Suspense, Mystery, Horror and Thriller Fiction - Suspense Magazine

it.”
CHapTER 2
3:40 a.m.
Poospatuck Indian Reservation,
Long Island, New York
beige ten-year-old Buick Century
A pulled into the dark gravel lot of
Squaw’s Smoke Shop and parked under
a scraggly stand of trees. The “shop” was
nothing more than a dilapidated trailer
covered with faded cardboard signs
advertising “tax free” cigarettes.
A tall man with black, lifeless eyes
and a pockmarked face got out of the
car and scanned the lot. He wore a
camouflage hunting jacket and his heavy
boots thumped loudly as he walked up
the wooden steps to the trailer’s door.
He knocked and a few moments later
Bobby Ray Cherry’s unshaven face
peered out the window, and then broke
into a toothy grin.
“I been waitin’ on you,” Bobby Ray
said, beaming, as he opened the door. “It
went perfect.”
The visitor with the pockmarked
face took another quick look around
him, then followed Bobby Ray inside.
The trailer was divided roughly in half.
To the right, a beat-up cash register
sat on top of a long counter, behind it
stood rusted metal shelves filled with
cigarette cartons. To the left, a frayed
green curtain hung from the ceiling. A
handwritten sign taped to the curtain
read “Employees Only.” Bobby Ray
led the man through the curtain, then
plopped down on the ripped sofa and
put his feet up on the coffee table. Also
on the table, next to a rumpled copy of
Hustler, was a laptop computer, a wallet,
and a plastic security badge with a photo
and the caption “Law Clerk—Parker
Sinclair.”
Without a word, the pockmarkedface
visitor slid Bobby Ray’s feet aside,
picked up the wallet and rifled through
the cards and bills, then opened and
closed the laptop without turning it on.
He nodded approvingly then reached
SuspenseMagazine.com
into his back pocket, pulled out an
envelope, and threw it on the table next
to Sinclair’s wallet.
“Here’s the rest of what I owe you.”
Bobby Ray smiled as he picked up
the envelope, ripped it open with his
thumb, and sank back into the sofa.
The visitor gave a dry cough. “You
got something to drink?”
“Help yourself,” said Bobby Ray,
pointing to a small refrigerator, not
looking up from counting his money.
Going over to the refrigerator, the
visitor made some rummaging sounds
while pulling a small bottle and a folded
bandanna from his jacket. He quietly
poured the liquid from the bottle onto
the bandanna.
An instant later, he had Bobby Ray
in a choke hold, with the bandanna
clamped over his mouth and nose.
He held on while Bobby Ray let out a
muffled yell, bucked and kicked, and
went limp.
When he woke up, Bobby Ray found
himself duct-taped to a chair.
“What the fuck is goin’ on?” he
sputtered.
“Who knows about me?” the
pockmarked-face visitor said in a calm
tone. “Who did you tell about me?”
“I didn’t say nothin’ to nobody!”
“Tell me the truth, and nobody has a
problem.” From his ankle he unsheathed
a short, double-edged hunting knife.
Bobby Ray’s eyes widened. “I didn’t
say shit!” He struggled to free his arms
and began rocking the chair from sideto-side.
The pockmarked-face visitor walked
slowly to the chair, casting a shadow
over his frightened prisoner. When
Bobby Ray continued to thrash about,
the visitor placed the tip of the blade at
the center of his forehead. Bobby Ray
instantly froze.
“Who’d you talk to about me?”
“I told you, I didn’t say a word, I
swear—”
The visitor cut around Bobby Ray’s
left eye, down his cheek to the center of
his chin. He liked to start with the face
because there was always a lot of blood.
Bobby Ray screamed in agony.
“Who’d you tell about me?”
“No one,” Bobby Ray screamed. His
face was soaked in blood and he started
to cry.
“Who?” the visitor’s gravelly voice
boomed.
Bobby Ray just sat limp in the chair
and whimpered.
The visitor crouched down, so the
two were eye-level. Bobby Ray held his
gaze for a moment then looked down at
his lap.
“Look at me,” the visitor demanded.
When Bobby Ray did not comply, he
grabbed a fistful of his stringy hair and
jerked his head up. The visitor’s black
eyes stared intently into Bobby Ray’s.
“I’m gonna give you one more
chance, Bobby Ray. Who’d you tell?”
“I . . . didn’t . . . tell . . . nobody.”
The visitor stood and gave an
exasperated shake of the head. “How
about your girlfriend? Did you tell her?”
“She don’t know nothin’ about
you!” Bobby Ray said in a desperate
tone, spittles of blood shooting from his
mouth.
“That’s not quite true,” the visitor
said. “Britney and I go way back. She
didn’t tell you about when we were
kids?”
Bobby Ray gave him a puzzled look.
“You know what, Bobby Ray? I
believe you. You know why?”
Slumped over in the chair, his face
and shirt drenched in blood, Bobby Ray
just looked at the man.
“I believe you because it’s the same
thing that whore Britney told me a hour
ago right before I cut her throat.” He
then walked over to Bobby Ray, placed
the blade at his neck, and slit the flesh
from ear-to-ear. After carefully wiping
the blade on Bobby Ray’s shirt, he
resheathed the knife in his boot.
By daybreak, Bobby Ray Cherry
and his girlfriend, Britney Goodhart,
were buried in a wooded area behind a
rest stop on Montauk Highway, a mile
from the reservation.
Driving back toward the city, the
visitor punched a number into his
disposable cell phone and calmly spoke
into the speaker, “It’s done.” �
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