C3 A Pound Of Flesh

My eyes fill with tears, and I force myself to look around, to look for the person who did this in case they haven't disappeared. I find something, someone, in the shadows. A man steps forward. A man in a dark cloak wearing a dark hat. His cane clicking against the concrete path. His short, gray beard neat against his chin. Thick silver buttons run down the front of his coat, and black boots cleaned to a shine cover his feet. When he speaks, his voice is old and thin like withered paper. "Hello, Ms. Knightly. It appears you have found my message."

My throat goes dry and I clench my fists, assessing the man standing before me. His composed expression hides whatever he might be feeling or thinking. His dark tailored suit and finely stitched trench coat speak of wealth. His tone is that of a man accustomed to getting his way.

But there's something more about him. Something that gives me pause, and prevents me from responding as I might otherwise. He just killed my cat and seems entirely unconcerned. He could be armed, and likely is. I'm not. Pat's gun is locked upstairs, with the bullets secured in a separate locked case—at my insistence if he was going to persist in his desire to have the weapon in the house with children. All I have on me is an old cell phone, hardly a worthy weapon, my lightsaber app notwithstanding.

I need more information. I need to know what—and who—I'm dealing with before I let myself react. I need to stay calm as I think of a plan. If he attacks me, I'll run into the house and bar the door and call 911.

"How do you know me?" I ask, my voice only wavering a small amount.

His gray eyes bore into me as he speaks. "I know your family. There is a long history there. I am... an old friend, you might say. Call me Mr. Pike." He tips his short top hat towards me while partially bowing, a conciliatory smile on his aged face.

My voice remains steady as I slowly move my hand towards my pocket, to reach my phone. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Pike. I'm curious, why are you visiting?"

"It was time," he says. "This meeting was scheduled long ago, you see, between Pat and myself. Yet, he is not here and you are." He smiles warmly. "Oh and you needn't bother about hiding your phone. You may use it, but I'm afraid it won't perform as you wish."

I'm baffled by his remarks, but I pull my phone out of my pocket slowly as he nods in approval. I look down, seeing the numbers that I need to dial. I move my finger over the nine, but it slips off the phone screen. I try again, but it's as if I'm trying to climb a wall of ice. My finger can't connect. It slips off each time I attempt to dial.

Panic wells in my gut, and Mr. Pike clears his throat. "As I said, it won't do as you wish tonight. So let us continue as we were."

My voice is no longer calm, as fear settles into my bones. "What do you want?" Whatever game he's playing, or trick he's managing, it's preventing me from calling for help. I need another plan. Maybe I can scream. Get a neighbor's attention. Or maybe I can run back into the house before he can stop me.

Or maybe... I glance down at my wristband as I weigh the cost of such a choice. No. I can't. It's too high a risk. Even for this. Not yet, at any rate.

"Pat and I made an agreement," Mr. Pike says, " a long time ago. I have honored my side of the bargain, but he has yet to honor his."

"So you killed my cat?" I ask, too harshly. With too much anger. I cringe, expecting him to attack me for my insolence.

But he doesn't look the least bit aggravated. If anything, his eyes turn sad. "Yes. Yes, I did. You see, I arrived in this town a week ago. It was a week ago that the deal should have been honored. It was not, and so I am back here again, as Pat knew I would be, with a reminder." He pauses. "I am truly sorry it was you who found my message. It was meant for Pat and no one else."

He seems sorry I found the cat, but not sorry he killed an innocent animal; I need to get away from this man. He's most likely a sociopath, perhaps even a psychopath, and if so he would have no qualms about taking another life... maybe even a human one.

Perhaps if I can get him talking—distract him with the sound of his own voice—I can creep back into the house. Get the kids somewhere safe. Call the police, if my phone will work.

"What deal did you and Pat make?" I ask, as a feeling of rage for my bastard step-father surges in me. Of course this would be his doing.

"That is between Pat and myself," Mr. Pike says. "But, in essence, I helped him with a problem, and now he must help me with mine."

My eyes narrow. "What kind of problem? Pat isn't very good at helping himself out of trouble, let alone anyone else."

He cocks his head. "It is not a problem you would understand. Not yet, at any rate. Oh, and don't bother trying to creep back into the house while distracting me. You may leave at any time. It is Pat I came for, not you. But perhaps you could help me find him? As a friendly courtesy?"

Beads of sweat break out on my forehead despite the frost in the air. I nod, willing to say anything this man wants to hear to get him off my porch. “Yes. I’ll let him know you were here.”

"Very well. I will return once again tomorrow at this hour. And if Pat has not honored his side of the bargain, then I will bring another message. One far more personally painful."

He turns to leave, the moonlight glinting off the opal tip of his walking cane. As soon as his eyes are off me, I dash into the house, slamming the door shut behind me. I latch the deadbolt, my hands shaking in terror. My thin cotton shirt is soaked in cold sweat, and I can't stop the tears that flood my eyes.

I take a deep breath and once again attempt to dial 911. This time, my fingers don't slip off the phone.