Jack Kilborn - Disturb

Bill headed across the upstairs hall and found a study. The drawers had been pulled out of the desk, their contents strewn over the carpet. A large file cabinet had been similarly disturbed, files and papers littering the floor. Bill didn’t think poking through it would provide any answers. It was doubtful that whoever made the mess left anything important.

On a hunch, Bill went back to the bedroom. Many doctors took their work to sleep with them. He looked under the bed, behind the nightstand, and eventually found the file wedged between the nightstand and the bed. The tab on the manila folder read N-SOM. It was thick, held closed by a large rubber band. Bill tucked it under his arm and went into the adjoining bathroom.

In the closet was an old tube of Ben Gay. He dabbed some on his upper lip. It burned, but it was a small price to pay to smell menthol rather than rot. Then he pushed aside his trepidation and walked back down to the basement.

The door was waiting for him. Bill approached without enthusiasm, knowing what was in there, knowing he had to look anyway. When he pushed it open, the stench surrounded him like a tropical breeze. He pulled the cord on a hanging bulb.

The tarpaulin-covered bundle in the middle of the floor was the source of the odor, and the shape left no doubt as to its contents. Bill still had to be sure, and holding his breath he pulled back the canvas.

Mike Bitner’s eyes were open, two white marbles stuck in a pink, bloated face. Bill looked lower, saw the exit wound in the chest. The amount of dried blood staining the floor around him left no doubt that this was where he died. They’d videotaped Bitner’s murder in his own basement.

Bill left the room and tried to think it through. He had to get the authorities to see this, without them knowing he’d been here. Maybe he could leave an anonymous tip. Pretend he was a neighbor, complain about a smell coming from the house. Or even say he heard shots, or saw someone breaking in.

Once the police found the body, they’d have to protect him.

Bill walked over to the stairs, planning the call in his head. The creak took him by surprise.

It had come from the floor above. Bill stopped, and heard it again, louder this time.

There was someone upstairs.

Jack Kilborn

Disturb

“That window could have got broken weeks ago.”

Franco came up next to Carlos, the broken glass crunching underfoot. Carlos shook his head and scratched at his graying goatee. He had a dark face, all sharp angles, and it suited his personality.

“Floor’s dry. It rained two, three days ago. This is recent.”

Franco shrugged, but he took out his weapon just the same, a laughably large Coonan 357 Magnum with a six inch barrel. Carlos’s Colt Model 38 was already in hand, a reliable gun that never jammed like Franco’s cannon.

“So you want to search the place?”

Carlos thought it over. If someone had been here, that someone might be coming back with heat. He didn’t want to waste any time.

“No. Let’s do it and get the hell out of here. Just be careful.”

Franco laughed at the warning, a girlish giggle that didn’t fit with such a large, muscular body. He bore the badges of pro boxing; scar tissue around the eyes and a grossly misshapen cauliflower ear. Nothing frightened Franco. But Carlos had been in the business a lot longer, and you could get dead even if you weren’t scared.

“Jesus, you smell that stink?”

Carlos didn’t. He’d come prepared. The suit he wore was throw away, and he’d cut a menthol cigarette filter in half and shoved a piece high up in each nostril. The method was so old hat that his speech was barely affected.

Franco led the way into the basement. Carlos stayed a few steps behind, taking in everything. When he saw the light on in the corner room an alarm went off in his mind. Carlos was sure he’d turned it off.

The larger man walked in without a care, grumbling about the smell. Carlos stood at the bottom of the stairs and scanned his surroundings. There were some boxes. A large sink. A water heater. Several places a person could hide. He thumbed back the hammer on his gun and walked towards the boxes.

“I thought we wasn’t searching.”

“Real quick. I wanna be sure.”

“Hurry up. I stay down here long, I’ll deliver a street pizza.”

There was no one behind the boxes, or in the big sink. That left the water heater. He approached it and brought his gun around in a firm, two handed grip.

No one was there.

“You sure are cautious, for an older guy.”

“That’s how I got to be an older guy.”

Carlos walked over to the room to help with the body removal. He didn’t hear the small expulsion of breath come from beneath the cover of the sump pit.

Bill knew he wouldn’t have been able to do anything if they’d found him. He was on his knees in the sinkhole, curled up. It was a tight fit, made even tighter by the discharge pipe pressing into his back. He’d unplugged the sump pump before climbing in, and since it wasn’t running and his head was bent forward he was practically drinking the foul water. If the killers had lifted the lid, it would have been like shooting a big fish in a small barrel.

When he’d heard them upstairs, Bill knew his hiding places were limited. He put the N-Som file in the dryer and was relieved beyond words that hole was large enough to hold him. Once the contorting was complete, the hard part was keeping still. As the footsteps drew nearer, Bill was sure he’d be discovered. He’d closed his eyes and begun to pray.

But the moment had passed, and it looked like he might actually live through this.

He sighed, too loudly for comfort. There was an odor, but it wasn’t as bad as the death smell in the other room. Bill kept his left eye on the light coming in through the crack in the lid opening. He wanted to change position, but didn’t dare for fear of making noise.

They’d come to get the body. He only had to stay there for a few more minutes, then he could get out.

Then something brushed his hand.

He flinched. It was a reflex. His head bumped against the sump lid, knocking it slightly askew.

“Did you hear that?”

Carlos cocked an ear to the side, listening.

“I didn’t hear shit. Lift your end up higher.”

Carlos pulled on his end of the tarp, drawing it closer to his chest. The effort made him groan.

“Don’t have a heart attack, Grandpa. I don’t wanna have to lug two stiffs outta here.”

Franco laughed at his own joke. Carlos frowned. He shouldn’t have been here with Franco, doing this. He was a specialist. The murder, that was worthy of him. This was grunt work. He stared at Franco, the cauliflower ear stuck to the side of his head like a fat pink pretzel. No wonder he didn’t hear anything. Gino liked to joke that Franco’s ears were for decoration only.

“I heard a noise in the corner.”

“You checked it already.”

Carlos nodded. There was nothing there. But he was sure he’d heard something.

“Maybe it’s, whaddaycallit, senile dementia.”

Franco laughed again. Carlos pursed his lips, making a silent wish that someday Gino put a hit out on Franco. Carlos would take that contract for free.

“Lift higher. You’re not doing your part.”

Carlos strained with his end. He hadn’t been paying attention, and Franco had gotten to the stairs first. When the tarp began to leak, it leaked on Carlos.

Whatever had brushed against Bill was bony and covered in fur. He’d stirred it climbing in, and felt it move up along his body and breach the surface next to his cheek.

Dead rat, bloated and rotten.

Bill closed his eyes. The gorge was building in his throat, and he knew he had to do something or he’d throw up.