Her Father's Daughter by Dunn T. M

Author:Dunn, T. M. [Dunn, T. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, Suspense, Mystery, Contemporary, Adult, Crime
ISBN: 9781639103287
Amazon: B0B9WMMXK7
Goodreads: 60864864
Publisher: Crooked Lane Books
Published: 2023-07-18T07:00:00+00:00

* * *

With a job this straightforward, bodily fluids and waste contained to one area, no breakage, it should have been a simple disposal job. But today, every step felt as if I were treading wet cement. It was all I could do not to sink. I told myself it was the aftereffects of the drugs.

The sun had risen, and the shell disposal still wasn’t complete. We’d used crematoriums in our work for generations, but you can imagine what a chore it had been to transport the shells from the workroom to the basement. My father, your grandfather, a genius, had developed a system that was more efficient and practically flawless.

In the workroom he had installed a door, the height of an average minifridge but wide enough to fit a grown character with bulk. The same lever and pulley used to lift and transport the incapacitated character was used to move its shell to said door, opening to a chute my father had engineered based on those found in NYC buildings to transport garbage to basement compactors or furnaces, though this one was wide enough to fit a six-by-three-foot shell.

The next part of the system is where my father’s genius really shines. The shell, when properly lubricated, slides easily down to a conveyor belt, which will automatically move the shell through the crematorium’s open doors, incinerating it. Flesh, bone, and other human matter turn into ashes and bone fragments, from which, at a later date, I would take a handful to my guy in Queens, and he would craft it into another one of my trophies.

But I had much to do before I got to Queens.

Like I’ve said, it was a flawless system, usually. This morning the shell got stuck at the top of the chute. I pushed and pushed, for naught. I couldn’t get it to go down. “Why is this happening?” I shouted. Shells twice the weight and width had slid down without interruption. Where had I gone wrong?

I retrieved Father’s manual from where it had been sewn into the seat of the leather chair. Father had trained me so well I had never before needed to refer to it. It was leather bound, of course. It still smelled of Father’s cigars, and when I inhaled the pages, I caught a whiff of petroleum.

That’s when I lost it. I punched the sides of my head, screaming, “Stupid! Stupid!” I had forgotten to grease the outside of the shell. Father had so often warned me how, without an abundant amount of lubrication, body parts could get stuck on a screw or protruding piece of metal in the chute. Botching this step had been so worrisome to me that I’d sometimes made a character bathe in motor oil before ending our partnership.

After an hour and twenty minutes of pulling with my arms, using my legs for leverage, I got the shell out of the chute, oiled it well, and sent it on its way.

I collapsed to the floor. Not from exhaustion.

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