Amanda Winn Lee: Something Special

Amanda Winn Lee

Something Special

A professional killer goes to a wildlife reserve to retrieve a hidden code.

Serge considered himself an artisan of death. Whenever possible, he liked to get to know his victims before deciding how to kill them. Kids today– like that cokehead Crazy Jake­– they were all flash and no substance. Just unload a clip into someone and walk away. Graceless. That troglodyte Jake deserved to get busted, even if it was for something stupid like drugs. Serge always studied his prey and tried to personalize things.

“I’ll be right with you,” a feeble voice called out.

“Take your time, dear,” he offered graciously as he eyed the dingy room with disgust. The old lady was sitting on at least a hundred acres, yet she lived in a crappy, little prefab house and fenced off the rest so a bunch of jungle cats could run around. What a waste.

Finally, she shuffled into the room.

“Now, how can I help you, Mister…?” Her large, owlish eyes shined behind thick trifocals. The top of her grey head barely reached his chest.

“Please call me Serge,” he replied with a rakish smile. A dimpled grin cracked through the folds of her weathered face as she took in his impeccable haircut and eight-hundred-dollar suit.

“Well, you can call me Dottie, then.”

“Alright, Dottie.” She looked frail, like a baby bird. He was tempted to just reach out and snap her delicate, little neck. “I’m here because a friend of mine had a pet leopard–”

“I see! Well, you’re just in time for dinner,” she interrupted. “Come have some tea.” He was thrown off by her non sequiturs. The old gal obviously had a screw loose.

“Please don’t go to any trouble! I–”

“No trouble at all!” she chirped, already toddling off to the kitchen. Dutifully he followed her. She reminded him of Tessa, the sweet, old black woman who cleaned his mother’s house. They both radiated an unadulterated goodness that soothed him. He decided to do something nice for Dottie. Something poetic. He had planned to just stab her in the heart and leave her to slowly bleed out, but now he decided that was too pedestrian. She deserved something special.

The kitchen was threadbare like the rest of the house, with a small table and two chairs at the far end. One seat was a flimsy plastic folding chair, and the other a battered office chair with wheels. The kettle hummed merrily on the dinky gas stove next to a large cast iron skillet. Tessa used to make cornbread in one just like it, Serge mused. Dottie climbed up a small stepladder and reached for two chipped mugs in the shabby cabinet.

“May I?” He plucked the mugs off the shelf and set them on the counter. A gentle push would knock her right off that stepladder; she’d shatter every brittle bone in her body. But that didn’t feel right either, so he grabbed her saggy hips to steady her instead.

“Whoopsie daisy!” he helped her down, his touch lingering around her waist. Dottie let out a breathless, “oh!” and color crept into her cheeks, probably for the first time in decades. Why not give her one last thrill? Maybe he would even seduce her. He could strangle her with one of her own bra straps…

But before he could take things any further she scurried away from him, flapping a bony hand at the office chair.

“Sit in the good seat. Now, tell me again, what brings you here?” She busied herself with the tea, so he sat. The decrepit looking chair was surprisingly sturdy.

“I was told you run a wild life refuge for previously owned exotic creatures.”

“Well, I guess you could call it that,” she chuckled. “I help the police out with any nondomestic animals they seize, usually from drug busts. You wouldn’t believe the jungle cats those criminals keep! All because of that awful Scarface movie.” She set two steaming mugs on table. He toyed with the idea of drinking his tea, then bashing her skull in with the empty cup.

“Do you run this place by yourself?”

“My husband passed a few years ago. I have people work the ranch for me, but come sundown it’s just me and the critters.” As she sat down, she railed on about how those big shot drug dealers didn’t know diddly about taking care of animals while Serge absently stroked the blade strapped to his ankle. Columbian Neckties were always fun.

“The leopard we got yesterday was skin and bones!” her voice pierced his ruminations.

Bingo.

Crazy Jake said he’d tattooed the passcode to the lockbox inside his leopard’s right ear. He’d also kept the poor cat half-starved so no one else could get near it. Now Serge just needed to know which cage to look in, and he could finally dispense with dear, darling Dottie.

“Where is my head!” she clucked suddenly and jumped up again. “Do you take cream and sugar?”

“Please.” There was no rush. He’d have tea, then he’d gut her. “So this leopard–”

The world exploded into whiteness.

*****

When he came to, he was in a darkened room with a concrete floor that smelled like urine. His feet and hands were tied together, and his torso was bound to the office chair with duct tape. Incredulously he realized the old woman must have used the chair like a dolly to cart his dead weight from the kitchen. He became acutely aware of the warm blood oozing out of his scalp where Dottie had brained him with the skillet.

“Dottie?”

“Meat is so expensive these days!” her voice rang out behind him. “So whenever one of you thugs show up here, well, we make the most of it!”

He heard metal sliding against metal and sensed something large moving around in the darkness.

“Wait–”

“Like I said, you’re just in time for dinner.”

Serge felt a hot, wet breath on the back of his neck and screamed.

Dinner was served.