J Rain - Dark horse

He pulled into a Taco Bell, and I waited across the street. He went through the drive-thru, and when he exited I followed him back to his house.

Across the street, I waited for him to finish his tacos, since it was his last meal. As I waited, I listened to the beating of my heart, filling the silence now that the book on tape had been turned off. The thudding filled my ears, and I focused on that rather than what was about to come. What had to come. I didn’t think of myself as a killer, but sometimes you had to do what you had to do. I needed this guy off my ass and away from Cindy.

When twenty minutes had passed, I stepped out of my car, crossed the street and walked up his front porch. The porch was made of cement, and my footfalls made no sound.

I stood before the door, aimed for the area under the doorknob, lifted my foot and smashed it open. Wood splintered. The door swung open on one hinge, and I kicked it the rest of the way open.

“What the fuck?” came a startled voice from inside.

Johnny Bright, a.k.a. Fuck Nut, was now dressed in a wife beater and blue boxers. On the coffee table before him was a porn magazine. There were little boys on the cover. He had dropped his soft taco in his alarm, and had just wrapped his fingers around the handle of his own 9mm.

Standing in the doorway, I shot him four times in the chest.

When I was about three miles away, in a city called Fountain Valley, I pulled over to the side of the road and threw up my breakfast, lunch and dinner.

And I kept throwing up…

He was waiting for me at the back of McDonald’s. I sat down without ordering. I was still feeling sick to my stomach, and the thought of a greasy McGriddle did little to alleviate the queasiness.

I didn’t look him in the eye, although I could feel his on me. Today, he was smelling especially ripe, as if he had slept in a dumpster. Hell, as if he was a dumpster.

A few minutes of this and I finally risked looking up. He was smiling at me kindly, and the love and warmth in his eyes was almost unbearable.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“What are you sorry for?” he asked.

“If you are God, you know.”

We were silent some more. I didn’t feel like playing his head games today. If he was God, then let him take the next step. If not, then I was content to sit across from him until the smell of frying bacon made me hurl. Which might be sooner rather than later.

“He was a very troubled man,” said Jack.

“Yes, he was,”

“He made many poor choices.”

I took in some air. The queasiness seemed to intensify as I relived Fuck Nut’s last moments.

“Perhaps his poorest choice was threatening Cindy,” said Jack.

I had never once mentioned Cindy’s name to the man sitting across from me. The fact that he knew who she was should have amazed me, but in my current state of disarray, it was mostly lost on me.

“A very poor choice,” I said.

“And you were forced to take action to protect her.”

“Yes.”

“So what are you sorry for?”

“For killing him.”

“He wanted to die, Jim. He knew this day was coming. He was miserable and lonely and hated every day that he was alive.”

I said nothing. I could not speak. His words did, however, ease some of the queasiness. I sat a little straighter even as I felt a little better.

“Is he going to hell?” I asked.

“He is in a place you do not want to be.”

We’d had this discussion before and I didn’t feel like getting into it now. There was no heaven or hell, but only worlds of our own creations. There was no punishment in the afterlife, only reflection and recreation. Blah blah blah. New age mumbo-jumbo. I didn’t want to hear it. I had killed a man and that was my reality.

“He hurt a lot of kids, too,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Hey, I’ve got a fucking question for you, Jack…God, or whoever the fuck you are. Why the fuck did you allow him to hurt innocent kids? There you go. Answer that question. I’m sure there’s a million mothers out there who’ve lost innocent children who’d just love an answer to that one. Oh, wait, never mind. You’re just a bum and I’m a fucking idiot for coming in to a fucking McDonald’s and entertaining the idea that you might be something more than just street trash.” I stopped, took a deep breath.

“You done?” asked Jack.

I nodded, sitting back, my heart yammering in my chest.

“Nobody dies without the spirit’s consent,” said Jack.

“So a child who’s kidnapped, raped and buried alive gives such a consent.”

“Yes.”

“But they’re a fucking child, Jack. How the fuck could a child make that kind of a decision?”

“The decision was made long ago.”

“Long ago? You mean in a place where time suddenly does exist?”

He ignored my sarcasm.

“Prior to taking on the body, the soul made an agreement with another soul-”

I cut him off; this was just pissing me off.

“An agreement to allow themselves to be raped and killed? How very generous of the soul.”

Jack looked at me for a long moment.

“Yes,” he said. “Very generous.”

“And that’s supposed to comfort a grieving mother? A mother who, say, just lost her child to a sick-ass motherfucker?”

“Such a death serves many purposes, Jim. There is a ripple effect that will touch many, many lives for generations to come.”

“Fine. Many lives are touched. It’s a noble act of sacrifice. But it’s the thought of their child suffering that drives parents mad with grief. The fact that their baby suffered at the hands of an animal.”

Jack said nothing, although he did finally sip his coffee. Glad to see he still had his taste for coffee.

Finally, he said, “You might be pleased to know that a spirit may leave the body whenever it wants.”

“A child could leave its body?”

“Yes.”

“And not suffer?”

Jack looked at me and smiled very deeply and kindly, and I saw, for the first time ever, that there were tears in his eyes.

“And not suffer,” he said.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Two days later I was in San Diego, about an hour and a half south from Huntington Beach.

It was 10:00 a.m. sharp and I was sitting alone in a leather sofa in an ornate office overlooking the lush playing field at Qualcomm Stadium. The field, as viewed through the massive window, was empty.

The office was covered with photographs of past personnel and players. I recognized almost all of them, since football was my life. Not to mention, I had taken a particularly keen interest in the San Diego Chargers since their last offer.

I was dressed to the nines in khakis and cordovan loafers and a blue silk shirt that accentuated my blue eyes. At least that’s what I’m told.

A door opened and a little bald man with gold rimmed glasses came in. He saw me, smiled brightly, and moved over to me with surprising speed. Of course, it shouldn’t be too surprising, Aaron Larkin had been free safety for the Chargers for most of his career in the seventies. In the seventies, he had not been bald.

“My God, Knighthorse, you are a big boy,” he said, pumping my hand.

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

He laughed and gestured for me to sit. He moved behind his black lacquer desk and took a seat. Larkin leaned forward eagerly and laced his fingers together before him. His fingers were thick and gnarled and some seemed particularly crooked, not too surprising after a full career in football. Between high school, college and the pros, fingers were bound to get broken.

“We are very excited to hear from you,” Aaron Larkin began.