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I shake my head.
“That’s more fucked up than I’ll ever be.” I sit back and smoke the rest of the cigarette as Jimmy watches me. There are tears in his eyes, and I’m glad. I’m sure he’s only feeling sorry for himself and not the girl he hurt, but at least he’s scared. “I bet she was scared, too.”
It’s time to end this.
It’s not like the city is going to spend a lot of time or money sending a forensics expert out for a shitbag like James Marino, but I still want to keep things looking like a burglary gone wrong. It’s the little slip ups that get people thinking something is up, and that can lead to a more thorough investigation.
“Hold your hands up near your face.” He follows my instructions slowly, but as I approach him with the knife, he starts to panic and grabs for the gag. I slam the toe of my boot into his shin and tell him to do as he’s told. Tears flow down his face as he cooperates.
I slash his arms up near his wrists, just below the gloves. I make nice, defensive-appearing wounds. He’s trying to scream through the gag now, but it’s pointless. I kick him again and tell him to shut up.
“You do understand that you are going to die for what you did to her, right?” I get in his face and stare into his eyes. “You’re going to die for that. You deserve a lot worse, but I have to stick with my original plan.”
I haul back and hit him as hard as I can. I hear his jaw crack with the blow, and my knuckles sting. I shake my hand out and hit him again. I doubt he’ll be screaming too much now even without the gag.
I stab him twice in the stomach and let him bleed for a minute. The wound won’t be fatal unless he lies here a long time, but it’s enough to weaken him. I’ll have to do a little more damage before I go. I shove him to the floor and let him lie there.
In the meantime, I turn a few things over and shove anything that seems remotely valuable into my duffel. I’ll ditch it all when I get back into the city. There isn’t much to take, so I don’t spend a lot of time at it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Jimmy rolls to his stomach and tries to crawl toward the door. I walk over unhurriedly and kick him in the belly a couple of times as he howls through the gag.
He doesn’t even try to take it out again.
Rolling him over with my foot, I shove the knife between two ribs and the blood really starts to flow. It’s still way too good for him. I watch as he struggles, too weak to roll back over, and his eyes start to glaze over as the dingy area rug soaks up blood.
I sit back in the chair and watch him die. It’s unfulfilling.
The kitchen sink is full of dishes, but I clean up there anyway, removing all traces of blood from my skin. Before leaving, I head to the bedroom in the back of the apartment to check for anything else worth stealing. Any burglar would have gone through the dresser drawers, and I want the cops to just glance over everything, write up their report, and file it under unsolved. I go through the dresser drawers and find a small handgun. There aren’t any bullets in it, so it’s not like it would have protected him from much. Maybe it is just for show. I pocket it and look over to the nightstand.
There’s a photograph of a woman and a young girl on top of it. My stomach quivers a little at the sight.
I can’t help it. I walk over and pick up the photograph.
It’s definitely Alina. She’s young—maybe six or seven years old—and she’s standing next to a woman with a cigarette dangling from her fingers. In the background is the Navy Pier Ferris wheel. The woman next to her is undoubtedly her mother—a very thin and gaunt woman. Alina is right about her mother being a junkie. It’s obvious even in the faded photograph.
My curiosity piqued, I open up a couple of drawers just to see if I can find anything else. When I don’t find much of interest, I check the closets. On the top shelf of a small bedroom, I find a box without a label on the outside. I pull it down and open it up.
There’s a doll on the top of it. One of those Raggedy Ann dolls with button eyes and stringy hair made from red yarn. It’s pretty filthy but not in an unkempt way. It’s a well-loved kind of worn. Beneath the doll are a couple of children’s picture books and a Connect Four game. There are also a bunch of those plastic figures you find in kids’ meals at fast food places.
At the very bottom, there are more photographs.
“Bingo.” I glance up and see Ralph sitting on the bed. I’m a little surprised because I haven’t had an appearance from him in several days. He also hasn’t spoken to me in weeks, but he must feel this is important.
“Just a little voyeuristic glimpse into the past,” I mumble as I pull out the pictures. They must have gotten wet at some point because a lot of them are stuck together and tear when I try to pry them apart.
There are only a couple of Alina as a young teenager. One is obviously a school picture, and her hair is nearly as long as it is now. I’m surprised to see her in a pair of glasses that don’t quite fit right. I wonder if she wears contacts now. I’ve never noticed.
As I start to put everything back in the box, I see a small envelope stuck to the bottom, below where I had found the other pictures. I take it out, noticing the thickness of the contents, and realize there are more pictures inside.
There are only three, and they are upside down as I remove them. As I turn them over, I’m fairly sure my eyes nearly bug right out of my head, and I drop down on my ass and stare down at my hands.
I really didn’t expect to find a picture of myself.
Chapter 17—Beyond Duty
I stare in utter disbelief.
The photograph is from when I was stationed in Saudi Arabia, shortly before heading into Afghanistan. It’s a picture of me and Zach Marshall, my spotter during Desert Shield. We’re dressed in our combat fatigues, and I’ve got my arm swung over Zach’s shoulder. There’s a big smile on my face.
