Shank

by Robert J. Krog

  The pooka, in the form of a boxer, hopped from the back seat into the front. “A pledge of some sort is expected, and this has become the traditional pledge from man to woman upon engagement, for some reason.”

  “Advertising, I should think,” Roger replied, shaking his head. “Did you have to eat that plant?”

  “I believe she’s worth it.” He ignored the question but gave him a wink.

  “I guess that’s how they get us to pay for these things. The real question is, is the piece of jewelry worth it?”

  “You know some artists who make jewelry. You could ask one of them to make you something that might be more meaningful and less expensive, and support a friend,” the boxer suggested, licking his arm as he put the car in gear.

  “I could do that.”

  “Back in the day, when I was young, the engagement was done through handfasting.”

  “Tying the hands of the bride and groom together?”

  “The engaged couple, if an engagement, though weddings used to be done that way, too.”

  “I’m not sure how that helps me with an engagement ring. Do you want me to give her a bit of rope tied in a knot rather than a ring, or maybe a bit of string?”

  “No, I think not.”

  Roger asked his navigation for directions to the next jewelry store.

  “Those were great days for pooka, back then. We had time and space aplenty, and lots of energy for tricks. The magic flowed freely, and we didn’t lack for it. Any shape we wanted could be taken with little effort, though we always favored horses. I knew a fellow who liked to be a giant rabbit, and another who preferred to be a fox, but whatever the shape, it was easy. The energy was so thick at times, we could almost swim in it. The little people rejoiced in it, too, and played many tricks.”

  They stopped at a light, and Roger turned to look at his friend. “What do you really look like?” he asked.

  “You know me, Roger. You know me, no matter the shape. I’m always me.” His voice sounded suddenly hollow and echoing, as though it came from a cave.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “You had to some time. I don’t hold it against you.”

  The light turned green, and he drove on down the street.

  The phone rang, and Roger slid the icon across the screen with one finger. It was Emma.

  “Hey, what are you up to today, Roger, my love?” she asked.

  “Running some errands. I have to drop by the grocery store. I think I’ll cook dinner for you tonight, if you like.”

  “Oh, really? I’d like that. What’s for dinner?”

  “I want to do shish kabob with bits of steak, peppers, potatoes, onion, and maybe some shrimp, too.”

  “Oh, shrimp! That’d be great. Yes, please.”

  “I will then.”

  “That hawk,” Kilkenny said, “knew the pharaohs.”

  “What?”

  “What what?” Emma asked.

  Kilkenny rolled down the window and shouted out the window in a language Roger didn’t know. Roger waited patiently for him to finish his conversation. After a few moments, the boxer pulled its head back in and said, “Never mind. It wasn’t him or, at least he claimed not to be him. Looked like him though. I was so sure.”

  They arrived at the next jewelry store. Roger found a free space and pulled into it.

  Once he’d said goodbye to Emma, he asked Kilkenny, “Please don’t vandalize this place, okay?”

  “I make no promises, if the plants look tasty enough.”

  Roger and the horse walked into the store.

  Later, having visited four jewelry stores, a grocery store, and a liquor store, Roger pulled into his garage without an engagement ring, but glad to be done with the errands.

  Across the street, sitting innocuously in his Yukon behind the tinted glass of his windows, Shaw watched as Charn and Kilkenny unloaded groceries. The goggles worked well. The pooka, shaped like a satyr or a devil or something—Shaw wasn’t that familiar with mythology—carried paper sacks into the house. The goggles detected the presence of a fairy and an active illusion, presumably the selective visibility/invisibility. He switched to the glasses he’d bought himself. They detected active kaval in the general area of the garage and house, but he couldn’t see the pooka with them. He switched back, and there it was, picking up the last grocery sack from the trunk.

  A woman pulled into the driveway a few minutes later. Shaw nodded to himself and drove away.

  Emma entered through the garage, knocked on the door, and let herself in. The garage let into the pantry/laundry room and then to the kitchen. Roger was in the kitchen with Kilkenny, putting groceries in the refrigerator. The pooka nodded at Roger and trotted away. Emma wrapped her arms around her love and kissed him soundly on the lips, a kiss he returned sincerely.

  “When do you start making dinner?” she asked after releasing him.

  “Now, but it takes a while. I’ll cut the steak into chunks and put it all in a marinade. We can have a glass of wine before I start a fire in the grill. After that, we’ll have some rolls as an appetizer. Then I’ll chop vegetables and mushrooms, skewer them with the meat and shrimp, and put it all on the grill. Dinner theater, or just conversation?”

  “Dinner theater?”

  “Either I read to you, or we can watch a movie or show on television.”

  “Conversation first, maybe reading or watching later.”

  “Okay, I’ll get started.”

  “Where’s the wine? I’ll open it.”

  Roger could hear Kilkenny’s hooves upstairs as he cut up the steaks and put them in the marinade.

  Hours later, as they sat at last over their kabobs, Kilkenny came downstairs wearing his goat ears and trotted over to the table. He placed a small, old box on the table and said to Roger, “Given what she’s wearing now, she’ll like this one.”

  I’m not ready, thought Roger, but the pooka drifted away.

  He tried not to stare at the antique box, wondering where it came from. Kilkenny kept his things somewhere Roger had never found, yet somewhere, apparently, in the house.

  “Did you ever read it?” Emma asked him.

  “I’m not sure,” he hedged, realizing that his attention had wavered. She’d been talking about a local author he’d met a couple of times, but whose name neither of them could recall.

  “It was an enjoyable read,” she said musingly. “Something about a war between Heaven and Hell.”

  “One of the Inklings wrote a book with that title, I think,” he said, “Charles Williams, maybe.”

  “The same title?”

  “No, War between Heaven and Hell, or something close to that.”

  “I haven’t read much by the Inklings, just The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia.”

  “Well worth the read,” he said.

  “They were good.” She smiled at him.

  He thought, Do I go ahead and ask her? but he said, “You’ve never read any of their nonfiction, apologetics, essays on literature?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then I recommend On Fairy Stories by Tolkien, and such essays as “Lillies that Fester” and “Fern Seed and Elephants” by Lewis, as well as Mere Christianity.”

  “You know I’m already Christian, right, my love? That’s why we’re being so achingly chaste, because we’re only dating and not married, remember?”

  He blushed at the mention of chastity. “Yes, I know, but I recommended the essays because they’re about literature, philosophy, and the state of society, some of which you enjoy, and the book because we can always study our faith more, and it’s a good primer.”

  “I love you. I’m interested, but not as much as you are. I’m pretty content just to attend church on Sunday.”

  His eyes fell on the ring box as he thought over his words.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  Oh, no. “Just a little something I, um...”

  She waited for him to finish, chewing a de
licious piece of steak, and, when he got stuck, she raised an eyebrow.

  “What is it?” she asked again.

  I can’t ask her and not tell her about Kilkenny. I’m not ready for this. “Just an old box. It was in my pocket. I’d forgotten it was there. I’ll put it away.”

  He rose and took it with him, quickly jogging up the stairs to put it on his nightstand. Kilkenny appeared beside him. “Is everything all right?” the pooka asked.

  “I’m not ready. She doesn’t even know about you,” he whispered back.

  “Does she have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  He jogged back down the stairs.

  “Is everything all right, Roger?” she asked.

  “It’s all fine. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay,” she said with a smile he could only interpret as knowing. She didn’t seem mad or worried.

  What have I done for her to trust me so and be so patient with me? Everything she does makes me love her more.

  “Everything,” he said aloud, not realizing it.

  “Everything what?” she asked.

  “Everything they ever wrote,” he covered quickly. “I recommend it all, really.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

  He took a big bite of onion, peppers, and shrimp as an excuse not to talk. Once they were both done chewing, the conversation resumed and drifted away, as conversations do, to other topics—the local author, Christianity, chastity, the Inklings, and the box was apparently forgotten.

  “May I read some of your latest draft?” she asked.

  “I’d like that,” he answered, smiling back at her.

  They went up to his office. He carried a dining room chair up so she could sit in his desk chair. There was an old, ornate Persian rug on the floor and a large desk on the other side of it. Bookshelves hid almost every bit of wall space, and the shelves were overflowing with books. The desk, a huge thing, hardwood with almost as much surface space as a dining room table, was antique and had plenty of room for the computer and for doing artwork by hand. There were sketches scattered across it: red balloons; a boy, mid bounce, going over a wall like a rubber ball; a little girl standing, amazed, looking up at him; and a grassy hill with a long, shallow slope the same two children were running down, hand in hand, following a pony and a dog. Emma took some time to admire them before sitting in the desk chair and admiring the desk.

  “I remember what your office reminded me of,” she told him.

  “Oh?” He set the dining room chair on the same side, but at the corner, to give her room.

  “Yes, at my grandfather’s house there was one similar, and several of us would always hide in it, playing hide and seek. I love your desk, and this room, and that rug, and the view of the neighborhood from up here.” She glanced out the windows, one looking out front, and one out back.

  “I got the rug from my granddad. It’s okay. It’s just an old rug.” He eyed the underside of the desk. Despite its many drawers and compartments, it had room for a few children.

  She followed his eyes and looked under it too. “Hide under it with me?” she asked.

  “Hide from whom?”

  She shrugged. “Just hide with me.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll read. You find some hiding chocolate.”

  “Hiding chocolate? Is that a thing?”

  “It is with you and me from now on.”

  “Right.” He smiled, rose, and went to find chocolate.

  She opened the appropriate file and started to read.

  Chapter 8

  A Long, Sleepless Night and the Morning After

  Augusta was still sitting up in their bed at midnight. She’d told her mother that she slept as little as possible because she always dreamt of George, frequently reliving finding him dead on the floor beneath the shattered window, or finding him alive and embracing him, only to discover that he was a corpse after all. No, sleep was terrible, but this time she wasn’t losing sleep over that, so much as obsessing over how to avenge his death on both the killer himself and the man who’d hired him. Between fits of obsessive rage, she dealt with the terrible knowledge that she would not only lose her power to protect others from harm by doing so, but also damn her soul.

  I could hire a hitman to kill Luke. It’d be legal. They probably wouldn’t accept a contract to kill Shaw. The Biblical verse, she couldn’t place it just then, but thought it came from Exodus, “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” assailed her every time she tried to dial the number for LEI or Murder, Inc. So far, she hadn’t quite followed through, though once she’d dialed and then hung up when a voice answered on the other end.

  What Alex Cross had said to her crossed her mind again, that the easiest way to ruin Shaw would be to hire a hacker to empty his bank accounts. Not knowing what else to do, she dialed his number. He picked up after only two rings and sounded wide awake.

  “Mrs. Sanders, what may I do for you?”

  “I’m surprised you’re awake, Mr. Cross.”

  “Sleep is the privilege of the clean of conscience and those who’ve lost little in life. I’m neither.”

  “You said you could connect me with someone who could empty Shaw’s bank accounts, right?”

  “I did. I can. You want me to contact him?”

  “Yes. Just let me know what he’ll charge.”

  “Will do, Mrs. Sanders.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hope you can sleep some tonight, ma’am.”

  “I sleep very little, have awful dreams, and stay awake on caffeine most days.”

  “I watch a lot of TV late at night, usually old movies. Sometimes I read a book.”

  “I love to read—or I used to. I can’t seem to drum up any interest these days. Guess I’ll go downstairs and stare at the TV again.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Good night.”

  She hung up, swung her legs out of bed, and stood up slowly, stiff and sore. Another night on the couch staring at the flickering screen seemed to be in order. Sometimes it distracted her for a few minutes, and she fell asleep. She carried her phone with her, the numbers for LEI and Murder Inc. still in her recent calls list. In the back of her mind was a constant whisper, the idea of vengeance, of bloody retribution, urging her to act.

  It’s wrong. I’ll lose my magic and my soul, but what else am I to do? There’s no justice in this world. I thought it was enough that Luke was ruined, but it’s not. I want his blood. I don’t want his redemption.

  She sat on the couch and turned the TV on, selected a classic movies channel, and saw a John Wayne flick on the screen, something about cowboys in ancient cars crossing a river. It was vaguely familiar. She stared at it as the night slowly waned, slouching into the couch. Her fingers inched slowly closer to the phone until it was in her hand.

  Around 1:00 a.m., as she was about to make the call, the phone rang. It was Susan. She let it ring three times before deciding to answer.

  “Susan?” she answered, tired and uninterested in consoling the woman, but feeling obliged.

  “I knew you’d be awake,” Susan said. “You told me the other day how little you sleep. I thought I’d check in on you, since I’m awake myself.”

  “I’m here,” she replied, “awake and staring at the TV.”

  “Me, too. I’m lonely and angry, and awake, staring at the TV.”

  “What a pair. How’s the lawsuit going?”

  “It’s going pretty well. It looks like Jack will lose virtually everything to make alimony and child support payments. The other woman knew about me and the children all along, so I have no sympathy for her, though I pity their children.” She spat out the last two words. “She has family that can help out, so I’m not stopping. Jack will have to work the rest of his life to pay for what he’s done, and if he has me killed, he’ll have to pay just as much for someone else to raise our children. The court will never give him custody. I should be thrilled about it.”r />
  “You’re not, though.”

  “No. I keep thinking about what they did to us and hating them for doing it. I’d rather have a husband, but since I can’t, I want him dead.”

  “I understand. I’m afraid I’m hating right now, too. He’s your children’s father, though, and having him killed won’t make anything right.”

  “I know. Augusta, I...”

  “Yes?” Tired and wishing to be left alone, she hoped Susan would go back to sleep, but suspected there would be tears soon. Susan cried so often.

  “I did something,” Susan said. Her tone was shaky. She let out a laugh that was somewhere between panicky and elated.

  Augusta sat up straight on the couch. “What did you do?”

  “I called to take hits out on all of them, on Jack, your brother-in-law Luke, and the man who killed your George, that Shaw guy. I called LEI, and they referred me to Murder, Inc., where I took out hits on Jack and Luke. No one would take the hit on Shaw, so I tried the other subsidiary, 187A, and a guy took the job.”

  “Oh, no.” She felt a thrill, though.

  “I was drinking. I’d never have done it sober.”

  “It’s one thing to kill in self-defense. It’s another to kill for revenge. What we need is justice.” I don’t have to do anything. They’ll all get theirs, and it won’t be me who did it.

  Susan laughed. “There’s no justice anymore but what we make.”

  “Oh, Susan. When did you do it? Is there time to call it off?”

  “I tried to call off the hits on Jack and Luke, but I won’t call off the one on Shaw. Murder, Inc. said the shooter going after Luke and Jack wasn’t answering his phone and that it was probably a dead battery.”

  “Oh, God help us. When did you take out the hit? How’d they get his description? You don’t have his photo.”

  “I don’t know. Social media or driver’s license records, I guess. This morning while Mom was at the store and the children were at school. I tried to call it off a little while ago, maybe 10 o’clock. The shooter hadn’t reported in, so they assumed the hits hadn’t been made yet. I get the feeling they assigned me a low tier, unreliable guy; of course, with my luck, he won’t be any better than the guy Jack hired to kill me.”