to pull himself up, resting his full bodyweight on the railing. He rolled around to face his tormentor.
Killer Number Two had the gun. She was an attractive blonde. Full, red lips, taut face, upturned nose. That's all he registered before...
"Cool your tool, fool," she said, then shot him in the chest.
"Are you sure?" I asked Brad.
"That's what she said."
Notes on Killer Number Two: Aggressive female. Young. Very young.
* * * *
With those four words, Brad Larsen took a bullet in the head and flipped over the railing, landing in the muddy creek.
Well, not quite in the creek. But close enough.
His body flopped in the wet, packed mud. He waited to die, listening to Killer Number Two drag the whining, complaining body of Killer Number One back into the house. Then all was quiet. Leaves in the trees rustled, water gurgled, the occasional vehicle passed by, motor whirring off in the distance.
Brad tried to crawl to solid ground, but the slow, forceful flow of the creek pushed him further and further downstream. In retrospect, the flowing waters probably kept him alive longer. He spent the majority of the time flailing around, hovering between consciousness and oblivion, wondering about Alison.
It had to be a special kind of hell. I can only imagine what it would be like to lie there, cut to death, unable to breathe without pain, let alone able to stand up and go back up to the house to find out what had happened. It gave me the chills.
In time, Brad gave up the ghost. He wandered about the site for a while, lost. He saw his dead wife in the front room of the witness protection house ... but he couldn't find her soul anywhere. He wandered by to his dead body. He cried, then wandered some more. And about 16 hours later, I arrived at his side.
"So," he said, lighting a Brain cigarette. "Now you know what kind of monsters you're looking for, and what you have to do when you find them."
"What's that?" I asked.
"Put them through the exact same agony Alison and I had to live through."
"Not to be technical, but both of you are dead."
"Ah," Brad said, smiling for the first time since we'd met. "Now you're starting to see the picture."
----
Seven
A New Case
So that was the deal. No Association skinny until Brad and Alison Larsen's killers were located, and Brad got the opportunity for a little payback.
Reasoning with him--explaining that crushing the Association was by extension punishing his executioners--wasn't going to ease his suffering one bit. Brad wanted me to deliver the assassins' severed heads on a drink tray, cups of their blood in drinking glasses nearby.
In other words, now I had a bigger workload than ever.
Of course, if the roles were reversed, I'm sure I would demand the same thing. God knows what kind of punishment he saw inflicted upon his wife's body by those kids. I only saw the aftershocks--blood stains on a piece of ratty carpet. Maybe that's what made it easier to agree to this whole thing.
I'd been running East on reflex. At the moment, it'd seemed like Las Vegas would be first place the Feds would be crawling around. But Brad insisted we head back. No doubt his killers had driven out to Illinois, done the deed, then headed back to collect the bounty. And I couldn't disagree with his logic. It was all so damned reasonable it made me want to vomit.
* * * *
So I journeyed back west. Whoever the Association had sent to do the deed most likely lived in Vegas, and now that the bodies were stacked up, it was time to head home and collect the reward. Somewhere, I would find two killers living it up. And once I found them, it would be the beginning of the end. For the first time in years--perhaps since Robert first collected me--I felt the warm vibe of optimism.
I drove through the night, routinely looking at my new face--Brad Larsen's face--in the rear view mirror. I am going to find your killers, I told it. And I meant it.
Of course, I was being an idiot.
henderson, nevada
eight months
Killer Number Two had the gun. She was an attractive blonde. Full, red lips, taut face, upturned nose. That's all he registered before...
"Cool your tool, fool," she said, then shot him in the chest.
"Are you sure?" I asked Brad.
"That's what she said."
Notes on Killer Number Two: Aggressive female. Young. Very young.
* * * *
With those four words, Brad Larsen took a bullet in the head and flipped over the railing, landing in the muddy creek.
Well, not quite in the creek. But close enough.
His body flopped in the wet, packed mud. He waited to die, listening to Killer Number Two drag the whining, complaining body of Killer Number One back into the house. Then all was quiet. Leaves in the trees rustled, water gurgled, the occasional vehicle passed by, motor whirring off in the distance.
Brad tried to crawl to solid ground, but the slow, forceful flow of the creek pushed him further and further downstream. In retrospect, the flowing waters probably kept him alive longer. He spent the majority of the time flailing around, hovering between consciousness and oblivion, wondering about Alison.
It had to be a special kind of hell. I can only imagine what it would be like to lie there, cut to death, unable to breathe without pain, let alone able to stand up and go back up to the house to find out what had happened. It gave me the chills.
In time, Brad gave up the ghost. He wandered about the site for a while, lost. He saw his dead wife in the front room of the witness protection house ... but he couldn't find her soul anywhere. He wandered by to his dead body. He cried, then wandered some more. And about 16 hours later, I arrived at his side.
"So," he said, lighting a Brain cigarette. "Now you know what kind of monsters you're looking for, and what you have to do when you find them."
"What's that?" I asked.
"Put them through the exact same agony Alison and I had to live through."
"Not to be technical, but both of you are dead."
"Ah," Brad said, smiling for the first time since we'd met. "Now you're starting to see the picture."
----
Seven
A New Case
So that was the deal. No Association skinny until Brad and Alison Larsen's killers were located, and Brad got the opportunity for a little payback.
Reasoning with him--explaining that crushing the Association was by extension punishing his executioners--wasn't going to ease his suffering one bit. Brad wanted me to deliver the assassins' severed heads on a drink tray, cups of their blood in drinking glasses nearby.
In other words, now I had a bigger workload than ever.
Of course, if the roles were reversed, I'm sure I would demand the same thing. God knows what kind of punishment he saw inflicted upon his wife's body by those kids. I only saw the aftershocks--blood stains on a piece of ratty carpet. Maybe that's what made it easier to agree to this whole thing.
I'd been running East on reflex. At the moment, it'd seemed like Las Vegas would be first place the Feds would be crawling around. But Brad insisted we head back. No doubt his killers had driven out to Illinois, done the deed, then headed back to collect the bounty. And I couldn't disagree with his logic. It was all so damned reasonable it made me want to vomit.
* * * *
So I journeyed back west. Whoever the Association had sent to do the deed most likely lived in Vegas, and now that the bodies were stacked up, it was time to head home and collect the reward. Somewhere, I would find two killers living it up. And once I found them, it would be the beginning of the end. For the first time in years--perhaps since Robert first collected me--I felt the warm vibe of optimism.
I drove through the night, routinely looking at my new face--Brad Larsen's face--in the rear view mirror. I am going to find your killers, I told it. And I meant it.
Of course, I was being an idiot.
henderson, nevada
eight months
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