Brett Battles - Just Another Job

In the morning, when early arrivers spotted the mess, they would assume the bucket of paint had fallen off the back of someone’s truck. No one would ever consider that it was done intentionally to cover up something else.

“Let’s go,” Durrie said from the driver’s seat of the van.

Quinn nodded, then walked over to where Eric lay waiting.

“I smell…something,” Eric said, his eyes still closed, voice weak.

“It’s paint,” Quinn said.

“Paint?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Quinn got his arms under the man and lifted him. Eric moaned as Quinn carried him toward the van.

“What happens…now?” Eric asked.

“We get you to someone who can help you.”

“I thought you said I…was going to die.”

As Quinn maneuvered Eric into the van, he realized the man had gone unconscious again. Quinn laid him out on the plastic-covered floor, stepped away to close the door, then paused. There was something strange in the way Eric was lying.

Leaning back in, Quinn placed two fingers against the man’s neck, then moved them around in a circle, stopping at various points.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Durrie asked. He was looking at Quinn from the front passenger seat of the van.

Quinn straightened up and shut the side doors. For a moment he was alone in the night, surrounded by the smells of paint and a hint of fertilizer.

And now death.

But that was the job. And he was good at it, whether Durrie would admit it or not.

And he hadn’t killed Eric Maleeny. That was something, wasn’t it?

“Come on. Let’s go,” Durrie said, sounding distant inside the van.

Quinn looked back at the spilt paint, then nodded to himself.

There was still work to do.