by Jack Ketchum
Someone moved in front of the camera on the video. The person walked toward the chair and Justin took a deep breath as he watched the man sit down and face forward. He expected it to be Dead Bill, but it wasn’t. It was a man in a bad suit, with thinning hair. He looked familiar, but not so much that Justin could put a name to the face.
“First off, I want to thank Dead Bill for this opportunity.” The man in the chair said and there was a wheeze in his speech, as though he had just run up a flight of stairs. “It’s not every day someone gets to do this. So Bill, thank you.”
“No problem,” the old cowboy said from behind Justin, as though the guy on the video screen could hear him.
“I guess we should just get things rolling. There’s no time like the present, right Justin?”
“What the fuck?” Justin said, and felt confused that the man in the video had said his name. But the feeling of confusion left him as he felt a belt wrap around his throat and squeeze. It choked him, made him gasp and struggle to breathe, but it was only tight enough to hold him still, not strangle the breath from him—yet.
“Sit still, kid,” Dead Bill said, pulling tighter on the belt. “Calm down or I’ll put you down. Your friend here has something to say to you.”
Justin stopped his struggles and felt the belt loosen a bit. He gasped, his throat already felt as though it was on fire, but he needed to think, to make sense of what was going on. He heard the man on the screen laugh and looked over at the monitor. When he did, he saw his mistake. He’d been so anxious to see the videos that Dead Bill described that he didn’t even notice it was a webcam feed, meant to look like a video. It was a live feed, and the man in the chair watched him with a smile.
“There, there, Justin. Just calm down a second, okay? I have a few things to say to you before we do anything else.”
“Fuck you,” Justin gurgled out. When he did, the belt tightened.
“Show some respect, kid!” Dead Bill growled, and then loosened the belt again.
“No worries. No worries at all,” the man said. “Justin here just likes to spew shit without any thoughts. Isn’t that right? Don’t answer that. It’s more of a rhetorical question. But the real questions start now. Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“You sure? Think hard on that.”
Even when the man got up, walked toward the webcam, and gave Justin a good look at his face, there was nothing but a vague familiarity. He had no idea who he was, or what the hell was going on.
“No.” He grunted and half expected the belt to be tightened again, but it wasn’t.
“I feel a little insulted, Justin. I really do. After all, you talked to me for nearly three hours one night, bought me some drinks, and then fucked me like I was a two-dollar hooker. That help?”
“No.”
“We met at the Silver Dollar and you came up to me. Maybe I looked funny to you, strange or just pathetic enough to spill out the details of my life that were juicy enough for your stupid fucking blog. You told the world my name, who I was, and that I was cheating on my wife with a priest. You told everyone and I lost everything I had. Everything, because of you.”
Oh shit! Justin thought.
“I think I see a spark there, like you know. So, who am I?” the man in the chair asked.
“Darren Duffy.”
“Ah, now you remember! That’s good. Did you know what your stupid little blog did to me? Did you ever think that you were destroying people when you aired their dirty laundry in a public forum and got rich off it? Or were you just like, fuck it?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Nor did you care. You just go around and do these things without a thought in the world. My wife took off with our kids. I got fired from my job. My family disowned me. Even the priest left me, although he killed himself to hide his own shame and self-loathing. I lost everything that meant anything to me, just so you could write your little blog.
“And now, here we are. I knew you would come, too. I knew that when Dead Bill told you that story you would just eat it up. You’d be so captivated by your own potential fame, greed being the dirty whore that powers your mind, so you’d buy into it, no questions asked. I paid the bartender too, just to add to the mysticism of it all. But, seriously, a guy that gets paid to be murdered over and over again? Are you so stupid you would buy into a story like that?”
“He was convincing.”
“And I have no classical trainin’. Go figure.” Dead Bill laughed.
“Well, Dead Bill is his name, and although he doesn’t get paid for people to murder him, he does get paid quite well to murder other people. And you are other people. I’m just glad that I’m going to get to watch. Now, Bill, I leave it to you.”
“Please! Mr. Duffy, please don’t do this. I will do anything! Just please don’t kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you. He is.”
“What can I do to make this right? Money? I can do that. I can even write a blog and say I lied about it all. If you want that, I can do that.”
“No, Justin. You can’t put a broke mirror back together. You’ll always see the cracks. You can only do one thing for me ... and that’s die.”
Justin tried to plead again, but the belt tightened. The leather dug deep into his neck. Behind him, Dead Bill grunted from the force he exerted. Justin’s hands flew up, fought to breach the space between neck and belt, but there was no use. He tried to breathe in, his lungs on fire from lack of oxygen, and dots of blinding light exploded in front of his eyes as he began to suffocate.
The pain was terrible.
Panic and fear of what was to come made him struggle, but Dead Bill was too strong and too experienced on serving out death. The pain pushed through in waves, his body throbbed with it. Tears poured down his face and he wasn’t sure he would be able to take it anymore, thought that his suffering would be eternal.
But, as he thought that, he blinked and then the room dimmed. He felt calm. Pain began to bleed away from him as the light and sounds of the room left him. The darkness called out and seemed so much better than the loft, than the pain of the chair he had sat in. His name was being whispered, soft and sweet, and he knew that the dark he had feared as a child wasn’t as bad as he thought.
He embraced the darkness and let go of everything that he once thought mattered. As the belt squeezed tighter, his body felt free for the first time in his life.
WORSE WAYS
BY MEGHAN ARCURI
Liv scrolled through the email on her phone and opened the latest message from her boss.
Subject:Your probation.
Shit.
Like she needed to be reminded. The body of the email stated the same trash he’d said before she left on this trip. You messed up with the last client, blah blah blah. You need to shape up or you won’t move up, blah blah blah. You have promise. Don’t waste your talent.
Blah blah blah.
So he sent her to a self-help conference. She and her colleagues traveled all over to do jobs. But self-help conferences were torture.
p.s. If you mess up on this assignment, these self-help conferences will be all yours. Permanently.
Double shit.
The thought of spending her time in smelly hotels listening to Guy Smiley-types peddle crap did not appeal.
Liv entered the Grand Ballroom for the main event and took her seat. She didn’t bother to check out the attendees. She’d been to enough of these babies to know the players: housewives with extra padding, men in ill-fitting suits, young people hoping to become the next guest speaker. All yearning for something to improve their lives, just a little.
Good luck with that.
Her cell phone vibrated. Another email. This time from Mary, a co-worker.
Subject:The Big Apple.
Just took my first bite and, boy, was it delicious. Wish you were here. How’s the self-help industry?? ;) m
“Brat.”
The woman next to her with a fanny pack
gave her a look.
“Sorry,” she said to Fanny Pack.
The New York City trip had been hers. And Mary was supposed to be here. That kiss-ass. She always found a way to get on the boss’s good side. Not that Liv tried to get on his bad side. She just always seemed to be there.
The emcee wrapped his little spiel and introduced Bill Williamson, the self-help guru.
Williamson walked to the microphone, his gait full of a confidence that bordered on cockiness. Late fifties, maybe sixty. Salt-and-pepper hair. Tall. Striking. He started speaking. A rich, deep baritone. No wonder these people paid the ridiculous entry fee.
Her phone vibrated again. A text from her boss:He’s your client.
Dammit.
She wanted to scream.
First, she’d been put on probation. Then Mary took her New York City trip. And now her boss wanted her to target the guest speaker?
Shit. Shit. And triple shit.
She rolled her eyes. She’d been given some doozies before, but this one was too much. The seminar lasted all weekend. Most workshops featured this guy. And the place crawled with people who loved him.
Her phone vibrated again.
Another text:Just kidding. How was your hissy fit?? He’s not yours. Beth’s mtng him between 6:45 and 7:15.
Liv texted:Two jobs at one convention?
He replied:Your guy’s at the end of your row. Meet him between 6:30 and 7:00.
Liv checked her watch: 4:00. Plenty of time.
She found the man in question. Twenty-something, light hair, skinny but not scrawny. Wore khakis and a button-down shirt. She smiled. She could totally do this.
Another vibration. The boss:I’m pulling for you. But don’t make it a repeat of last time.
Her reply:That guy totally deserved the fat lip.
After a second: Livvie ...
She shook her head and wrote: I’ll do better this time.
Liv didn’t anticipate trouble. This guy was attractive, but not her type. And nothing about his look or clothes bugged her, so she had that going for her. That last guy, Fat Lip, wore an Elmo shirt and banana slippers. And he was forty. Plus, he did a lot of whining and crying. Who wouldn’t wanna smack him?
When her new client turned toward her, she let her stare linger too long, batted her eyelashes, and turned away. She may not want to bed him in actuality, but she could pretend with the best of them.
5:00.
Mr. Guru had completed his presentation and the breakout groups were next. Her client would attend one, but even if it ran long, she’d be able to deal with him by 6:30.
After more purposeful eye contact, she left for the lobby. As she pretended to check her voicemail, he approached. She held up a finger and waited, touched the screen of her phone, and pocketed the device.
“Not buying the seminar?” he said.
She gave him a playful look. “Not really.”
He held out his hand to her. “Roger.”
She took it with a light squeeze. “Liv.”
“So which group are you going to?”
“The one led by Glen.”
“Who’s Glen?” He checked his program. “Which one is that?”
“Glenlivet. It’s the one in the bar.”
“Oh, I see.” He laughed. “Mind if I join you after? I really want to check out the one called Embracing Change.”
Sweet Jesus.
“Sounds interesting,” she said.
“Definitely. Especially since I can be a little stubborn.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be hungry by the time that’s over. Why don’t you come up to my room and we’ll order room service? My treat.”
He seemed surprised at first, but then a big smile spread across his face.
“That sounds great. See you a little after six.”
She gave him her room number.
Study up. You’re going to embrace a big change real soon.
At the bar, Liv sipped her scotch and checked her phone.
5:30.
“You didn’t do the breakout groups, did you?”
Not Roger’s voice. Bill Williamson’s.
Shit.
She did a quick scan for Beth, but didn’t see her.
I’m sure she has it under control.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
She held up her glass. “I was thirsty.”
“Me, too.” He waved to the bartender. “Glenlivet neat, please.”
“Nice choice,” she said, pointing to her near-empty glass.
“Make it two.”
He sat on the barstool next to hers.
“Bill Williamson.”
“Liv.”
“You didn’t find the presentation helpful either, did you, Liv?”
“How could you tell?”
“Eye rolls are usually pretty good indicators.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that.”
He gave her a thoughtful look. “You don’t seem sorry.”
Liv’s attitude had cost her opportunities for advancement. But she didn’t care. She did her job well. Usually. And if she had to deal with some tsk-tsking from the powers that be, then fine. This guy would fit right in with them.
“Well, I guess I’m not.”
He stared at her.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Sorry for not being sorry?” He laughed. “That’s priceless.”
“You’re not upset?” she said.
“Not at all.”
Wow.
“I get scolded at my job for my attitude.”
“I like it. It’s refreshing. I love helping people, but sometimes it’s nice to be around someone who isn’t so ...”
“Needy?”
“Yes. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“No prob.”
Maybe he’s not an uptight idiot.
“Why bother coming, then?”
“My boss sent me.”
“Ah. An information gatherer. I get a lot of those. Taking back tricks to bolster teamwork and office morale?”
“Something like that.”
After more small talk about self-help, he said, “Listen. I’m going to have to be visible for dinner, but maybe afterward we could meet up? In my room? We could go over the general ideas you missed. Then you won’t go back to your office empty-handed.”
Oooo. He’s hitting on me.
Under different circumstances she’d go for it, but he was a client. Beth’s client. And Liv had no desire to interfere with anyone else’s work. He’d be gone by that time anyway.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It sounds like fun. Truly. But maybe some other time.”
The bartender set the bill on the bar. As Bill reached for it, she put her hand on his. “I’ll get this one. Well, my company will, anyway.”
“Thank you.”
“Please bill this to room 202,” she told the bartender.
“I guess I’ll see you in the ballroom for dinner, then?”
“I guess.”
He shook his head. “I thought we established that I like your honesty.”
She shrugged.
“You’re leaving tonight, aren’t you?”
She looked at the clock again: 5:55.
“In about an hour.”
“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Liv. Even if it was only for a short time.”
She liked this guy. He seemed genuine. Smart. Not what she’d expected.
“The pleasure was mine.” She shook his hand. “Good luck with the rest of the weekend.”
Not that you’ll make it that far.
She headed to her room. She had enough time to pack her bag, shower, and change out of her skirt and blouse. No sense in being uncomfortable for the Roger gig.
6:28.
Roger still hadn’t arrived.
Where is he?
She put on her yoga pants and tank top. So much comfier.
Heavy footsteps and muffled voices sounded outside her door. She p
oked her head out. Three paramedics pushed a gurney toward the elevator. They shouted things like “not breathing,” “heart failure,” and “CPR.”
Beth must have dealt with Bill. A little early, though. I thought they were meeting between 6:45 and 7:15.
Then she saw the patient’s face. A young man.
The emcee. The guy who had introduced Williamson.
What the hell? Only two jobs at this convention.
Her phone vibrated on the nightstand.
A text from the boss:Beth messed up. Wrong guy. I sent her home.
She replied:What???
He wrote:Deal with Williamson. Finish Roger, then find Bill. Not much time. Don’t miss the window.
She threw her phone on the bed.
Beth got the wrong guy?
“What a goddamned idiot.”
6:35.
Already five minutes into Roger’s window and still no sign of him. Maybe he forgot? And she had no idea where he’d be.
Ten minutes until Bill’s window, but she knew exactly where he’d be: finishing dinner. In the ballroom. In front of hundreds of people.
“Dammit!”
She grabbed her phone and key, and yanked open the door.
Roger faced her.
“Hi. Sorry I’m a little late. There was some commotion in the lobby. Paramedics. Ambulance. The emcee had a heart attack, or something.”
Thank Christ.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, guiding him into the room.
“I’m happy to be here.”
Only a few minutes until Bill’s window. She didn’t have time to waste.
“Can I get you something to drink before we order? I’m afraid I only have bottled water and Coke.”
He sat on the bed. “Water sounds great.”
She gave him a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. He took a sip.
“Crazy about the emcee,” said Roger.
“Totally.”
Stupid Beth.
Sweat formed on Roger’s forehead. Pain crossed his face. He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands.
Showtime.
While his eyes were closed, she prepared herself and went to work. Within minutes, she finished the job and stepped away from him.
Roger’s body slumped to the floor, a heap of lifeless humanity. His water bottle fell next to him, its contents pooling on the carpet.