Reiser slid the pen he was holding back into his jacket pocket. He leaned forward. “See, Atlas, here’s the thing. Under normal circumstances, you’d be right. Who looks for coupons, right? Who has time to call customers back and ask them about damaged DVDs? But in this case, I made the time.”

  Atlas tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.

  “I found a few instances,” Reiser continued, “where a guy gave refunds for damaged rentals but the customer never received the money. The customer didn’t remember the movie being damaged, either.”

  Atlas opened his mouth, but Reiser held up his hand, leaning back and turning away. “No, Atlas, this is important. I want you to hear it.”

  Atlas remained quiet.

  “I figure,” Reiser said, returning his gaze to Atlas’s, “that this place doesn’t pay much and a guy might need a little cash to make ends meet. You know, just until he gets things squared away or gets a raise. So maybe this guy took some money from the till, doing these fake refunds, just to get by for a while. Could you see a guy doing that, Atlas?”

  Atlas nodded frantically. “Sure,” he croaked.

  “So can I. And it’s only a few bucks here and there. Not like the company is going to go bankrupt over it.” Reiser shrugged. “But the company has to know who they have working for them. They have to know that if their employees make a mistake, those employees will be honest about it. That means a lot to the company. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” Atlas whispered.

  “Have you ever given out a refund and hung on to the money, Atlas? Even one time?”

  Atlas paused. He struggled to think it through. The guy already knew. Atlas was screwed. That is, unless he could spin it so that he could keep his job.

  “Yeah,” he admitted hoarsely.

  “I know,” Reiser said, nodding kindly. “But thanks for being honest about it. Now, I’ve found three instances of these false refunds so far, Atlas, totaling eleven dollars. If I look, will I find more?”

  Atlas shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “Five hundred?”

  “No!” Atlas protested. His voice lost its hoarse whisper. “Not even close.”

  “Three hundred?”

  Atlas shook his head. “No. Maybe seventy or eighty, I guess.”

  “And the coupon deal? How many of those?”

  “Forty or so.”

  Reiser made a couple of notes on the page.

  “Am I going to get fired over this?” Atlas asked. “Because I was only borrowing the money, like you said. Just until I got things straightened out. Then I was going to pay it back.”

  Reiser slid a clean notepad and a pen in front of him. “Write it down, Atlas. I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To tell the manager that you were honest with me.”

  Atlas nodded. That would help with the job.

  Reiser left the room. Atlas scratched out words on the page. He outlined the scams. Then he wrote what he thought was a particularly eloquent paragraph explaining why he’d done it. Winston was a push-over. He’d let Atlas keep his job. He’d have to pay the money back, but he’d keep his job.

  Minutes droned by. Sweat popped out on Atlas’s brow. Another drop rolled coolly down the center of his back. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Winston would fire him. Maybe—

  The door opened and Reiser walked in. He immediately picked up Atlas’s statement and scanned it. He nodded, satisfied. “Good,” he said.

  “Did you talk to Winston?” Atlas asked him.

  “Yes.”

  A tall, uniformed patrol officer with jet black hair appeared in the doorway. He stepped directly next to Atlas. “Stand up,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”

  “I’m…wha…?” Atlas snapped his eyes to Reiser as the uniformed officer pulled him to his feet. “But it was only a few bucks!”

  Reiser looked down at his file. “More like three hundred and some. That’s if you didn’t lowball me.”

  “Three hundred?”

  Reiser nodded. “Do the math, genius.”

  Atlas stood shocked as the handcuffs ratcheted onto his wrists. He had no reply.

  “Thanks, Gio,” Reiser told the other officer.

  “No problem, Will,” the uniform responded. “Hope you’re enjoying your retirement.”

  “I am,” Reiser said.

  “You want him booked on first theft or second?”

  Reiser glanced down at his file again. “You know, I’m not sure he made it to the fifteen hundred dollar mark, so let’s just go second.”

  “Fine with me,” Gio said. “It’s a felony either way.”

  “A felony?” Atlas sputtered.

  Reiser smiled, his eyes full of satisfaction. “Yes, a felony. And since you’ve already been convicted once before of a similar felony, I don’t think this ride will be so easy. You won’t spend it out at Geiger picking dandelions and playing badminton. You’ll go to a real prison this time.”

  Atlas’s heart thundered in his chest. He tried to swallow, but the dryness was back.

  Reiser gathered up his file folders. “Of course, you’ll do all right in the joint,” he said, speaking the two words with dramatic sarcasm. “Smart guy like you.”

  The Sign of the Burning Moon

  2009

  "Hell of a sight," Jess said. He gazed from the front porch at the rising moon. The orb shone white-hot on the eastern horizon behind grey clouds that filled the sky like dirty cotton.

  Darryl took a pull of his Coors and grunted.

  “Looks like the moon is on fire,” Jess said. “All them clouds is smoke rolling off the flames.”

  “Ain’t you just the poet,” said Darryl. He chuckled into his beer bottle. “An Indian poet.”

  Jess ignored the jibe. Darryl was mean, but mostly just ignorant. If it didn’t involve a woman, a truck or beer, Darryl couldn’t find the beauty in anything. And nothing made him feel guilty.

  Jess saw the beauty in almost everything and correspondingly, pretty much everything wracked him with guilt.

  “Moonrise like that,” Jess whispered, “it’s like God trying to tell the world something.”

  “To hell with the world,” Darryl sneered. He took another long swig of the Coors, sighed and belched. “Anyway, God wants to tell me something, he can start with the lottery numbers.”

  Jess took a sip of his beer while Darryl laughed at his own joke. He wondered for a moment why he drank the foul stuff. Wondered why he hung out with Darryl. Why he never told Darryl no, not even that night when they’d passed that girl hitch-hiking, and Darryl flashed his trademark grin at Jess and picked her up. He’d known what would happen, but he stood by and did nothing.

  And now the moon was on fire for everyone to see. God’s way of crying out, of pointing a finger.

  “Maybe it is a sign,” Jess whispered to himself, but Darryl heard him.

  “Yeah, it’s a sign, all right,” he said, hurling his empty out into the yard. “A sign I need another beer.”

  “I’ll get one.” Jess set his own bottle on the porch rail and stood. He walked inside the trailer. He paused beside the scarred white fridge. His eyes drifted to the rickety dining table against the wall. His gaze settled on the overflowing ashtray. Next to it lay a petite, gold keychain with a picture of the Space Needle dangling from the opposite end. He wondered if she’d been from Seattle or if she had only visited there. He hoped it had been her home. It bothered him to think that her memento had become Darryl’s.

  It bothered him to think that the key chain was all that was left of her.

  Guilt washed over him every time he saw Darryl finger that keychain, a faraway look in his eye.

  Jess looked away in shame. He reached for the fridge door with a shaking hand. Maybe he needed to have another one, too.

  “Hey ho, Tonto!” Darryl called from the porch. “Where’s that brew?”

  Jess paused.

  “Better hurry up before you miss some other sign,” Darryl snickered, affecting an accent. “That’d be mighty bad medicine.”

  Jess lowered his hand.

  The moon is burning, for all to see.

  He moved away from the fridge. His eyes fell on the keychain as he lifted the phone. His hands did not shake as he dialed 911.

  Trails of Red

  2010

  After I finished stabbing and cutting her, I made love to her. Her bloody little gasps punctuated every moment of our intimacy and I knew I was taking her somewhere she’d never been before. When my climax overtook me, I kept my eyes open, staring into her eyes, deep and hard, watching her life’s light fade.

  When I was finished, I rolled off of her and headed upstairs for a shower. I glanced over my shoulder at her on the way up the stairs. Her eyes had closed and her still form lay on the heavy blue plastic. Thick smears of blood brushed her body and more blood was pooled beside her. She was finished.

  I showered, turning the water up as hot as it would go. The thermostat maxed out at 110, but I don’t think the water heater actually managed to heat the water to that temperature. Nonetheless, the stinging heat washed my body clean, stripping me of blood and sin. I stood under the showerhead and closed my eyes, breathing in the steam. I let my mind wander, seeing again the seduction and the act. This one had been very good. Perhaps the best yet.

  When the hot water started to fade, I shut it off. I quickly toweled off and slipped on my robe and a pair of thongs. If the hot water wasn’t going to hold up, I would just have to sit and soak in the hot tub for a while.

  I paused at the back door, thinking that maybe I should clean up the mess first. I had sawing and packaging to do, followed by scrubbing and wiping and then a long drive. A soak in the hot tub would feel good after all that work.

  I smiled. The beauty of owning a Jacuzzi was that I could sit in it whenever I wanted. So I’d soak now and after I finished my work.

  I flipped the deadbolt and opened the door. The cold air bit into my face and wet scalp as soon as I stepped outside. There hadn’t been any fresh snow in a couple of weeks and the temperature had hovered in the teens and low twenties. I pulled the door shut behind me. My nostrils stuck together when I inhaled, so I switched to breathing through my mouth.

  I took the cover off of the spa. Tendrils of steam rose from the water, along with the strong odor of chlorine. That was good. More cleansing.

  A quick glance over my shoulder ensured that Mrs. Winter wasn’t sitting on her back porch spying on me. She drank her coffee there in the morning and her wine in the evening and it was my considered opinion that she took an undue interest in my backyard activities. Her husband had been a cop, which could have added to the majesty of my work, but he’d died more than ten years ago and I’d barely started at my work then.

  Secure in my privacy, I hung my robe on the rack, slipped off my thongs and settled into the hot water.

  It was paradise. The jets massaged my muscles and the water itself further scourged that woman’s evil from my skin. I imagined that I could see her blackness rising in the steam from the water and drifting away in the still, winter air. Or perhaps it was her soul. Maybe I captured it in the course of our love-making and bound it to my skin and this glorious heat was setting her free.

  Foolish thoughts. But I had the luxury of such thoughts at times like these. Practical issues arise during the seduction and capture and then again in the disposal. In that small window in between, I could afford to be spiritual.

  My hair felt a little heavy. I reached up and touched it with my hand. Dozens of tiny icicles had formed at the tips of my hair, still damp from the shower. It must have gotten colder since I brought her home.

  I dunked my head under the water, melting away the little icicles. After a few minutes, larger icicles had formed, so I had to dip my head under again. I sat and watched the steam rise until it was time to go under a third time, then decided I should get out. There was work to do.

  I didn’t feel the cold right away, though I saw the ribbons of steam coming off my skin. I pushed my feet into my thongs. The foam rubber felt like wooden clogs. When I wrapped the robe around my body, the material was stiff with cold, causing me to shiver.

  The cover went back on the tub easily enough, but one corner flap caught the edge of the tub and folded underneath. I struggled to straighten it out, the cold in the air and from the stiff vinyl biting into my fingers. The effort caused my robe to fall open and the still, cold air blasted my chest.

  I fixed the cover and pulled the robe tightly around me. That took the harsh air off my skin, but the cold in the material was only slightly less uncomfortable. The tips of my fingers ached, a sure signal that frostbite was on the way. I made for the back door.

  I had to get the saw and my safety glasses. Then I’d need the garbage bags and the duct tape, along with—

  My hand slipped off the doorknob.

  I blinked. I didn’t think my hand would be that clumsy, even in the cold and after messing with the vinyl cover. I deliberately grabbed onto the knob with my whole hand and squeezed. Then I turned the knob.

  It moved a quarter of an inch and stopped.

  The door was locked.

  A jolt of electric panic shot through my stomach. Locked? Why was it locked?

  I tried it again, then a third time. The knob jiggled, but didn’t turn. It was locked, no question. I stood at the door dumbly, dripping and shivering, and replayed my earlier actions in my mind. I’d unlocked the deadbolt, but not the knob, I realized. And the knob will still open from the inside, even if it is locked on the outside.

  Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Without hesitation, I stepped back and drove my shoulder into the door. My footing was unsure on the icy stair and I couldn’t generate enough power to force the door open. Besides, the door was a high quality model with a deep deadbolt, just like the front door. I couldn’t afford any burglaries, for even more reasons than my neighbors.

  I threw my shoulder into the door twice more, then kicked at it clumsily several times. My thong-clad foot was even less effective than my shoulder and the impact against the door hurt.

  With an effort, I forced myself to stop and think. In-between time was over and I had to be practical again.

  I had a spare key hidden among the rocks near the front door. But that was buried under six inches of snow. Besides, I didn’t want Mrs. Winter or any of my other neighbors seeing me out in front of my house in my robe. They’d ask too many questions. They might even want to come inside. Once that happened, I’d have to finish them, too, and that was hunting too close to home.

  The basement window, then. It was blacked out, but I could break it and slip through into the basement. I could board it up after and replace it later, once my work was done.

  I padded down the stairs toward the window. The sound of my thongs striking against my heel made a dull thwack. My shivering was more intense and I pulled the robe tight to my body, trying to hold in my body heat.

  The window was ten feet past the edge of my deck, a small, black rectangle low against the back of my white house. My feet sank into the crusty, powdery snow when I stepped off the deck, but I didn’t feel the cold. It was more like powdery sand on the sides of my feet.

  The window was smaller than I thought it would be. I hoped it would be big enough to slide through. I squatted down next to the window. Even though I knew it would be locked, I tried pushing at it anyway. The latch didn’t move. I balled up my fist and drove it into one of the two small panes of glass. The cold made it hard to make a solid fist, so what struck the glass resembled a claw more than a fist.

  The glass shattered on the second try. The top half of the pane broke out and my hand pushed into the soundproofing material I’d pressed up into the window when I created my work room years ago. I shoved it backward and it fell out of sight. A stream of light shone past my hand and into the dim basement.

  That’s when I saw the blood.

  Mine, not hers.

  I retracted my hand and gaped at the palm. A long, curved gash sliced across the meaty part of my palm. I must have cut it on the glass. Blood flowed freely from the wound. It looked like it would need stitches.

  No matter. I was ambidextrous and my left hand could sew as well as my right.

  I balled my hand into a fist again, hoping to stem the flow of blood. Then I used the fist to tap out the remaining broken glass from the pane. The pieces of glass fell away in huge chunks. Some of the pieces bounced off of the ledge and fell to the basement floor, sending back a tinkling sound.

  The latch to the window was stiff and I was at an awkward angle. My bloody fingers slipped off the cool metal several times before I thought to switch to my left hand. The angle was still no good.

  I drew in a shuddering breath. My shivering was becoming more pronounced and my hands and feet felt inflated and achy. I had to get inside soon.

  With a grunt, I lay down on the ground next to the house. The robe between the ground and my body seemed like frail protection, but I had to get a better angle on the latch to force it open. I reached in with my left hand. I hoped for a draft of warm air on my hand as I worked, but I knew that the icy air from outside was rolling into the basement through the open window like a waterfall.

  The blood on the latch was wet, cold and sticky. I fumbled for a grip and bore down, pushing as hard as I could. The metal on the latch bit into my fingers dully, but I ignored it. The latch didn’t budge at first, but on my third hard push, it groaned and creaked and then slid off.

  A thrill shot through me. I pulled the window outward, opening it completely. It stopped abruptly at about a forty-five degree angle. I jerked on it again, but it held fast. I looked closer and saw that it was attached on both sides with metal rails. The rails were screwed into the sides of the frame.

  I cursed. I should have known that. But I hadn’t looked at the window in a decade. Not since I blacked out the glass and put in the soundproofing.

 

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