She walked to an electrical outlet built into the side wall and plugged in the circular saw, then returned to her captive and pressed the red trigger on the handle. The saw buzzed to life. She forced the trigger open with the plastic lock—great idea, very handy—so her finger wouldn’t get tired. The saw whirred quietly, the sound drowned out by the renewed emphatic screaming of Burton Daniels. He may have been a rapist and a liar but he had one hell of a strong let of lungs.
Taking three steps and placing herself directly in front of her tormentor’s disbelieving eyes, Carrie Carstens began undressing, performing an erotic striptease for an audience of one. It was a small audience, but a captive one, she thought. Inches above Daniels’s waist, the electric saw hummed on smoothly, ready and willing to perform the task for which it was designed.
Carrie saw a terrible understanding dawn in the man’s eyes as she undulated in front of him, slowly unbuttoning her blouse and letting it fall to the floor. She had practiced endlessly at home in her tiny apartment until she was the rival of any exotic dancer in the city, hoping against hope she would someday be able to use her newfound talent on the one person for whom she had learned it. Tonight was the night.
She unsnapped her skintight jeans and slid the zipper down, pushing them over her hips. They fell down her legs as Burton Daniels squeezed his eyes closed with a ferocity that would have been comical under different circumstances, but Carrie was prepared for that.
Smiling widely now, eyes burning with a lust that had nothing to do with sex, Carrie moved to Burton Daniels and began kissing his naked belly, inches from the saw, repulsed by him but determined to force his arousal. The breeze generated by the blade blew her hair into the man’s face. And it worked. It worked. Burton Daniels began getting aroused.
Carrie continued until the last possible moment, licking and kissing, then deftly stepped away, grabbing her blouse off the floor and moving to the door of the storage unit, yanking up her jeans and zipping them as she went. She shrugged into her blouse as Burton Daniels continued to scream, now in agony as well as terror. Blood spurted in great arcs across the room in time with the beating of the man’s heart as the electric saw finally had something to slice.
She stood at the doorway drinking the scene in, determined not to miss a moment of the retribution she had waited so long to extract. Daniels’ screaming continued unabated, his shouts becoming more and more frantic and unintelligible, before eventually blacking out, whether from blood loss or simply from fear and shock Carrie did not know, nor did she care. Not long after he lost consciousness, Burton Daniels died from the blood loss and Carrie knew she was finally free.
Stepping quietly out the entrance to her little storage unit, Carrie pulled the door closed and triple-locked it, checking and then re-checking to be sure no one could get inside. When she was satisfied that her fortress was secure, she crossed the cool, damp parking lot to her waiting car and drove home, anxious to enjoy her first evening of truly nightmare-free rest in years.
She left the cleanup for tomorrow. Carrie Carstens was exhausted.
Again the nightmare came and when it did it was the same; it was always the same. The man entered her little-girl’s bedroom in the pitch-black stillness of the night and she pretended to be asleep, hoping against all odds and the man’s past history that he would go away; that he would for once just leave her alone and go away. But of course he didn’t. He never did.
He crossed the room to where she lay, her breathing slow and controlled in her desperate effort to convince him she was sleeping. He pulled the covers off of her and began fondling her, infecting her with his sickness once again, as he did nearly every night.
He smelled of alcohol and sweat and hopelessness and every time he abused her he swore it would be the last. She begged and pleaded to be left alone—“Daddy, how can you hurt me?”—but it was to no avail, as the twisted man continued to satisfy his twisted desires. It would never end. She awoke screaming and screaming and screaming.
Tonight it was “Circlez,” the dance club with the absurd little round tables surrounding the dance floor. Carrie checked her purse one last time to be sure she had her supply of roofies placed squarely on top of her other necessities for easy access. She smiled sweetly at the bouncer, paid her cover charge and entered the club.
Everyone watched her, and why wouldn’t they? Dressed tonight in a form-fitting blue mini-dress, Carrie knew she had already been successful in attracting the attention of every man watching, which of course meant every man. As she purchased her club soda and slinked to her customary spot in the back of the club, she could hear bits and snatches of conversation. Nearly everyone was discussing the rash of disappearances—young men all over the city were vanishing, never to be seen again.
Carrie wasn’t worried about that, though. She felt totally safe. She sipped her drink and watched the crowd, hoping against hope that she might catch a glimpse of the face which haunted her dreams; the man who had done all those horrible things to her. She knew she would eventually find him. She had a score to settle.
Uncle Brick and Jimmy Kills
A few months after I started writing short fiction in earnest, my wife, who is an early reader of just about all of my work whether she wants to be or not, informed me that most of my stuff was just too damned dark. It didn’t surprise me; we’re a study in contrasts most of the time anyway—she’s an optimist and I’m… not. She looks on the bright side of things and I… don’t. She tries to see the good in even the worst people and I… well, you know. But I thought about it and realized she had a point. My fiction—especially my short fiction—does tend to be pretty bleak at times, and while I wouldn’t want it any other way, I took her words as sort of a challenge. Why couldn’t I write something a little more light-hearted while still remaining true to what I love—crime fiction? I gave it a shot and the result was one of my favorite characters—the eighty year old Boston PI, Brick Callahan. “Uncle Brick and Jimmy Kills” first appeared in the Summer 2009 issue of Mysterical-E and I’m proud to say was a 2010 Derringer Award Finalist for Best Novelette.
“Retire!” roared my Uncle Brick. “Why in the hell would I want to retire?” Heads turned and restaurant patrons swiveled in their seats to see where the disturbance was coming from. It occurred to me that perhaps broaching a sensitive subject like suggesting my uncle sell his detective agency right in the middle of lunch at a high-end joint like The Old Man and the Seafood may not have been the smartest idea I ever had.
The thing you have to understand about my Uncle Brick is, his volume control is directly related to his excitement level, and right now, his excitement level was pretty darned high, what with my bumbling retirement suggestion and all. Oops. My bad. Oh well, I thought, in for a penny and all that, I have no choice now but to press on.
“Listen, Uncle Brick,” I continued. “I’m not trying to push you out the door or anything, but don’t you think you’ve earned the opportunity to relax? You’re on the north side of eighty now, and you should be spending your days enjoying yourself; you know, doing things you want to do, rather than things you have to do.”
I silently congratulated myself on my smooth recovery when Brick surprised me again. “Listen, Mister Smart-Ass College Boy, what makes you think I’m not already doing what I want to do when I come to work every day?”