The Angel of Retribution - 5. Chapter 5

I woke on Thursday to a sunny day. How prophetic I thought considering the Larsons would be dying before midnight. I took off my pajamas and got in the shower. I should've shaved, but didn't. When I got out of the shower, my cell started its annoying chirping.

“Charlie.”

“Mr. Hughes?”

“Yes?”

“Beth Sommerfeld here. I'm sorry to call at this hour (we hadn’t spoken since I called her about the last break in at my house), but I wanted to let you know Robert passed last night around nine.”

“I see, well, thank you for calling.”

I hung up and looked around the living room at the middens of my life. I thought why couldn't people say “He died?” Why had death departed from our lexicon? Was it that horrible?

I sat in the recliner and took a nap. Strangely, I dreamt of a warm, green meadow, my husband Bill when he was young and very virile, and most the strangest remembrances of all, angels, especially a little one who couldn't hold up her sword, but I couldn’t figure out where that memory was coming from. And, then I dreamt of Bobby at some mythical time when we were the same age, but Devon was there, too, and kept taking Bobby's attention away from me.

I woke for the second time that day and it was dark. I looked at the cell's clock and saw it was nearly six. I went into the bedroom where I put on black jeans, black socks, my black wingtips, a black t-shirt, and my black leather jacket. I picked up the silencer, put it in an inner pocket and left the house. I stopped at the rifle and pistol range where I shot off two clips getting the feel of the .45, again. I bought two full clips, took it out to the car, screwed on the silencer, and drove away.

In Falls City, I considered stopping at the all-night diner for a piece of pie, but I was on a mission of death and had no time for requirements of bodily needs. I turned into the South Fork development and wended my way along curving streets until I was parked in front of the Larson house. It appeared no one was awake.

I got out of the car and went up to the house where I rang their obnoxious doorbell. The light came on and a man came to the door and started, “What the fuck …?”

I raised the pistol and the back of his head became a cloud of bloody mist, brain matter, and bits of bone flying away from me. His body followed the remains of his head into the room.

I stepped into the house. I heard from further in, “Who was it, Ralphie, dear?” June came around the corner in a housecoat that barely covered her breasts and nakedness. She stared at me and then her body flew back into the house following the .45 caliber exit wound in her back. I went to the body, but there was no life in it. I put an extra shell in her head.

I went upstairs to the first bedroom. A young boy lay face down on the bed, bloody welts covered his back. There was a bloody broom handle and belt lying next to him. Stan, I thought. I wondered why the county had returned him to be abused, again. I put the pistol in my back pocket and wrote out a check for him in the amount of $100,000. I didn't know if it would get to him, but figured the thought counted.

I went to the next bedroom and knew it was Bobby's. Mostly, because it was bereft of anything that might have indicated he once lived there.

I went to the next bedroom. In the half light of the table light, I could see a teen girl masturbating. I pumped three bullets into her chest and head.

I went to the next bedroom and in the dimness of a nightlight I saw an older teen girl asleep. I turned on the light and in her bleariness to wake I also shot her three times.

My duty finished, I went out to my car and drove away.

At Highway 18, I turned toward the city. I headed for the inter-agency police service office and entered their parking garage. I found a stall and parked the car. I looked at the .45 and decided it would be best to take it in.

At the desk, actually a tall counter, I said to a sleepy looking officer, “Hello, I've just committed a murder and want to report it.”

“Why is it always Thursday nights that brings out the loonies,” another officer said.

“Oh, no, you don't understand,” I said. “See, I brought the weapon.”

I pulled it out as seven police officers dove for cover. I said, “I'm putting it on the counter and I'll go over here.”

Two officers came up and cuffed me. They led me back into an interview room; “Okay, let's start this from the beginning,” an officer said.

“Name?”

“Charles Edward Hughes.”

“Address?”

“1628 Honor Farm Road, Twin Forks.”

“Oh, shit, it's the Twin Forks case.”

“The victims you shot. Where are they?” another officer asked.

“36235 SE 176^th Street, South Fork.”

“That would be the Larson residence,” the other officer said. “Wait here, we'll be awhile.”

“Oh, go ahead, I've nowhere to go,” I said.

After a number of minutes, probably closer to an hour, an officer came into the room with a man in a suit.

“Mr. Hughes,” a man in a dark suit said. “How are you?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“I am Deputy Prosecutor Harold Weinstein,” the man in the suit said. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you by the court. Do you understand what I just said?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to hold you over on possible charges of four counts of suspected homicide. The boy, did you hit him?”

“No.”

“But, you left the check. Why?”

“I figured he would need help in the future.”

“Guilty feelings that you killed his parents?”

“His parents? But, Frank came to my house and committed suicide.”

“That man wasn't the children's father. Are you familiar with the term ménage à trois?”

“Yes?”

“His parents were in that sort of arrangement.”

“Well, I'll be, and always coming off as being so religious.”

“Officer, process Mr. Hughes into the lock-up.”

After I had been put in my cell, I had that strange feeling I'd had the previous week. I’d been having them a lot, but didn’t think much of them as I concentrated putting the end of me in order. Even though he wasn’t aware of my intentions, my nephew agreed to see things to the end.

Then a searing pain shot through my head blinding me. The last thing I remembered was falling over onto my side and off the bed onto the floor.

“Charlie, time to go,” Billy’s voice said.

“But, how?” I asked looking up at him. Nothing made sense anymore.

“Charlie, time to go. Come on, stand up and come with me.”

I stood and turned to look at my body lying on the floor.

“Come, Charlie, take my hand.”

And, we walked out into a sun-filled meadow. To my right Bobby was walking and he came over to us.

“Bobby, this is my husband, Billy,” I said.

“I know, we’ve met. Can I walk with you?” Bobby asked.

“Why of course,” Billy said. “Have you see Nana?”

“Yes, she’s over where the dogs are playing,” Bobby said. “I wasn’t allowed to go in because of all the puppies.”

We came to a little angle that was trying to hold up a broadsword that was over a foot taller as it was. It looked up at me and said, “I know you. You're an Angel of Retribution, too. Will you carry my sword? It's awfully heavy.”

“Sure, little one, it’ll be my pleasure,” I said as I picked up the sword. It was as light as a feather.

The angel flew up and landed on Bobby’s shoulder where it said, “You were hurt very badly, but I’ll cure you of your distress.”

“Thank you,” Bobby said.

I held out the sword and it burst into flame. I watched the fire as it consolidated and flew up into the heavens before arcing back to ground out in the top of Bobby’s head.

“He doesn’t like it when we play with the swords,” the angel said. “He really doesn’t like it, but I think Robert needed it. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, and I’ll explain if necessary,” I said.

“Oh, don’t worry, they won’t ask. They just know,” the little angel said.

We continued our journey toward our unknown goal. The little angel continued to sit on Bobby’s shoulder and the sword of retribution continued to flame up and ground out somewhere in the distance.

After a long while we finally came to an impossibly high stone wall where hundreds of humans were clustered around a single gate through the wall. The three of us, the little angel, and me holding the sword stayed in line as it slowly approached the gate. Every now and then the sword would flare up to a bright flame and then shoot out toward the gate where it would ground out on some unfortunate human waiting to get in who would instantly disappear in a flash of flame. There didn’t seem to be anything I could do to control the flame, so I continued to hold the sword up before me.

When we were about a quarter of the distance to the gate a rather tall angel swooped down and landed in front of me. It stared into my eyes and then placed its right hand on my forehead. I consciously felt all of what must have been sins pulled out of me; and, then there I stood holding the sword of retribution in front of the angel. Flame burst out of the sword and grounded out into various people around me who, also, disappeared in flashes of flame.

The angel stared into my eyes and I knew I had done good. I was now a committed member of the Angels of Retribution. I was taken up by the angel and softly dropped into a circle of shadows of former humans standing around a golden throne. An impossibly old being looked down at me and smiled. I was taken up once again and deposited in a small meadow not more than twenty feet from the wall. I had my sword, but I also had Billy, Bobby, and the littlest Angel of Retribution. I pushed the sword into the ground as other angels served us bread, cheese, and wine. I knew that eternity would be sweet.

END