Ghosts, Matt Rogers [reading the story of the .txt] 📗

stronger, and he struck her hard across the face, but he didn’t put his all into it for a variety of subconscious reasons. She was small, and she was a girl, and she was stunning, and all of that combined meant he continued underestimating her for the narrowest window.

Narrow windows get you killed.

She kimura’d his forearm. The limb was thin and long because of his lankiness, so she only needed a touch of power amidst the technique to torque the bone to the left. It didn’t snap, but the pain hit him like a bolt to the brain. He reflexively opened his palm and the revolver spilled out, but now he wasn’t underestimating her. Now he swung his free fist with everything he had, and she ducked, but two of his knuckles clipped the top of her head.

It almost knocked her out cold.

She stumbled and fell, right on top of the gun.

He came down on top of her, deranged and manic and breathing heavy, but she was fast. She’d already snatched it up and rolled and his hands clawed at her face but she pulled the trigger and sent one of the six bullets right through his bony chest.

Not the way she wanted it to go.

He would have been useful.

Not anymore.

He kept trying to attack her in his death throes but the bullet had gone straight through the left side of his chest and exited in grisly fashion out his upper back. She was far weaker, but now she could roll him off her without much effort. He slumped into a seated position against one wall, mouth flapping soundlessly, and she shot him in the head.

She got to her feet, ignored the blood staining her tube top and exposed abdomen, and made to press further into Wan’s.

A door flew open.

She almost fired reflexively.

But she saw frizzled curly hair and a terrified young face and she refrained.

She sighed. ‘Hi, Melanie.’

60

Like clockwork, Chief Judge Alastair Icke went through his evening routine.

Drive home, park, wobble his way inside, mutter a half-hearted greeting to the wife and kids (the part of his life he’d prefer to truncate, but couldn’t because of the need for a respectable public persona), head straight to the back deck, stuff his lower gums with extra-strength chewing tobacco, down a mug with three espresso shots of steaming black coffee, chase it with two shots of expensive whiskey, then cap it all off with a surreptitious line of speed, an amphetamine that made his pulse race and gave him clarity (he always used his giant torso to shield the snorting from view of any curious family members who might be eavesdropping). He tried to ignore the fact that he regularly sentenced people to prison for partaking in a hobby he himself shared. It was unfortunate about today’s case — the Swedish woman who looked cute when she pouted — and the fact he damn well knew she didn’t do it.

Usually he’d let a cute chick like her off only so she might be tempted to use her assets to thank him for his pity.

But sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good, and that’s exactly what unfolded.

As he aged he found it increasingly necessary to boost his natural energy levels with artificial methods. Otherwise he came home and collapsed on the couch, gut hanging over his belt, drained from the soul-sucking nature of the courts. He liked to do things in the evenings, and that meant a carefully refined routine. He sat there, in the grip of the buzz, brought way up by the caffeine and speed, and blissed out by the nicotine. The whiskey helped to mellow him out, too, but nothing topped the fat mouthful of tobacco. His gums drenched black, he sat back, closed his eyes, and breathed.

He was wired.

More than usual.

He realised the stress of the day’s proceedings hadn’t worn off yet, so the chemical cocktail had brought his pulse up higher than usual. There was the briefest moment of panic as he listened to his heart thud in his chest — is this how it all ends? — but it quickly faded. He lit a joint packed with the strongest shit money could buy and puffed it relentlessly, watching the yard. He didn’t smoke weed often because it—

—distracted him.

He didn’t realise hours had passed until he gave his watch an off-handed glance.

9:32p.m.

‘Christ,’ he grumbled, his voice hoarse. ‘Alastair, you useless piece of…’

He trailed off, levering his giant bulk off the chair. It creaked and groaned in protest. He righted himself, staggered, wiped muck from the corners of his eyes. A belch rumbled up his windpipe and spilled out. He fished the soggy pile of chew tobacco out of his gums and dropped it in an ashtray on the outdoor table.

He groaned.

He’d missed calls. He’d missed check-ins. He swore to never touch a joint again until he retired. His seventies were the opportune time to lie around in a hammock all day and zone out. Not when he still had a career and extracurricular activities to keep tabs on.

He went inside, made for the bedroom. He passed his wife in the living room.

She said, ‘Honey, I made dinner for the boys, but I thought you wanted to be left alone and—’

‘Not hungry,’ he said.

He didn’t look at her. She wasn’t worth the time of day.

He staggered into the bedroom, wrenched the bottom drawer of the bedside table out, and retrieved his burner phone. He couldn’t exactly conduct unofficial business on his work phone, could he?

He thumbed the home button and his heart sank.

He had thirty-seven missed calls from Gloria Kerr, twenty-one missed calls from Keith Ray, and a total of fifty-one missed calls from a variety of other numbers that weren’t anywhere near as important.

‘What the fuck,’ he mumbled under his breath, almost choking on leftover particles of tobacco. He coughed violently, swayed, and righted himself. ‘Stupid motherfuckers can’t handle their own business. Gotta get me to sort everything, right? Right?’

He ran through priorities.

Gloria