The Listed

Chapter One

Number Ten

 

Malcolm Barre chugged down the last of his beer and tossed the can toward over a pile of dirty laundry by the basement door. The can struck the cracked antique lamp Malcolm had purchased without asking his wife's consent and rolled against the kitchen door. Next to the can were pieces of torn up photos that Malcolm ripped on one of his drunken binges. He ignored the pictures and popped open another beer can. 

But try as he might, he kept sneaking a peek over to the photos, trying to reattach them in his mind. This piece went with the picture of Bernice holding baby Patricia with Malcolm Jr. standing by her side. That piece showed the Acapulco beachfront hotel where he and Bernice honeymooned. The other pieces were unknowns, just another pile of discards. 

"The bitch," he muttered under his breath, and felt better for it. "How dare her leave me for that asshole ex-boss of mine, Mr. Roget. So what if I spent all my money on antiques. Didn't she realize that antiques increase in value over time. So we were late with the rent a few times. In the long run, these antiques would make us rich." He ran his hand along the crack on the neck of the lamp and sighed sadly.

 Yet she complained that I always brought them but never sold anything, and it was stealing food off the table. She was so dramatic. She just didn't understand the business. Just like my stupid boss didn't understand. I made good purchases for his shop. It wasn't my fault that the customers couldn't appreciate the gems he had chosen. Boss said he'd rather have cheap pieces that sold than "gems" that just sat there. 

I tried to explain to him that all collectors wanted these days was kitsch-- crucifixes that glow in the dark, fiberglass chairs with six legs, and bean-bag furniture. It was no wonder the wicker furniture stores were running us out of business. Then get me those things, Mr. Roget yelled at me. Any sale is a good sale. No sale is just plain dumb. Your paycheck should be coming out of the profits, not my pocket. 

I should have killed him that day. Gutted him like a fish. And her too. Why the hell did she leave me for him?! Damn, he was old enough to be her father's father. Maybe now is the time. They would be here this weekend to drop off my belongings. I'll buy a chainsaw, a hacksaw, and some of that acid stuff like you see in the movies. I'll buy them all at separate stores. Pay cash. Wear a cap and overcoat. Places where they don't know me. No witnesses. Do it right. No evidence. No blood. No hair. Nothing but memories. And they can't convict you for memories. 

I should have done it years ago, on the day she first started nagging me about the beer and bills. Made me wonder when it was she met my ex-boss. I wonder how many afternoons they slept in our bed while I was out making purchases for Mr. Roget. I should have killed them a long time ago. Well, better late than never. 

A grin spread across Malcolm's face like the slice of a good barber  razor fresh off the strap. He stared at the TV in his little cabin hideaway, oblivious to the wrestling match, lost in his little fantasy of murder that played out in his imagination by the sixth can of beer. 

He didn't even notice the noises coming from the kitchen. Not until the wrestling match turned to a commercial about toothpaste. He froze in the seat. Tried to remain silent, so he could hear more clearer the sounds in the kitchen. Two people were in there. He dimmed the lamp light and saw the shadows at the bottom of the kitchen door. One of them was at the door, the other just behind him. 

Then another noise sounded at the window to his right. His eye twitched as he tried to focus on any movement in the dark trees about thirty yards away. The only light he had to help him see outside was his cracked lamp that he had dimmed. All he could see was the silhouettes of branches and trunks. But there was a sound. How dare they interrupt his fantasy. He was about to chainsaw his ex-wife's head off. Then he was in his ex-boss's office about to hack him to bits. 

The kitchen doorknob started to turn. He reached under his seat and found his loaded 38 revolver. Come to papa, Malcolm thought. He switched the light from dim to dark, and fired three shots at the kitchen door. The door squeaked open, followed by a grunt. Someone shouted, Back it up, I'm hit. Malcolm fired two more shots. That's when he saw the two men wearing ski masks and gloves. Both had on similar black clothing. He leveled the barrel at the burglar in front for another shot when all of a sudden he heard the window glass crack. 

He felt dizzy. There was a B-B sized hole in the pane, right in the center, perfectly aligned for a trajectory to his right temple. With his left hand, he confirmed his estimation by touching at the right side of his head. There was a small puncture bleeding out. Bullseye, except he wasn't dead. 

He looked around as if in slow-motion. His gaze settled on a piece of torn photograph. It showed Bernice's sad eyes, tired from crying night after night over her husband's excessive drinking and stupid spending. He was worse than a gambler, the pawn shop guy told him; he was a collector of junk. Suddenly he understood her suffering. She wasn't lusting after Mr. Roget. He was just a friend. My friend. Her friend. He glanced down and saw all the blood pooled by his chair. He dropped his gun into that pool, and it splashed and sank. Or so it seemed.

The two men from the kitchen entered the TV room. One of them opened the front door where three other similarly dressed figures joined their team. Double-check and triple-check, said a female voice. I did already, came the angry reply from a male voice, one of the guys from the kitchen. Well, check again, she ordered. The angry male opened his leather binder. That's him, he confirmed; Malcolm Barre, Number Ten. Targets in play were Bernice Barre and Kyle Roget. Deadline was this weekend, three days from now, Saturday. Either with a chainsaw or hacksaw. Not a 38? the female in charge asked. Not according to our records. Good enough, she said; now let's wrap it up.

Malcolm realized he had been shot with a dart gun, some sort of sedative. Mixed with the booze, he didn't feel a thing, not even as the five dark figures fired lethal darts into his flesh until he was cold dead.

To be continued...