulse Pounding Tales, Off the Record 2: At the Movies, Spinetingler Magazine, Pulp Metal Magazine, Shotgun Honey,
and more. She divides her time between New York and Dundee, Scotland. Visit her website at
KALaity.com
.

Jon Land

K
err had nine notches on his M4A1 Special Operations–model assault rifle, one for each of the kills he’d recorded behind enemy lines in Afghanistan. There were other kills for sure, plenty of them, but he deemed only nine of them to be worthy of notches—those being the targets he’d hunted himself. Through the blistering heat of summer in the ’Stan and bone-chilling cold of the winter. Tracking Al Qaeda and Taliban insurgents who’d made the mistake of targeting his fellow troops. But Kerr wasn’t into counterinsurgency or mending hearts and minds.

His job was to rupture them.

Kerr was known as an HK—hunter/killer. Plain and simple, no further elaboration necessary. So far those lurking behind the curtain like some murderous Wizards of Oz had sent him out nine times, and he’d come back with a notch on his rifle for each of them.

He’d been plucked from the SEALs and dropped into the HKs because, well, killing came so easy to him. He took to it with the ease of a game hunter. It was sport, a human video game played out in mud, ice, snow, sand, and stone.

And he was nine for nine. Batting a thousand. A one-man death squad, which was just the way he liked it.

But this latest assignment was different, something special. A whole bunch of kills had been committed on base or encampment premises; someone finding his way in to kill the first soldier he saw, and then off he went before anyone was the wiser. Security was doubled, then tripled, but the kills continued.

Very bad for morale.

So the Wizard poked out from behind his curtain and called for an HK, and in came Kerr to pick up the trail that reeked of the remnants of Al Qaeda.

Kerr had been on the trail for three days, tracking the animal to his lair in the rugged mountain terrain. Gadgets were fine—he had a whole assortment stuffed into his pack. But this was a retro war, and HKs like Kerr had learned to adapt fast. Fuck range finders and motion detectors—what Kerr needed now were the lessons he’d learned in SEAL camp from a Native American who taught him how to track,
really
track. And the prints of his latest quarry were easy to follow.