Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel)

For all those who have ever been bullied

and dreamed of getting even.

Remember George Herbert’s words

“Living well is the best revenge”.

As always, for my parents and my wife…

I’m really not as strange as you might fear.

Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

- Chinese Proverb

The boy lunged. “Out of the way, loser!” he yelled.

Preston stumbled backwards off the sidewalk and plopped onto the damp grass. His butt hit hard; his hands barely stopped him from going flat on his back. He snapped an arm over his face, turning away from his attackers. But the four teenagers were already continuing down the sidewalk.

He was already forgotten.

Embarrassment flooded his system. The heat on his face contrasted with the cold of his ass as the dampness from the grass soaked through the seat of his pants. Struggling to his feet, he pulled at his jacket, hoping it would cover the wet stain. The red in his mottled cheeks deepened as he watched his would-be attackers saunter down the street.

The boys wore matching brown leather vests with a white crest painted on the back. They moved together – a pack of animals ready to take on anyone who crossed their path. Their laughter cut through him. Laughter directed at him – the geek, lard butt, weirdo, jerk, and tub. He was used to that. People had been laughing at him for forty years. He checked the retreating figures once more before turning away. He shuddered.

“Little bastards,” he said to the night. “Just lucky I wasn’t more prepared. Kick that dick into next week.”

He
should
have done something to the delinquents, he thought. But, he had been outnumbered. Yet again, his subconscious had registered the unbalanced odds and stopped him.

“You got lucky this time,” he said down the street after the retreating punks. He kept his voice pitched low – no need to disturb the neighborhood.

He looked down at his shaking hands. He shoved them deep in his jacket pockets, fixed his eyes on the sidewalk just ahead of his Hush Puppies and started toward the store again.

He had always walked this way. Concentrating on his feet, trying to will them straight. Duck feet. How many times had the other kids teased him about his splayed walk? His footprints in the snow prompted the comment, “Hey, at least one duck stayed for the winter!”

He envied the others with their cocky walks. They always stared straight ahead, welcoming, even
daring
, eye contact but not him. Too much risk, too much pain resulted from the briefest eye contact.

His life had been one long walk through terror.

He had been the brunt of every joke, on the receiving end of some form of terrorism all his life. Laughter, taunting, teasing or worse.

So very often, it was so much worse – bruises, cuts, broken bones. If he inventoried his body, he could remember each injury, each moment of pain, each humiliation.

Yes, he knew fear. He knew it intimately. He knew every heart pounding, sweaty moment of true terror.

Fear dominated his life. Stalking him, it was his constant companion.

Fear kept him safe. Fear was his protector but not his friend.

No, it was the other, darker emotion that he reveled in.

Rage.

Fear kept him safe but rage kept him sane.

At the store, he took a carton of orange juice up to the counter and felt the anger build. He let it grow, develop. He felt the heat form in his belly instead of his cheeks.

“Is that everything?” the young clerk asked.

“Obviously,” he answered tersely, relishing the spill of anger.

If I wanted more, I’d put it on the Goddamn counter!

His mind played the entire conversation out as he tapped the counter, impatiently waiting for his change. He snatched the juice without waiting for a bag.

“You’re welcome,” came the sarcastic voice from behind him.

Mumbling obscenities through the closed door, he started for home. He felt the rage seething and roiling in his body. His pace quickened, his body hunched over, his eyes unseeing. His blood boiled with the rage.

Sweet, sweet rage.

His mind whirled with what he might have done to those boys. He imagined the satisfying crack of bone, the whoosh of air, the whimpering and the begging. And then there would be the blood. And that smart mouth clerk. He pictured how a few sharp staples would take care of him and his
you’re
welcome
!

He kicked at a stone, sending it into the side of a car. The small thud wasn’t satisfying. He needed to hit, crush and inflict pain. His mind flicked to his neighbor’s cat. The feel of the tiny bones under the heavy mat of fur, the slow squeeze…

“Hey!” He froze in mid stride, his head snapping up, suddenly face to face with the boy.

The rage drained instantly from his body, threatening to take his suddenly too full bladder with it. All-consuming fear instantly replaced the rage. Sweat clamped his shirt to his back and ran down his spine and into the crack of his ass. His palms grew slippery against the carton of juice. He felt his bowels suddenly loosen as he searched for safety.

The boy stood alone at a bus stop beside an all night gas station, an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. He made no move to get out of the way. He just stood, waiting.

He fought the urge to run. His eyes flicked toward the station but the attendant was playing a guitar, paying no attention as the world went on around him. No cars were at the pumps and nothing but empty cars on the street and in the lot. He was alone.

*

Luis Gabel watched the blood drain from the fat cheeks of the loser in front of him and smiled. He couldn’t believe his luck when he saw the blub waddling toward him.

This was the same wimp that had fallen on his ass when he scared him earlier. What a geek, Gabel thought as he watched the guy push his glasses back on his nose. God, the guy was sweating like a pig. There was actually steam coming off him.

This porker was ripe and Gabel was going to pick him clean. One glimpse of his blade and he’d be handing over his wallet. Gabel knew the type. He’d be too scared of him and his crew to ever call the cops.

“Christ man, you look like you gonna piss your pants,” the boy said, putting his ace into his vest pocket. “We need to talk about a toll on my sidewalk.”

The blub never looked him in the eye but tried to step around like some peasant avoiding the King. Gabel stepped onto the grass and grabbed his arm. The carton slipped and hit the ground. Orange juice shot up the Gabel’s boots and jeans. In the half-light, it looked like he had wet himself. And then, the asshole actually laughed.

“Look watcha did to my boots! They’re fucked. Now you are really gonna pay. Gonna shove my boot right up your ass!”

As he planted his foot to kick out, Gabel stepped on the half-empty carton. His foot went out from under him and he sailed into the air. Unprepared, he went down hard in the small garden on the boulevard, his breath rushing out of him.

Preston took one look at the prone figure and ran. He crossed the street and looked over his shoulder. Expecting to see the kid right behind him, the empty street surprised him and he stumbled into a parked car. Prepared for a ruse, he was ready to bolt at the first sign of movement. But there was nothing.

Seeing the helpless figure dispelled the fear. Rage flowed into the void. Checking left and right, he cautiously went back.

“Were you going to give me some of this?” he asked, pulling his foot back. The toe of his shoe connected just below the teenager’s rib cage. The tentative kick barely moved him. Stumbling backwards, Preston saw no reaction, not even a moan. Bravado surged in him, giving flight to his rage.

“I can do better than that!” he said.

Taking a step, he slammed his foot into the boy’s side. The force of the kick rolled him onto his stomach.

In the spill of the gas station lights, he could see blood, so dark it was almost black. It had soaked into the boy’s stringy blond hair.

He had killed the little scum sucker.

RUN
, his brain screamed at him. They’re going to blame you.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

THINK. You know they will blame this on you. You won’t last in jail, not even for a single night.

Fighting the rising panic, he looked around. The kid in the booth still had his back to him, headphones on his ears and a guitar in his lap. None of the houses had direct line of sight because of the trees. Suddenly, he was relieved for the empty street.

RUN
.

Car.

“Turn, turn,” he said, willing the car to turn down one of the side streets. “Damn,” he said, unaware he was talking aloud.

The lights were getting close.

No time to run. Think, damn it.

He grabbed the boy by the vest and propped him against the bus sign. The punk fell over; his head sounded like a ripe melon when it hit the sidewalk. Preston started to giggle and fought for control. The second time, he got the body balanced against the sign. With seconds to spare, he stood facing away from the car and waited. The car didn’t even slow as it passed.

Genius. God damn genius. Now RUN!

Ya, run, genius. Great idea. How many bodies do you think turn up at the side of this street? Did the driver get a good look at you? How much would he remember? You do stand out.

Hide the body. The longer it takes to find, the less chance of the driver making a connection. But where? He couldn’t carry the kid very far.

A small sliver of light showed along the crack in the partially open door of the station restroom. “What better place for a piece of crap?” he said aloud and another giggle escaped.

He picked up the boy and wrapped an arm under his armpits. He felt the blood soaking into the sleeve of his jacket. He toted the teenager over to the washroom, just one friend helping another. The boots made the only sound as they bounced along the asphalt. Panting, he pushed the door open all the way and grunted as he pulled him over the lip of the threshold. He staggered and let the body drop just clear of the door.

He shut the door as quietly as possible and caught his breath. Dragging the boy across the floor, Preston pulled him up on the toilet seat. He pushed his head against the wall. The skull met the tiles with a satisfying, dull thud.

He grabbed a handful of hair and slammed the head against the wall again. This time, he heard a squishy crunch and smiled. Pounding the head against the wall in a primal rhythm, he spoke in a low voice.

“See what you made me do? All of you, always pushing, pushing, pushing! Never satisfied. You laugh at me, make jokes about me. Hurt me. Well, you pushed too far, didn’t you? Now, you paid the price.” In his mind, he could see all those who had terrorized him in the past.

Not conscious of his actions, he continued to pound the head against the wall until the skull was a chipped pulp. Suddenly, he realized how much noise he was making. Frightened, he released the hair. The body slumped forward off the toilet seat. He listened and could barely make out the chords of the guitar. He took several deep breaths to calm himself. He pulled the boy back up to the toilet seat.

Grabbing a wad of paper towels, he carefully wiped down the leather vest. CSI wouldn’t get anything.

Turning to leave, his foot kicked something, sending it across the floor in a metallic skitter. Bending under the sink, he picked up a knife. He pressed the small button on the black and red handle and a six-inch blade sprang into view. The knife must have fallen from the boy’s pocket when he fell off the toilet. Preston closed the knife and slipped it into his pant’s pocket.

Standing in the bushes by the bathroom door, he scanned the area. The neighborhood was quiet. He took several deep breaths and started across the station lot.

As he passed, he picked up the empty juice carton. He tossed it and his bloody jacket into the garbage bin at the Chinese food place near his home. Smiling, he was confident he had left no clues.