Frisbee

by Eric Bergreen

DEWCLAW

  The Cleanser drives somberly into the night. The radio is off and the only sounds that are heard, over the hum of the tires and the buzz of the engine, are the low tolling of bells from the Church of Christ on Main Street, marking the hour. They can be heard from one end of the city to the other when the night is at its darkest and the city and its people are asleep.

  Bong. Bong. Bong.

  Three a.m.

  In the back of the car, on the floorboard, wrapped in a sheet, lies a lifeless body that only an hour ago had been a cute and vibrant and very scared ten-year-old girl. Taking her had been the hardest yet for the Cleanser. Three problems had been encountered at that house.

  At midnight the car had been parked one house down from the child’s house.

  The filthy, unclean child.

  After exiting the vehicle, a quick sweep of the neighbors’ houses had been made to ensure no one was out where they shouldn’t be, to screw things up.

  The coast had been clear.

  It wasn’t until approaching the side gate that plans had to be improvised. The first three break-ins had gone smooth, in and out without waking a soul. This time, however, proved to be a challenge.

  When the Cleanser had reached a hand over the gate to feel for a latch, the unmistakable sounds of a dog, growling deep in its throat, floated upon the air.

  Problem number one.

  At first the thought was to abandon the mission, to just stop right then and there and head back home, find a different little girl on a different night.

  Then reasoning set in.

  I can’t. It must be her. It must be tonight.

  So instead of jumping ship, the Cleanser walked back to the car and rummaged around the trunk. After a minute of searching, the hand came out and the trunk was gently and quietly shut.

  The tire iron was held flat against the leg for the quick walk back to the side of the house, the whole while still scanning the neighborhood for any lurkers. At the gate the hand went up and felt for the latch once again. The same throaty growl rose up but still the dog had not barked.

  The Cleanser gave two quick, quiet whistles and when the dog whined in response pushed the gate open in one quick, fluid motion. The tire iron went up and came down in a blur, connected with the back of the dog’s skull. It let out a brief death cry that could have been mistaken for the shriek of a car’s tires braking on a street. The sound wasn’t exceptionally loud but the Cleanser crouched just inside the gate, leaving it half open, incase escape was necessary.

  A minute passed, then two, with no sound in the immediate area. Finally, the small flashlight was turned on to check the damage done to the dog.

  Its eyes were open, a light blue film covered its pupils. Age had robbed it of its sight. It appeared to be a golden retriever, though most of its fur had grown gray and thin.

  The dog was old. Fifteen years, maybe twenty. Blood leaked from one ear. It lay on its side, panting, paws twitching as if trying to scratch at something.

  You certainly are a tough old bitch.

  The Cleanser raised the tire iron again and thumped the dog’s skull twice more. It didn’t cry out this time. The only sound that was heard resembled a bat hitting a taught blanket.

  When that work was done the gate was closed, but not latched. It was left cracked to aid in an easy, prompt departure.

  On this side of the house, a few feet up from where the dog lay, a door was inset into the stucco wall. It was ajar and led into the garage.

  Going inside and closing the door, the flashlight was switched back on. It could be left on while inside for it wouldn’t be seen from the street and betray the mission.

  There were two bowls on the ground below the water heater. On one was stenciled the name Minister. It was empty but had the unmistakable residue of dog food on the bottom. A few ants crawled in and out, taking their share. A water bowl and a blanket with a chewed, stuffed clown in the middle made up the rest of the dog’s possessions.

  Won’t need those anymore.

  On the opposite side of the garage was another door. It appeared to lead into the house but when the Cleanser gripped the knob it failed to turn.

  Problem number two.

  Shit. Okay. No big deal. I’ve picked locked doors before. Just need something flat and hard.

  The Cleanser looked around and noticed a toolbox on a work bench, the latch flipped and the top open. A flat-head screwdriver lay on top, reflecting the light, calling out, as if put there for this task specifically.

  There was a small gap from the door to the frame and the tool just fit. The hinges to the door were on the outside so it would swing into the garage. By pushing the screwdriver in the gap between the bolt and the strike plate and after wiggling it back and forth a bit, the bolt slid back into the knob and the door swung out silently.

  The flashlight was turned off before entering and the door unlocked and left open. Once inside the eyes had to adjust to compensate for the darkness before the search began.

  The drapes were opened from one window and some light spilled in from the outside streetlamps. Down the hall there were three doors. One was a double set, a master bedroom. Another led into a small bathroom and the third, into the girl’s bedroom.

  Upon entering, the flashlight was held out straight and then turned on and off rapidly, looking like a subtle flash of lightening in the small bedroom. It was the right room and in the brief illumination the child was seen in peaceful slumber on her bed.

  The third problem happened in the next few moments. First, the Cleanser pulled out the hypodermic filled with thiopental, located the girl’s butt and jammed the needle home, pressing the plunger quickly. The girl gave a slight whimper and called out for her mommy, but it was little more than a whisper. And just to be on the safe side the Cleanser went to listen at the bedroom door to make sure the parents hadn’t heard, but on the way had stepped on a small rubber ball and went toppling forward and onto one of the low bed posts. It rammed up into the right side knocking all air in the chest loose. Going down on week knees, it seemed as though all air had been sucked from the room as well.

  Fuck.

  Shaking on the floor, trying to breath. Until slowly, through gritted teeth, the Cleanser managed to get some air into the lungs. Listening. Had the parents heard this? The noise hadn’t been too loud.

  After a minute of massaging the point of impact, listening for mommy and daddy, slowly sucking in air, the Cleanser rose back up and violently grabbed the unconscious girl.

  Gotta go now. Gotta get away from here.

  Threw the body over the left shoulder and entered back into the hall. It hurt like hell to carry her, but, from there, escaped to the garage and back out to the side yard. Stepping over Minister, they stopped just outside the gate, looked around and after deciding the coast was clear fled to the car.

  Speeding away they had gone to the Shelter. There, within its dirty walls and its dry, sour stench, the Cleanser had bound the girl to a chair, slapped her awake and talked to her. It was the same talk that had been given to the other girls.

  The talk of cruelty and impurity.

  Of mockery and absence.

  Faithlessness and abandonment from God.

  And then the girl was dealt with, purged from this world, sent back to God as a sign of protest to this life and the lives of all young girls.

  The earth shall be cleansed of them.

  After the work had been done, the body needed to be disposed of and at seven minutes passed three the car reaches its destination at the south end of Main Street. Here there is a thin cover of orange trees and a dirt clearing after. People have used this spot in the past to discard old stoves, fridges, lounge chairs and other worn-out appliances and trash.

  The perfect spot to dump the trash from my car.

  After pulling in behind the trees the Cleanser retrieves the girl’s body from the back floorboard and hauls it off, placing it among the rubbish next to a bicycle frame. The corpse is wrapped in
a shroud, a sheet actually. On the sheet are characters from a popular children’s program; forty or fifty small, blue Grovers wave and dance on the white backdrop.

  A cardboard sign attached to a length of wire is placed around the neck of the girl’s body. It simply reads: CAN YOU TELL ME HOW TO GET TO SESAME STREET?

  Part Three:

  The Killer