“Spit,” the man demands.
Sal obliges, cupping her saliva in her right palm, where it mingles with
the blood pooling from the cut across it.
She slaps it into his hand, where their fingers grasp each other firmly. “Sealed,” the man says, confirming it is
done. His eyes flare for a second, flame
red, across the black enlarged pupil, before returning to an indiscriminate
grey.
“I leave it there?” Sal asks, casting her eyes towards the gravel
where the crossroads intersect, which shows recent signs of digging. The spade she brought with her is still
standing in it, partially buried, enabling it to maintain its upright position. He nods.
“Don’t I get to know your name?”
“Nice try, doll,” the dark suited man says. “You don’t need it; not now. Plus, if I tell you, you’ve got leverage for
as long as I give you, although it isn’t that long to play with in real terms. Doubt you’d have enough time to do much
damage with it. Still, never try to play
a player. I’ve been around too long to
fall for that. You’ll know my name
before the end. Once you do, you won’t
want to – but it’ll be far too late by then.”
He smiles at her, without apparent guile, though it does not reach his deadened
eyes. Sal does not smile in response. “Still your man though, given you’re getting
what you wanted.”
Sal opens her mouth to protest, before shutting it again,
cutting off the words. “I’m used to high
stakes,” she says, instead.
Surprisingly, it produces an impromptu laugh from the bony stranger.
“Can’t push the ante past this point,” the man says. “You’ve dealt yourself the dead man’s
hand.” His tone is mocking now that the
deal is sealed and there is no reneging from it.
“Can’t live forever anyway.
Wouldn’t want to,” Sal responds.
The words falter as she breaks off, leaving the silence to speak for her
once she is done.
“Hmmm,” the man says, pointedly.
“When will it take?” Sal asks sharply. “You’ve got yourself your deal; it’s
done. What about Sara?”
“Already taken care of, my sweet. See for yourself shortly. Good as new.
She’ll live out a healthy life.”
“Minus a mother.” Sal’s tone is bitter, briefly.
“You knew the stakes when you signed. Gambling’s always been a fool’s game. Take it from an expert; I’ve seen enough of
them to know by now. All players in,
seats open, playing for the high one; born to lose in life.”
“Nice to know that’s how you get your kicks,” Sal says.
“I haven’t even started,” the man replies. “There’s the second round yet. You’ll like me much better than my final
friends, I can promise you that. They like
to play more than me, though they’re less polite about it.”
Sal shudders at the words, though she tries to keep from
shaking so it can be seen. “Will I see
them?” she asks. “The hounds?”
“Yes.”
“Will I know when they’re coming?”
“You have about a year, give or take. No more, possibly less.”
“But will you warn me?” Sal prompts, again. “Do I have time to prepare, to make plans?”
“Not so much,” the man says.
“Unfair, you think? Maybe
so. I told you though - I always make
sure I hold the winning hand.”
“The ace,” Sal says.
“The only card I ever need,” the man agrees.
“My need,” Sal
clarifies.
“Precisely so,” he says.
“Can I leave now?” Sal asks.
“Enjoy your time,” the man, whose name she does not yet
know, invites. “You’ll hear them
coming. They tend to bay when hunting
their prey.”
“Sara can’t see,” Sal warns.
“Not part of the deal,” is his response. “You’ll have to take your chances – and,
after all, how will you know one way or the other, when all’s said and done?”
Sal turns on her heel swiftly, before turning back for a
final glance. He is gone. She does not know if recovering the cylinder
containing the graveyard dirt covering the sliver of bone and her photo from
underground will help. She has less than
a year to find a loophole. All part of
the game, perhaps.
No comments:
Post a Comment