Hot Revenge Box Set 2

Michael

The Ahhh marches across Klempner's face.

Footsteps sound outside, drawing closer and James re-enters.

In a few minutes, he’s changed. From the winter woollens, heavy jeans and boots he was wearing before, he changed into a fresh shirt, suit and polished shoes. His face is clean, barring the swollen eye, and he’s combed his hair. And under one arm, he’s carrying a wooden box. For a second, I can’t think what it is. Then I realise…

To me, this is just my old friend James.

But what will Finchby see?

He flashes a glance at the still unconscious man. “How long before he wakes up?”

Klempner rocks a hand. “I didn’t give him much. Anytime now. Within the next few minutes certainly.”

“Good. Michael…” He snaps fingers towards the cooler. “Ice bucket.” Then he aims a finger towards the table behind our dangling houseguest.

And now I know what he has in mind.

I grin. “My pleasure.”

Klempner, obviously bemused, watches in silence as I scoop ice into the bucket and add water. I place it on the table and James drops in his toys into the chinking mix.

A groan…

Finchby stirs. “What…?”

I eye-point Klempner to a chair. He’s sucking in a smile as he takes his place in the ‘viewing gallery’.

“What’s going on?” Finchby’s eyes blink open, hazy and unfocussed, then his face sharpens as realisation penetrates. His eyes fling wide, showing the whites. “Christ…” Struggling against the restraints, he writhes and twists. But he’s going nowhere.

His eyes settle on Klempner. “Hey… Larry…” He tries for a cheesy grin but fails.

Is he going to piss himself?

Klempner smiles pleasantly. “Afternoon, Finchby. Good to see you’re back with us. Comfortable?”

The man is pasty, his breath short and quick. “Hey, Larry, what are you playing at? It wasn't personal. It was business. You know how it is.”

Klempner lifts his chin, eyes narrowing. Standing, he stalks a few paces to stand by Finchby, speaking to the side of his face.

“Yes, I do know how it is. And for coming after me, I'd have simply slit your throat and called it evens…”

Finchby’s breathing shudders…

“… But it stopped being business the moment you took my daughter and chained her up in your dungeon of a cell. You imprisoned her in conditions calculated to make her sick and to risk her child. You made it your business to demean and humiliate her…”

He draws breath. Any trace of compassion slides from his expression. For the first time, the fury shows. His voice morphs to a hiss.

“… And you planned to sell my granddaughter for parts? This stopped being business some while ago, Finchby. This is very definitely personal.”

Finchby hangs, lungs jerking and juddering. He blinks rapidly, moisture gleaming at the corners of his eyes.

He tries to speak, his throat working, then tries again. “What are you going to do, Larry?”

Abruptly, Klempner’s pleasant expression pastes back into place. “Nothing. Nothing at all…”

Finchby pants, quick shallow breaths, eyes darting here and there…

lounging against a wall, arms and ankles crossed. “I'll admit, I'm quite

Weeping and shaking. “Oh, God…

kidnapped his pregnant wife. Tortured her. Humiliated her. Intended to use her. And you planned to sell his daughter for organs. Call me a sceptic, Finchby, but it’s my

Mitch. Her words stall as she

in the face. The vein at her neck throbs. “What are

her by an arm, propelling her back

resists. “I want to

you're not doing. And you're

cast between me and James. “Larry, I

free, strolls back to Finchby, then scratches him under the chin with a finger. “You won't wake the

of the door, throwing a comment back over her shoulder. “Have fun,

with his eyes, then closes the door

wave him to one of the chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking

feet, ankles crossed, up on the table.

a couple of bags, “Cashews

“Whatever you’re opening.”

rip both bags, tipping the contents into a couple of bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer?

where he is opening up his box, “Thank you, Michael, yes. A beer would

James’ ‘work area’, passing

contents of his box: a set of knives: stainless steel, polished, they glint under the harsh lighting. One by one, he inspects the edges, testing them

take my seat next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer. Then I toss back a

Well cared for, I can see. But they look a little delicate for

inspecting the serrated blade. “That's because these are my

punctuate my speech with the bottle in my hand, waving it

yes, although I've not had any for

while he's staying with us.” I turn back to Klempner, keeping my voice loud. “You know, forget these Japanese chefs. James here makes the best sushi. That knife he's sharpening... A couple of weeks back, he was slicing

“Tuna.”

yes, tuna. It couldn't have been more than an inch thick when he started, but you know he sliced it so fine. Four

Finchby, the sushi knife held, apparently casually, between his fingers. “So, Klempner,

is a write-off. And the police will be

don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like he accused you of doing. He's done it himself

his head and takes his seat

on the table then chooses

the blade under the top button of Finchby’s shirt, then slices. The button pops off and he moves

please. I don't

can find him, well… what use are you to us? I don’t see either of these two paying for your

his way up the inside sleeve of one arm, then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric.

knife in

memory coming

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves

the saw-tooth knife, picking up his original. Face impassive, standing square on, he sets the

“No!”

still. Don't move. You wouldn't want to jolt my hand, would

very, very slowly… he draws

the finest of cuts. The most delicate of lines, drawn from the clavicle, centred down the breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of blood dribbles down through scattered body hair drawing a thin trail

too sharp, the cut too fine, to

to say?”

know. I don't

Klempner waves his bottle at me. “Do you

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

moves behind the screaming, panicking, shuddering man. “I told you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it

gestures, he draws it down the back of the shrieking Finchby, following the line of