Vengeance Read online

  I asked myself: was it real, or did I dream it all? Each time I asked myself that, I realized that it wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t have been.

  What happened to everyone else then? What room were they in? Had Scott really died?

  The cop took off his hat and looked down at his shoes.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get there sooner.” He lifted his head back up and stepped closer to the bed. “They had police scanners. They heard the call to come out to your cabin to take your statement, and they followed us. That’s how they knew where you were.”

  I motioned for him to continue. “Where. Are. My. Friends?”

  “I’m sorry. Scott was shot.”

  “Tabitha?”

  “She was found by the water.”

  I frowned, saying as best as I could with my face, what does that mean?

  “They had done things to her that I can’t talk about. She’s dead. I’m sorry.”

  My eyes watered. Why did I deserve to live? How could I move on? I couldn’t protect her when she needed me the most. I wasn’t there for her. This all started because I was a hothead at the liquor store.

  “The other girl is being hailed a hero,” the cop continued. “She got behind the wheel of the Jeep and instead of leaving, she turned the vehicle toward the water and drove over all three men. They were crushed and drowned under the Jeep’s wheels. Problem was, she had rolled up the windows and locked the doors to stay protected. As the Jeep sank, she couldn’t get out. I’m sorry.” He paused and put his hat on again. “Maybe tomorrow, when you’re feeling better, you can tell me your side of the story. Like, why did they leave you alive? I’ll come by later.”

  He stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. I was alone, truly alone. I’d died earlier that day, and wanted nothing more than to die again. It was all my fault.

  Since that day, I’ve quit school. I left my job and now I travel state to state, hunting Vago’s bikers. Their club’s numbers are getting smaller, one by one. I’ve killed eighteen so far. Each one, I slice their throat. Each one, I violate in some inhumane way as they did to Tabitha. And to each one I whisper “for Tabitha” in their ears as they struggle for their last breath.

  Until I die, which I could care less about, I will continue to hunt bikers down. If I’m ever caught and go to jail, I’ll kill them in prison. My hands are weapons now. Nothing has stopped me yet. I’ve been stabbed, shot and beaten to within an inch of my life, but you know what stops them from killing me? Fear, which is something I don’t have anymore. That’s their weakness.

  I had no idea that dying would save my life but kill me in the process.

  The Numbers Game

  An excerpt from The Numbers Game.

  I never thought I’d be up on first degree murder charges. The proof is in the numbers. I know this. But they don’t.

  I’m a vacuum cleaner salesman. I used to sell shoes, but now I sell Kirby’s. I run door to door and try to sell my G8 Kirby upright vacuums. The killing has nothing to do with me, but one of the people I had just done a presentation for was murdered minutes after I left their house. I’m innocent.

  This is my story. Call it a diary. I won’t lock it. Besides, I don’t have a lock or anything metal in my prison cell. They don’t allow those things. So I will write my tale and let everyone know what I do and how I do it so they can see that I’m not a murderer. I can’t afford a lawyer from the money I make selling vacuums, but I’ve got legal aid, although that’s worth nothing. Maybe the Judge will read this.

  It’s lights out so I’ll write in the dim glow I get from across the corridor. It’s a short story so I’ll be brief but there’s two things you need to know up front.

  I only got caught because I had Mrs. Gavin’s shoes in my apartment, and someone saw my car in front of her home and wrote down my license plate number. That makes sense as I was there doing a demonstration.

  I’m innocent. Remember that.

  It’s important.

  #

  Tuesday morning. The sun is shining high already and there’s a slight breeze. I’m off to a great start today. I’ve hit twenty-two houses. Ten doors weren’t answered, and twelve were rejections. The rule is, for every one hundred doors, you get into two. That means by the time I hit fifty, I should get in one door. Once I get in and show them how good the Kirby is, they’ll want one for themselves. Although that’s not always true, because for every four demonstrations, I only sell one. To break it down, I need to hit two hundred doors to sell one vacuum on average.

  See what I mean about the proof being in the numbers? I live by that. It allows me to finance myself properly, as selling vacuum cleaners is one hundred percent commission. If I want a raise, all I have to do is hit another fifty houses per day for a week and I’ll, on average, probably sell an extra vacuum per week. At four hundred dollars a hit in commission, selling three to five per week, I’d say I’m doing all right. I’m not rich, but these are just the numbers. I know the proof’s there and that’s how I get by, but in the end, they’re just numbers.

  I’m on Maple Street. It’s still before lunch. Let’s see how many rejections I can get. You see, that’s the fun part. The more rejections I receive only means I’m closer to an open door. An open door is a potential sale. And, any open door is a chance for me to add a nice pair of shoes to my collection.

  What people don’t know is that I collect shoes. Mostly ladies shoes. I don’t wear them. I’m not creepy. I just collect them. I have over two hundred pairs now from different cities in the States. Today I’m itching to add to that.

  It’s like a calling. I need them. I have to have them.

  The next house coming up is a Victorian. Very nice white trimming and a manicured lawn. I’m sure the owners could use a new Kirby and I could use a new pair of shoes as I mentioned a moment ago.

  I ran up the walkway and rang their bell.

  No answer.

  I rang it again.

  I heard footsteps approaching slowly. The door opened.

  “Hello?” A woman in her fifties stood in the doorway (It can be said, this is Mrs. Gavin).

  “Hi! My name is Trevor Ashton and we’re in the area today offering free carpet shampoos to you and your neighbors.” I thrust out a bottle of Carpet Fresh and held it high in my hand. This always made me feel like those girls on The Price Is Right waving their hands in front of the items people were to bid on. “There’s no obligation and for letting us clean your carpet you get a free bottle of Carpet Fresh. Doesn’t that sound great?”

  The woman seemed stunned. She looked at me a moment longer, evaluating my smile and then shook her head. She started to close the door.

  “Excuse me ma’am,” I said, reaching out and touching the door before it closed. “Is there a reason you wouldn’t like a free carpet shampoo? There’s nothing to buy and there’s no obligation. It’s completely free.” I said this last part with a I’m so excited I just can’t hide it flourish.

  She looked at me and attempted a half smile. “I’m not feeling well. I’ve had hip surgery recently and I’m not up to company. But thank you anyway.”

  She started to shut the door again.

  “But ma’am, you’re the perfect candidate. Don’t you see?”

  The door almost closed. It stopped at the frame. I waited. It opened again, almost defiantly.

  “I already get my carpets cleaned by a company that does a great job. I pay them often to come and do it. They were here about two weeks ago so the carpets are fine. Thank you.”

  “That’s perfect. I love a challenge. Do you realize how much they miss? The Kirby, in under five minutes, would show you how bad they’re doing.”

  She looked me up and down, her face showing her displeasure at my intrusion. In the end, I told myself, if I lost her I’d run to the next house and try again. Eventually I’d get in somewhere. That’s a fact. It’s in the numbers.

  “The carpet cleaners that do my home are very good, and they’re so che
ap that I barely pay them a tip, and you want to know why?” She paused here like the drama queen I could tell she was. “Because my son owns the company.”

  Okay, here’s a challenge. I just told her the company she uses sucks. It’s her son’s company. To her I’ve disrespected her family. I’ve got to talk fast and think faster.

  “Let me ask you a question and then I’ll leave. Is that fair?”

  She held the door firm. It looked like she was getting ready to slam it in my face. I didn’t wait for her to tell me to go ahead.

  “Let’s say you just went to the doctor and he told you that your cholesterol was off the charts. Arteries were clogging and he requires you to be hospitalized. He tells you to go home to pack your things and report back to the hospital by mid-afternoon. He also tells you to eat nothing until your return. Especially don’t eat any fast food like greasy burgers because it could be what kills you.” I use my hands a lot when I talk so I dropped the bottle of Carpet Fresh on her door step and emphasized my next point about hunger. “Now, you haven’t eaten all morning. Your nerves were jangling because you were worried about what your doctor was going to tell you. As you walk out the front doors of his clinic—”

  “Are you going anywhere with this? I have to get off my hip. Please hurry.”

  “Yes, ma’am, almost done. As you walk out the front doors of his clinic you see a beautiful diner across the street. You step a little forward and can smell whatever it is they’re cooking. The sign out front says, All you can eat bacon==> FREE! You know the trick. Buy some eggs and get all the bacon you want. Your stomach turns and winces with the smell. You’re going to be hospitalized that afternoon. This is your last chance to splurge, to dazzle yourself with the second love of your life: bacon.”

  “Is there a question in there somewhere?”

  I continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “Even though it’s free and you know it’s not good for you, would you still go and eat that bacon? Even though it could kill you. The parallel is, even though they clean your carpet for basically free, after the damage I show you they’re doing to your home, would you still have them over, son or not?”

  I waited. Sometimes direct questions like this get a slammed door in the face. Other times you’ve intrigued them enough to take the bait and let you in to see what you’re made of. This was that case.

  The woman stepped back, a smug look on her face. It seemed she liked the fire in my pitch. “Okay, you win. Get your Kirby and let’s see what happens, but I promise you, I won’t be buying one. Just do the carpet and show me the results. We’ll go from there. I’ll leave the door open because I have to go sit down now.”

  She limped away from the open door. I turned and ran down Maple Street to my Pontiac, drove to the front of her house and retrieved the boxed vacuum from the trunk. After carrying it to her door I stepped in, closed the door behind me and quietly locked it. I always locked the doors for our protection. You never know what psychos might walk in while I’m doing a presentation.

  I took my shoes off and placed them neatly beside a beautiful pair of red Jimmy Choos. They sat up so pretty, with a small heel and a lovely strap with little diamonds on it. Wow, the woman had class. These were also the shoes that got me charged with murder even though I didn’t do it. Mrs. Gavin had less than two hours before she would be bludgeoned to death with a rolling pin and a meat tenderizer.

  Although I couldn’t know that at the time.

  #

  I entered her main living room and got the Kirby out of the box and then went about setting everything up. The display model, or as we call it, our partner, has an added piece that the customer’s models don’t have. It’s a little circular window on the right by the air intake. It has small clasps to undo the top. I opened it and placed one of my hundred black cloths in it so we could see what was in her carpet.

  “What are you doing? It was just vacuumed yesterday.”

  “I have to vacuum the carpet first to make sure there’s no grit or sand in it otherwise when I’m shampooing I could cut the fibers of your carpet. My goal is to clean the carpet, not damage it.” I said this with my best car salesmen smile. “After I’ve gone over it a little and nothing comes up then we can go right to shampooing. How does that sound?”

  She nodded and used her right hand to say carry on.

  What they don’t understand is that I’m a Master Closer. Nobody gets it. No one understands me. I’m not a traditional salesman. I’m a Master Closer. Everything I do is to close the sale. Getting in the door is step one. Show the dirt is step two. Step three and four get convoluted, because in each house it’s different, but eventually I get the shoes. Then I leave.

  No one denies me the shoes. Ever.

  I began vacuuming. Mrs. Gavin sat in the middle of her couch watching, her eyes brimming with suspicion.

  The black cloth filled with dirt immediately. I stopped, unclipped the lid and laid it out flat in the corner of her carpet. I placed a new one in the glass, clipped it in place and started vacuuming again. I repeated this process ten times and then stopped and looked at her.

  Mrs. Gavin’s eyes were wide. “That’s a lot of dirt,” was all she could say.

  I nodded. “Yeah, sorry about that. When did you say this carpet was vacuumed last?”

  “Yesterday.” She was in a daze, stunned.

  “And when was it cleaned by your son’s company?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “Let me ask you one more question. What kind of a vacuum do you own?”

  She looked at me. This is where the sale turns my way. Crucial moment. Time stopper. Egg popper. Head cracker, kill her and stack her. Here we go.

  “Electrolux. I use an Electrolux, why?”

  “That’s why you have all this dirt.”

  I turned away and flipped the Kirby on. After a moment, I stopped to change the black cloth again.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “What’s wrong with my vacuum?”

  I turned to her. “You see this unit. It’s an upright. No suction lost in hoses. The mouth where all the dirt comes in is right beside the powerful engine. The filter is in front of the engine. Not a single micro fiber gets near the Kirby’s engine. In the Electrolux, the engine isn’t filtered properly, so performance is jeopardized, and it’s not an upright. You have a long hose. Think of it like this: a fire will destroy a home better than ten men outside trying to blow it down.”

  She frowned.

  “The fire is the Kirby. Your Electrolux is just blowing wind. Which brings me to my next point.” I turned and started vacuuming again. “Do you have fire insurance on your home?” I yelled over the sound of the Kirby.

  I turned the unit off and unclipped the black cloth, placing it near the others.

  “Of course I do. Why do you ask?”

  I stopped and turned to her. “Really?” I sounded so surprised. “Well, have you ever collected? I mean, have you ever had a house burn down?”

  She looked away obviously having no idea where I was going with this. They never do.

  “So you pay a monthly or a yearly charge for insurance against a fire, and yet you’ve never had one. If you added up all the money you’ve spent insuring against fire, I’d be surprised if it wasn’t in the thousands over the years.”

  Mrs. Gavin looked back up, biting on her index finger. Something was troubling her and it wasn’t where I was going with this. Maybe it was my right eye twitching. It gets like that when I’m about to steal a pair of shoes. Or perhaps it was my voice. In the moments of closing, I can get like a preacher on a tirade.

  “My point is this. You’re spending so much money on something that has never happened, and probably never will happen, but yet dirt happens. It’s right there.” I pointed at the fifteen square black cloths. “And yet you’re not paying for the right equipment. You own an Electrolux and get deals on carpet shampooing.”

  I turned away to let her think about it and started my last bit of vacuuming.
<
br />   “How much does a Kirby cost?” she asked.

  And that was the last question out of Mrs. Gavin.

  I turned back to her. “I have a question for you,” I said, my finger raised for emphasis. “If you received a check in the mail for three dollars every day, would you be rich? Could you go out and buy a Benz or a new Porsche?”

  She shook her head, biting away at her middle finger now. The sun shone through her living room window at an odd angle casting an ugly light on her wrinkles.

  “Let’s flip it. If you got a bill in the mail for three dollars a day, would you be poor? Would you have to declare bankruptcy? Would it all be over?”