Page 3 of Seven Graves

“On it, Satan.” I heard him snort and it echoed up the little staircase up to the door before it clicked shut and I was left by myself.

About time, too…I saw the inside of my bag light up with the burner phone and Greg will never know that it was my real reason for not going to ravage Desiree’s vat of chickeny goodness.

I’ve got a cleanup.

Maybe this was the A+ Mr. Layton meant to give me years ago, and this is my reward for praising his cold dead chub. There’s even a ten grand bonus for the short notice.

Eat that, Mr. Shortnecksplitcheckneedledickbigbackfuckstick.

I’ll definitely be treating myself to some ink therapy this weekend. Who needs a date when I have me, myself and Death? He’s the only one that truly gets me, anyway. This is turning out to be a swell week.

Now if my precious big brother would just hurry up with that sandwich.

Well…I thought it was turning out to be a swell week.

I waited until after dark to borrow the old 80’s era hearse that doesn’t get used anymore.

I don’t drive my personal vehicle to jobs, and what better way to transport bodies wrapped in dollar store shower curtains and cellophane than a shag wagon especially made for this kind of transport?

But…I forgot to fill it back up the last time I used it, had to stop for gas, nearly broke my foot on the uneven pavement at the dodgy station on 166 and halfway to my destination, I realized I was wearing the wrong damn shoes.

No good deed, I suppose.

It took me forever to get to Belfast, and I realized pretty quickly that the clients I’m handling tonight were apparently staying true to their nature, because this extremely swanky, gated manor I just pulled up at…

looks awfully Irish. I make it a point not to speak on these jobs, and if I’m left with no choice, I go for short responses and lower my tone to make sure my voice isn’t easily recognized anywhere else.

My rules are…black jumpsuit gets put on before I walk through the door, shoes covered in cable-guy sockies, hair gets wrapped and pulled back in a black head scarf, no makeup, latex gloves and most importantly…

no fucking eye contact. I’m hired for one thing.

I don’t need a reason for anybody to consider me a liability and make me the next body someone else has to clean up.

Get in, get high on ammonia, load up, move out. Quick and dirty.

I was specifically told to park at the west wing of the house and shut my car off and have my hands fully visible on the steering wheel until somebody comes out to allow me inside.

All my gear has to be checked and approved before it’s brought in.

Everything was detailed and…honestly a little intimidating…

and texted to me a couple hours ago. It’s fine.

I should expect some clients to be a little less sloppy every once in a while.

If anything, it’s refreshing, because I’m anything but sloppy.

I didn’t wait too long. Barely two minutes. I counted.

A pretty lean dude, clad in nothing but black, helped himself without any warning to my driver’s side door and opened it.

I kept my eyes low when he turned himself to the side in a gesture that I assumed meant I needed to get my ass outta the car.

Two others went around to the back of the hearse, opened the hatch and started going through all my shit while Mr. Nightshade lifted my arms to the side and started patting me down without a word.

No drinks first? Geez.

“She’s clean. I’m takin’ her in. Hurry up.”

Damn right, I’m clean. That’s what I get paid to do. Did they honestly think I’d show up here after getting a nice fat wire transfer to Scarface the place? Alone?

Maybe the Scarface reference was more legit than I thought.

He led me up a short flight of stone steps and into an entryway, and I swear to you…

I’ve never been to a fancier establishment.

These people have money . And not the kind you get for making an honest living.

It screamed mob, right down to the black and white tile floors and dark red carpets.

I said nothing as I trailed behind my escort and caught the scent of death as we neared the end of a long corridor. That’s a smell I’d know blind.

I, of course, made an effort not to take too much notice of the place, keeping my eyes focused on a happy middle as he finally opened a door at the end of the hall.

I did notice the chess piece tattooed on the bend of his hand between his pointer and thumb.

A pawn. It could just be a shitty ink choice he made when he was a teenager.

That’s what I was gonna tell myself, anyway…

but that notion went down tasting like curdled milk.

“Boss is in there. He’ll tell you what you need to do.”

Okay…cool. I guess that’s all the warning I’m gonna get since he all but shoved me through the doorway and slammed it behind me.

There. Are. Guts. Everywhere .

The room looked like the kind of place I could have been left alone in for days and be perfectly happy…

if it weren’t for the massacre. Bookshelves lined the entire wall to my left, and they were full.

There were two leather reading chairs on a dark green rug with…

with the iron skeleton of a glass coffee table that some dude’s spine was currently bent over…

backwards . I’m pretty sure if that’s what happened first, then the wide-open throat had to be for good measure.

Immediate ruin of what’s likely a couple hundred-thousand-dollar rug. Shame…

Several other bodies were scattered about the room, some shot, some mutilated, but…

nothing I haven’t seen before. A man stood silently with his back turned towards me as I surveyed the room.

His crystal glass clinked with ice and amber whiskey as he lowered it to his side and turned around at an ornate, crackling fireplace.

He’s kinda hot in a weird…daddy issues kind of way.

A little more than middle-aged. White, well-oiled hair, closely cut on the sides.

He’s got wrinkles, but not deep set, and the scar across the bridge of his nose gives him a ruggedly handsome edge.

As does the sleek gray suit, which I noticed…

has not the slightest spot of blood on it.

“Welcome. ‘Yer the cleaning lady I spoke with, are ya?”

Yep…definitely Irish.

I gave a slight dip of my chin, averting my eyes to his shiny shoes and politely holding my hands together at my waist, awaiting orders.

“‘Yer younger than I thought you’d be. How long have you been doin’ this?”

“Long enough, sir.”

“Sir? Hmm. I like that. I assume the payment suits you?” I nodded once and kept my eyes on the floor. “Good. I’ll leave you to it, then. Take as long as you need. Should you require anything, someone will be right outside the door. I’ll be just upstairs.”

Before he even started towards the door, it opened and the three brutes that were going through all my gear, brought it in through the door.

I tried not to let it show that I was gritting my teeth when they rolled my case right through a trail of blood and I caught sight of a chunk of brain matter sticking to the right wheel.

Puke.

I take back everything I said about them not being sloppy.

That was the first thing I cleaned when they all left, and I sniffled through my face mask after the first half hour of the scrub.

I wrapped Brokeback up first and dumped him onto the plastic I laid out in a clean corner of the room.

I’d put the fancy rug over the plastic as well, and I planned on letting fancy pants know that he could dock my pay if he needed to, but sadly, there wasn’t any saving that fine upholstery.

It would be safer to get rid of that completely.

One sad friend had his chest cavity turned into jello salad and I mopped him up next, adding him to the ‘burn pile’.

The other two had wrist abrasions to match the heavy mutilation to their bodies and so I put that two-and-two together, myself.

I turned the first guy into a freezer-ready burrito, but something about the last one gave me pause.

His left ring finger is missing.

I got him prepped to roll him up and nearly turned the entire room over, looking for that damned finger…

I didn’t find it. I decided to go ahead and finish scrubbing the room and got rid of all the glass, checked for stray hair, double checked the drapes, corners only a seasoned detective would think to check, and even blacklit the ceiling to check for blood spatter.

Almost four hours later, I have to say, I was quite proud of this job.

I shot a glance at the unfortunate sod still waiting to be wrapped on the plastic and knocked at the door.

My lovely escort from before answered it.

“All done, love?” I kept my face lowered and nodded towards the body.

“We’ve got a problem.”

It was like a scene in a Liam Neeson movie. Guy pulled a walkie and talked in code, and within a minute, literal Scarface came back downstairs. I waited by the stiff, arms crossed, as he approached.

“I’m told there’s an issue?”

I knelt down and lifted the hand with the missing finger, turning it so he could look.

“You’re missing a digit. I looked everywhere, even checked the fireplace to make sure I didn’t miss it.

I wanted to make sure you were aware before I load him up with the others.

” His jaw tightened and his nostrils flared, though I could kick myself for noting that detail.

If I’d only known that what was about to happen would make it ten times worse…