#yay............

The rage did not quiet before that peaceful sight, nor did it rest when she got up out of bed. Nothing was wrong. There was nothing to fix. Regardless, the feeling simmered. 

Was it Jackie? Of course it was Jackie. He'd done nothing wrong, yet he managed to irritate her anyway. He was too stubborn, too contrarian—or maybe he was just in the way. Wrong place, wrong time. He was a variable outside her total control, yet so pivotal in her life. If he ever escaped, she was done for.

Or the rage was less sophisticated than that. She had failed at something. The only thing she had learned about Jackie’s psyche was that he couldn’t recognize a butterfly if it hit him in the nose. This revelation told her nothing about the hallucination. He was a hollow nesting doll, a matryoshka with all the smaller parts misplaced, and she had failed to uncover his core. Failure! It was a lesser indignity to die. The fear of both was equal—to fail was to kill a potential, to die in a single aspect that could never be resurrected. Heather was good at a great many things. She was good at nearly everything. She wasn’t supposed to fail. 

As she stood by the window, the doorbell rang. Some individuals loved to hear that sound, but she did not. No criminal finds the public eye reassuring. Paranoia narrowed the possibility of getting caught into every stranger, every knock at the door, every chiming of the bell.

But she couldn’t stay in her bedroom and wait for the visitor to leave. That would look suspicious. Appearances were important. She quickly got dressed and approached the door.

The bell rang again. Can’t wait one second, can they? She placed a hand on the doorknob and pushed it open. 

“Hello?” she said, fighting to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“Hello. I’ve come to assess your infestation.” Heather did not recognize the man standing before her, not even slightly—he was a total, perfect stranger. “You’re Miss Wright, yes?”

On any other day, Heather would tell him that he’d gotten the wrong address and shut the door in his face. However, Heather was already fuming like dry kindling, and this was all the friction she needed to catch fire. 

Besides, why would a stranger come all the way out here? It couldn't have been a mistake. He wanted something. He was a threat. The how and why didn't matter. Would a wren in a weasel's nest stop to question the how and why? He was a threat, and he would need to be disposed of.

“Miss Wright. Yes. I’m her.” She stepped aside so that the man could enter. “Forgive me, but I can’t quite recall your name. I assume you’re the exterminator?”

He nodded as he walked past her. He was a rough sort of fellow, not in an intimidating way but in the general sense of his appearance. The face of a sculpture forgotten halfway, cut in broad strokes and sharp lines. He was, however, very neatly dressed. “My name is Matthew. You had the animal in your attic, right?”

“Attic?” Here, she pushed her lips slightly apart, to give him an expression of innocent confusion. “No, the animal is in the basement. It’s been screeching for the past hour. You must have misheard me. ”

“Sorry about that, then.” He dipped his head for a second. “I’ll take a look and give you an estimate. Where’s the basement, by the way?”

Oh, this was funny. He didn’t suspect a thing. 

“Right.” She smiled apologetically. “It’s down the hall.”

Down the hall they went, as casual as ever. The exterminator didn’t have a clue. Like leading a lamb to the chopping block. Really, she was shooting down low-hanging fruit. It was almost too easy. Unless Matthew also turned out to be immortal, the whole affair would be quick. Heather, like any good butcher, knew how to make the kill clean and fast. She had plenty of practice so far, hadn’t she?

“We can usually get the guys in here after three business days,” the stranger rambled. The basement door drew closer, shut like lips over a gaping maw. “Cost can be hard to calculate but with something like this, it usually doesn’t total over three hundred. Do you know if there’s a nest?“

“I don’t think there is.” She twisted the lock until it clicked open. “Just the one animal. It’s somewhere down here, come on.”

“Are you sure it’s safe to go inside?”

“Of course,” she replied sweetly. “Don’t be shy. It doesn’t bite.”

This managed to draw a bewildered look from the exterminator’s face, but he said nothing as she opened the door. The stairs followed down before them, the steps like rings of cartilage around a throat, the lighting just a touch dimmer than the rest of the house. 

Matthew began his descent, proceeding with the cautious gait of a caver. She followed close behind him, desperately trying not to burst out laughing. Five steps left, then four, then three… the rest of the basement was now visible. 

Predictably, Jackie was still there. He was sitting by the writing desk, apparently lost in thought. When his head lifted, there was a grin on his face… which then shifted to a brief look of confusion… then blatant concern, in the corners of his wide eyes and the small downward curve of his mouth.

What the exterminator felt, she could not see. His back was turned to her. Matthew froze. He did not look scared—though there would be plenty of time for that—but simply a little stiffer than before.

“There’s your pest. Play nice, you two.” Heather gave them both a beaming smile. “Keep him entertained, Jackie. I’ll only be a minute.”

She stepped backwards, out of the basement. The door closed, and the lock clicked behind them.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

She didn't waste any time. Heather had never used the chainsaw on anyone before. It had mainly cut down diseased trees, before taking its final resting place in her garage. Until today.

Heather lifted the heavy tool by its handle, hoisted it to her hip. It was a gift from her dad, not too long ago—a year before he died, in fact. It had a bulky, squared off body, the underlying machinery almost visible like muscles under its metal skin. The chains were a bit rusted, sure, but it would work. By God, it would work.

She walked downstairs. Neither the exterminator nor Jackie had moved. They were staring at each other, caught in an eternal moment of tension. Heather was happy to split that silence. Both heads turned when she turned the saw belt on. 

The cord cranked back one, two, three times. The blade whirred like a living thing, a machine of organic teeth and claws, buzzing beneath her grasp. The noise came in loud like the summer cicadas—a monstrous, dull buzz, hazy as the June heat. 

With a jerk, she shifted the saw upwards, then aimed it. Just above his neck. With the trees, she learned to aim higher than estimated. It was something you had to learn about striking; you had to feel the arc of the swing before it ever descended, feel the bat hit the ball before the pitcher ever moved. Although any swing was a good swing here. Heather knew that as long as she hit flesh, this would work out fine.

The exterminator attempted to flee a second too late. His limbs drew up, as if to shield himself or fight back, but they went limp as soon as the first tooth dug itself into his neck. Blood spurted in a thick, arcing spray, heady as the first flower of springtime, dark as velvet. Muscle and flesh were rendered into a shredded mass, splitting under the unwavering push of whirring metal. 

He collapsed before the beheading could really begin, but at that point it was unnecessary. Matthew died long before he hit the ground. And when he finally did hit the ground, it was with a dull, wet crunch. Gaping, bloodshot eyes gazed up to the heavens with those pinprick pupils, the glaze of death glinting like wood-varnish on their surface. His limbs stuck out at odd angles over his body. His neck was nearly ninety degrees with his head. The blood continued to seep, on and on, a seemingly infinite supply. Heather couldn’t help it. She just couldn’t. It had been so easy. It was just too good. She laughed. A short, barking laugh—the terse laugh of coyotes after dusk.

“Ew.” She became aware of Jackie’s presence once more, as he stepped away from the corpse. “What the hell was that?”

She drew herself up, shook out the remainder of her early-morning blues. The chainsaw hung lifeless in her grip. “Do you think he’s immortal too? Wouldn’t that be such a coincidence?”

“Hope not. This basement is small enough as it is.” He had been standing an unfortunate distance near the late Mr. Matthew, so he was soaked with the brunt of the blood and gore. “You didn’t answer my question. What the hell, Heather?”

She shrugged. “He was being annoying.”

“Of course. Of course he was.”

“Don’t look at me like that.” She swung the chainsaw up to point at his, frankly unimpressed, expression. “He could have been an undercover cop. Even if he wasn’t, what would I do if he found you? It was a necessary sacrifice.”

“That guy probably had a wife and kids, you know.”

“Yeah, well, bummer for them.” She took in a deep breath, let it out in a huff. So much for clean. The blood and viscera had even reached a bit of the ceiling, red and pink flecks to speckle the white. At least she was right about ending it quickly. The golden rule. If you can't do it fast, don’t do it at all.

“Did he…” Something like hope lit up in Jackie’s face, brief and dull though it was. “Did he come for me?”

“You?” Heather laughed again. “Oh, Jackie. You’re funny, I’ll give you that. Nobody’s looking for you.”

This wasn’t entirely true. Heather had seen an alert in the newspaper for Jackie Rockwell, currently labeled a missing person, just days before. It had given her quite the shock, but that initial gut reaction had faded soon enough. They didn’t actually know where he was. Getting into a car crash was just as likely an explanation as kidnapping, perhaps even more likely. After all, how many kidnappings occurred in that quiet corner of Washington? One or two every decade? Even then, the only people that got kidnapped around there were criminals and little kids.  The alert was nothing more than a formality.

The spark in him dimmed. "Oh."

"Don't look so disappointed. He's dead either way."

"Dead." Jackie gave the body an appraising glance. "What are you gonna do with him now?"

"I'll need to get rid of the evidence, I suppose." She knelt down to search the body, despite the disgusted look Jackie was giving her. There, in the left pocket. Car keys. 

Heather thought that the odds were weighted in her favor. Assuming that Matthew came to the wrong address, the cops wouldn't have any leads on her. In the event that he was a plainclothes trying to get a read on Heather, she could eradicate the evidence before the police ever had a chance to investigate. Even if they knew she did it, their claims were nothing but hot air without proof. 

She would figure something out for the body, but getting rid of his car would be easy. She’d simply drive it to a remote location and come back on the bus, or a taxi if she had to. 

The keys swung and clattered in her hand as she got up to her feet. "Alright, then. I'll see you in an hour or so."

“You’re going to leave me here? With the corpse?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, corpses just make for dry conversation." He sat back down in his chair and crossed his legs. "Have fun. And hurry. That thing is going to smell, and I'm not sleeping next to a dead body."

The body did smell rather foul, as one would expect. Aside from the slick of blood, there was something sour, as if the meat was already starting to decompose. "Fair point. I'll be back before nightfall. You have my word."

By the look on his face, she could tell that her word meant very little to him. No matter. She left the basement with a spring in her step. Heather had just successfully killed a man, and she was feeling great.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

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