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“It’s not that. Though, that did suck. No, I need some special tools made for a project.” I slide the sketches across his desk. He takes a minute studying them.

“How much weight do these need to take? I know you probably can’t tell me what it’s going to be used for, but I need more information to determine the best choice of metal.”

“Stainless steel. The main thing is I need this area here”—I point to a spot on the sketch—“to be well greased.” I look at him, hoping he’s able to understand why I need it that way.

He nods and rubs the back of his neck.

“When do you need them?”

“I need them as soon as possible. Day after tomorrow at the very latest.” I clutch my fist together in my lap. This is the part I’ve been dreading. I don’t know if Litza will be able to get the information for another site, so I’m really hoping Javi can pull this off and get these done in time.

“Oh! That’s no problem. We’ll have them ready by tomorrow. We’re gonna use the CNC machine; shouldn’t take too long.”

“So how much will it cost?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll call it even for the car mishap.” He shrugs and continues to look at the sketches.

A chill runs down my spine.

My shoulders shudder in response. My instincts have me scanning the area for movement. Javi seems to notice my heightened awareness.

Unable to pick up anything, I turn back to him and continue my description. He pauses for a moment but confirms I’ll be able to pick up everything tomorrow afternoon.

20

After discussing the location with Mark, I finally found a spot suitable for my purposes. Unfortunately, the bridge I’ve chosen sits next to a park that tends to be quite busy during the day, making it difficult for me to inspect the location in person. After two days of failed attempts to spend time at the bridge, I’m hoping the afternoon lull in foot traffic will allow me enough time to check the bridge.

Pulling into the parking lot, I step out to gather my things from the trunk. My mind drifts to thoughts of Patience. She’s such an avid fan of the outdoors. I’m sure she’d enjoy the location I chose. She hasn’t responded to my texts since the other night. My stomach sinks at the thought. Guilt has followed me like a wraith the past few days. The only person I have to blame is myself.

Placing my headphones in my ears, I turn up the volume on my playlist and take off at a run down the trail, hoping the exercise will ease my frustrations.

The distance from the parking lot to the bridge is shorter than I would like, but it’s off the main path, providing enough distance for easy concealment.

The bridge is perfect, constructed from old sturdy wood. The roof has strong, thick crossbeams capable of withstanding my marionette’s rotund figure.

Leaning over the railing, I take a drink of water and tap my foot against the post. No chips or pithy, hollow echoes alert me to rot. Reaching the truss shouldn’t be a problem at all. Satisfied with the bridge’s sturdiness, I turn up the trail at a quickening pace, fueled by the prospect of tonight.

Stepping out of the shower, I check on my phone for what is probably the thousandth time in the last few days and see that all my texts to Patience remain unanswered. My growing frustrations and warring emotions have worked my nerves raw.

I head downstairs, turning into the kitchen. Opening the pantry door, I slide the panel concealing the entrance into my basement. With bare cement walls and blue lighting, it feels nearly sterile. The ambiance eases some of my discomfort.

Walking down the hallway, I enter the first room on the right used for storage. Pulling one of the black duffel bags off the wall, I place it on the metal table and begin throwing in my standard tools. Once everything is in order, I turn my attention to the rope. Rope of various sizes, types and compounds line the opposite wall. The braided nylon boasts a high tensile strength, capable of holding his lard ass. Walking across the room, I run my fingers along the various hooks. Unable to pick a single size, I throw several in the bag for good measure. Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I step out of the room. My eyes drift down the hallway to the darkened oak door. A pit forms in my stomach. I wish she would say something. Anything.

Shaking those thoughts from my head, I adjust the strap on my shoulder and turn. I can’t allow those thoughts to torture me right now. The normal calmness that usually settles in my mind before the hunt is absent as I make my way to the bar.

I arrive earlier than we had arranged and park the rented car on a side street. Tugging my cap down, I position myself in the shadow of a dumpster across the street from the bar. One of the only spots offering cover from the cameras mounted on the corners of the building without obstructing my view of the entrance. Within minutes, I see Dennis walking down the sidewalk toward the entrance. When he gets close enough, I step out of the shadows and collide, nearly sending him to the ground. Reaching out, I use my arm to stop his fall.

“Sorry, man, I wasn’t looking. You all right?” I spit, pretending not to know who he is.

“Josh! Oh my god! You scared the shit out of me.” He laughs. His body immediately relaxes once the two brain cells he has manage to note the recognition.

“Dennis? Is that you?” Narrowing my eyes, I pretend to squint.

He works his feet back underneath him and tries to pry my hands from his chest. The touch of his hands on my wrists sets my blood boiling. How many times have those same hands wrapped around the throat of an innocent? The fact he’s managed to evade the police thus far is a testament to the incompetence of the police force in this city.

My grip tightens on his jacket. Using the weight of my body, I force him back into the alley. A thunk rings through the street as I pin him against the car. Grabbing his shoulder, I spin him so his back is to me. His arms fly out instinctively before his face smacks the side panel. I shove him against the car as he tries to throw me off-balance, but my legs remain planted. A string of curses expels from his lips as he continues to struggle against my hold. His head jerks back in an attempt to make contact with my face.

I tilt my head to the side, dodging the hit. My hand flies into his hair at the back of his head, shoving it forward. My arm reverberates from the impact of his skull slamming into the metal. Blood sprays across the roof. A fevered haze descends over my vision. Each ripple of impact traveling up my arm urges me to continue. When he no longer fights against my hold, I release him.