NOTE: This story contains graphic images and extreme violence. Reader discretion is advised.
The First Kill is a short story from Darcia Helle’s collection Quiet Fury: An Anthology of Suspense
About This Story:
Sean Riley is a minor character in my two Michael Sykora novels – No Justice and Beyond Salvation. The First Kill gives Sean the chance to step into the spotlight as the main character. The plot here has no connection to any specific plots in the full-length books.
The first kill was the hardest. His father staring with those dark narrow eyes that had incited fear for so many years. Even as the life seeped out of him, those eyes were full of scorn.
“You killed my mother,” Sean had said.
His father spat a mouthful of blood. A front tooth dangled, barely hanging on. “She was a whore.”
No remorse as death closed in on him.
A lifetime of pain. Hours of revenge. And it came to this. Nothing. Sean felt nothing.
A lot of years had passed since then. Sean McCarthy became Sean Riley. He reinvented himself. Went to college. But the past wouldn’t leave him.
Now he looked at the man across from him. Not his father’s eyes but enough like them to cause his stomach to tighten. Life bled from the man slowly, because that had been the request. Make him suffer.
Dave Billings, the dying man, appeared ordinary to those who knew him. Middle aged, thinning hair, wire-rimmed glasses. Unmarried, quiet, respectful. Billings worked as an accountant, volunteered his time as a soccer coach for young beginners. That’s when it all started to go horribly wrong.
“How many?” Sean asked.
Billings shook his head. “Please…”
“We’re beyond begging. How many?”
“I’ll do anything.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? You’ll do anything. No territory too creepy for you to wander into.”
Billings yanked at the restraints. His wrists chafed against the zip ties, the effort futile. Thirty minutes ago, Sean had crept into the house where Billings lived alone. Sean had dragged Billings from his bed and had his wrists and ankles secured before the man had managed to blink the sleep from his eyes.
“How many kids?” Sean asked. “Don’t make me ask you again.”
“You don’t understand.”
Sean stuffed the rag in Billings’ mouth. “You’re right. I don’t.”
Fingers broke easily. One. Two. Three. They hung at odd angles, while Billings screamed against the gag. Sean sighed. He sat on the kitchen chair opposite Billings and waited for the thrashing to stop.
Hit man. Assassin. Hired gun. Those words had all been used to describe him. He was a killer, plain and simple. That didn’t bother him, the killing part, anyway. His father had taught him how to kill and how to detach. He’d seen his first snuff film when he was three.
Billings finally slumped back against the chair. Sean reached forward and pulled the gag from Billings’ mouth. “You’ll answer my questions now. You see, I don’t care how much I have to hurt you to get the answers. Understand?”
Billings nodded. Tears and snot ran down his face. Sean said, “How many?”
“Can I explain? Please?”
The gag filled Billings’ mouth before he could flinch. Another finger snapped. “Next time,” Sean said. “I’ll cut it off.”
He crossed the room and picked up the small backpack he’d brought. Back in the chair, he opened it and gave Billings a glimpse of the contents. Pliers, knives, a small torch. Billings’ eyes bulged.
Sean took the rag from Billings’ mouth, said, “How many?”
“Five.” Billings’ voice trembled. “But it’s not like you think! Let me explain!”
“You molested five boys. Five. Innocent. Children.”
“I didn’t molest them! I just… it was just touching. That’s all!”
Sean stuffed the rag back in Billing’s mouth. When he’d started out in this career, he hadn’t cared about the why. He never asked. He was hired to kill someone, so he did it. He was damn good at killing and even better at not caring. Watching his father murder his mother had done that to him.
Then he’d met Michael Sykora. A client who wanted his fiancé’s murderer found. Tortured. Destroyed. Sykora had been looking for justice in a world that rarely gave any. And he wanted to see it happen. That was a request Sean never granted. No one ever watched him work. Nor did he take photos. Killing wasn’t a spectator sport. But something about Michael Sykora had made him say yes.
Sean had found the scum who’d murdered Sykora’s fiancé. Then Sykora had taken one look at the man and something snapped. Ten minutes later, Roger Dossing’s bloody body lay in a heap on the concrete floor of his garage. Sykora had beaten him to death, while Sean looked on.
Turned out, Michael Sykora was damn good at killing, as well. Only he cared. He had to know why. Losing his fiancé to a repeat rapist-turned-murderer changed the person Sykora had been. He got a taste for justice, vigilante justice some would call it, but justice nevertheless. He set out on his own crusade to right the wrongs, rid the world of the bottom-dwelling scum. And somewhere along the way, Sean had joined him.
He turned his attention back to Billings. The man was squirming in his chair. Five children had their worlds turned upside down by this man. Five children whose lives would never be the same.
“Just touching?” Sean said softly. “That’s how you justify what you do when you look in the mirror every day?”
Billings shook his head furiously. Desperate to speak, his muffled pleas got lost in the gag. Sean removed the pliers from his backpack. “Do you know how sensitive that spot beneath your nails is? Have you ever had one tear too far down?”
Billings’ eyes nearly popped from his head. His body shook violently and he toppled over, chair and all. Sean reached down and righted both the chair and Billings. Five minutes and five fingernails later, Billings lay in a heap on the floor. His body convulsed, as tears streamed down his face. His nose drained snot and he fought for breath around the gag.
Sean searched through the kitchen cabinets, found a glass and filled it with cold water. He drank it slowly, watching Billings struggle for air. When he’d finished his water, he carefully washed the glass and put it back. Then he yanked Billings up and sat him back on the chair. He pulled the wet rag from Billing’s mouth and the pedophile gulped at the air.
“That was a fingernail for each child you molested,” Sean said. “We have a problem, though. Your fingernails will grow back. But the kids are damaged forever. You think that’s fair?”
“I’ll give you anything you want,” Billings stammered. “Please. Anything. You want money? I’ve got ten grand saved. You can have it! Please, just stop!”
“Tell me about Bobby Lawrence.”
Billings sucked in a breath. His eyes darted around the room, seeking escape. “Tell you what? Bobby is a good kid. I coached him on this year’s team.”
“Coached him or molested him?”
“Do not lie to me.”
“I touched him! Okay! Is that what you want to hear?”
“How many times?”
“How. Many. Times.”
“I… I don’t know!”
Bobby Lawrence’s father had hired Sean to take care of Billings. How Lawrence knew for sure that Billings had been the one to molest his son was something Sean didn’t know. He didn’t need those kinds of details. He did, however, look into Billings before agreeing to do the job. Last week, he’d broken into Billings’ house while the guy had been at soccer practice with a group of four-year-olds.
He’d emptied Billings’ hard drive onto a small flash and given it to Michael Sykora. His client was now his partner and the guy was a genius with computers.
Sean hated the machines but pedophiles consistently loved them. They hid and encrypted their files, thinking that would somehow save them. Michael took no time in finding the hidden photos. Hundreds of them. Images that Sean would never get out of his head.
“You don’t know how many times you molested Bobby Lawrence?” Sean asked.
“I only touched him!”
“And took photos.”
Billings gulped air. “I…”
“Don’t.” Sean glanced at the digital clock over the stove. Almost four a.m. He needed to end this soon, get out before the neighborhood woke up. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, Billings. I don’t think Bobby or his father want to hear them, either. However, Mr. Lawrence would like to know a few things. His main concern is whether you put his son’s naked photos on the Internet.”
“Spare me the innocent act. I have no patience for that. You share photos with other twisted men who get off on little boys. We both know that. You post them on a website where you all go to get off. Did you do that with Bobby’s photos?”
Billings slumped, defeated. “No.”
“If you lie to me, it will be much worse than a few missing fingernails.”
“I… I hadn’t wanted to share him, yet.”
Sean got up, paced across the room. His skin crawled. Being around Billings made him feel dirty and he desperately wanted a shower.
“I love Bobby!” Billings blurted.
Sean groaned. “No. Don’t do that.” He walked back to his chair, sat down. “Mr. Lawrence would also like to know if you made Bobby do anything to you.”
Billings’ Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Sweat seeped through his t-shirt, dripped down from his scalp.
“I asked you a question,” Sean said. “Don’t make me ask again.”
“He wanted to. I didn’t make him do anything!”
“Bobby wanted to touch you?”
“Yes! He wanted to please me.”
Sean’s stomach lurched. That was it. The things Lawrence needed to know for his own sanity. Sean could erase Billings from the world and end both of their suffering.
He had the knife in his hand. A five-inch blade, brand new, serrated for extra pain. Before Billings saw it coming, Sean buried the blade deep into his flabby gut. Billings sucked in a ragged breath, gasped, begged with his eyes.
Blood seeped from the wound. Sean stuffed the gag in Billings’ mouth, then twisted the handle. The blade shredded organs. Billings whimpered into the gag.
Lawrence had wanted the death to be slow. The man would be happy if this went on for hours. Days, even. But the suffering wouldn’t change what Bobby Lawrence had gone through. Nothing erased that.
Sean sat in his chair and watched the life seep from Billings’ eyes. He flashed back all those years ago to his first kill. His father’s eyes, so much like Billings’. Both scum who preyed on children, shaping the adults they would later become.
Darcia Helle lives in a fictional world with a husband who is sometimes real. Their house is ruled by spoiled dogs and cats and the occasional dust bunny.
Suspense, random blood splatter and mismatched socks consume Darcia’s days. She writes because the characters trespassing through her mind leave her no alternative. Only then are the voices free to haunt someone else’s mind.
Join Darcia in her fictional world: http://www.QuietFuryBooks.com
The characters await you.