Warm Hands, Cold Heart

by Ray FitzGerald

  The pen. It’s all Grant had, but it was sharp and in reach. He grabbed the gold-tipped fountain pen and drove it as far as he could into Peterson’s arm. His yell echoed down the hall, through the windows, and out into the neighborhood. It was a terrifying scream, probably similar to the one his children would have let out if they’d had the chance.

  The tool was stuck in Peterson’s right arm like a lamppost. The red that soaked through his coat sleeve wasn’t ink. The big man gripped at the pen and tried to pull it from his flesh. That brought on more yells of pain. Grant didn’t wait to see his pen returned. He jumped his foe from behind and wrapped his entire right arm around Peterson’s neck. He squeezed tighter than he’d ever squeezed before. His hands were barely big enough to fit around the man’s neck, so the entire arm was needed for the proper pressure. It seemed to be working.

  Peterson moaned and gripped on Grant’s elbow. A ripping sound came from the sleeve wrapped air-tight around the massive neck. Peterson gurgled. He grunted. He weakened. David, meet Goliath.

  Was it seconds, minutes, or hours until Peterson went slack around Grant’s arm? Time had no meaning. The loser of this battle had no more time to use. Grant first began to smell victory when Peterson’s arms went limp. The large man, on his knees with a fountain pen all but an inch into his arm started to sway. Grant, crouched down behind the behemoth, braced his legs for the extra weight he was forced to hold.

  Eventually, Grant’s arms and legs weakened under the stress. Peterson, completely dangling at this point, no longer struggled or moved. He slid to the floor with a thud as Grant loosened his grip. Both men’s faces were as red as the word “stop,” but only one was breathing.

  Grant hobbled the rest of the way to his feet. He had no idea where all the blood was coming from, or if it was even his. Walking was a hard enough task. With the help of the wall, he held himself upright just enough to make it to the door. He pulled it open just as a clicking sound tickled his ears from the staircase. He turned around to see Peterson, sprawled across the floor.

  His dinner-plate sized eyes bulged from his head. His hair was a mess. He looked dead if not for the revolver that dangled in his right hand.

  Grant was trained as a writer, not a gunfighter. Most people’s first instinct might be to run. His was to charge the big man. Speed wasn’t his strong suite at the moment, though. Just two steps in the gun exploded in violence and shook the house. Grant felt something sharp and warm on his left side. It didn’t hurt. It was just warm. He took three more steps towards Peterson. A second explosion made Grant’s ears ring. More warmth covered his arm. Peterson almost smiled.

  Grant was dizzy. The room was darker and it was too early for the sun to set. Peterson pulled the trigger a third time and the click of an empty barrel tapped a sweet melody in Grant’s ears. The gun slid from Peterson’s hand and his head fell to the side. Something in the angle of his neck wasn’t right. Both men had all they could take, but Grant couldn’t give up that easily. He fell in a heap on top of Peterson and realized there was much more blood on the pair than there was before. His hands slipped as he gripped the large neck that bent awkwardly to the left. Peterson didn’t fight. Grant’s strength was almost gone, but he used what was left to finish what he started.

  As the Grandfather clock in Peterson’s hall struck three o’clock, both men lay atop each other in the foyer, as dead as chivalry.

  ---

  There wasn’t much of a write up the in the evening edition of The Tribune. News was just as scarce the next morning. Peterson’s neighbors combed each page to see what the fuss was about the day before. No one knew. That was the police force’s plan. After being scooped by the press throughout the coverage of the serial killer, they wanted to bask in the glow of their triumphant solving of the case. There was a press conference set for noon Friday on the steps of city hall. Half of the town showed up to hear the news. Most hadn’t left the house in days, fearful that they’d be the next victim of the strangler. As word spread that the killer was caught, a sigh of relief blew through town.

  Mayor Aaron Hill was first on the microphone. He verbally applauded his men’s work in closing the case that had everyone in the city stumped. He reminded the voters that election day was around the corner, and if they wanted to continue to be safe that a “vote for Hill would make that happen.”

  After he finished patting himself on the back, he introduced lead detective Jenkins. The veteran cop’s buttons were a little shinier than normal and his hair combed a little tighter to the side. He’d shaved for the occasion.

  The detective took the podium from his boss and soaked in the applause. Once the clapping stopped, he started.

  “At approximately three-fifteen in the afternoon yesterday, my officers responded to a disturbance at the home of Ben Peterson on 35th Lane. We responded quickly and found two men dead in the home. One was Mr. Peterson and the other was Tribune reporter Harold Grant. There were signs of a struggle and neighbors reported hearing gunshots.

  “Mr. Peterson had already lost his daughter and son to the strangler. Earlier that morning his third and final child was also found strangled to death. We found evidence that Mr. Grant continued to Peterson’s home yesterday morning to complete his task of killing the final Peterson family member. While his motive is yet unknown, the marks of strangling around Mr. Peterson’s neck are similar to the marks of the other killings. In self defense of his own life, Mr. Peterson shot Grant twice. Those shots were fatal, but not before Peterson also met his end.”

  Jenkins didn’t take questions from the reporters or citizens in attendance.

  ---

  A week later, Ben Peterson was laid to rest in a funeral attended by nearly everyone in the city. Local television and radio covered the event. Later that morning, Mayor Hill dedicated a plaque in honor of Peterson outside of City Hall.

  On the other side of town, Harold Grant’s mother and father stood by and watched as the undertaker dropped the final shovels of dirt on their son’s grave. Because of the threats and hate-filled letters they’d received in the last week, they decided to leave his final resting place unmarked. Harold would have wanted it that way.

  five

  Nothing

  by Ray FitzGerald

  All my life they said I’d be nothing. In high school, Ms. Chamberlain nominated me most likely to show up drunk to the ten-year reunion.

  She was a 24-year old blonde, fresh from college with the world by the tail. I was a 19-year old dropout prevention student. It didn’t prevent much. Two months before graduation, I stopped showing up.

  Do dropouts go to reunions? That’s what I wondered as I eyed the invitation. It was one week and three states away. Wouldn’t they be shocked to see me there, though?

  What the hell. I canceled my appointments and booked a flight. Ms. Chamberlain still worked at the school. I reintroduced myself through email and sent over a lunch invite for Friday. A quick response said she’d “love to catch up with an old student.”

  What’ll she think when she finds I run the largest robotics development company in San Francisco? Last quarter’s profits beat the gross domestic product of most small countries. Our research has led to some of the biggest technological breakthroughs in the last decade. I own houses in California, New York, and a flat in China.

  Friday was cool. A breeze rolled downtown like tumbleweeds in Western films. The café was packed, so I grabbed a patio table and ordered a coffee. It tasted just like one I had two months earlier in France. Ms. Chamberlain was five minutes early.

  Her blouse looked painted to her skin. A black skirt quit above her knees. She was a brunette now, but I’m not one to complain. The ten years were kind to her.

  We talked for two hours, some about her recent divorce and her dream to visit India this summer. I showed her a ring I got there last year. She apologized for her words during senior year and blamed them on “youthful idiocy.” She admitted to Googling me before accepting my invite. That’s h
ow she found out about my business. It took the fun out of the reveal, but she seemed genuinely interested in robotics and our most recent research.

  When the café closed, she invited me to her place. We chatted in the kitchen, then the living room, and then the bedroom. The next morning, I collected my clothes and left quietly.

  I decided to skip the reunion. I had more than enough fun already. Besides, they’d ask questions when Ms. Chamberlain didn’t show. Maybe they’d find her before the reunion. I felt in my pocket and pinched the lock of hair I cut before I left. She didn’t need it anymore and it would go well with the rest of my collection.

  I killed time in the airport thinking about high school. They spent more time labeling students than teaching them. Sociopath was my label. A compulsive liar. Can you believe they called me a liar?

  “Excuse me sir,” a redhead at the ticket counter called. Her hair glowed under the light of the kiosk. “Your seat change fee - ”

  “Charge it to my business account. I own an architectural firm in Texas. I’m headed to survey a property I designed.”

  “An architect. Wow. I’m in engineering school. Do you take interns?”

  And they said I’d be nothing.

  six

  Top-40 Hit

  by Ray FitzGerald

  Bless me father, for I have sinned.

  The darkness of the thin-walled booth couldn’t hide the shame in Edgar Johnson’s eyes. It was years since his last confession, but he needed it now more than ever.

  The scent of candle fumes burned his nostrils. Sounds of an organ seeped through the wicker slats of the confessional door. The voice on the other end of the partition was calm – possibly Irish. Edgar couldn’t place it. He hadn’t been to church since his mother dragged him there every Sunday as a kid. To celebrate his first confession when he was ten, mom gave him two chocolate bars and a five-dollar bill. He ended up with a cavity, debt, and a guilty conscience.

  “Continue my son.”

  Edgar tried to continue, but couldn’t put the right sounds together in his throat. It was an unfamiliar feeling for a man who once had all of the right words at his disposal.

  Eight years as the top radio personality in Austin, Texas, made him somewhat of a local celebrity. In line at the grocery store, at the movie theatre, or in the drive-through at lunchtime, he had the voice that everyone knew and a face no one could recognize. Maybe that’s what helped him get away with it all.

  ---

  For twenty years, Hank Rollins pulled two-bit jobs around Austin – mostly blackmail. There were a few big scores, but a penchant for spending money faster than he made it ate at the profits. He’d been caught in a few jams along the way, but his saving grace was his cousin, Eddie Jordan. Jordan was the biggest racketeer in town. He had his hands in every silk tailored pocket within a hundred miles. No one messed with Hank, because that means you’re messing with Eddie. Hank knew that and took advantage of every benefit that came with the association.

  That included threatening a well-known do-gooder like Edgar Johnson.

  Most of it started when Edgar’s wife, Kaycee, was diagnosed with cancer. The couple kept it quiet for a few months, but as treatment became more severe, they could no longer cover their personal and emotional scars. Their eight-year old daughter wasn’t spared either. Third graders can be brutal when you have a frail, bald mother.

  Despite having a voice that millions listened to every afternoon from four to seven, radio didn’t pay much. When Kaycee could no longer work, the bills became heavier than Edgar’s shoulders could carry. Extra gigs doing live remotes on the weekend at car dealerships and fast food joints helped. A little voice-over work put some bread on the table. That didn’t stop the pink foreclosure envelopes from being delivered.

  With three mouths to feed, one paycheck, and hospital bills that grew every day, Edgar wasn’t exactly a prime candidate for a bank loan. That’s what brought him to Eddie Jordan’s doorstep.

  His plan was simple – a five grand loan for three months. It would catch up the bills and get Kaycee through her next round of chemo. Edgar would pay it off by picking up some extra work. His friend already offered a shot at painting houses on the weekend.

  Jordan’s office was more castle than office. White carpeting made ivory statues look dusty under the bright lights. A gold-trimmed desk accented the rings that sat sloppily on his thick fingers. A pair of shoulders were longer than a first down and his neck round like a watermelon. His wrists were the kind of things killers put on their Christmas list. They could snap a spine without flexing.

  The two guys flanking his high-backed chair were even bigger. Together they looked like the Three Stooges, if the Stooges were on Death Row.

  Edgar had trouble asking for the loan. He wasn’t the type to admit he needed help, especially to guys like Jordan and his gang. The bluish revolver that sat in silence on the desk didn’t make it easier.

  It happened faster than Edgar imagined. Eddie outsourced the loan to Hank. He never touched a handout less than fifty thousand. Hank, on the other hand, was more than happy to collect thirty-percent interest over the next ninety days.

  The money relieved Edgar’s pressure almost immediately. With the bill collectors off his back, he started to rebuild the family’s nest egg. That is until Kaycee’s progress slowed and treatment stopped easing the effects of her disease. More aggressive treatment was prescribed – at twice the current price.

  Hank raised the interest rate to forty-percent when the first payment was missed. It jumped to fifty percent the second time. The third time Edgar missed a payment, an envelope was left on his desk at work.

  It was a plain, manila type. No different than ones used every day in offices to ship memos from room to room. It was scuffed and scarred and had handwriting scratched over with two different colored pens.

  Edgar held it for a moment before bending in the metal clasps that held the top flap down. He judged the weight – which wasn’t much – and tried to guess the contents. His fingers grew stiff as he worked the flap up slowly. The sides of the envelope puffed wide to open the top. With twisted wrists, he turned it upside down. A single sheet of paper slid out and fell face-down on his ink blotter. Edgar’s hands shook as he turned it over.

  The face of his daughter looked back at him in three-by-five color printing. The picture was taken from a distance, but she was clearly on her school’s swing set. The white shirt, pink shorts, and black shoes she had on were what Edgar dressed her in that morning. She didn’t have a worry in the world besides wanting someone to push her higher on the swing. A note underneath the photo was written deliberately by a shaky hand.

  “You may want to make your payments on time.”

  Edgar’s heart sank. His lungs pushed all of their moisture through his eyes. He crumpled the paper and hurled it at a wall near the door, just below his plaques for winning the last three “Disc Jockey of the Year” awards. The paper fell silently on the carpet and mocked him until the phone rang.

  The sound made him jump an inch from his seat. He grabbed the receiver and squeezed it so hard it almost cracked the plastic. Kaycee’s voice on the other end sounded weak and dejected.

  “Honey, I’m sorry,” she said. Edgar cut her off to find out what was wrong. He still claimed the loan came from the bank. She wasn’t aware the payments were late. Was there a matching envelope on their doorstep this morning?

  “It’s the doctors,” she said quietly. The sound barely squeaked through the phone wires. “They won’t continue treatment until the next payment is made.”

  The clock on the wall read forty minutes before Edgar was on the air. He glanced at the crumpled paper on the floor and the checkbook on the desk. The papers between the faux-leather cover were growing thinner than the blood circling his brain.

  He thought fast – more with his heart than his head.

  “Come pick up a check,” he said to assure his wife that everything was fine. “I have to be on air soon. I
’ll leave it with Melinda at the desk. You remember her – the secretary from the Christmas party?”

  Kaycee didn’t answer. She just cried. That got Edgar’s tear ducts active again.

  He hung up the phone and scribbled a check to the local hospital for three thousand dollars. The couple’s checking account had roughly seventy-two dollars in it and payday was eleven days away.

  He gave the check to Melinda and made a comment aloud about going to prepare for his shift. His airtime was thirty-four minutes away when he slipped out the back door unnoticed.

  The door led to an alley where disc jockeys went for a smoke or drinks during the redundant top-forty tunes the station played. The cracked pebble sidewalk was littered with squished cigarette butts and discarded snack-sized bottles of vodka. The bar where Hank spends most of his time was four-blocks and seven minutes away.

  The place was emptier than a dentist’s office on Halloween. With twenty-six minutes to spare, Edgar spotted Hank in the corner of the room shooting a game of pool alone. A grin spread across Hank’s thick lips when he saw Edgar.

  “Well, well,” he said. “It’s the man with the golden pipes. I wondered how long it would take you to get here. Did you get your mail today?”

  Edgar didn’t answer. He asked if they could talk somewhere private. The place was empty, but Hank had an office out back. Edgar followed the larger man behind the wooden bar and through a narrow door that led to a hallway with plenty of cobwebs and not enough light. They passed two closed doors. Hank threw a hand to stop Edgar before the third. The hand moved slowly to the doorknob, where a jiggle of the brass fixture set the door to creaking.

  It was a sparsely decorated room. Two metal chairs sat in front of a desk that had a blank notepad, a gold pen and eight bundles of twenty-dollar bills packed tightly together. Hank’s large feet were added to the table after he fell into the throne behind the desk. A dull silver handgun appeared from Hank’s belt and was carelessly tossed on the desk. Hank motioned for Edgar to take one of the metal chairs in front. Twenty-two minutes until airtime.