Little Killer A to Z Read online

  Table of Contents

  Other Bell Bridge Books titles from Howard Odentz

  Little Killers A to Z

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A is for Andy Who Watches His Dad

  B is for Boris, and Rifka, and Vlad

  C is for Cassie Who Owes Michael Myers

  D is for Dan Who Gets Picked for the Pyres

  E is for Emmett Who’s Always Behind

  F is for Fern Who Has Murder in Mind

  G is for Gil All Alone and Unhappy

  H is for Hope Gone Ice Fishing for Crappie

  I is for Ivy Who Lives on the Cape

  J is for Jan on a Fire Escape

  K is for Kieran Who Fights in a Ring

  L is for Lee Who Wants Only One Thing

  M is for Maura Who Builds a Partition

  N is for Nancy Who Questions Tradition

  O is for Oz Who Has Piss Poor Genetics

  P is for Pam Who’s A Wiz With Cosmetics

  Q is for Quinn Who’s an Animal Lover

  R is for Rae Sent Away to Recover

  S is for Stevie Who Must Pay His Dues

  T is for Tommy with Nothing to Lose

  U is for Uma Who Laughs at a Tumble

  V is for Vicky Who Sees the World Crumble

  W is for William Who’s Smitten a Little

  X is for Xander Who’s Covered in Spittle

  Y is for Yuri Who’s Prone to Predation

  Z is for Zina Who Suffers Starvation

  Please visit these websites for more information about Howard Odentz

  Acknowledgements

  About Howard Odentz

  Other Bell Bridge Books titles from Howard Odentz

  Bloody Bloody Apple

  The Dead (a Lot) Series

  Dead (a Lot)

  Wicked Dead (coming soon)

  Little Killers

  A to Z

  by

  Howard Odentz

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-725-0

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-705-2

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2016 by Howard Odentz

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites

  BelleBooks.com

  BellBridgeBooks.com

  ImaJinnBooks.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Girl (manipulated) © Ateliersommerland | Dreamstime.com

  :Ekla:01:

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate ‘Little Killers A to Z’ to my mother, Joline “Jolly” Odentz. Of course I can’t say, ‘Thanks for the inspiration’, because that would just be wrong. In truth, Jolly is my biggest fan and greatest supporter. I love and admire her creativity, honesty, and intelligence. Still, she often shakes her head after reading my work and asks, “Where do you come up with this stuff?” In answer, I humbly plead the fifth.

  A is for Andy

  Who Watches His Dad

  THE MAN FELL on the driveway twenty minutes ago.

  I saw him slip as I watched from the kitchen window. His right leg went out in front of him and his left leg slid backwards and turned in a way that a leg isn’t supposed to turn.

  He thrashed around on the ground before trying to get himself into a sitting position, but couldn’t. Maybe it was because the ice was too slippery, or maybe it was because of something else.

  I heard him scream from inside the house. The man has always been loud like that.

  The dogs were outside playing in the snow when he fell. The old yellow one with the cloudy eye didn’t even notice. The black one stopped for a moment and stared at the man but quickly became distracted by the falling flakes. Both dogs jumped and snapped at each other before eventually swimming through the white drifts to the other side of the barn.

  They disappeared behind my mother’s old Datsun. No one has started it since she went to Hawaii last October. She didn’t really go to Hawaii, but that’s what the man always says when someone dies.

  They’ve moved to Hawaii.

  I’m not worried about the dogs. They’ll come back when they get cold enough. They always do.

  Now, twenty minutes later, I haven’t moved. I just watch, and wait, and think.

  The man is wearing his thick Dickies coat that he got at the Farmer’s Co-op, and a pair of those high Muck Boots that he was pissed about buying. He said they cost more than a good time down on Lyman Street in Springfield.

  That’s how the man always talks—with a mouthful of trash.

  My cheek and my mouth still hurt from last night. I’m hungry but I don’t think I can chew. Even though I filled the wood stove in the basement before bedtime, the man told me he was still cold. I tried to explain that the fire was just starting up again, but he didn’t like the sound of my voice and tried to make me swallow my words with his fist.

  My stomach gurgles and I want breakfast. Instead, I sip on instant coffee as I watch him through the window. He doesn’t have any gloves on. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because he thinks he’s tougher than the cold. The man always thinks he’s tougher than everyone and everything.

  He keeps raising one of his hands and flapping it around as the snow falls. When a gust of wind howls across the front pasture, he brings his naked hand down again, maybe to stuff it inside his Dickies coat.

  If the clock on the wall is right, the school bus will be by in twenty minutes. Mrs. Duke, the ancient bus driver who drove the school bus even back when the man was my age, won’t be able to see the part of the driveway where he has fallen. There’s a big, blue pick-up, all dents and rust, that’s blocking the view from the road. Besides, the house and the barn sit at the back of the field.

  No one can see that far.

  No one even wants to.

  I have to make sure to get on the bus when it comes. The school has already called the man too many times about me missing days.

  He told Mrs. Geldart, the school secretary, that Mr. Andrew Rumford has chores to do and doesn’t need any more learning.

  She told the man that Mr. Andrew Rumford can make that choice for himself when he’s sixteen.

  He told Mrs. Geldart that Mr. Andrew Rumford, the school, and everyone else can go fuck themselves.

  Again, that’s just how he talks.

  If we lived in the suburbs instead of the hill towns, I think the school might care about me more, but not up here. Lots of kids in these parts are dropping out to make cash, get knocked up, or push heroin because it’s cheap and popular. Besides, the school doesn’t want to press the man too much about me.

  I belong to him until my next birthday, and no one messes with rabid animals.

  Today, though, I have to get on that bus.

  The man tries to roll sideways and waves his hand in the air again before screaming. This time all I hear is a whistling on the icy wind. The snow is coming down faster now. Severa
l inches have accumulated since the man has fallen.

  I keep the radio on just to make sure that there aren’t any last-minute school cancellations. Most other towns down in the valley have already cancelled, but my school can’t. There was a fire in the custodian’s basement last month and we missed almost fifteen days of class. The school district says we can’t miss any more this year, so Mrs. Duke is going to be driving no matter what.

  Besides, the snow is supposed to stop later this morning, but the bitter cold is going to last.

  I finish my instant coffee and wince at the pain in my mouth and under my eye. I don’t have to look in a mirror to know there’s a mottled blue and yellow stain there. My face has been that color before. I know the drill.

  As snow splatters against the kitchen window, I go to the basement door and undo the rusted bolt that the man screwed into the jam after my mother went to Hawaii. It creaks open and I stare down into a black abyss. I’m afraid of the basement and what can happen down there. Still, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and steel myself against the fear.

  One by one I carefully tread down the stairs. The third one squeaks like it always does, a combination of an unfortunate mouse under the man’s heel along with unbearable neglect. At the bottom step I pull the string and squint as a naked light bulb bursts into life.

  There’s a pile of wood in the far corner of the basement next to a monster wood stove. I quickly grab a dozen or so pieces, open the cast-iron lid, and throw them into its burning belly. My heart is beating faster every second I stay in the basement. I avoid looking at the other corner with its thick ropes and belts hanging on the wall, but I can’t stop my brain from knowing what’s there. As nightmare images begin dancing inside my head, I force them away and focus on the stove.

  It’s my job to stoke the fire before I leave for school. Today, I have to do everything the same as always. I can’t miss a single step.

  Back upstairs, I pull my own Dickies coat off of the row of pegs next to the front door and shove my feet into an old pair of work boots. My eyes catch sight of my mother’s Mucks with the pink rims, toes against the wall, which will never be worn again. That’s the man’s fault. He stayed out late then came home on fire the night before she went to Hawaii. The paramedics think she fell and cracked her head open on the living room hearth. I know differently, but that seems so far away it’s a lifetime ago.

  A lightning bolt of pain runs through my mouth and cheek, but I do my best to ignore it. Instead, I pull on an oversized knit cap that I found for a quarter at the Colrain Thrift Shoppe. Then I put on an old pair of the man’s work gloves that are torn in more places than not. I can’t make snowballs with them because cold seeps through the holes. Besides, any time I’m asked to come make a snowman or build a fort, the man doesn’t let me go. He makes me clean the stalls, stack hay, or collect eggs. He makes me work until my hands through the holes are blue and raw.

  “No delays at Mount Tom Regional today,” the Drake & O’Malley guy says through the radio. I think the Drake guy is talking. The O’Malley guy sounds just like the man so I don’t like listening to him. The Drake guy seems nicer. “Sorry,” he says through the little box. “Wrap up tight. It’s a real flag-pole licker.”

  He’s talking about that Christmas movie where a boy is triple-dog-dared to stick his tongue against a flag pole in the freezing temperature. His tongue gets stuck that way because moisture and cold don’t mix. It makes you stick to things like glue.

  The man says that the actor who played the boy has grown up to do nudie films. I don’t know how he knows that. I don’t even know why he cares.

  Outside, the cold and the snow whip against my sore face, but I don’t feel it. I stare at the brown pile on the driveway, trying to see if the man can move or not. He’s not moving right now. If he gets up I can’t get on that bus. Maybe I never will.

  Slowly I walk down the stone path, now six inches deep with snow. I’m quiet and careful. When I’m ten feet away from the man I hear him groan. He lifts one hand again, and I notice the vaguest notion of blue on his fingertips. From here I can see that one of his legs is turned sideways and bent in the middle like how geese fly south in the winter.

  I quickly walk past him.

  “Help,” he cries, but there’s something small and weak about his gravel-filled voice.

  Off in the distance I hear the dogs bark. They love the snow. If I get on the bus before letting them back inside, they’ll just hang out in the hayloft for the day. It’s not like that hasn’t happened before. They’re smart like that.

  Next to the barn is a small tool shed. I kick snow away from the makeshift door before pulling it open and grabbing for the green bucket that I use to water the animals. Next to the shed is a frost-free pump, the kind that doesn’t freeze unless it gets really, really cold, like it might get today.

  I put the bucket underneath the spout and pull up the lever. The nozzle gurgles and water comes splashing out into the bucket. As the handle gets heavier and heavier, I think about last night after I put wood into the stove and what happened next. Then my mind drifts back to last fall when the paramedics’ flashing lights filled the night and threatened to drown out the man’s lies.

  A caricature version of Hawaii flits through my brain.

  When the water is two inches from the top, I push the lever back down, then turn to where the man has fallen, broken, on the driveway.

  Ten seconds later as he moans in a mixture of cold and pain, I throw the bucket of water on him, soaking his skin, his face, and his clothing, and watch as one naked hand starts sticking to the freezing ground.

  He doesn’t make a sound.

  After I put the bucket away, I trudge up to the top of the driveway without any books, just in time to meet Mrs. Duke as she pulls the school bus to a halt by the mail box. “Lookee who’s coming to school today,” she cackles in her cigarette voice as she accordions the orange door, skipping a second to survey my face and cheek. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before. “Will wonders ever cease?”

  “Maybe they will,” I whisper and climb the stairs, walk down the aisle between others who would do the same as me if given half the chance, and sit down next to Barty McMartin, who always has identical bruises to mine on his face.

  I suspect we won’t look so alike after today.

  B is for

  Boris, and Rifka, and Vlad

  I HAVE A GUN.

  All I need to do is pull the trigger and the monsters will go away.

  Bang bang bang, and they’ll all go away.

  Twelve-year-old Boris Denisov watched the three monsters as he stood ten feet back from the front window. The sun hadn’t yet dipped fully beyond Skinner Mountain off in the distance. The yard in rural Hampton Fields was bathed in deep orange. Still, even in the fading light, there was so much dust and dirt caked on the glass that he really didn’t have to hide himself. As far as anyone was concerned, the house looked deserted. The jumble of chairs and debris on the front porch only added to the illusion, and now that the apple tree had split and toppled over during last winter’s snowstorm, the house looked like just another derelict Western Massachusetts building waiting to be burned.

  Rifka and Vlad, his sister and brother, were supposed to be hiding in the basement underneath their family’s stack of steamer trunks with the hidey hole beneath, just like Boris told them to, but they were impatient. They only lasted twenty minutes before climbing out of the cleverly concealed space and quietly making their way to where their brother was watching the monsters.

  They stood by his side for almost a minute before Boris dared to pull his eyes away and glance sideways.

  “I told you to keep hidden,” he hissed at Rifka. She didn’t say anything. She watched the monsters outside, hanging by the fence and staring at the house. Eight-year-old Vlad played at her feet, quietly gurgling and making spit bubbles. He was two years younger than she was and had never been quite right in the head.

  Their father would h
ave called that ‘a silver lining’, but their father was gone now.

  Everyone from the old country was gone.

  “What do they want?” Rifka whispered. Rifka was in the middle, two years younger than Boris and two years older than Vlad.

  “What do any of them want?” Boris said. “They’re monsters.”

  Rifka stared at the floor. In another world she would have told him to shut up for scaring her, but in this world she knew her brother was deadly serious.

  The monsters were ruthless. They brought death and carnage. The monsters had taken their father away. The monsters had killed their mother. They had murdered Auntie Magda and Uncle Yuri, Silent Alexi, the twins, and Lizabeta, too. The list could go on and on, but after a while, she forced herself to forget.

  Her world, such as it had become, was easier that way.

  “What are you going to do?” Rifka whispered to Boris. “Are you going to shoot them?”

  “I don’t know,” Boris answered. “It depends.”

  “Shoot, bang, bang,” said Vlad, almost a little too loudly, and both Boris and Rifka hushed him.

  Outside, the three monsters started pacing back and forth. One of them was gray and grizzled with coarse hair covering its face. Another wore all black. The third carried a huge pack on its back. Rifka could only imagine what was inside. In the end, she knew whatever the monster had, it was nothing good.

  “It depends on what?” Rifka asked.

  Boris shrugged. “It depends on if they come after us.”

  Rifka sucked on her lips until her mouth almost sank into her gaunt face. Why couldn’t the monsters just leave them be? Why did they always have to come and ruin everything?

  “Let me shoot them,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Why?” she whispered. Boris wasn’t her father. He was only two years older. “You’re not the boss of me.”

  He looked down at her, still holding the gun, the smell of oil tingling at the end of his nose. “Because I said so,” he sighed. “And yes, if no one’s left, then the oldest is the boss of you. That’s how it works.”