Endings by Linda Richards (e ink manga reader txt) 📕

don’t get how this is going to go.” I am containing a column of rage. I feel as though I am doing it admirably. I don’t think anyone would be able to tell what I’m holding back. Or maybe they would, but I know it doesn’t matter. Not now.

When he speaks, I can see he has missed the rage in me. Or he does not understand yet that it is going to make a difference to his future. He is used to being impervious. In charge. He is used to choosing his victims in a way that leaves him in complete control. He is not in control now, but he doesn’t know it yet, not completely. I can tell from his body language and his face. He doesn’t yet fully understand. His next words solidify that idea.

“How is it you think you can tell me how to be, what to say?” There is an arrogance in his tone. A self-righteousness. Clearly, in this scenario, he is the injured party.

He is feeling more comfortable now than he was a while ago. He has been recently fed. His most basic needs have been seen to, though I figure by now his shoulder is giving him hell. Still, everything is relative. He feels clean, not hungry, not thirsty. He is no longer under a tarp in his own shit. He no longer feels as vulnerable as he did then. What could possibly go wrong?

He settles more comfortably into the narrow bench seat at the RV’s dining table and shoots a belligerent grin in my direction. Whatever else is happening, he figures he is in control.

I hold onto my quiet rage. Fan it a bit. Focus my energy. Ask again.

“Kandra Smithe. Please.”

He smirks and then I’ve had enough.

“Don’t be an asshole,” I say. My voice surprises me. It is low, close to the bone. There is a growl in it. It’s not like my voice at all, and he looks at me like he is taking my measure. I don’t know what he sees.

“What kind of stick do you have?” The words surprise me.

“Excuse me?”

“Like with a pony,” he says. There is a taunt in his voice. “To move him forward. Maybe you hit him with a stick. The way you’re talking, I guess you figure you’ve got one. What’s the stick you reckon you can hit me with? What’s the stick you think you’ll use on me?” And he is confident. I can hear that, too. He can’t imagine a stick exists that will work on him. He is confident, also, that he is a superior creature. A superior pony. Superior to me in every way.

I don’t answer his question off the hop. He has surprised me. I think for a little bit before I answer.

“A stick. I don’t need one. You tried to guess before what I do for a living. But you guessed wrong. No social work. And I’m no cop. I kill people. That’s my job.”

There is probably no one else on Earth I would have said it to in just that way. Matter-of-fact. With most people, I would have found some other, gentler way to say it. A euphemism or an intentional misdirect. Or, more likely, I would not have said anything like that at all. But this is a different conversation. Another sort of man. And my goal is different from anything I could ever have imagined.

I know that I should be concerned that once he is arrested—and I know that, if he lives, he will be—he’ll tell the police everything I’ve told him. On the other hand, though, are they likely to believe him? And, if they do, will they connect this inexplicable admission with me? I don’t think so. Plus, honestly, in this moment, I don’t care.

Whatever reaction I expected from my revelation, though, I don’t anticipate the one I get. He laughs. Full throat. It’s a mirthless sound.

“You’re, like, what? A hit man?” More laughter.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s right.” He quiets some, but not much.

“Someone put a hit on me? That’s rich.”

“No, actually,” I say matter-of-factly, and maybe with more malice than I thought I had around it. “No client. This is a freebie. I just want to see you dead.”

He looks at me a bit before speaking. I can see his Adam’s apple jump in his throat. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t look afraid. “So you’re going to kill me?”

“Oh, probably.” I reflect. Then, “Yes. I would think so.”

I am gratified to see him sit back and blink. It is apparently not the answer he’d been expecting.

“But there are variables,” he says finally. “That’s what you’re implying.”

I think quickly. “Well, death, right? That’s boring. Everybody dies. All of our stories end the same way. Death was always in your future. Yours more than many. The trick, William, is how.”

“How?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you trying to scare me?” He doesn’t look afraid, but he’s not laughing anymore. That’s something.

“Am I?” I consider. “I guess maybe I am. It’s real enough though. Listen, I don’t have to tell you that there are good and bad deaths. You and I? We’ve seen both kinds.”

He nods in agreement. Clearly, I’ve struck a chord. “Yes,” he says. “That’s so.” I try not to think about the pictures he’s seeing. Nothing good comes of thinking about that.

“Now me,” I say, “I’m paid to do it, so generally I make an effort that it be painless.” He kind of snickers. “But I could make an exception in your case if the situation demanded it.”

“Are you threatening me?” The belligerence is back. It is a light in his eye.

“I don’t think that’s the right word,” I say, thinking it through. “I’m probably going to kill you, though that’s not a foregone conclusion. But if you make things difficult, it will go worse.” I hesitate. Letting it all sink in. Hoping it matters. And then, “So Kandra Smithe …”

I let my words fall into a void, resisting the