Murder Has Consequences

by Giammatteo, Giacomo

  His father beat Tom something fierce that day—the kind of beating his daddy gave the dogs if they disobeyed, the kind that drew blood and hurt for days. Tom learned his lesson. Years later, after his mama died, Tom used that same knife to slit his father’s throat, but he didn’t cry when he killed his father. Afterwards, Tom buried him beside Beau, settled all the accounts on the farm, then packed what little he had and headed out.

  Thinking back on that day Tom wondered if killing Beau was what set him down his path in life. It was either killing Beau or the army. If it had been the army they’d done a good job of it. Tom liked killing more than anything, even sex.

  The thought of sex made him wonder about his wife, Lisa. Images came to mind of her soft curves and the tiny bit of plumpness around her belly. Tom hated women who were too skinny. Half of them nowadays were nothing but bones. It reminded him of eating a chicken wing. Lisa had just enough meat, and he liked to wrap his arms around her at night and feel that little jiggle.

  A throb of pain in Tom’s leg caused him to stir. He rubbed the spot around the wound where the bullet had struck. It had mostly healed, but a slight limp remained. The doctor said it might stay with him for as long as a year, though Tom doubted that. He’d always been a fast healer. Even when his daddy beat him real bad, the bruises faded in a day or so. He guessed that’s why his daddy hit Tom on Friday nights mostly—that, or the drinking.

  A bump in the road shook Tom, igniting more pain. He stared out the window of the cab at all of the people, crowding each other, all in a hurry. And the cars, crammed together, horns beeping. It had been a long time since he’d seen something like this. “How much farther?” he asked the cabbie.

  “About fifteen minutes.”

  Tom reached into his knapsack and pulled out his discharge papers. Dishonorable. What the fuck were they thinking? After all he’d done for them. Worse part of it was that they discharged him for killing what they called a holy man. Those sons of bitches didn’t have any holy men. All fuckin’ heathens. He should have shot the whole village, kids and all. Then there would have been nobody to tell about what Tom had done. That’s what he’d do if he could do it over—kill them all.

  He hadn’t realized how much he’d tensed up until another sharp pain raced up his leg. He breathed deeply, relaxed, let his mind drift. He was supposed to think about calming things, but his mind kept going to Lisa. But thoughts of her made him anxious, and stiff. He wanted nothing more than to grab her and throw her in bed, but he worried that she’d be ashamed of him. She’d been so proud of what he’d done in the army, even suggested he re-enlist if they let him.

  The cabbie pulled up to his building, got out and helped Tom to the door with his bags. Tom paid the fare, tipping him good, then took the elevator to the fourth floor and made his way to #412. He knocked, but didn’t expect to find her home; it was still early. When she didn’t answer he sat on the floor against the wall, dreaming of the night they’d have together, but worrying about telling her what had happened. As he thought about all of the issues with starting over, he remembered she kept a spare key hidden in the laundry room.

  Minutes later, he returned with the key and opened the door, tossing his bags on the floor. He got a drink of water, then headed into the bedroom to shower. The bedroom was small, but it had a nice closet, big enough for both of them to hang their clothes, though neither of them were clothes hounds. As he stripped off his shirt, he went to the closet, wanting to smell her scent. It had been so long.

  Tom stopped dead, staring. Not believing what he saw. Hanging next to her clothes were several suits, shirts, and ties. And on the floor, three pair of men’s shoes.

  “What the fuck…”

  He put his shirt back on, not bothering to shower, then he punched himself in the face, hard. Then again. After that he sat on the edge of the tub and cried. For nearly ten minutes he wondered what he’d done wrong, what drove her to do this. With no answers, he stood and walked to the living room, locked the door, then got his bags and put them in the bedroom closet. He grabbed his knife and gun and sat on the bed to wait.

  A cat meandered in, a small black cat with a tiny voice. It rubbed against Tom’s leg and meowed, but so softly he barely heard it. Tom picked it up, set it on the bed, and stroked its head. He rubbed it gently at first, then his muscles tensed. He wondered if the cat belonged to the man. Tom’s hand tightened around its neck, but just as he was about to squeeze the life from it, another soft meow emerged. The cat looked up at him with innocent eyes.

  “Who do you belong to?” Tom asked, and relaxed his grip. He’d wait and see. No need to do it now.

  An hour later the front door opened. The sound of a woman’s laughter rolled down the hallway. It was Lisa; he’d know that laugh anywhere. Tom smiled, but only for an instant. Hot on the trail of her laughter was a man’s voice. Tom’s fist clenched around the handle of the knife, the veins in his hands bulging. It took all of his training to restrain himself, to keep from rushing down the hall and slitting the man’s throat. Tom’s patience held for almost fifteen more minutes, suffering while they laughed and chatted about shared experiences that he knew nothing about. He forced himself to take measured breaths. Slow, easy, measured breaths, following the path of the qi.

  “I’m taking a shower,” Lisa said.

  “Not without me,” the man said. “And just think—I’ve got a whole week off. Any ideas of what to do with all that time?”

  Tom closed his eyes, tensing.

  When the bedroom door opened, he grabbed Lisa’s arm and yanked her to the side. He stepped forward, into the movements of the man, and shoved the knife into his gut. Lisa screamed, but Tom pushed the blade all the way under the ribs and into the lungs. The man clutched at his wound, gasped as he collapsed. He’d be dead in a few minutes.

  Tom turned to Lisa, placed the knife against her face. “One more noise and I’ll kill you.”

  She must have finally recognized him. She caught her breath and her hands flew to her mouth. “Tom! Oh my God. What have you done?”

  He wanted to cut her. His hand twitched, started to move, but he kept his control. Pushed her onto the bed. “Quiet.”

  The man on the floor gasped a few last breaths. A spittle of blood dripped from his mouth.

  “My God, you killed him.” Lisa moved toward the man, but Tom held her back.

  “What did you expect me to do?”

  “What are you doing here? Why—”

  Tom’s fist tightened around the knife. “I’ll ask the questions.” He grabbed her throat, pressed the knife to her pulsing neck. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t kill you?”

  He wanted to hit her, but he didn’t much take to hitting girls, leastwise, as long as they did him right. That’s what his daddy always taught him, but that was just before Tom’s daddy beat his mama right into her grave. Beat her so bad her head swelled up like a rotten melon. Couple of weeks later she keeled over. Daddy had Tom get the shovel that day and start digging.

  “Got to be deep,” Daddy told Tom. “Real deep. Don’t want no coyotes gettin’ to her.”

  No sir. Tom didn’t take to hitting females. If a woman was a target, he’d shoot her with a fifty caliber, blow half her head clean off, but there was no sense in striking a woman. He’d seen his daddy do enough of that.

  “Calm down, Lisa. Stop crying.”

  Her cries went from uncontrolled bawling to sobbing, then to sniffles. Finally, she sat on the bed, shaking.

  Tom walked to her, blood covering his hand and arm and the front of his clothes. “I didn’t mean to upset you, but…well, he had to die. You understand that don’t you?”

  Lisa nodded, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse.

  Finish the job. The phrase rang in his head, a reminder of his training. But he wouldn’t do it—couldn’t do it. No way he was going to kill Lisa. He pulled her to him, the blood from his shirt smearing her forehead. She trembled. He felt her resistance but held her in place.
“You’ll have to be brave. I won’t hurt you as long as you do what I say.”

  She sobbed louder. “Okay.”

  “Good, because we’re going to have to clean up this mess, and it’s important that we clean up real good.”

  “Okay,” slipped out between sobs.

  “Grab his feet and help me get him in the tub.”

  Lisa cried all the way to the bathroom. She kept her head turned, refusing to look at the body, but she made it without puking—that was good. He took the shower curtains off so they wouldn’t get messy then ran water before placing the body in the tub. Lisa stood next to Tom, shaking, and staring at her bloody hands.

  “I need to wash,” she said.

  “Not yet,” Tom said. “Get the hacksaw.”

  Tom removed the head, but he made Lisa do the feet and hands. And the dick, of course. She threw up several times and passed out once for a few seconds, but she got through it. They placed the body parts in separate plastic bags. He triple-wrapped the bags, placed them both inside of suitcases and covered them with more plastic bags. The last thing Tom wanted was leakage. He carved something into the back of one of the hands just before he put both of the man’s hands and the dick into a different bag.

  Tom turned to Lisa. “Get all those clothes out of the closet, and be thankful I don’t stuff you in one of these bags.”

  When she finished, Lisa ran to the sink and started scrubbing.

  “Not yet,” Tom said. “You need to clean that tub. It’s going to take a lot of scrubbing.”

  Tom cut out the carpet where the blood had stained it. He stuffed the pieces into more bags, which he placed alongside the others. Then he made Lisa scrub the floors, and then the tub five times with bleach. When she finished, he told her to get in the tub.

  Fear filled her eyes. She cried.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Scrub yourself.”

  As she did, her eyes never left him. After the third time, she rinsed and reached to turn off the shower. He stopped her.

  “You aren’t clean yet. Keep scrubbing.”

  She stood naked, arms wrapped around her breasts, shivering. “I’m clean.”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  She washed herself five more times before Tom allowed her to stop. He placed his knife against her skin, above her pubic hair. “This won’t hurt,” he said, and slid the blade across her, drawing a thin line of blood.

  Lisa stifled a scream.

  “That is to cleanse you,” he said. “Blood cleans the soul.”

  Lisa shook so hard it looked as if she might break apart.

  Blood trickled down the front of her, mixing with her hair. When he thought enough had come out he threw her a clean washcloth. “Scrub yourself with that. Make sure it goes inside of you. I want you pure.”

  She cleaned herself for fifteen minutes, crying the entire time. Afterward, he cleaned the cut, put a bandage on her then made her dress in a nightgown as they watched TV.

  “I have to call someone. Tell them I’m not coming to work tomorrow.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. “You have to go to work. Can’t miss work for something like this.” He flipped through a few channels and looked at her. “On second thought, maybe you better call. I’ll need help with these suitcases. I’ve decided to put them somewhere to draw attention.”

  “Maybe I should go in,” Lisa said. “They might wonder—”

  “You’re coming with me.” Tom’s voice had taken on a hard tone. “Call and leave a message. And hurry up. I want to watch a show.”

  Lisa made the call, then went back to sit on the couch with Tom. She sat at the end, as far from him as she could. He motioned her closer. She slid half a cushion toward him.

  “Who does the cat belong to?”

  Lisa gasped and ran toward the bedroom. “Buster! Buster, where are you?”

  “I didn’t hurt him,” Tom said. “I asked who he belonged to.”

  Lisa came back with the cat nestled in her arm. “I found him on the streets.” She cast a quick glance toward the door, then back at Tom.

  He smiled. “If you want to keep Buster alive, you’ll do everything I say.” Tom’s voice got that hard tone again, and he said, “And if you even look at that door again, you’ll end up like your boyfriend. I’ll cut you up myself and feed you to Buster.”

  Lisa got on her knees in front of him, tears flowing. “I’ll do anything you want, Tom. Please don’t hurt Buster. He didn’t do anything.”

  Tom took the cat from her arms and placed him on the sofa. “Do what I say and nothing bad will happen.”

  They watched television for almost two hours, before Tom said he wanted to go to bed. When they got to the bedroom, Lisa took off her nightgown and grabbed a pair of green pajamas from her drawer. They were sprinkled with little white kittens.

  “Sleep naked,” Tom said. “I like us sleeping naked.”

  She nodded and silently climbed into bed, fear tainting every movement. As she pulled the covers around her, Tom draped his legs over her and hugged her from behind. “I miss that little belly you used to have. You’ve gone and gotten skinny on me.”

  “I’ve been working out,” Lisa said, her voice tremulous.

  Tom was silent for a while, though he kept rubbing her stomach, careful not to touch the cut. He thought about what had happened to his life, and about what that man had done to her. She’d been a good girl when he married her. And now this. “Who else fucked you?”

  Lisa made a noise like a gasp, and she squeezed her legs together. Tom looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were closed tight, as if she was trying to hide.

  “Who?” He demanded. “I want the names of every one of them.”

  She started crying. “There wasn’t anyone else. I swear. Only…him.” She had almost said his name. That would have been a mistake.

  Silence fell over them while Tom thought. He had learned a lot while he was away, especially what made a woman dirty and unclean. He thought about her betrayals. He knew what needed to be done. “I didn’t mean just while I was away. I meant ever.”

  CHAPTER 3

  A Beautiful Morning

  Brooklyn, New York

  Frankie Donovan stretched as he opened his eyes, but then he quickly shut them. The sun blaring through the window promised another beautiful day in Brooklyn. Despite that, Frankie made a note to shut the blinds. No sense in waking up too happy.

  He turned towards the warm body beside him, ready to tease Kate into waking. But instead of Kate's crop of Irish-red hair, he found himself looking at Shawna. He had almost called her Kate. Mother of God. What a mistake that would have been.

  Frankie leaned over, lifted the covers and ran an appreciative eye down the curve of Shawna's back to the round firmness of her ass. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek—the one on her face. “You want coffee?”

  She popped up, a worried expression on her face. “What time is it?”

  “Early, don’t worry.”

  “What time?” Panic filled Shawna’s voice as she slipped her panties on.

  “Six-thirty. You’ve got time.”

  “Six-thirty? You sure?”

  “I’m looking at the clock.”

  Hearing that, she relaxed. “Sorry. I can’t afford to be late. Those assholes are looking for any excuse to fire me.”

  “Tell them you were sleeping with Detective First Class Frankie Donovan, hero of Brooklyn. They’ll forgive you.”

  “Or laugh in my face.”

  “There’s always that possibility,” Frankie said, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Have I told you how sweet you are?”

  “Not everyone thinks so.” Shawna leaned back and kissed him. “Sorry for being grumpy. I get nervous.”

  Frankie rubbed the bottom of her back. “I can cure nervous.”

  Shawna stood, slipping her panties off again. “No thanks on your cure, but since you’re in a generous mood, I’ll take coffee. I’m grabbing a quick shower.
”

  “Want a bagel?”

  “Half of one,” she said, then, “You should consider getting a bigger apartment. Or at least one in a better neighborhood.”

  “I like the company here. These are real people,” Frankie said, but the door to the bathroom was already closing.

  Frankie went to the kitchen, started the coffee, cleaned up a few things, and popped a bagel into the toaster. The phone rang while he was pouring coffee. “Donovan.”

  “Frankie, it’s Carol. You’ve got a body, or something like it, not far from home. Mazzetti’s on the way.”

  “‘A body or something like it.’ What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I just repeat what I’m told,” Carol said.

  “Give me the address.” Frankie scribbled it on a piece of paper he ripped from the front of the refrigerator. “Uh huh. Okay. I’m all over it.”

  Shawna stood beside him, wrapped in a towel. She perked up as she looked at the address. Frankie sniffed her hair and kissed her. “Hate to do this, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Was that a body-call?”

  “Yeah, and it sounds like it could be a nasty one.”

  She picked up her cell and started dialing, but Frankie grabbed her phone. “Whoa. No way. You’re not calling it in from here. I don’t mind giving you a heads up and helping out, but I can’t let you have a story because you were in my bed when I got the call.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it.” She took her phone back and started punching in the numbers. “I’m getting a camera crew.”

  “I swear, Shawna, don’t do it. You get there before anyone else and I’ll crucify you.”

  “So you won’t give me a break because I was here, but you’re willing to punish me and make me arrive last to the scene?”

  Frankie shook his head, cursing. “Goddamnit.” He thought for a minute. “All right, here’s the deal. You can sit around the corner and wait till another station shows. As soon as you see them you can come in, but not a minute earlier. How’s that?”

  Shawna smiled. “Fair as shit. Thanks.” She kissed him and rubbed his ass.