Page 6 of In You

The Judge and The Jury

Caleb

"Ringo, down!" I snap wearily. "You don't eat for another twenty minutes and you know it."

I rub my achy left elbow from where I was digging it into the shutters last night perched atop that steeper than normal roof, and glance away from my laptop to chastise my bloodhound who's made it his mission to get to the leftover bacon I couldn't eat.

At four years old, Ringo still hasn't settled into adulthood and I don't think he ever will.

Young at heart, he roams my property anxiously, nose to the ground, dying to get into something that'll more than likely cause me to sprout a gray hair or two.

On a thousand acres of land, there's plenty for him to get into, however he hasn't grown out of that clinginess that comes with puppy love, always wanting to be by my side.

"Here. Damn," I say in an annoyed tone, sneaking him a tiny piece of bacon so he can stop drooling on my foot.

I don't miss it because I always make too much breakfast, though I don't know why. It's only ever just been me and the dogs, and I never eat all of it.

Flicking my cigar in the ashtray, I put it between my lips as I lower my hand and pet his head.

I glance over at Tink, the female miniature poodle I inherited when my sister passed away, seeing her laid out in a little dog bed at the edge of the porch, watching the storm roll in.

Her pink bow looks so pretty against her white coat.

My eyes flicker across my property. The sky is a dusky gray, bleeding out to a light charcoal on the horizon past the mountains.

The lashes of rain looks to be about a couple miles out, directly headed my way with no hope of it skipping over me.

Rural Montana is always so pretty during a storm. Too bad I don't like the rain.

If only it were enough to wash away my sins and the guilt of my lifestyle then maybe I'd love it.

Giving up, I snag two pieces of bacon and toss it to the other side of the porch and huff out a laugh when his nails clatter across the wood as he races to it.

While Ringo's distracted, I pick up my plate with my leftover scrambled eggs and last piece of bacon and set it down by Tink, giving her a pet too.

"For your coat, to keep you pretty," I say gruffly.

Though she's not my usual choice of a dog breed, I take good care of Tink.

Not that I don't take as good of care as I do my bloodhound Ringo, but with Tink, I am sure to keep up her hair cuts, and even buy her special product for her fur.

My sister, Flora, would skin my ass alive if she even suspected I'd mistreated her baby in any way.

Rest in peace, sis.

Going back to my laptop, I lower back down to the wooden seat, snag my cup of coffee, and take a healthy sip.

"Ugh," I mutter. Clearing my throat of the harsh taste, I reach over for a cube of sugar and stir it in before taking another sip. "Perfect." I sigh, setting it back down.

I usually drink it black, but lately I've been needing a bit more sweetness for some reason. Too much acid, or something, informing me I’m starting to get old. I look at the screen, my gaze roaming impassively over my mark, Calvin.

My eyes narrow at the sight of his warm, unassuming eyes. He's admittedly a handsome fucker, and what's worse is he looks kind.

But I know the truth. The man is the devil walking.

I've been working on this one assignment for the last three months, and thankfully tonight it'll be over. I'll have a kid turned over to the police, and maybe I can take a break for a while after this, because this one assignment has really fucked with my head.

Calvin, a well to do plastic surgeon in Montana, has landed himself into some hot shit with someone important, and now he's got a mark on his head.

At first I didn't take the assignment because I didn't want to involve myself in what I thought might have been celebrity drama.

I'm not in the business of killing someone because they botched the surgery of a too fluffed-up barbie doll, but in doing my homework, the man actually knows his stuff and has never been sued.

Unfortunately for Calvin my client had documentation that he got entirely too familiar with my client's underage daughter. He didn't want to be bothered going to court for justice, and the price was right, so I took it.

I don't suffer pedophiles. But it's been a long, painstakingly thought out three months of getting into this man's good graces.

Weaseling my way into his inner circle and masquerading as a friend so that I could get into his home and see what's going on there.

Because he's got a woman there who doesn't look right.

A woman who might need knocking off, too.

One thing I hate more than male pedophiles are the women who condone and support it. Women predators bring up all kinds of unresolved issues for me and it becomes truly personal. Her kill will be even more glorious than Calvin's, but I have to make sure she deserves to die.

Problem is, I can't get any sort of grasp on who this woman is.

Calvin doesn't take her out of the home. She doesn't leave for anything. I've only heard of her through his conversation, and through the little bits I've gleaned from Joseph.

They have their groceries delivered, he does all the heavy lifting around the house.

She doesn't even step outside to pick a fucking flower.

I only see bits and pieces of her through cracked curtains.

Something shady is going on and it's unsettling, giving me more pause than I've ever had during any assignment I've taken in the last twenty years, and that's saying something.

A flash of irritation causes the hair on my neck to stand.

Thanks Frank. Because of you, I'm currently embroiled in a months-long nightmare sniffing behind one case that could have been open and shut at least two months ago.

My discontent is catching because a clap of thunder has Tink an anxious mess, and she leaps from her dog bed and begins yapping, as if the sounds of her little barks will chase the thunder away.

I rise from my seat as the first drops of rain hit the awning above my porch and snag up my laptop, whistling. "Come on you two."

I pull out my phone and push the front door open, letting them in first before following them inside and head to the kitchen.

My boots sound loud on the hardwood right as the phone alerts me with a notification that Colin, my oldest friend, is here.

He just pulled onto my property on the East side, so it'll take him roughly nine minutes to make it to my house, leaving me time to straighten up.

Propping my phone on the window sill I put my plate to the side and stop up the sink, turning the hot water on, and pouring a decent amount of soap in with a healthy splash of bleach. The familiar scent of the chemical calms me, settling my nerves.

While the tap is running, I dump my bacon grease in the stainless steel holder atop the stove, and then wipe the rest out with a paper towel.

Thanks to the surveillance set up in strategic spots throughout my property, my phone beeps with an alert at every minute Colin gets closer, and I'm done with the breakfast dishes by the time I hear his car on the gravel through the crack in the kitchen window.

Colin, who's a billionaire a couple times over, will more than likely be traveling with security.

The last time he visited he was, but I think it had something to do with a threat that's no longer an issue.

The prospect of having extra men roaming the property causes my anticipation at seeing my friend to dim just a bit.

And I hate that, because I don't have much to look forward to these days and I was really wanting to enjoy some guy time with him.

I drain the sink and roughly wipe my hands on a towel, beating back the anticipation at seeing him.

He's pulling in next to my jeep by the time I make it back out on the front porch, rolling my sleeves back down my arms. I smile as some of that tension within me eases, seeing he's just in the one car.

“What’s up, pendejo!” he greets me, slamming the car door. Running a hand through his hair, he bounds up the steps with a mischievous smile on his face, carrying his rifle in a black case. No umbrella. My eyes flick back to the car, seeing it’s still. No security.

Thank fuck. I hate security. The tension melts completely away.

"I can't believe you fucking wanted to visit me in a storm!" I chastise him, reaching forward to give a brotherly hug to my friend of over twenty years. I pull away, giving him a wry smile. "Have you lost your fucking mind, man?"

"Are you kiddin' me?" Colin chuckles, firming his hands on my arms as he looks me up and down in a quick assessment that has me tightening up. "This is the best kind of weather to practice in. You remember right?" His chocolate colored eyes rise to meet mine, and I scoff.

"Yeah, yeah." I laugh good naturedly. "But you remember I hate the rain."

He grumbles. "Stop being a pussy. I need to stay sharp! You can suck this one up for me. Are you ready? I have to fly out in three hours. Olivia's waiting for me."

At the mention of his wife, I pull from his grip and lead him inside where Tink and Ringo weave between his feet.

I leave him petting them to head to my gun room and grab my own rifle and a silencer.

Just for good measure, I stop by my medicine cabinet to take some vitamin C to hopefully stave off any sort of sickness that might incur from being out in this fucking storm like we're twenty years old.

We're not. We're in our forties, a fact Colin likes to conveniently forget.

A product of being with a woman sixteen years his junior.

Not that I'm judging, but I might be, just a little.