folded her arms and cocked her head to the left.
“Oh come on, Dale!” Catherine playfully exclaimed as she patted her tight stomach. “You know every dead person in here – including me. There’s nothing sinister going on here.”
“That’s a relief,” Reubens grinned, until he whipped out his Glock .40. With a two-handed grip on his pistol, the sheriff kneecapped the DF with two lucky, well-placed shots.
He figured that, while her body could shrug off a lot of bullets, the DF still needed kneecaps, in order to stand. All of the spirits within the DF screamed at once as their host body flopped to the gravel, belly-first. He realized that the scream didn’t sound like forty-eight people. It was more like three people? Maybe four? And they were male voices … mixed in with Catherine’s. Odds were that she wasn’t in charge of her own body anymore.
As the DF futilely tried to rise, Reubens holstered his weapon. He then hopped into his vehicle and mentally cursed himself as godless swine for what he was about to do. The sheriff actually backed the police cruiser onto Catherine’s body as it tried to crawl away into a roadside ditch. When he stopped, his car’s front left tire rested squarely on the DF’s back.
Reubens pulled the release for the trunk and then for the fuel tank. He stepped out on the passenger side and headed for the back of his police cruiser. Along the way, he stopped to unscrew the gas cap. The cruiser subtly began to shift. Reubens drew his Glock, knelt down and gawked. Catherine Intle’s petite corpse was in a push-up position and had lifted his cruiser a few inches off the ground. Bit-by-bit, she began to crawl free. Reubens backed away, gun still in his right hand. The DF glared up at him from under the car’s front bumper as it laboriously scooted out from under it.
“We’re gonna take that gun away from you and rip both of your damned arms off!”
The males voices were male and perfectly in synch as they threatened Reubens. Whoever was yelling at him wasn’t Catherine. It was the sons of bitches keeping her from finding peace. The thought of her being someone else’s slave enraged him. He dropped to one knee and aimed for the elbows. Nine shots later, the DF’s elbows were shattered and the car pinned it down again. Even with shattered elbows, the spirits within Catherine’s body scowled up at him as they tried to squirm free.
Yep, Reubens thought, this is about a grudge.
Reubens ran for the trunk and retrieved a loaded jerry can of gasoline. Wordlessly, he splashed it over his own car … and then he doused the body of his first love.
“Don’t do this,” it pleaded with Catherine’s sweet voice.
“Drop the act,” Reubens growled as he emptied the jerry can and tossed it aside. Then he pulled a cheap disposable lighter out of his pants.
“You said you quit smoking!”
“I guess I lied, too,” he scowled. “Let Catherine speak.”
The DF stared at him defiantly.
“Do it!” Reubens yelled with red-faced ire.
It tried one last, feeble time to move. Then it reluctantly nodded.
“I’m here,” Catherine smiled faintly.
“Why are you still in there?”
“They hopped into my body the second I died,” she shrugged. “I couldn’t get out.”
“How many spooks are really in you?”
“Two. The McKnittle brothers – Abe and Gary.”
When Reubens was a kid, his dad used to mention them. A bunch of devil-may-care drunkards, they made moonshine and grew pot when his old man was only a young deputy. They died when their barn - where they made their hooch - burned down. Everyone thought it was the result of accidental stupidity.
“What’s their beef?”
“They were murdered,” Catherine explained.
“How?”
“Back in ’63, they made a bad batch of ‘shine and one of their customers – a teenager name Sophie Gassen – went blind. The poor girl killed herself soon after. She had three big brothers who decided vengeance was in order.”
“So they beat ‘em up and torched ‘em with their own hooch?”
“Yeah,” Catherine replied. “Only one of the three Gassen brothers is dead. They got impatient and decided to go after the other two.”
The sheriff sighed as he walked away from the car. The DF’s eyes followed him as he moved.
“They want to know what you’re going to do.”
“A crime’s a crime,” Reubens said at length. “I’ll re-open the case.”
“They want blood.”
“They’ll have to settle for justice,” Reubens sighed as he looked up at the sky. “And Catherine, I … I –”
“I know, Dale,” Catherine interrupted with a soft smile. “I always knew.”
The McKnittle brothers abruptly took over and yelled curses, threats, and - in the end - pleaded with Reubens not to deny them their revenge. The sheriff quietly flicked on the lighter and tossed it. It landed on the car’s gasoline-covered hood. Flames erupted and quickly spread. The sheriff turned and walked away as his tears began to fall.
Even when the car exploded, Reubens didn’t look back.
RENT-A-KILLER
Mitchell Griggio nervously entered the main lobby of the ninety-story skyscraper. In his late 20’s, the short, chubby fellow wore a gray pin-stripe suit, white shirt, and a plain burgundy tie. His face was deceptively calm and commanding, with a strong chin, round nose, and piercing brown eyes. In his right hand was a leather briefcase/nanocomputer. In his left was a small tube of cinnamon-flavored breath spray. Mitchell gave himself a few squirts of spray as he walked amongst the late-morning throng of fellow corporate types.
Once he checked in at the main security desk, Mitchell was directed to a giant C-shaped sofa where he was told to wait until he was escorted upstairs. As he sat and waited, Mitchell felt his heart’s rhythmic pounding inside of his hairy chest. This was the big day; the moment that would make or break his career as a death vendor. Today, Mitchell would broker his first major contract assassination. Ever since he decided to drop out of seminary school and signed up for those Corporate Espionage classes, Mitchell had been scheming and sweating his way toward the big leagues. And now –
Mitchell’s thoughts roamed to his armpits, where he took a discreet whiff and sighed with relief. His deodorant was still working. Normally, whenever he was nervous, he could sweat through any fabric known to man. But this new brand was designed to block sweat from forming under his armpits - or anywhere else on his body - period. Thus, he smelled musky in a subtle, manly fashion. He ran a hand through his thinning, curly black hair and sighed to center himself. Mitchell’s mind locked upon the massive opportunity that lay ahead. If he wrangled the Pierson/McIntyre account, a guaranteed promotion and raise would be his for the taking. With the commission on this job alone, Mitchell planned to buy
