The Stone Throwers

The Stone Throwers

A story of guilt and innocence.

By

Henry Alessandroni

***********************

When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

John 8:7

***********************

From his jail cell, John Edmund Wallace mused about his release. The District Attorney had little to go on. Nothing to keep him locked away. That was what his defence attorney had assured him. In a few days he would return to the arms of his mail order bride. How young they were.

Not young enough for John Edmund Wallace. Holding his throb tight, he was momentarily distracted by the cold of the stainless-steel toilet. It slowed his launch. That was okay. He wanted it to linger. Slow strokes, eyes shut, the thought of his latest conquest; they’d never find the child. Oh, how it excited him to think of how he had left the body.

John Edmund Wallace gaped his jaw wide, the moment of release imminent.

Thick glass popped; the high velocity projectile struck the frontal lobe, bounced about the inner skull and scattered itself within the medulla. The head cracked against cinder block.

John Edmund Wallace slumped to his side; hand fisted in death grip about his pleasure.

***

She never understood Monty Python, that ‘70’s comedy troupe who dressed up like women and spoke with unnaturally high-pitched voices.

Rick loved them. So did his friends.

“Tash.”

She lifted the discarded tee shirt from the floor, lifting it higher to read the iron-on letters for the one thousandth time: LET’S NOT BICKER AND ARGUE OVER WHO KILLED WHO.

What does that even mean?

“Tash.”

Natasha scurried about the 3-bedroom condo, frustrated at having to pick up her husband’s laundry. It only managed to distract her from the mental list she was making for her day; meet with the court appointed tax funded client, review coroner report, ask for ballistic findings and…underwear? Really? Come on, Rick – oh, the car. Bring the V.W. in for that noise – why couldn’t Rick do this? She toyed with the idea of a swear jar. Every utterance of Volks or Wagen she’d throw in 100 bucks.

“Tash!”

Natasha stopped in her tracks. She wanted to count to ten, only getting to one. “I’m running late.” She wanted to add; you’d know that if you had a real job. “The A.G. is not going to wait.”

“Forget that. Come see.”

She stomped into the living room. Rick stood before the flatscreen. A plasticine female face yammered with that monotone timber only news anchors spoke. Over her shoulder, a picture of Natasha’s recent client. A bullet hole in the head before trial. Speculation of rival gang assassination, though given the circumstances of the murder, highly unlikely. Awaiting official cause of death; unofficial speculation of the current vigilante killings.

“Same M.O.,” Rick offered. “Shot from a distance.”

Her day was about to change. Again. Typical and anticipated.

“Justice dealt at the hands of a sniper.” Rick lifted his golf clubs. “How can they not find any bullet or casings for that matter?”

Natasha grinned despite herself. She shouldn’t feel relief at the death of another human, but there was an underlying pleasure at seeing this child rapist splashed over the news. Karma.

“Hey?” Rick turned. “He was one of yours. Why not take the day off?”

“The investigation isn’t over,” Natasha said.

“C’mon Tash. As court appointed defence, you still get paid. When’s the last time we hung out together?”

“I have a job. A very important one.”

Rick tensed. “Oh, right. An important one. Sorry to get in the way.”

“Rick…”

“What?”

“Not now.”

“Not now what? Not now, I’ve got a headache what? Not now, I’ve an important job? You’re treating me like a child – ”

“Which you sometimes are…” Natasha immediately regretted releasing her anger.

“Right,” Rick said, breaking the silence. “I’ve gotta go. Golf with the boys. You know? Play time.”

“Rick? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Think about putting those new Titleist clubs I bought you on Kijiji. Just saying. They’re expensive and you have no time for play.”

The door closed behind him as he tossed back, “I’ll be home before street lights come on!”

***

Overburdened and overworked, the Chief Medical Examiner stepped to the body of John Edmund Wallace. In his clinic, bodies rolled through like a post-mortem drive-thru. The ones like this tattooed slab of meat offered him a sense of satisfaction. Murders had been increasing at an alarming rate. Police budgets decimated, the public and political pressure castrated pro-active and investigative policing. This left him with an increasing stock pile of cadavers.

The very same people who screamed to defund the police continued to blame-throw at the increase in crime. Gang upon gang, drive by retaliation, arrogance at how police could do little to disarm them, they cleaned the streets of their own. Sadly, they also struck down innocent bystanders – wrong place, wrong time. Collateral damage. Not their problem.

To him, John Edmund Wallace was the shining example of true justice. How to slice through prevailing political and public ignorance. This putrid mass of lawfully freed human waste was handed a fitting moral, if not legal, sentence. Inside that dysfunctional brain matter, the forensic pathologist would not locate a bullet. Similar to all the other sex offender targeted vigilante victims, microscopic remnants of animal gristle, along with traces of semi-solid animal lard, was all to be found: If it please the court, pig fat.

The press had jumped all over that.

Sir? Doctor? Could you spell your name please?

Pushing the scalpel above the ear, he allowed one emotion to surface: Resentment at how the media associated his name with the Baconator Killings.

***

Jamal Warren Washington. Not one of Natasha’s clients. The infamous Pod Bandit. He had scoured the city streets in a family van, an uncanny ability to recognize pre-teen angst. The children were lured with unbridled promises of attention; of stardom. 8x10’s gracing television amber alerts and wholesome smiles flashed from behind the doors of highway hauling big rigs.

Flanked by court officers, Jamal crossed the steps leading to the court house. His stay would be short. The tax-salaried, city appointed lawyer guaranteed it. The D.A. has no evidence: Circumstantial at best. You will slip through with an overwhelming shadow of doubt. Free to continue a lucrative career as a human trafficker, sex offender, child rapist and murderer.

Jamal shouted back to the media. “Innocent ‘til proven guilty, baby.”

The word baby cut short as the city paid lawyer, unable to stop, fell atop the slumping Jamal. Old Spice wafted over the officers, struggling to hold the two from falling, the counsellor’s cheek sliding across a hole that appeared at the back of Jamal’s skull.

Pandemonium ensued.

***

Coffee was always appreciated, a customary offering whenever the sergeant attended the Chief Medical Examiner’s office. There, the doctor (unofficially) offered his opinions. Shaky would never quote or attribute any (unofficial) information back to him. If anything, Sgt. Gerhard Hepburn was trustworthy, an old school detective in a young man’s body.

“Casings?” the doctor asked, already knowing the answer.

“Did you take this job to avoid malpractice suits?”

“Sorry.” They sipped their coffees in uncomfortable silence.

They had nothing.

***

Tongs lifted the frozen pellet out of the thermos. The pea sized animal grizzle was dropped into a hollowed-out bullet, the injection of pig fat encasing it. Heated enough to liquify, the fat would solidify under normal circumstances, but freezing would harden it. The process was tedious. After frozen solid, the pre-formed mould of high intensity solvent would cap the mould, a thin layer set to seal it, then back into the dry ice.

This process had to be repeated several times to acquire the correct mass. Hot, cold, hot, cold, and days of firing prototypes to identify favoured effectiveness. Too short of the target and the solvent would remain intact. Too far and it would disintegrate. The preferred distance was between 200-300 yards, leaving little to no signature.

Pig fat. Grizzle. Possible traces of solvent. What police needed were shell casings. These were retrieved each and every time by the sniper. They were reusable for the next target.

The 300 Winchester was a hunter’s choice of weapon; too common to be distinctive. Like Robert De Niro in the Deer Hunter: It has to be taken in one shot. The pig fat would moult before the grizzle struck. Many a melon would give up its fruit in order for the Baconator to perfect the kill.

Trajectory. Precision. Methodical and plotted; location and egress strategy.

And one shot.

***

Shaky slurped about the Falafel crumbling in his hands. “Hey, good looking,” he mumbled as Tash approached.

“You know, that could be construed as sexual harassment?”

“Or foreplay.”

Tash sighed. “I want to ask you something.”

“Buy you lunch first?”

She shook her head no as Shaky juggled the flakes of onion that attempt to escape his wrap.

“What’s your take on the vigilante motive?”

“Thrill kill? Sociopath? A need to right society’s wrongs?”

“Any leads?”

“Maybe. What of it? We catch them, you let ‘em go.”

“You don’t want to catch him.”

“Sweetheart. There are close to 80 murders a year. 7 homicide detectives on the payroll. Do the math.”

His justification indicated he was nowhere near finding the vigilante. Tash sympathized. “We’re all overworked and under staffed – ”

“Public screaming, “defund the police!” Marry that with the lack of support from our legal system – ”

“The law is the law – ”

“And I hand you the bad guys – ”

“You know as well as I do, Jamal had a sealed Y.O. record.”

“Political and judicial bullshit – ”

“He was protected under the Young Offender’s Act. Now that he’s an adult – ”

“He gets off because he had no priors, under the eyes of the law, due to his sealed Y.O. records. I get it. What the public doesn’t know will hurt them. He’s a recidivist, Tash. A repeat offender.”

Shaky tossed the rest of his sandwich away. “John fucking Edmund Wallace. Tickled by his dad as a boy. He hammered heads of puppies for kicks. Swung cats by their tails. I’ve seen the young offender record. Sealed away. Yes, he did juvenile time. Nature? Nurture? Who gives a fuck? And now as an adult, all is forgotten? Bleeding liberal hearts believe there’s goodness in every criminal. Tell you what, counsellor. The next time it’s you that has to scrape a 4-month-old out of a microwave oven after signing on shift at 7 a.m.…” Shaky gulped. “My job is not to simply catch the bad guy. It’s to stop myself from killing them. Especially when I know you’re going to get them off…” He caught himself short. “80 cases a year, counsellor. What makes him so special? Why stop someone from doing what I can’t when there’s a lot worse out there?”

“Vigilantism is against the law – ”

“So is rape and murder. Let me ask you this: If I catch the Baconator, will you let him go?”

“Innocent until proven guilty.”

Shaky straightened, letting his passion wane. “Let’s not quibble over who killed…”

“It’s, bicker and argue. And I’ve never understood the humour of it.”

“I’ll explain it over drinks and dinner.”

Tash shot a glance at his wedding ring.

“If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one wise to it…”

Tash flashed her own wedding band, switching the finger she pointed in the air, before walking away.

***

Rick called from the kitchen. “Grab a glass. I’m dicing up some dinner.”

Tash dropped her keys in the hallway, tore off her heels and shuffled to the wine bottle. French Chartreuse. One thing they agreed on; red, Italian. White, French. Systemic wine bias.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked.

“Had to throw some files into storage.”

“Saw the news. That rapist…what’s his name?”

“Jamal.”

“Was about to walk, wasn’t he? Circumstantial?”

Tash sipped her wine. “We have laws for a reason.” She turned and walked away. Rick was once again dismissed.

They were lovers, though intimacy was a distant memory. They were partners with separate objectives. For better or worse, they were roommates.

***

Tash knew there could be no way to avoid the reporters. Questions pummelled her like a hail storm. It wasn’t her first encounter with frenzied media hounds, especially when a case had fallen short of a conviction. Where did the defence go wrong? Would there be an appeal?

She kept her arm about the victim’s mother. Led her away from the fracas. The woman suffered a tragic loss, now re-victimized while Tash pushed them both through the media sludge.

Justice was not fair. Not in a courtroom.

Shaky stepped forward and took the distraught woman from Tash’s arm. “I’ll take her. You deal with the leeches.”

Are you worried the Baconator will do justice that the courts cannot?

Tash was livid. She stormed over to the bitch who screamed the question. Are laws too lax? Should they be changed? Do you even have a swine clue? Inane, stupid, repetitive questions, handled by Tash with firm decorum, political correctness, confidence and disdain.

She was short, suffering no fools, occasionally dismissive with an If you were doing your job, you’d have heard that question already, extricating herself from the stupidity with an air of condescension.

The pariahs would pick and choose her words. Take them out of context. Post them for a biased society. They subtly dismissed law and order, promoting this vigilante, the person they monikered The Baconator.

The media challenged Tash from every angle, placing blame where no blame had been warranted.

***

“Don’t get me wrong,” Rick said, popping the wine cork. “Two wrongs don’t make a right. Well, maybe it does? You have to admit, he is doing what the court can’t.”

Tash was uncomfortable talking about the vigilante – correction – to anyone other than Shaky. Everyone had opinions, criticisms, speculations. All armchair detectives and legal advisors.

Shaky was close to the case. She trusted him. There were feelings…

“You know what the city should do?” Rick said, trying to make light of the situation. “A giant search light with the shadow of a pig. Like Batman. When the system fails, Pigman is there.”

Tash ignored him, silencing Rick’s immaturity by leaving the room.

***

At police headquarters, the homicide clerk told Tash that Shaky would be found at the firing range. He was doing yearly certification. If you did not pass qualification, you could not carry a sidearm. These were the rules. Even the chief had to certify.

She thanked the clerk, but stopped short before leaving. “I’ve never asked. Why do we call him Shaky?”

The clerk stared at Tash as if she had a third eye. A glint of humour sparkling back at the attorney. “Sgt. Gerhard Hepburn?”

Tash waited.

“Katherine Hepburn? Famously known for her acting as well as her aged related tremors?”

Sucking back a groan, Tash chided herself for not comprehending this offensive, non-P.C. nicknaming from the start. She shook her head in mock disgust and headed for the range.

Shaky was admiring his kill shot on the paper target when Tash approached.

“Hey, sergeant,” she called.

“Hey yourself, gorgeous.” Shaky reclipped the Glock and handed it to Tash. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Setting her briefcase aside, Tash took the gun and religiously lifted it to eye level. She emptied the clip in quick succession, head shots contained, body shots clean, crotch shot for good luck.

“Military brat,” she said.

“Why don’t I know that?”

“A lot you don’t know about me.”

“Like…?”

“I’m not a fan of guns.”

He paused, coughed ‘bullshit’ and scrapped the target into the trash. “Come to take me up on my lunch offer? A little afternoon delight?”

Tash smiled. Stomach fluttering; not for food.

“Any leads yet?” she asked.

Shaky sighed. “No bullet. No trace. We can’t identify the type of firearm without it. All victims shot long range. Fatty residue in the brain cavity…”

“Same old. Nothing else?”

“Think pancetta. The fat from that delicious Italian delicacy commonly served at Franco’s. Just around the corner...”

Tash blushed.

“Hungry yet?”

“No further evidence?”

“Our suspect has figured a way to make lard as hard as steel. No striations, no firing signatures. Nothing.”

***

“That’s bizarre,” Rick offered, pulling the bedroom sheet aside before climbing in.

“Can we just go to sleep?”

“Isn’t this your third client assassinated?”

“Really?” Tash flipped to her side. “I’m tired.”

“This guy’s doing us a favour. Your workload has dropped.” He reached over to kiss Tash. Robotically, she pecked him back. The work stress had diminished, but her coldness had not.

“Only two were mine. The third hadn’t been to begin with.” She jerked the covers higher, pushing Rick further away.

Rick hesitated before turning away.

***

The moniker of Baconator was demeaning. The media coined that name in its way to sway public sentiment. They didn’t condone these understandable deeds: Two wrongs do not make a right. But why were police not doing their job? Let the vigilante justice be the rallying cry. After all, their city was under criminal siege. Resting the Winchester on the windowsill, stomach fluttering, pulse quickening, palms moistened with sweat, the sniper’s bitterness was simply to let the public have its way.

Sight sharpened on the tenement house across the way, the Baconator watched for signs of movement. Timing was everything. The suspect, Kevin Theodore McKinley, had promised to meet with Sgt. Hepburn at headquarters. A few questions, that’s all. His court appointed defence attorney had promised that there was insufficient evidence. She would be there with him. Simply answer the sergeant’s questions and he’d be on his way.

Kevin Theodore McKinley was guilty as hell.

The junkie went nowhere without a cancer stick. Stopping to light one up, an idiosyncrasy that every drug-infused O.C.D. adopted, his moment of hesitation benefited his executioner.

The Baconator pulled the slug out of the thermos of dry ice, dropping it onto the washcloth splayed upon the floor. Steam rose as the bullet was lifted and placed into the chamber. Seconds counted. Removing the glove, the scope centred, trigger tugged, a crack of rifle shot was the only sound that quieted the electrical impulses flashing within Kevin Theodore McKinley’s skull.

The expended shell retrieved and blanketed within the washcloth, shoved harshly into a golf bag against the stock of the Winchester, and a sock slipped over the cooling barrel, the Baconator exited the building like a golfer leaving for a tee. The grounds were empty. The sound of gunfire forced neighbour doors to close, windows shut. Lingering bystanders scattered. The projects were mute to police when and if they arrived.

***

Tash surprised Rick by being home early. He stammered. “What’s the occasion?”

“Did you see the breaking news?” she asked.

“No. I’ve been on the green.”

“Another kill.”

“And if it’s yours, can we take a vacation? Or just go to the cottage…?”

Tash was not in the mood for revelry.

“…Let’s take a drive, like we used to. Enjoy the changing colours – “

Tash picked up his keys and made for the door.

“What? Tash? What’s wrong with spending time together?”

“Nothing. Sorry. I need some alone time.”

“You need a lot of alone time lately,” Rick said, leaning against the wall.

Tash ignored him, letting the door close behind her as she left.

***

Stepping out of his car, Shaky sidestepped Tash. “We have to stop meeting – ”

“You’ve got to give me something. Something to go on. Anything.”

“I’m starting to believe you have a thing for me.”

“Why is this killer targeting my clients?”

“Tash. I solve, you absolve; maybe its personal.” Walking to the rear of his car to retrieve his kit, Shaky froze. His vehicle emblem had been removed. A perfectly round indent stared back at him where it once sat. “What is it with punks and VW logos?”

“Have you no clues whatsoever?”

“I can’t believe this. That’s why I hate street parking. Third time my car’s been targeted.”

“Shaky?”

“I’m moving to the suburbs. I want a garage.”

“Are you holding out on me?”

He shook off his anger and turned to Tash. “Show me your boobs.”

“You’re a real piece of work sergeant. You know that?”

“We have a fragment. A crumb. Forensics is trying to figure out what that microscopic junk is. Preliminary suggests how the projectile is fabricated.”

Tash wore her dissatisfaction on her sleeve.

“That’s it, counsellor. If I get more…you know I can’t tell you. You’ll have to wait until he’s arrested.”

“I do appreciate you, Shaky. I hope you know that. I promise I’ll keep it to myself.”

“So…boobs?”

“Go home, Shaky. There’s a set waiting for you there.”

***

Rick was having an affair. She was certain of it. Probably more than one. Golf games. Really? He bought her the set of clubs knowing full well how much she hated sports. He was cunning. But she was analytical. Righteous. Did she still love him? He lied – was lying to her. She was certain of it.

Rick exited the bedroom, confused at the thick tension that darkened his wife.

“Let’s not do this, Rick.”

“Do what?”

“I’m not the fool you think me to be.”

“What?”

“You can have your little fling – ”

“What – ”

“Just remember who supports this relationship.”

“What is going on in your mind?”

“If you want to leave, you’ll leave with nothing. Remember that.”

“Who’s leaving? What the hell…talk to me.”

“Stop it, Rick. You signed a prenup.”

Rick froze. “Yes, I did.” A sidelong glance momentarily silenced him. “It’s your decision, Tash. But I’m not taking this accusation lightly.”

“Don’t turn this around.”

“This is simply a business transaction to you, isn’t it? It has nothing to do with us. It never has anything to do with us. What is it with you Tash?”

“You.”

“You’re a taker, Tash. When it’s time to give…well…that’s just not who you are.”

“I’m the taker?! Who’s fucking around on who?”

“You’re never here. You’re never with me. You attend to your own needs. This isn’t a relationship, Tash. It’s simply a convenient business façade. You’re the one having the affair – “

“Nice try – “

“With your work.”

“I gave you this lifestyle. You’d be nothing without me.”

He stepped back. “If that’s what you want.”

Tash did not answer. She had made her point.

***

“Tell him what you told me.”

The kid spread a belligerent smile. “Donuts are exceptionally sweet this time of year.”

The uniform lifted the police tape for Shaky to dip under. “He’s working his way to Vegas,” the officer offered.

“What’d you see, son?”

“What’s the going rate for info these days?”

Shaky waited. He played this game before. They always blinked first.

“No wonder everybody hates you guys,” the kid said. “I saw something that didn’t belong.”

Shaky sighed. “Didn’t belong how?”

“Clean clothes. Carrying a bag.”

“Man? Woman? Tall? Short?”

“Ya. Exactly. Couldn’t tell. Too far away.”

“And the bag?”

“Big. I mean, real big. Over the shoulder big.”

“Nobody else around?”

“You ever see roaches scatter when you turn on the lights?”

Shaky cringed lightly. Memories of attending sudden deaths. The bugs. Delousing. Filthy, disgusting, crawly…

“One gunshot’s all it takes to make them scatter.”

The uniform produced a nickel-plated automotive icon.

“That ain’t mine,” the kid said.

“Funny,” the uniform added. “You had it on you.”

“Found it. Was on my way to return it to you guys. What’s my reward?”

Shaky turned the VW tail emblem over in his hands. No prints.

“Reward?” The kid looked up at the detective. “20 bucks sounds fair.”

“Possession of stolen property – ”

“Prove it.”

“Maybe. While you sit down at the station.”

“You guys are crooks. Fine. Keep it. I have others.”

“What?”

“C’mon, man?”

Shaky smiled, turning to the uniform. “Help the kid find his lunch money.”

***

Tash took the side roads, shades of red, amber, green and yellow lining her drive. She was in no rush, keeping to the limit, driving a forced decompression. She pined for the comfort and security once enjoyed before her father died. Secluded and protected, she would never find a man to replace him and Rick had proved her right.

The 10-acre water side property was hers now. Her father looked after her in life and in passing. Her financial stress was non-existent.

The entrance road was pitted, undulating at several junctures that unwanted visitors might reconsider. This was her alone time, far from civilization. Tash knew well enough to know that if she did not escape this angst and anger, her focus would destabilize. This would inevitably lead to mistakes. The cottage was her best reenergiser.

Perhaps it was time to take a sabbatical: Pack up everything and live the spinster life hidden away from society. Leave reality behind. Life was but a pit of loss, fear and insecurity; no one to trust or to love.

Step back.

No human within ear shot. An occasional orange dot of a deer hunter’s vest across the water, a distant shot or two popping during hunting season. Red and amber capped the horizon and carpeted the earth at this time of year. The car jiggled along the way, bouncing to a halt in front of the prefab winterized cabin.

Tash exited the vehicle, drawing in the autumn air. Smog free, pine scented, appetite stimulating. She lifted the hatch to retrieve her supplies and stood there considering the golf bag. Should she toss it in the lake? Punctuate the end of another chapter in her fucked-up life?

The thought tempted her.

***

The pumpkin sat upon the solitary boulder close to the lake. Half a dozen of its family members waited at the foot of the rock, each awaiting their execution. Tash prided herself at the varying eye sockets she had etched on their surface with a Sharpie. It gave them an air of deserving. That 20-minute jaunt to the roadside weekend market lent her a taste of re-socialization, not enough to spook her inner hermit.

Dawn stretched long shadows across the cold water. Intermittent splashes of frogs nipped at water striders. Turtles flapped their way to the lake bottom coontails; the only disturbance of the morning. It lasted but a few moments before the sound of wheels broke her meditation. The off-road ruts crackled as a car jostled its way deliberately toward the cottage.

A few hundred yards away, Rick turned the ignition off and exited. He awaited her approach. “I knew as soon as you took my truck keys, you’d be here.”

Tash remained quiet.

“I returned the rental,” he said, stretching his back. “The part finally came in. The car’s all done.”

“Do you love her?”

Rick angered.

“Or them?”

“Who are them,” he asked.

“You should not have come. This is my sanctuary.”

“Right. You made that clear. This isn’t mine. I’m the country bumpkin, son of a pig farmer, come to the big city to find me a meal ticket.”

“Interesting.”

“You really think I’m about the money?”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m the only one trying to salvage us.”

“You thought marriage might nullify that prenup. Guess what? By law, only what is acquired after marriage is split. That means you get nothing.” She moved closer, challenging him. “You say you love me because you don’t want to lose the lifestyle you’ve grown accustomed to.”

Her coldness arrested Rick. He could not understand these accusations. Broken, he held her gaze. Had he been the one to make a mistake? “Here’s your keys,” he said. Unless you prefer the truck.”

“You can keep it, you philandering, money hungry son of a – “

The vein in his forehead pulsed. Rick lifted a hand as if to strike her, but caught himself short, surprising himself at this spontaneous reaction.

Tash fumed. She was betrayed. Untrustworthy, just like all men.

“I’ll be out by the time you return. I’ll sign whatever you want.”

Rick climbed into the truck, wanting to tell her the truth, knowing her mind had been made up. He would be gone before her return, though she had been the first to leave.

***

As the truck disappeared from view, Tash stormed over to her car. She wished she had etched the Sharpie over her ex-husband’s forehead – Unclean. She needed to calm herself. Precise, clear of mind – just as her father taught her.

Above the vanity plate, JOHN 8 7, was an empty slot where the VW emblem should be. “FUCK,” she screamed.

Popping the trunk, she pushed the unused clubs to one side and pulled out the Winchester. From the distance, she scoped the squash and allowed the one true bullet to validate her prejudice.

There was no innocence in this world. All were guilty.

The End