Watch Them Die by Kevin O'Brien Page B

her arm.
    The pigeon took off, flying out the open window.
    “Shhh,” he whispered, the nylon material over his face brushing against her ear. “This won’t work if you scream. I don’t want to hurt you.”
    He lowered his hand a little from her mouth, and Cindy was able to breathe through her nose. She stopped struggling. She knew she was trapped.
    “It was pretty funny with the bird flying in like that, wasn’t it?” he said, chuckling. “But you know what’s not so funny? The way you treated my Hannah at the video store the other night. You might think she’s some nobody clerk, but she’s my Hannah, you stupid, silly bitch.”
    Cindy tried to speak, but again, his hand was clasped firmly over her mouth. She merely whimpered in protest. She couldn’t break free of him.
    “We need to make sure you don’t scream,” he said.
    Cindy noticed a second man, coming from her kitchen. His face was deformed with the same nylon disguise. They both looked like monsters, something out of a nightmare. But they were real. The pain in her arm was real. That warm, moist nylon mask scraping against her face was real.
    “If I take my hand away, will you promise not to scream?” he asked.
    His partner was coming toward her. Eyeing him, Cindy nodded anxiously. But as soon as she gasped some air through her mouth, Cindy started to yell.
    Certainly, one of the neighbors would hear and come help.
    “Shut her up,” grunted the man holding her.
    All at once, his partner punched Cindy in the stomach. All at once, she couldn’t breathe, much less scream. She automatically dropped toward the floor, and curled up—fetal-like—from the overwhelming pain in her gut.
    But the man still had ahold of her. “Get her feet,” she heard him tell his friend.
    Suddenly, they were dragging her toward the open window. She was still breathless, paralyzed by the pain in her stomach. They had her by the arms and feet. She tried to struggle, but it was useless.
    She felt the chilly wind sweep across her as they hoisted her up on the windowsill. She still couldn’t breath—or scream. Her head was swimming.
    Cindy Finkelston knew she was going to die. And there wasn’t a single, solitary thing she could do about it.

    “Well, what exactly did you tell him about me?” Hannah asked, keeping her voice low. There were customers in the store that Monday afternoon. She had to stifle the inclination to scream at Cheryl. The two of them stood behind the counter.
    “I hardly told the guy anything. God!” Cheryl rolled her eyes. “He came in on Friday and asked if you were working. I said you were out sick, and might be back today. That’s all. Scott’s blowing it all out of proportion.”
    Hannah glared at her. No one liked Cheryl very much. At twenty-one, she was younger than everybody else on the Emerald City Video payroll, yet she treated her coworkers in a fake-pleasant, condescending manner. She was a theater major, and always seemed “on.” Hannah found her obnoxiously perky and phony.
    “Well, what did this guy look like, anyway?” Hannah asked, one hand on the countertop. “Can you describe him? Age? Hair color?”
    Cheryl rolled her eyes and sighed.
    “Okay, tell me this much. Have you seen him in the store before?”
    “God, Hannah,” she said, with a stunned little laugh. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” She flicked back her long blond hair. “I really don’t remember much about him. He was here for, like, two seconds. You know, Hannah, I have guys in here every day asking for my phone number. It might not happen to you so much, because you’re older. But if I were you, I’d be flattered.”
    Hannah slowly shook her head. “Cheryl—”
    “Hannah, could you come in here?” Scott called from the back room.
    She shot Cheryl one last, venomous look. “Give me a yell if it gets busy,” she said evenly.
    Retreating to the cramped back room, Hannah found Scott at the desk with a newspaper in front of him.