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

Weeping and

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

creaks open. “James, is everything…” It’s Mitch. Her words stall as she takes in the

standing close, very close; staring him in the face. The vein at her neck throbs. “What are you going to

her by an arm, propelling her back towards

resists. “I

can tell you what you're not doing. And you're not staying here. Not for this. I'll throw you over my shoulder and

cast between me and James. “Larry, I

scratches him under the chin with a

out of the door, throwing a

her with his eyes, then

to one of the chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry? Or there's wine if you'd

crossed, up on the table. “Beer's good for

up a couple of bags, “Cashews or

“Whatever you’re opening.”

contents into a couple of bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer? I

Finchby can see him. Glancing up from where he is opening up his box, “Thank you, Michael,

beside James’ ‘work area’, passing

they glint under the harsh lighting. One by one, he inspects the edges, testing them with his thumb. He chooses one, but apparently unsatisfied, takes a steel from its slot, drawing

it on the table by James, then take my seat next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of beer. Then I

sips his drink. “That's a wicked-looking set of knives, James. Well cared for, I can see. But they look a little

the blade up to the light, inspecting the serrated blade. “That's because these are my sushi knives. I brought

my speech with the bottle in my hand, waving it in the air as I speak.

yes, although I've not had any for a

know, forget these

“Tuna.”

he started, but you know he sliced it so

Finchby, the sushi knife held, apparently casually, between his

building is a write-off. And the police will be all over it

hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s just dumped me. Like he accused

head and takes his seat again. “All

places the knife on the table then chooses another. Not one of his ‘specials’, this one

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

sobs. “Larry, please. I don't know where

can do better than that. And if you really don’t know where we can find him, well… what use are you to us? I don’t see

shoulders and the shirt

pauses, knife in

your memory coming on,

“Larry, I don't know.”

James...” He waves

impassive, standing square on, he sets the point to the hollow in

“No!”

You wouldn't want

very, very slowly… he draws the blade downward, scoring

centred down the breastbone and stopping at the navel. A thin trickle of blood dribbles down through scattered body

the cut too fine, to really

say?” asks

know. I don't

Klempner waves his bottle

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

“I told you. Don't move.” He meets my eye, holding it for a second then, putting down the knife, draws his next tool from

Finchby, following the line of the spine. As