Kill Cycle by Ike Hamill

Author:Ike Hamill [Hamill, Ike]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Action, Murder, Horror
Publisher: www.ikehamill.com
Published: 2016-04-24T23:00:00+00:00

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Her room is stuffy with old person smell. I take a seat on the wooden chair—it seems to be the cleanest spot there. It feels like the whole room is upholstered. The rest of the house seemed light and airy. Hardwood floors led me to her little den. Her son stayed in the doorway while I introduced myself. He didn’t look comfortable with the idea of coming in.

“You’re the one who called?” she asks.

I nod.

She reaches down next to her lounge chair and pulls on a little hose. I want to offer assistance, but she looks like she has practiced this move a million times. Her hand comes back with a tube. She connects it to the bottom of her nose so the oxygen can assist her respiration.

I wonder if she knows where her nightgown ends and the recliner begins. She is becoming one with the furniture.

“And you have something for me?” she asks.

I do. I hand her the envelope, hoping she won’t count it. It’s all there, but it seems embarrassing to have her count it in front of me.

“You’re not worried about your journalistic integrity?” she asks.

She has been through this before. I wonder who it was who paid for her information. I’m certain she won’t tell, not for the amount of money I was able to pull together.

“I have no integrity that I’m aware of,” I say.

She laughs. She’s much more appealing when she laughs. I can picture her much younger, as a single mother, trying to take care of her son on the budget of a healthcare worker.

“You’re not the first one to ask me about Charles,” she says.

She told me that on the phone. I nod.

“I told you that?”

I nod.

She laughs again. With each laugh, she’s more pleasant.

“You’re related to him, or no?”

“No.”

“Good,” she says. “He was not a nice man. Some of that runs in families. I can at least pretend that you’re normal.”

This time, she has made me laugh.

“Old Charles. You couldn’t call him Charlie, or Chuck, or even Mr. Ramm. That hand would shoot out and grab my wrist. That man had an iron grip.”

I think about Paul Yarlouth—the man with a grip but no muscle. He’s out of context. I shake away the thought. She’s lost in a memory. I prompt her to get her started again.

“You worked at Sunrise, but as a private contract?”

“That’s right. There were a couple of us girls in that same boat. The wing we were on had some basic amenities, but no in-room care. He had a button to use when I wasn’t there, but it was just like calling emergency. I worked from eight to eight. He would have had me for sixteen if I had agreed.”

“What did you do for twelve hours a day?” I ask.

“Mostly took his abuse,” she says. “I was not allowed to walk away or even turn while he dressed me down. He was full of venom and the only way he got it out was by griping at someone.

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