Shank

by Robert J. Krog

“I love you.”

  Later, finally off the phone, then unable to sleep, she lay in bed in her own apartment, wishing she could hold him. Long into the night, she lay there until she picked up one of the C.S. Lewis books he’d recommended to her and read for a time, hoping her eyes would get heavy, and she’d be able to sleep so she’d be functional at work the next day.

  Roger, much to his surprise, fell asleep quite quickly and dreamed of Kilkenny—strange dreams, not the usual dreams he’d had for years that were great fodder for children’s books, but a sad, disturbing dream. He was in the kitchen making a sandwich, and his friend entered in the shape of a horse.

  “Sandwich?” he offered, and Kilkenny turned into a man with goat’s ears, horns, and tail.

  “Yes, please, with mustard,” the pooka said.

  It all seemed very natural, but then Roger remembered that Kilkenny was dead, and stopped making sandwiches. They were standing suddenly in the back yard where he’d buried his friend in the shape of a dog, wrapped in his grandfather’s Persian rug.

  “You were dead,” he told the pooka. “At least, I thought you were.” He rushed forward to embrace his friend, who smiled gently at him and extended his arms as well. When he put his arms around Kilkenny, though, he was cold and bloody. He didn’t let go. “I miss you,” he said, and he woke up.

  Then, he went ahead and did what he’d always done after a dream involving Kilkenny. He went to his desk to write.

  Something’s lost, and something’s gained, every day we still live, or so little Benny’s teacher had told him, but the lost toy was a painful loss for a boy his age. He walked home from school, angry that no one had put it into the lost and found box in the office. Someone had found it and kept it, he knew, and he knew he’d probably never see it again.

  Up ahead was a little girl his age, also walking along, downcast and sad.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he asked her when he caught up.

  She looked up, and, seeing him, her frown melted into a smile. “Hi,” she answered. “I don’t like walking home alone every day. I was just asking God for someone to walk with me, and here you are.”

  Chapter 12

  The Bitter End

  Ken was the main guard assigned to Shaw, and he was annoying. Fidgeting was his thing. He had to have something in his hands to keep them busy most of the time. Since the pistol, taser, knife, and baton weren’t toys, he usually had a yo-yo. Even so, he would play with his knife and baton quite a bit. In the first couple of days of Shaw’s convalescence at home, he took a liking to the reproduction dagger from Tut’s tomb and practiced flipping and catching it. He really didn’t drop it much. Shaw had told him to put it down six times and then given up. He realized he didn’t really care, and if it kept Ken from his other annoying habit, small talk, it was worth it.

  “You can play with it if you must, but don’t clean the bloodstains off. It’s a trophy, and it’s supposed to stay that way.”

  Ken nodded and tossed it close to the ceiling before catching it deftly by the hilt.

  Despite his constant fidgeting, Ken was observant and kept a sharp eye out for Guthrie or anyone else who might be gunning for his charge. Neither of them saw hide nor hair of him but they took careful precautions against a possible attempt.

  Ken laughed on the fifth day. “Richard must have scared him off. He probably turned in his probationary license and went back to work flipping burgers.” Johns had dug up Guthrie’s illustrious employment history of minimum wage work and failed marriages.

  Shaw had to agree that the guy seemed to have given up.

  Over the next few days, he made his appointments on time, with Ken riding shotgun in the Cadillac and a driver from Johns’ firm. The local real estate company in Wilmington was eager to work with him, and he finalized the deal for the island. He healed some and acquired a prosthesis that would do until the custom one was ready. He made sure to get a spare that was just a hook for style. Clumsily, he packed the Jaguar full of things he wanted while Ken stood guard, then he tried to drive. It was weird, but doable, so he sent Johns’ guy home. He and Ken left on a road trip, his first in some time, to see his island and meet with the architect who’d design the house he was having built, and to meet with the real estate agent to sign the papers at the closing on the property. He took several pistols but had yet to attempt to shoot with just his left hand, despite Ken’s enthusiasm for going to the range. The thought of anyone seeing him miss as badly as he knew he would was too humiliating.

  They had two days to get there, so they drove across the state in easy stages, stopping to use facilities and eat meals as they liked, and stayed the night in a hotel in Knoxville before resuming the drive the next morning. Shaw declared that he’d do all the driving that day. Ken had driven for only a quarter of an hour the day before because it had set Shaw on edge to have nothing to do. The mountains were more challenging than he’d expected, and he had a couple of close calls with semis, but he’d made it over mostly on rage. He was sweating through a lot of it, and he hated that. Ken was stoic but had been gripping the “oh, shit” handle with white knuckles.

  Johns called as he was driving through Fayetteville. Shaw’s phone was mounted on the dash. He raised his right arm to swipe and realized it wouldn’t work. Ken politely swiped for him.

  “Hi,” Shaw said.

  “How goes it?”

  “It goes like shit. I’m driving with my left hand. Do you know how much it sucks to need two hands in mountain curves and only have one?”

  “No, obviously. Why didn’t you wait until your prosthesis was ready?”

  “Because I want to see my island, that’s why.”

  “Why don’t you let Ken drive?”

  “I have to learn how to do this on my own, anyway, and your boy Ken drives like an old woman, that’s why.” Ken laughed.

  “Fine, fine. How’s it going otherwise? Fun trip?”

  “I had to pay cash for gas in some hick town a few miles back because their card reader was broken. I tried every bank and credit card I had on it. I should have brought more cash.”

  “Well, the next card reader will work fine, buddy. Not to worry. Enjoy your trip, and think seriously about my offer when you come back. I could really use you as a consultant.”

  “I appreciate the thought, I guess, but that’ll be the damn day, Johns.”

  “Have it your way.”

  Shortly after, Johns hung up. Shaw pushed on through, and the warm spring midafternoon found them in Wilmington, pulling up at the office of the real estate agent he’d been in contact with. He stepped out of the Jaguar, with Ken standing guard, and made sure he had one of his pistols with him. The first he found was Clawson’s Beretta. He holstered it, stretched, and went in after Ken made sure it was clear.

  Cross was on the phone again. “Mrs. Sanders, the hacker got him. He emptied Shaw’s accounts, paid himself and me, and made anonymous donations to all the nonprofits you specified. Shaw’s penniless.”

  Augusta sat back in her chair and let out a long, slow breath. “That’s good,” she said. “It won’t satisfy my friend Susan, who wanted him dead, but all the profits from a misspent life are gone.”

  “They are, Mrs. Sanders. I got back into his apartment and took everything of value. I’ve had the place watched. He left town yesterday morning on a trip. I found every bit of cash, every gun, all of it, and took it. I had to hire some help, but I took it all. Told the neighbors we were his movers. I even took his security system, which our hacker friend had disabled. Then I went down to the garage and stole his cars, too. He has nothing but what he left town with yesterday, and unless he took a lot of cash, he’ll be stranded wherever he went. I expect he’ll be swimming in medical debt soon since he hasn’t gotten all the bills yet. If he manages to return home, he’ll be evicted. I can’t say I won’t take pleasure in his misfortune.”

  “I’ll bear Mr. Shaw’s new condition with fortitude, Mr. Cross. I’ll take a philosophical vie
w of it all.”

  “Same here, but I’m sure Shaw won’t. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, ma’am. I hope you never need my services again, all the same, but should you, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “You can rely on it, Mr. Cross.”

  Cross hung up and sat back, thinking over the information he’d held back from her. While clearing out Shaw’s place, he’d discovered someone casing it; Susan’s shooter was apparently still trying to make a name for himself by killing the hard target of a former shooter protected by another former shooter’s security firm. Guthrie had been broke, but Cross had given him the information gathered using the parental control app he’d installed on Shaw’s phone and sent him on his way with an IOU. Cross never expected to get paid.

  Poor bastard is hopelessly outclassed, but he might get lucky.

  Life was looking up, though, and he decided to take a nap. He stuffed a snack cake in his mouth and went to his couch.

  In Wilmington, NC, Shaw ended a phone call in disbelief. The deal hadn’t gone through because the money wouldn’t transfer. None of his phone calls had turned up anything other than that his Cayman accounts had been emptied with his authorization early that morning. His local bank account in Memphis had been treated the same. He had no money but the small amount of cash currently in his wallet, $227 and change.

  “Mr. Shaw?” the real estate agent asked.

  “Nothing,” he answered. “The banks say my accounts were emptied earlier today. I have nothing in them.”

  The agent flinched at the look on his client’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said in a rush.

  The phone rang again. For a moment, neither the noise nor anything else registered with Shaw. Ken asked, “Should I answer that, Mr. Shaw? It’s your landlord.”

  “My what?” Nothing was making sense to him.

  “Your landlord,” Ken said, looking over his shoulder and pointing at the phone in his hand.

  He answered the phone mechanically.

  “Shaw? You there?” Smith asked when Shaw said nothing.

  “Yes,” Shaw said.

  “Good, I’m glad you didn’t change your number when you skipped out on me. Shaw, you owe me rent, whether you move out or not. We have a contract.”

  “Move out?” Shaw asked.

  “Yes, moved out, as in had a moving truck show up and take everything away.”

  “I didn’t move. You must be mistaken,” he said, his mind still on the Cayman accounts and not really registering.

  “You are Gordon M. Shaw of Apartment 418?”

  He was. His mind took a bit to wrap around the idea. His arm itched where his hand should be. His face itched, and he couldn’t scratch it, because his only hand was holding the phone. “That’s right, Mr. Smith, but I didn’t move. You’re mistaken.”

  “Like Hell, I’m mistaken. I’m standing in 418, and it’s empty. Your neighbors said a truck and movers from Two Brothers and a Truck came and took everything, even your cars from the garage. They scratched the walls up, moving your gun safe and sofa. I thought you were in investments. If I’d known you were an LEI contractor, I’d have told you to go somewhere else. Doesn’t matter, though. You owe me for most of a year, and don’t think I won’t collect, because I will. I want your payments regular as my wife’s period every month, or I’ll sic a collection agency on your ass. Do you hear me? That includes rent on your apartment, and the four reserved spots you had in the garage, Shaw. You owe me. This is not a cheap apartment with its bullet proofing, and I want every dime. I don’t care if you’re unemployed or what. I’ll garnish your pay, even if it’s the whole check. Skip out on me, will you? I don’t think so.”

  Smith kept going, but Shaw lowered the phone and swiped with his thumb. The strident voice of the outraged landlord cut off abruptly. It was clear that everyone in the office had heard enough to know what was going on.

  “I’m so sorry for your misfortune, Mr. Shaw,” the agent said as Shaw set the phone on the desk before him and scratched furiously at his chest, and then his face.

  “Mr. Shaw, why don’t we find a motel and call Mr. Johns? I’ll put the room on the company account. Johns will sort this out.”

  But Shaw ignored him, rising and going to the office door, compulsively scratching where his prosthesis joined his right arm. The lobby of the real estate office was empty, but Ken followed quickly, stepping in front of his charge. An enormous bang filled the lobby. A hole appeared in one window, and Ken’s head exploded from the bullet entering it. The blood and gore spewed onto Shaw made him flinch. He blinked a moment and jumped into action, going for his pistol with his stump. Hampered momentarily by Ken’s falling body, he reflexively shoved it away with his left hand, then grabbed at the Beretta. A second bang filled the lobby. Shaw, taking a bullet in the bulletproof vest, fell back, stunned, dropping his pistol.

  A heavyset, black-bearded man in a brown suit stood outside the window, pulling back the bolt on his rifle. It was Guthrie. Shaw groaned and rolled behind a desk, his prosthesis getting in the way and catching on an office chair. He hadn’t taken a bullet in over a decade and had forgotten how much it hurt, even through a vest. The door opened and a third bang sounded, even louder than before. A slug went through the desk and into the wall over Shaw’s head.

  He looked around but couldn’t see the Beretta. He suspected it had fallen under furniture or slid back into the office. Ken’s corpse had collapsed on top of his pistol. The only weapons close to hand were Ken’s taser and the dagger. Shaw reached out, snatched up the taser, and fired. He missed, but Guthrie’s eyes widened, and he mishandled the bolt action, causing a round to jam. He cussed and tried it again.

  Shaw snatched up the dagger and charged across the lobby. Guthrie’s eyes widened even more as he looked away from his rifle at Shaw. Shaw closed the distance with the still blood-stained replica dagger and jabbed it, left-handed, into the rolls of the man’s neck. The rifle dropped, and he screamed and backed away. Shaw, unused to fighting hand to hand, was overextended; he tripped and fell, banging his stump painfully on the front step as his prosthesis came off and dangled where it was Velcroed to his arm.

  Guthrie, gushing blood from the wound, lunged past into the lobby to get to his rifle and clear it.

  Shaw struggled to his feet, off balance on his stump, striking it against the concrete, and then the door frame as he pushed up. The 187A shooter had the rifle and was working the bolt again. The round ejected, and he loaded another, but Shaw jumped to attack and stabbed him in the right bicep. The rifle fell to the floor again. Guthrie turned desperately, ran a few feet, tripped over a chair, and fell, smashing a glass-topped table covered in magazines to slivers and shards.

  Shaw kicked the chair out of the way and lunged again, but Guthrie was scrambling away. He rose, shards of glass in his hands, and shoved an end table at Shaw. Shaw sidestepped and continued the pursuit. Guthrie dodged behind the couch. Shaw lunged at him, swinging at him with his right arm, the prosthesis swinging wildly, then flying off across the lobby toward the office where the agent and his assistant were cowering, on the phone with a 911 operator.

  Guthrie doubled his fists and swung, catching Shaw in the forehead, knocking him back and causing him to see sparks.

  “Ha!” Guthrie shouted and shoved the couch out of the way. Shaw shook his head and sprang at him again. Guthrie came in swinging and caught the replica dagger’s iron blade in his large gut. His fist slammed into Shaw’s jaw and sent him reeling. The dagger was left behind, protruding from Guthrie’s belly. The big man stared down at it, and gasped, pulled it out with his wounded hands, then dropped it when he saw the volume of blood that followed it.

  “This was just a job before, but I’m going to enjoy this first kill a lot more than I would have, Shaw,” he said through clenched teeth.

  But Shaw had fallen with arm’s reach of the Winchester. He grabbed it. Guthrie cussed and dove for cover. Shaw started to aim, realized he wasn’t sure how to do so with only one
hand, and gave Guthrie the moment he needed. With the rifle tucked against his left shoulder and balanced on his stump, Shaw scanned the room. He saw Guthrie, crawling toward Ken’s corpse for the pistol under it, and fired. With his right hand, he’d have put the bullet through center mass, but as it was, the round took a chunk out of Guthrie’s right thigh. The man cried out and collapsed in agony. Realizing he might not be able to chamber another round fast enough, Shaw dropped the rifle, grabbed the dagger, and ran to where the 187A assassin had collapsed but was already rising again.

  Hearing him coming, Guthrie turned his head and donkey-kicked with his left leg, but his right gave out as he did. Shaw tripped and fell on his back. Desperately, he grappled Guthrie, getting his right arm around Guthrie’s neck. He pulled as hard as he could. Guthrie gagged, but bucked and turned, trying to throw him off. Shaw got the dagger under his chin, anyway, jabbing the stump in the process, and drew the blade across Guthrie’s neck. His opponent collapsed, both hands covering the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his jugular, but it was too little, too late. He rolled over at Ken’s feet until his dying eyes could look up into Shaw’s.

  “You’re trash, and you’re gonna die like trash,” Shaw said. “Even one-handed, I’m too good for you.”

  Guthrie’s eyes closed, and his body went limp. Shaw exulted over the corpse, thrilled to be alive, forgetting for a moment the crushing weight of defeat he’d felt a few minutes ago when he’d received the news that his money and possessions—all but what he had on his person or in his car—were gone. Then it all came back to him, along with the fact that if Guthrie had been even slightly more experienced, the attack would have succeeded. If he’d used a semi-auto, I’d be dead and beyond worries now.

  The real estate agent, ashen faced, stepped gingerly into the lobby, looking down at Ken.