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…

he does.” Klempner jerks his chin to James, currently lounging against a wall, arms and ankles crossed. “I'll admit, I'm quite intrigued to see

and shaking. “Oh,

wife. Tortured her. Humiliated her. Intended to use her. And you planned to sell his daughter for organs.

is everything…” It’s Mitch. Her words stall

in the face. The vein at her neck throbs. “What are you going to do

by an arm, propelling her back towards

resists. “I want

you what to do with your life, but I can tell you what you're not doing.

then dimples. Her eyes cast between me and James. “Larry, I do believe

strolls back to Finchby, then scratches him under the chin with a finger. “You won't wake the baby, will you. I've just got her to

out of the door, throwing a

eyes, then closes the door

to one of the chairs, then head for the cooler. Speaking loudly, “Want a beer, Larry?

ankles crossed, up on the

up a couple of bags, “Cashews or

“Whatever you’re opening.”

a couple of bowls, then stack everything onto a tray. “James? A beer? I imagine you'll be working up

up from where he is opening up his box,

on the table beside James’ ‘work area’, passing

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

then take my seat next to Klempner, knocking back a glug of

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

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. “You like sushi,

yes, although I've not had

you must make some for Larry while he's staying with us.” I turn back to Klempner, keeping my voice loud. “You know, forget these Japanese chefs.

“Tuna.”

thick when he started, but you know he sliced it

the sushi knife held, apparently casually, between his fingers.

to Finchby. In a low voice, “Your building is

in James’ hand. “Really, I don't. Maybe he ran. Maybe he’s

and takes his

the table then chooses

slowly, taking his time, he eases the blade under the top button of Finchby’s shirt, then slices. The button pops off and he

I don't

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

arm, then the other. A slash across the shoulders and the shirt falls apart, so much waste fabric. He tugs it away, tossing

pauses, knife in

memory

“Larry, I don't know.”

waves in a

original. Face impassive, standing square on, he sets the point to the hollow

“No!”

still. Don't move. You wouldn't want

then slowly… very, very slowly… he draws the

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

knife is too sharp, the cut too

to say?”

don't know. I

waves his bottle at me.

“Nope. Carry on, James.”

He meets my eye, holding it for a second then, putting down the knife, draws his next tool from the

following the line