by Brian J. Jarrett
Bill Moore watched with curious eyes as the mysterious man pedaled an antiquated bicycle along the street in front of Bill’s house. Dressed in dingy jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt, the man was as black as night and no stranger to the road. Bill saw him often, riding around with a strange contraption balanced precariously on the bicycle’s handlebars. In fact, Bill had no recollection of a time when he’d seen the man without the thing.
The dude got around, that was for sure. Bill saw him everywhere. Driving to and from work, driving around town, and even standing in front of his own house, Bill would see the man struggling on that bicycle, headed who knew where with who knew what on the handlebars.
The contraption in question, carried along atop the handlebars of the rickety old bike, was a thin and narrow board, around the length of a yardstick, the dark wood painted with short lines running perpendicular to the length of the board. Taut, metal strings ran parallel to the board, wound tightly on screws driven into either end of the board. Was it a musical instrument? A scale model of some weirdo shit? Bill didn’t know.
Today, however, he would find out.
Instead of ignoring the guy and driving off to work, Bill waited by the curb, watching the thin man, his face weathered and his posture slouched, as he strained to pedal up the incline of Bill’s street. The guy wasn’t that old, maybe thirty at most, but he sure did seem to have a tough go of it. That was okay; Bill could wait. Finally curiosity was getting the better of him.
So Bill waited. The man slowly approached and when he got within a dozen yards or so Bill stepped onto the street and flagged him down. Locking eyes on Bill, the man applied the bicycle’s hand brakes, slowing even further, his balance teetering. The man veered off the center of the street, coming to a stop behind Bill’s car parked on the side of the street.
“Hello,” the man said. “Can I help you?”
The accent…Bill couldn’t place it. It didn’t matter. Anything other than English was all Greek to him.
Bill nodded. “Hey, I know this might sound a little odd, but I see you around all the time with that thing on your bike there.”
The man regarded Bill with a stoical expression, his eyes calm, his body relaxed. He said nothing.
“Anyway,” Bill continued, filling the dead air with small talk, “I see you all the time and I’m just wondering what the hell that thing is. I’ve never seen anything like it. What’s it do?”
The man’s expression remained the same. He looked at Bill for a few moments, long enough to make things awkward. Bill cocked his head a bit, awaiting a response. Maybe the guy didn’t know English. Maybe all he could say was ‘hello’ and ‘can I help you’ and ‘have a nice day’. Like those slant-eyes who delivered the Chinese food.
Just as Bill was about to break the silence with more small talk, the man spoke. “I think you do not want to know,” he said, his face still expressionless.
Bill furrowed his brow, adding in a bit of a grin. Was this a joke? “For real? That’s your answer? Are you fucking with me or what?”
The man nodded. “Oh no. Not knowing the answer to your mystery will haunt you for only a short while, but the truth can have life-changing consequences.”
Bill furrowed his brow even further, his face becoming a grimace. This guy is crazier than a shithouse rat. Why he stopped the guy at all was a mystery now. Bill knew he should’ve seen this coming a mile away. Crazy fucking foreigners. “Life-changing, eh?” Bill said. “How ya figure?”
The man’s expression was like that of a stone statue. “You have nothing I need, sir, therefore I have no reason to explain. Should this change-”
“Honey, is everything okay?” Bill heard from the front porch. Bill turned to see his wife, Lucy, standing partially in the doorway.
“It’s fine,” Bill replied, rolling his eyes. “Just go back inside. You’re letting bugs in the house.”
When Bill turned back to the man on the bicycle, he noticed the stranger had been watching his wife. After she’d gone inside the man turned back to Bill with the slightest smile hanging on his lips. It was understandable; Lucy was a fine piece of ass, even with the five pounds she’d put on since they were married. “So how, again, would this thing change my life?” Now he was just fucking with the guy. Might as well; he was going to be late to work anyway.
Now the man on the bike smiled like a Cheshire cat. “I can see you are a determined man,” the stranger said, chuckling, his grin never faltering. “For you, I will tell.”
* * *
After ten minutes of listening to the stranger drone on about some sort of voodoo, spirit-world shit, Bill had had enough. He was bored and late for work. With that asshole Jennings watching his every move there, he didn’t need any more trouble with the boss. Jennings was a twerp, a speck of shit on the ass of the company that just wouldn’t wipe off. “Look, guy,” Bill said, agitated. “I don’t wanna be rude, but as impressed as I am with your superpowers, I gotta get to work.”
“Of course,” the man said, the grin still on his lips. “You are an important man where you work?”
“I don’t know about that,” Bill said, but it was a lie. He was important, damn important. With the hours he put in, they’d be up shit creek without him. Getting management to realize that was another story.
“I do not wish to keep you then. Consider what I’ve said,” the man continued. “The spirits provide.”
“Right,” Bill said. He held out his hand. “Good to meet you.” It wasn’t, but Bill said it anyway.
The man nodded. “Likewise. Have a good day.”
Bill nodded, before hopping into his car and speeding away. He watched in the rearview mirror as the man mounted his bicycle, kicking off to a slow and teetering start. Bill shook his head. Douchebag. That’s what he made himself late for? A bunch of black magic hullabaloo? He would have been better off not knowing.
Fucking foreigners.
* * *
After an uneventful day of answering e-mails and shuffling papers around (and being generally under-appreciated), Bill called it a day. After maneuvering his car through a deluge of idiots on the road, he rolled into his garage, closing the door behind him. He sat in the garage for a few minutes before exiting the car, mentally preparing himself for the rest of the evening. While marriage and the domestic life had its advantages (like getting laid pretty much whenever he wanted) the sheer drudgery of it all built over time to create a tedium that threatened to split Bill’s skull apart.
Thank God for the working girl.
After getting his head screwed on straight, Bill climbed out of the car and exited the door of the detached garage. He walked along the sidewalk leading out of the garage and up and around the front of his house. After rounding the corner of the house Bill made it as far as his front steps before he heard his name.
“Bill!” the voice cried. It came from across the street.
Eddie. Fucking Eddie.
Eddie Davenport waved at Bill from his front yard, a pair of giant hand-driven hedge trimmers in his hand. Eddie was only forty-two, but that son of a bitch looked sixty if he was a day. His kids weren’t even out of middle school yet. The last thing Bill ever wanted was to become Eddie Davenport. Though Eddie’s wife wasn’t all that hard on the eyes, even if she was five or six years beyond her prime.
Bill forced a smile and waved. “Hey, Eddie,” he shouted back. He hoped Eddie would relegate the conversation to the weather or when he was planning on mowing his yard. Bill had already had a long enough day as it was. Listening to Eddie’s bullshit wasn’t something he wanted to pile on top of everything else.
Eddie jogged across the street, arriving a few moments later on Bill’s front sidewalk. By the time he made it to where Bill stood Eddie was out of breath. “Saw you talking to that Jamaican dude out there this morning,” Eddie said between pants.
“Is that where he’s from?” Bill asked. Great. Not only was the guy a foreigner, but he was probably a drug-pushing foreigner. Figured.
Eddie shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. Maybe he’s Kenyan or something. That’s not the point.”
“What is the point, then? Is he a thief or something? Dude’s weird, I know that much.”
Eddie shook his head. “Nah, no thief. Exactly the opposite.”
“Um, okay,” Bill answered, perplexed. “He fed me some line of shit about that thing he totes around on the bike having magical powers, so I cut the conversation off. I figured the dude was crazy or high.”
Eddie smiled. “He’s not crazy, my friend. Not by a long shot.”
“What do you mean?”
“No, he’s not crazy. That thing he carries around? Everything he says about it is true.”
Bill furrowed his eyebrows. “Bullshit.”
“I swear,” Eddie said. “Cross my heart.”
Bill folded his arms. He raised his eyebrows. “It grants wishes? For real? I think you’re the one who’s crazy.”
Eddie’s eyes lit up. He shook his head. “I shit you not, my friend. It’s real and I got proof.”
“Proof? What kind of proof?”
Eddie smiled. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”
* * *
“Bought it last week. Cash.” Eddie pointed to a cherry red Ford Mustang sitting in his garage. “Ain’t she a beaut?”
Bill scratched his head, eying the car. “Where’d you come up with that kind of scratch?” he asked.
“Chilemba,” Eddie replied.
“Chi-what?”
“Chilemba. That’s the guy’s name, the dude on the bike. I think he’s African. It doesn’t really matter either way.”
“Eddie, that guy doesn’t have a pot to piss in. If he gave you money for this then he stole it. You’d better watch your back in case the people he took it from want that money back.”
Eddie shook his head. “You don’t understand. He didn’t give it to me. He gave me the means to earn it.”
“Come again?”
“He gave me the opportunity. See, I won the cash from the lottery. Three hundred grand, my friend. I pocketed about half that after taxes. Lucy used the money to set up a college fund for the kids and then I spent the rest on this car.”
“You won the lottery?” Bill asked.
Eddie nodded. “Well, mostly. Five numbers outta six, plus a two-times Megaplier. I mean, it wasn’t the whole jackpot, but it was a pretty damn good payout.”
“Did it make the news?” Bill asked.
“Unless you hit the jackpot the news doesn’t really give a shit.”
“I’m still confused,” Bill admitted. “So you won the lottery. How does Chalupa get the credit for it?”
“Chilemba,” Eddie corrected. He leaned in closer to Bill. “Because he gave me the numbers.”
Bill shook his head. “Something doesn’t sound right about that.”
“I swear, man,” Eddie answered. “Chilemba wrote ‘em down on a napkin for me. I played the numbers and I won.”
“Maybe he works for the lottery commission or something,” Bill suggested. “I mean, how else would he get ahold of those numbers?”
“Does that dude look like he has a job?” Eddie asked.
Bill shook his head, conceding to Eddie’s point.
Eddie continued. “Besides, it’s a random draw on those numbers. There’s no way he could have known which ones were gonna be picked beforehand.”
Bill took a deep breath. “So you’re telling me some creepy guy just came along one day and handed you a napkin with the winning lottery numbers on it? Like he’s some kind of psychic or something? And then he never asked for anything in return after you won all that money?”
“I never said that.”
“Well, that’s what it sounded like you said.”
“It’s not that he didn’t ask for anything in return. He did. We feed him once a week, like clockwork. He tells me what he wants each week and Nancy has it ready for him the following week.”
“Wait a minute. You mean to tell me that this guy gave up winning lottery numbers so he could get some free food?”
Eddie nodded. “Go figure. I was sure he was going to sue me for a piece of the winnings, or maybe for all of it, but he never did. He just shows up here every Monday night for his food, just like we agreed. It’s been six or seven months now.”
Bill regarded Eddie with an incredulous look. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.” He paused. “But how come I’ve never seen him at your place.”
“He stops by around two o’clock in the morning. You’re probably asleep by the time he shows. He just takes his doggy bag and pedals off into the night.”
“This is all just too weird. You gotta be shitting me. Where’s the hidden camera?” Bill said, smiling.
“I shit you not, my friend. Don’t believe me? Ask my wife. She’ll tell you too.”
Bill continued smiling, knowing his neighbor had just pulled his chain. Out of all Bill’s neighbors, Eddie was the most tolerable, but even he wore on Bill’s nerves after a while. The joke was fine, but it was time to come clean. “C’mon,” Bill said. “Stop pulling my chain.”
“Seriously. Follow me, just for a sec,” Eddie motioned for Bill to follow.
Bill hesitated at first, but when he saw Eddie was insistent he gave in. Bill followed Eddie around his neighbor’s house, to the front porch.
“Wait right here,” Eddie said. He opened the door, quickly disappearing inside. A few moments later he returned, this time with his wife, Nancy. Wiping her hands on her apron, Nancy followed Eddie through the front door and onto the front porch.
“Hi, Bill,” Nancy said, looking Bill’s way, smiling but confused.
Bill nodded, returning the salutation. “Hey there, Nancy.”
Nancy turned back to Eddie. “What is it you need, hon?”
“Nancy, tell Bill where we got the money for the car.”
The smile on Nancy’s face faded, replaced with a look of concern. “Are you sure about this, Eddie?” she asked.
Eddie put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. Chilemba and Bill talked this morning.”
The light expression Nancy had had while exiting the house came back, but not entirely. “Oh, I see.”
“So Eddie’s been spinning a tale for me about Chilemba’s…gift. He’s not for real about all this, is he?” Bill asked.
Nancy nodded. “I’m afraid so. He gave us the winning numbers. Now the kids have a college fund.”
“And I have a new car,” Eddie added, grinning.
“And Eddie has his toy,” Nancy responded, her face still slightly sullen. “I don’t know how he did it, to be quite honest.”
Eddie walked up to Bill, placing his hand on his neighbor’s shoulder. “Chilemba is the real deal. I don’t know how he does it either. I also don’t care to know. What I do know is that he can get you what you want, he just needs a little something in return.” Eddie looked at his wife. “Ain’t that right, honey?”
Nancy looked absently into the distance. She nodded. “Just a little something.”
* * *
Nearly two weeks passed before Bill saw Chilemba again. Bill was in his car and on his way home from work as he passed the man on his bicycle. Bill easily overtook the slow bicycle, parking along the curb in front of his house where he waited for Chilemba to catch up. As he’d done before, Bill flagged the man down, waiting on the sidewalk for him to stop. Chilemba rode up slowly to where Bill stood, the strange contraption balanced on the handlebars. The usual unusual, as it were.
“Hello again,” Chilemba said. “How are you?”
“I’m great,” Bill replied. Entertaining Eddie’s cockamamie story was ridiculous, he knew. While Eddie was a bit of a douche, Nancy, however, most certainly was not. That was the only reason he hadn’t blown the entire thing off immediately.
“Is there something I can help you with?” Chilemba asked.
Bill paused again, feeling like a fool for what he was about to say. “About what we talked about a couple weeks ago…I’ve been thinking.”
Chilemba raised his eyebrows. “And?”
“Well, I’m not so sure I believe it, but I can entertain the notion that that maybe you have some kind of system. Maybe it’d be worth checking out.”
“You are sure of this?”
“I think so,” Bill replied. “I mean, the way it works is you do me a favor and I do you a favor? Sound about right?”
Chilemba smiled. “Not exactly,” he replied. “Come, let us sit. We have much to discuss.”
* * *
“The device is spiritual, it knows you from the inside out,” Chilemba said, sitting on Bill’s front yard, his bicycle propped up by the kickstand within a foot or so away. Bill sat beside him as they drank ice water, courtesy of Lucy’s infallible hospitality. Bill knew the gesture would come at a price, however. Lucy would want to know what her husband and the weirdo on the bicycle discussed. Hell, she was probably watching from behind the closed blinds already.
But he could deal with all that later. Right now he had questions. “Spiritual…right,” Bill said. “I don’t really believe in all this voodoo mumbo jumbo, or any other religious nonsense.”
Chilemba chuckled. “It does not matter if you believe. You may not believe that birds fly in the air, but that does not stop them from flying.” He took a drink of water from his glass.
Bill wanted to mention that he could actually see birds flying, but decided to drop it.
Chilemba continued. “The spirits will do their work, but you must promise to fulfill your side of the agreement. Great catastrophe will come to anyone who defies the wishes of the spirits.”
Bill struggled not to laugh. This entire conversation was moronic, spirits and other such bullshit. What had he been thinking, talking to this whack job? Still, Bill couldn’t ignore that car he’d seen in Eddie’s garage. Bill knew damn good and well there was no way Eddie could afford that car on a cashier’s salary. He supposed Eddie could have made the story up, but Nancy would never go along. Bill knew her that well, at least.
“So what is it that you want?” Bill asked. “Food? A place to sleep off a hangover? Some new clothes?”
Chilemba shook his head. “That is not the way the spirits work,” he said. “I will tell you what I need from you when the time comes, after the spirits have provided for you.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” Bill said.
Chilemba smiled. “I only accept what I need to help me survive. I can no longer work, so providing for myself is difficult. The spirits protect and nourish me, they see to my welfare. I take only what is absolutely necessary to sustain my meager existence.”
“Okay, so what do I do? Touch it and make a wish, then wait for it to come true?”
Chilemba shook his head again. “No, you do not make wishes. The device channels the spirits and once they enter you they will know your desires. They will provide.”
Bill took a deep breath and released. This was crazy, he knew that, but there he was all the same, talking to some kook on a bike about magical spirit devices. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation at all,” he finally said. “I mean, this is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard.”
Chilema smiled, his white teeth nearly leapt out in contrast to his dark face. “Then there is nothing to lose, wouldn’t you agree?”
Bill thought about it for a moment. In his mind he saw the car in Eddie’s garage, bright, red and expensive as hell. In his head he heard Nancy mention the college fund, fully funded. He also thought of Jennings, that little twerp, trying to steal that promotion right out of under his nose. Maybe Chilemba was full of shit, maybe he wasn’t. What was there to lose?
“Okay. I’m in,” Bill replied.
“You accept the proposition I offer you? You accept that this obligation is binding with forces greater than ourselves?”
“Sure, whatever,” Bill said. “Do you need me to sign a contract or something?”
Chilemba laughed. “The contract you sign with the spirit world is far more binding than anything signed on paper.”
“So let’s do this thing,” Bill said. “Get the show on the road.”
“Soon,” Chilemba said, holding up his hand. “I will need time to prepare for the ceremony. You must be alone when the ceremony is performed. Can you arrange this?”
Red flags went up in Bill’s head. “Alone. Yeah, I’m not sure about that. It’s not that I don’t trust you as much as that I just don’t know you.”
Chilemba nodded. “Very well. You may tell your neighbors across the street of our appointment if that makes you feel safer.”
Bill nodded. “Fair enough. Lucy has a hair appointment next Thursday,” Bill replied. “She’ll be gone for a couple of hours. How about then?”
Chilemba smiled. “That would be perfect.”
* * *
The following week passed very slowly for Bill. He questioned himself continually and before long came to the conclusion that he was the world’s most gullible idiot. As expected, Lucy asked what he and Chilemba had been doing out on the lawn, but Bill was able to feed her a bullshit line about how he’d been roped into a conversation with Chilemba about his hometown back in Africa. He said he’d finally given Chilemba some money to make him go away.
The kicker was that instead of being angry, Lucy thought Bill was a saint. He wondered if there was any story he could tell her that she wouldn’t believe. Sometimes it was just too easy.
The weekend passed with no sign of Chilemba. While that wasn’t unusual, it allowed Bill time to reconsider things. He began to feel more and more like a fool. By the end of the weekend he’d pretty much written the whole thing off. That was until he remembered what Eddie had told him.
Chilemba picked up his food from their place every Monday morning at two o’clock.
Later that night, using the excuse that he couldn’t sleep, Bill got up from bed just before two o’clock and took a seat on the couch, staring out the picture window and across the street at Eddie’s house. The porch light was on, but Bill wasn’t sure if that was a usual occurrence or not; he never paid that much attention to his neighbors. Even living just across the street it was almost as if Eddie lived in another neighborhood.
Bill sat patiently on the couch with the curtains drawn just enough to see through the slit in the middle. Aside from a few rabbits running around the front lawns of the neighborhood’s houses, there was no activity. Two o’clock came and went, but Bill saw nothing. He gave it another five minutes, but still nothing.
What a crock of shit, he thought. I really am an idiot.
Just as he was ready to get up from the couch and go back to bed, Bill saw Chilemba pedal up the street, slowing down in front of Eddie’s house. Dismounting the bike and balancing that wooden contraption of his upon the handlebars, Chilemba walked the bike up and over the curb, parking it on the sidewalk leading to Eddie’s house. Leaving the bicycle leaning on the kickstand, his mess of wood, wires, and paint still resting on the handlebars, Chilemba walked up the front steps and onto Eddie’s front porch.
Bill watched as the man rang the doorbell and waited. A few moments later Eddie appeared and handed the man a brown paper bag. Chilemba appeared to say nothing before turning around and walking back to his bicycle. Bill watched as Eddie unceremoniously closed the front door and turned out the porch light, leaving Chilemba illuminated only by the street light a block down.
Eddie had been telling the truth all along, at least about the free food they handed out. But if his neighbor believed in this guy enough to get up at two o’clock in the morning and supply him with food then maybe there was actually something to this nonsense. He felt better about his decision to allow Chilemba to move forward with this little spirit chant or whatever. Maybe the guy did have some sort of channel open to some spirit world. Maybe the guy just found out a way to manipulate karma, if such a thing even existed. In the end, Bill didn’t give a shit how it worked as long as it worked. That was good enough.
Bill watched as Chilemba sat down on Eddie’s front lawn, opening the bag and removing a few styrofoam containers. He produced a Pepsi and a plastic fork before opening all three containers and chowing down. The man ate fervently, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. It wasn’t long until he’d polished off all the food and placed the empty containers back into the paper bag.
Bill was about to get up and go back to bed when Chilemba stood up, brushing the crumbs off his pants. He wadded up the paper bag, placing it on Eddie’s front porch. Bill expected the man to pedal off to his next destination, but he didn’t. Instead, Chilemba walked to his bicycle, put up the kickstand, and pushed the bike along the sidewalk running beside Eddie’s house. Bill watched as the man disappeared into the shadows between Eddie’s and his neighbor’s houses.
At first Bill assumed that Chilemba was taking a shortcut to the alley that ran behind Eddie’s house, but he could have sworn that he saw a light come from between the darkened recesses between Eddie’s house and his neighbors’, the kind of light one would expect to escape from an open side door. The light lasted only a few moments before going out, swallowed by dark shadows. Thinking little of it, Bill returned to bed.
* * *
When the day of Bill’s ceremony came, he was surprised to find he was actually nervous. What had started out as a harmless experiment had turned into something Bill believed might actually be possible. As he grew accustomed to the idea, it became less preposterous. After all, there were things out there in the world, in the universe, that human beings just didn’t know about yet. Could there be strange powers available to those who’d figured out a way to tap them? Maybe Chilemba’s “spirits” were really nothing more than an untapped energy source, energy that he’d learned to harness and manipulate. When Bill thought about it that way, when he considered the natural explanation for supernatural claims, it began to make a hell of a lot more sense.
Chilemba was weird, no doubt about that, and Bill didn’t trust foreigners easily, especially foreigners from AIDS-riddled countries still firmly planted in superstition. Still, that car in Eddie’s garage spoke volumes, as did Nancy’s endorsement.
As always, Lucy left on time. Gullible or not, the woman was prompt. Bill sent her on her way, his hand shaking as he anticipated the visit from Chilemba. He couldn’t seem to keep his mind from wandering and coming up with conjecture galore about what that clunky device was on Chilemba’s handlebars or how it somehow unlocked these powerful forces. He decided it was best to just stop thinking about it and wait for Chilemba to arrive.
Twenty minutes after Lucy left for her appointment at the hair salon, Chilemba pedaled up to Bill’s front door. As usual the dark wooden device with the wires and lines was balanced precariously on the handlebars of his bicycle. This time, however, he carried with him a cage containing a brown chicken, attached to a carrying shelf mounted on the back of the bicycle. Slung over his shoulder, Chilemba carried a faded leather satchel.
After parking the bicycle alongside Bill’s house, Chilemba carried both the device and the chicken in its cage around to Bill’s back door. Seeing that the man was not coming through the front, Bill walked swiftly toward the back door to let him in. Probably all for the better, as he didn’t want his neighbors to see him consorting with the town weirdo.
Bill let Chilemba in through the back door and into the kitchen.
“Are we alone?” Chilemba asked.
Bill nodded.
“Do you still wish to proceed?”
Bill nodded again. “Yep. Let’s do this thing.”
“You fully understand the terms of our agreement. You understand that the powers held within this device are beyond my control; I am at their mercy. They provide for me and they will provide for you.” The black man fixed Bill in a steady stare. “If you do not keep up your end of the agreement, I am not responsible for what may befall you. Do you understand this?”
“I understand,” Bill replied. The guy was one with the formalities. “I’m ready to move on this.”
“Good. Then you will receive what you desire.” Chilemba sat the caged chicken down upon the kitchen floor, placing the satchel beside it. He carefully placed the device down upon the kitchen floor before reaching into the satchel and retrieving a brown bottle and a sheet of plastic. He looked up at Bill. “For the chicken’s blood,” he said.
The hair on the back of Bill’s neck stood up. “You’re going to kill that chicken? In here?”
“It is part of the ceremony,” Chilemba replied. “It is necessary.”
“I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with that,” Bill said.
“Are you comfortable with chicken nuggets?” Chilemba asked. “Do you question to this degree when you order them at McDonald’s?”
Bill thought about it. “I suppose not.”
“When others do the killing, it is easy to wash one’s hands of responsibility. Life feeds on life. You have been sheltered living in this country like kings.”
“Alright, alright. I understand. It’s necessary.”
Chilemba smiled again, his white teeth like bleached gravestones jutting up from the earth. “Good, good,” he said in his strange accent. “We can proceed then?”
“We can,” Bill answered.
Chilemba handed the brown bottle over to Bill. “Drink,” he commanded. “It is necessary for the ceremony.”
More red flags went up in Bill’s mind. First the guy was lining the floor with plastic and now he wanted Bill to drink some sort of strange potion. This was looking more and more like a crime scene. “I’m not drinking anything,” Bill protested.
Chilemba stared at Bill, his eyes growing cold and focused. “You must drink. The ceremony cannot proceed without it.”
Bill knew drinking the liquid was a bad idea, but there, trapped in the tractor beams of Chilemba’s harsh, white eyes, he felt powerless to stop the very thing he’d started.
“Eddie drank, and he now has what his heart desires,” Chilemba added. “It is not in my best interest to harm those who would support me.”
Bill thought about it. It made sense. Besides, he’d told Eddie and Nancy about the ceremony. “Okay,” he said. “I’m on board.” He twisted the cap off the and placed it near his mouth. The stench from the liquid was powerful, but he thought he could get it down without puking. “You sure this is safe?”
“Of course,” Chilemba replied. “Drink, before our time runs out.”
Bill took one more look at the nondescript brown bottle before throwing caution to the wind and downing the contents. It tasted worse than it smelled, but he kept it down. Meanwhile, Chilemba was on his hands and knees, spreading out the plastic on the floor. He retrieved the wooden contraption he carried with him, placing it on the plastic, near the edge.
Suddenly Bill felt a tingling in his extremities. “What’s in this?”
Chilemba looked up at him as he maneuvered the device into place. “It is an ancient potion, used by shamans in my family for generations. You will feel drowsy soon, but you will not sleep. The tingling will be replaced by numbness in your fingers and toes. This is all to be expected.”
“Good to know,” Bill replied. Chilemba was right; he did feel sleepy. Very, very sleepy. He touched his fingers together. They tingled still, but the pinky finger on his right hand was now numb. “I think it’s working.”
Chilemba nodded. “This is why I use it.”
Bill watched, half in a sleepy daze by now as Chilemba reached underneath the narrow board. He unfolded two thinner boards from each end, extending the length of the board.
“Come, lie down,” Chilemba said, motioning toward Bill. He pointed to a divot that had been carved out of the center of the narrow wooden board. “Place your head here.”
A headrest, of all things, Bill thought. How clever. He was just happy to be lying down in his fatigued state. He wondered if there was maybe something else in that strange brew he’d just drank, maybe some sort hallucinogenic. It wouldn’t be the first time drugs were used in a religious ceremony.
As Bill rested his head in the divot near the center of the board, Chilemba reached into the satchel and retrieved two short leather straps. Before Bill could contest, the man had already strapped Bill’s left wrist to the device.
“Hey!” Bill yelled, but Chilemba didn’t hesitate. Bill struggled to pull his arm away, but the concoction he’d drank seemed to sap all of his energy away. He felt as if he were in a dream, struggling to wake, but unable to do so.
“Relax,” Chilemba said as he grasped Bill’s other wrist, strapping it to the device as he’d done with the other. “You need to be still for the ceremony. The straps and the drink will allow this.”
Inside, Bill panicked, but his body no longer responded to the commands his brain sent. He’d never been on a drug that affected him in a such an extreme fashion. He could only watch helplessly as the strange black man held him captive, strapped to an equally unknown and frightening device. Bill tried to yell, then he tried to scream, but neither was possible. All that came out was a mumble.
Bill turned his head to the side, time now at almost a standstill. From his viewpoint he could see the ceiling in his kitchen, every nook and cranny of the plaster like deep craters in the moon. The colors blurred and ran together as his head moved to the side, the images coming back into focus only when he held his head still.
He watched as Chilemba grasped the ends of the wires wrapped around the nails driven into the end of the board. There were five wires, wrapped around the nails, the excess wire dangling free. Holding Bill’s right hand still, Chilemba guided the end of the wire into the tip of Bill’s index finger. Bill watched, horrified, as blood pooled around the wire penetrating his skin. Bill felt nothing as the wire entered into his fingertip, the drugs numbing him as Chilemba said they would. He tried to scream again anyway, not out of pain, but out of shock. The sound came out as a gurgle, barely audible even to himself.
Chilemba repeated the process again for all of Bill’s fingers and thumb, blood dripping now onto the plastic lining the kitchen floor. He then grasped Bill’s left hand, driving wires into each finger in the same fashion as the other hand. When Chilemba was finished, Bill lay on his back, moaning, his arms outstretched, the wires buried into his fingertips. Blood pooled beneath the wires.
Chilemba stood. He walked toward the cage holding the chicken, opening the front door and grasping the bird by the legs. He yanked the animal from the cage, holding it upside down. The bird clucked frantically, flapping its wings, feathers detaching and floating up into the air. Chilemba reached into the leather satchel once more, retrieving a large knife made of what appeared to be sharpened bone. Kneeling beside Bill, Chilemba held the chicken above Bill’s left wrist. The bird flapped and clucked, still struggling against its captor.
Chilemba closed his eyes and chanted in a low, guttural tone. The words were unrecognizable to Bill as he lay helpless. Chilemba held the bird up into the air before bringing it back down, just above Bill’s left wrist. In a single, fluid motion Chilemba slashed the bird’s throat with the bone knife, severing it almost completely. The chicken’s body jerked as blood poured from the open wound in the thing’s neck. Blood covered Bill’s hands and fingers, dripping onto the plastic spread out beneath him.
Quickly Chilemba moved the dying bird above Bill’s other wrist, covering it with more of the chicken blood. He held the bird there for a few seconds longer until it finally stopped moving altogether. He then carefully placed the body of the bird back into the cage, latching the door.
Reaching into the satchel, Chilemba retrieved two feathers, two coins, a railroad spike, and a pair of eyeglasses. He placed them all into the mixture of Bill’s and the chicken’s blood, pooled and now coagulating on the plastic beneath Bill’s wrists. He chanted more words Bill didn’t understand, moving his hands in strange gestures, looking up at the sky and toward the ground.
Finally, Chilemba spoke. “It is time. The doorway to the spirit world has been opened. They are listening.”
Still paralyzed, Bill opened his mind, and the spirits entered.
* * *
When Bill awoke on the kitchen floor, Chilemba was gone.
The kitchen was clean. All remnants of the ritual that had occurred there were gone. It was almost as if nothing had happened at all. Bill began to wonder if maybe he’d imagined it all. That was until he looked at his fingers. The tips were swollen and red, the holes made by the wires still clearly visible. He lifted himself into a sitting position, his limbs now responding to the signals sent from his brain. His head pounded, had to be from the drugs he’d ingested.
He shook his head, feeling the pain stab him behind the eyes. What had that fucker done? Nowhere did Bill agree to be drugged and poked like a pin cushion. Eddie hadn’t mentioned a thing about that. He supposed he should feel lucky to be alive, lucky that he hadn’t been sliced to ribbons and left to die. Instead he was seething with anger. Eddie should have warned him of what would happen. If Bill would have known all this, he would never have agreed to the whole thing.
He attempted to stand, realizing too late that he wasn’t quite capable yet. His legs wobbly and numb, he crashed back to the floor again. He sat there for a few more minutes until the dizziness passed. He rose more slowly this time, fighting the spinning until he was on his feet and balanced.
A few minutes later the dizziness was all but gone. He walked slowly into the living room, taking a seat on the couch. There he sat, fuming over his mistreatment, until he could stand it no longer. He rose to his feet again, this time remembering his lesson from earlier, but found that he had no residual dizziness. The headache was mostly gone too, the only pain still bothering him was the puncture wounds in his fingertips.
He needed to talk to Eddie. At a minimum he was going to jump the guy’s ass. And the next time he saw the weirdo foreigner around on that stupid bicycle Bill was going to smash that fucking torture device over his goddamn head. He walked to the front door, twisting the deadbolt and sucking in a quick breath when his punctured fingers touched the lever. Fucking voodoo bullshit.
Despite the pain, Bill twisted the lock open and exited through the door. He headed across the street to Eddie’s house as quickly as he dared, down his front walk and across the street. Once on the other side of the street he climbed the steps to Eddie’s porch and stood in front of the door. Bill pounded hard on the door, waiting for his neighbor to answer.
Bill heard faint noises coming from inside the house. A few moments later Nancy appeared at the door. “Bill, what’s wrong?” she asked.
“I need to talk to Eddie, right fucking now,” Bill said.
Nancy shook her head, her face sullen. “He’s at work, evening shift over at the store.” She paused for a moment. “Did you do it?”
Bill didn’t answer her question. “I need to talk to Eddie,” he repeated.
“Let me see your fingers.”
Bill hesitated a moment before lifting his hands. She took his hands in hers, looking at his fingertips closely. “Give it some time,” she said. “It doesn’t work overnight. He won’t be back until something happens.” She paused. ‘Then he’ll come for what’s his.”
“I’ll kill him when he comes back.”
“No you won’t,” Nancy said, shaking her head. “You’ll give him what he wants because that’s how the deal works.”
“But-“
“No, buts. He’ll deliver and you’ll give him what he wants. It’s bigger than both of you now.”
“How can you say that? Do you know what he did to me?” Bill exclaimed.
Nancy nodded. “I know what he did.”
“This is crazy,” Bill said, running his bleeding fingers through his hair. “What the hell was I thinking?” He glared at her. “This is your fault.”
“Me? How is this my fault?”
“You vouched for him.”
“I only told you what was true. I never said you’d like his methods.”
“You never said shit!” Bill yelled.
Nancy’s face grew stern. “Keep your voice down. You’ll have all the neighbors in an uproar.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the neighbors!” Bill yelled, his eyes wild.
Nancy relaxed her face. “Bill, nothing is free. Don’t ever forget that. Give it time, things will work out.”
“Fuck you and fuck your husband.”
Nancy frowned. “Go back home and live your life, Bill. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”
And with that, she shut the door
* * *
Three weeks came and went. Bill’s fingers healed, though he had a tough time explaining the injury to Lucy. Eventually she bought a story about him falling on a wire brush he was using to scrape rust off the lawnmower blade. Sometimes, he thought, Lucy was too stupid for her own good. Luckily for him, her stupidity paid off.
He seethed with anger at Eddie and Nancy. The bitch must have told Eddie about their conversation because Eddie seemed to be making himself scarce. When he would normally be out tooling around in the front yard, Eddie was instead out of sight, presumably holed up inside his house. All the better, because Bill vowed that if saw that fucker again he was going to punch his goddamn lights out.
Work was normal. Jennings was an ass, watching Bill’s every move and trying to gear up for some sort of power-play to snag the promotion he didn’t deserve. Bill continued doing his job and trying to stay out of Jennings’ crosshairs. Each day Bill would wait for the other shoe to drop, but each day was just like the day before it. No perceptible change to speak of and his already-stretched patience was wearing thin.
Every day that Bill went without his promotion, remaining under-appreciated and overworked was proof that Chilemba was full of shit. Every day that Jennings remained a thorn in Bill’s side was proof he’d been duped. Physically assaulted. He’d sue the bastard for what little he had.
But then things changed.
Jennings got caught.
As it turned out, Tony Jennings had been providing sales numbers to a competitor for years. The resulting scandal was huge. There were firings, even criminal charges. The SEC became involved. Jennings went down in a hailstorm of shrapnel, burning gloriously all the way down to the ground.
Then, two days after being charged, Jennings swallowed a bullet in his bedroom.
It worked out just as Bill had hoped.
Management, in an effort to clean some of the egg off their face, recognized Bill as someone who’d been suspicious of Jennings all along. They pulled the HR file and reviewed the complaints he’d lodged over his disgraced co-worker over the years. Bill not only received the promotion, but a bonus on top of it. The story even made the paper.
After another couple of weeks Bill nearly forgot about his agreement. He banked the bonus and was enjoying the extra money each week. He took Lucy out to dinner, even bought her a pair of diamond earrings. She seemed happy, happier than she’d been in months.
Then nearly a month after all the uproar died down around the Jennings scandal, Chilemba reappeared.
Bill saw the man pedaling slowly up the street, just as he had the day Bill had initially stopped him. Bill was in the process of mowing the lawn, engrossed in thoughts about the new girl his company had hired to take Jennings’ place. She was one hot little number and, if Bill didn’t know any better, she’d been making eyes at him since the day she arrived.
Bill killed the engine upon sight of the man on his bicycle, that wooden contraption of his balanced on the handlebars again. Bill nearly shuddered at the sight of the thing. Though his memories of the device were unpleasant, the thought of his promotion, the money, and the new girl’s cleavage helped soften some of those bad memories.
“Hello, Mister Bill,” Chilemba said. He sat on the bicycle still, his feet on the ground. “I read about you in the newspaper.”
Bill chuckled. “I’ll bet you did. Things have turned out pretty well for me. Seems like you kept up your end of the bargain.”
“It is not me who fulfills desires, the spirits make all possible. I am merely a servant.”
“Well, regardless, things are looking up.” Bill paused and looked at the man curiously. “Is this where you tell me what you want in return?”
Chilemba smiled. “This is where I tell you what I need.”
Bill smiled. “Well, lay it on me. You need some food, maybe some beer? Let me know and I’ll hook you up.”
Chilemba laughed. For a moment Bill thought the man was mocking him, but the feeling quickly passed. “Do you happen to have a washing machine?”
“Seriously?” Bill asked. “You want me to do your laundry?”
“I do not have the means to wash and dry my clothing. I believe you do.”
“Well, yeah, sure we do. When do you want it?”
“Each week on Monday I will drop off my soiled laundry,” Chilemba said. “I will then pick up the wash from the prior week.”
“Sounds reasonable. What time?”
“Three o’clock, AM.”
“Three o’clock? Why such weird hours?”
“People fear what they do not understand,” Chilemba began, “and most would not understand why you meet someone like me each week. When your neighbors start asking questions, what would you tell them?”
“Point taken,” Bill replied. “Discretion.”
“Precisely. In my position it is best.”
* * *
Bill sat at the dining room table, staring at a plastic shopping bag full of Chilemba’s clothing. It seemed the guy had nothing more than shorts and t-shirts in his wardrobe. And judging from the smell of sweat, Bill figured the guy put several days of pedaling that silly bicycle into them between changes.
He waited until Lucy went to sleep before washing them. With the washing machine downstairs it was a reasonably easy task to accomplish without rousing her suspicions. And if she did catch him? Well, Bill was pretty damn sure she’d buy whatever line of shit he sold her. Lucy wasn’t the brightest bulb in the bunch, after all.
The exchange happened without even a word spoken. Chilemba showed up on time, took the bag, handed Bill a new bag full of soiled laundry and nodded in acknowledgment before leaving. Bill found he actually preferred it that way; it wasn’t like they were friends or anything. They had a business agreement, that was all. As long as the sweaty foreigner kept up his end of the bargain then Bill would keep up his.
Three more weeks passed in the same fashion. Chilemba would show up and make the exchange, pedaling off into the night with freshly laundered shirts and shorts. Bill thought nothing of it after a while, accepting the arrangement as a matter of everyday life. His success at work continued; he was finally being recognized by those at the top of the organization, he was making great money, and he was pretty damn sure that in another couple of weeks he would bed Jennings’ replacement.
But then something started to bug him. It was one of those memories half-remembered, as if tucked away in a junk drawer somewhere. Something not quite thrown away, but not intentionally retained. Tossed to the side in haste. It started as a mild irritation while Bill mowed the grass, building with each swath of lawn mowed. By the time he’d finished with the lawn the question was a nagging suspicion he couldn’t easily shake off.
After the third clothing exchange, Bill didn’t go straight to bed. Instead he stayed up, sitting in the living room with the television tuned to a mindless infomercial, thinking. He thought back to that night he’d stayed up to watch Eddie drop off Chilemba’s food. Bill noticed that after picking up his clean laundry, Chilemba simply pedaled off into the night. That night in front of Eddie’s house, however, Chilemba had slipped between Eddie’s house and the neighbor’s, headed toward the alley.
Or so Bill had assumed.
Bill remembered the brief flash of dim light from the dark space between Eddie and his neighbor’s house. As if a door had been opened near the back of the house. A basement walkout door? Maybe the back door to the house? He’d written it off at the time, but now…
What was it they said about a deal that sounded too good to be true?
It probably is.
As if to prove the point, Bill was sure he heard his basement walk out door close.
* * *
Bill gave them some time. He wanted to catch them in the act.
He had to be certain. It would justify his actions.
Being careful to avoid the creaky spot of the living room floor, Bill crept toward the basement door. He felt his pulse racing as anger coursed through his body, even trickling into his fingers and toes. He was electric. He wanted to rage, he wanted to storm, but he knew precision would be necessary. Cunning and forethought were required to solve this particular problem.
He opened the door leading to the basement slowly and carefully. The hinges squeaked just a little, the result of a much and often delayed odd job on his part, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He opened the door just enough to slip quietly through.
Once through the door he crept as gently as possible down the steps and toward the basement. He took each step with careful regard to where he placed his weight, successfully navigating around the creakier of the boards. His heart was absolutely pounding now, his system full of adrenaline, his muscles tense.
He’d never felt more alive.
After what seemed an eternity on the stairs, Bill placed his right foot on the carpeted floor of the basement. He followed with his left foot, leaving the stairs behind. He took two more steps away from the foot of the staircase before peeking around the wall encasing the stairs.
The back of the couch faced him, obscuring most of his view, but he saw enough. Jutting above the back of the couch he saw Lucy’s legs and bare feet. They rocked back and forth, her toes curled. From the end of the couch Bill could see Chilemba’s feet extended beyond the armrest, covered in dirty, white socks. The two of them made almost no sound. Only the slight squeaking of the couch’s wooden frame could be heard in the quiet basement.
Bill stood, frozen, watching in disbelief as Lucy’s legs rocked in unison with each squeak from the couch. He felt sick, numb all over. His mouth was dry, his breathing rapid and short. The world swam and faded around him.
He told himself it was a mistake, but he knew that was a lie.
His shock soon dissipated. It was replaced with rage.
It all made sense now. The shortcut to the alleyway, the light from Eddie’s basement door. This was how the bill was paid.
You’ll get what you deserve, he heard Nancy say in his mind.
Lucy. His sweet, innocent, doe-eyed idiot of a wife. How could she? He’d thought she was different than the others, but she was the same. Nancy had gotten her childrens’ college fund, Eddie his stupid car. Bill his promotion.
What had Lucy bargained for?
It didn’t matter. Now she was going to get something she never expected. And so would this filthy, fucking foreigner.
Behind the back of the couch lay the unholy contraption that had been used to ruin Bill’s life. It sat there, ugly in its slipshod construction and malicious in its intent.
It would do just fine.
Bill dropped to his knees and began slowly and silently crawling toward the couch. His surprise and disorientation now behind him, he was focused solely on what came next. In fact, he was giddy with excitement. He crawled, the carpet softening the sound of his movement. It was all the stealth he needed.
As he belly-crawled toward the couch he heard Lucy moan. That whore was enjoying it. Whatever compassion he might have felt slipped away, replaced with cold revenge. Slowly he crawled, making his way carefully to that goddamned contraption that had caused all of his problems.
He touched it. It felt like electric against his skin.
Grasping the unwieldy and strange contraption in his hand, Bill stood up and walked to the end of the couch, just behind Chilemba’s feet. Lucy’s eyes were closed as the savage pumped. Then Chilemba let out a low and long grunt as his body stiffened and jerked.
“Was it good for you?” Bill asked, his eyes wide. A sneer formed on his lips.
Lucy’s eyes opened at the sound of her husband’s voice. Surprise and shock coated her face. “Bill! Wait!” she cried.
Chilemba turned toward Bill’s voice, his eyes wide and frightened. Bill raised Chilemba’s wooden contraption into the air, bringing it down hard upon the man’s head. Chilemba grunted as his eyes rolled back in his head. Lucy screamed as Bill brought the instrument down upon Chilemba’s head again. Blood spattered from the laceration caused by wood and wire, coating Lucy’s face and spraying into her opened eyes and mouth.
Chilemba, now limp and unconscious, lay atop Lucy with blood pouring from the deep cuts on his head. Bill spun the wooden device in his hands, flipping it over so that the nails driven into the end of the board faced downward.
“Bill, no!” Lucy screamed. Bill raised the board into the air, pausing only for a second before bringing the board down upon Chilemba’s head, burying the three nails into Chilemba’s brain. Lucy screamed as Bill yanked the board away from the dead man’s head. The nails made a sick, sucking sound as they tore free. Blood poured from the holes in Chilemba’s head, coating Lucy’s naked chest and running down Lucy’s sides, soaking into the couch cushions beneath her.
With a free hand, Bill rolled the dead man off of his wife. “You whore.” He raised Chilemba’s wooden monstrosity above his head. Lucy screamed.
The first blow to her head disoriented her.
The second knocked her out cold.
She felt nothing after that.
* * *
Bill looked at the mess on the couch. Whatever life he’d built up to now was over. He could never go back again. He wondered, did he want to? Had he really ever been happy with Lucy? Killing Chilemba…it opened up something inside Bill. He was different now. Uninhibited by rules. He was liberated now, the chains of domestication gone. No more chasing goals dreamt up for him by others.
He asked himself, why stop now?
When no answer came, he knew exactly what to do. He walked upstairs into the kitchen and retrieved their largest butcher knife. It gleamed in the bright fluorescent lights.
He opened the front door and walked outside, heading toward Eddie’s house.
* * *
Lucy awoke in a hospital bed. She opened her eyes, the bright overhead lights of the room piercing into her brain like an icepick. Her head felt as if it had been placed inside a paint shaker while being simultaneously pounded with a ball peen hammer. She touched her fingers to her forehead. She felt bandages with what appeared to be stitches beneath, painful at the slightest touch.
It all came back, quickly. Chilemba was dead.
The thought made her smile.
Lucy looked around. She saw Nancy sitting in a chair next to the wall, a magazine in her hand. Placing the magazine on the nightstand, Nancy stood and sat on the edge of the bed. She grasped Lucy’s hand. “How are you feeling?”
Lucy nodded. “Okay, I guess. How long have I been here?”
“A few days. They had you sedated for a while.”
Lucy took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She exhaled slowly. “Where’s Bill?”
Nancy’s face tightened. “I’m sorry, honey. He’s dead.”
Lucy nodded. She thought the news would shock her more than it did. She also expected it to sadden her more than it did upon hearing it. Perhaps she’d been more prepared for the news than she’d thought. “What happened?”
“You mean after he did…this to you?” Nancy asked, gesturing toward Lucy’s bandaged head.
Lucy nodded.
“We think he came to our place first with a knife. He broke a window, but the alarm must have spooked him and he ran off.” Nancy paused. “I’m not sure how to tell you the rest.”
“Just say it,” Lucy replied. “Don’t worry about how it comes out.”
Nancy paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Some time after he left our place he broke into an apartment. Three girls, none of them were over twenty.” Nancy wiped her eyes. “College kids.”
“Nancy, what did he do?”
Nancy retrieved a tissue from the nightstand and wiped her eyes. She stared at Lucy. “He cut their throats, Lucy. All of them.”
Lucy’s body went limp. She shook her head. “No.”
Nancy nodded. “They were just kids.” She wiped her eyes again. “Why would he do something like that?”
Lucy took a deep breath. “Don’t you see, Nancy? It all make sense now.”
“What makes sense? None of this makes any sense. This is all crazy.”
“It’s what he desired, down deep inside. I knew Bill was bad when I married him, but I thought I could change him.”
“You knew he was a murderer?”
“No, not a murderer. But bad, yeah.”
“I thought he already got what he wanted,” Nancy continued. “That promotion and the bonus? His name in the paper? Isn’t that what Chilemba’s goddamn black magic gave him?”
Lucy shook her head. “I don’t think so. Once Bill got a taste of murder that was all he needed. Chilemba never promised to grant wishes, only to satisfy desires.”
“So Bill’s desire was to be a murderer?” Nancy asked.
“People kill for different reasons, but yeah, something like that.”
“And Eddie’s desire was for that stupid fucking car.”
Lucy nodded. “And yours was to take care of your children.”
“So that means you and I were Chilemba’s desire? Raping us in our own homes?”
Lucy squeezed Nancy’s hand. “We held up our end of the bargain,” she said. “We agreed to it.”
“I should have never done that behind Eddie’s back, no matter how noble the intention,” Nancy said. “And neither should you. I had to sleep with that scumbag while Eddie got to hand out a bag of food once a week. How’s that fair?”
Lucy shrugged. “He never said it was fair. Besides, Chilemba ended up worse off than all of us. He was the sacrifice for Bill’s bloodlust. Bill’s first victim.”
“You sound like you’re defending him.”
Lucy didn’t reply.
“Well, are you?”
“I’m not defending Chilemba’s methods,” Lucy replied, shifting in the bed. “But he gave us what we asked for.”
“And what did you ask for?” Nancy asked.
Lucy sighed. She looked at Nancy. Tears ran down her cheeks. “I asked him to get rid of Bill.”
Copyright © 2014 Brian J. Jarrett