Chapter 3: Paul Robert Cromby-1
672 Words
Chapter 3: Paul Robert Cromby
“What do you mean the shovel isn’t in the caddy’s trunk, Kal?” Sander exploded on me, pissed, standing up from the bed. He brushed a hand through his thick blond hair and blinked a number of times. Bubbles of perspiration formed on his forehead, dripping from both temples. Anger churned behind his eyes, on fire.
Lewis sat in the room’s only chair, wide-eyed and petrified. He had often texted me that Dale Sander had a problem with his temper, using words like uncontrollable, outrage, and cutting. He steered his view from Sander to me. Safe that way. See no evil. Speak no evil.
“The shovel isn’t in the trunk,” I told Sander again.
“It was your job to make sure it was f*****g there,” Sander bellowed.
“It was all of our jobs,” I corrected him.
Lewis quickly typed something in his phone.
My cellphone binged.
Sander looked at Lewis and then at me. “What did he say?”
I read Lewis’s text to Sander, “Keep it down. We’ll be heard.”
“He’s right,” Sander said, lowering his tone. Then he added, “We have to go back to the cemetery and get the shovel.”
“Lewis and I will go back,” I said.
Sander shook his head and pointed at me. “No way. You’re going back on your own. Don’t drag Lewis into this. This is your f*****g problem, and you have to handle it.”
Lewis typed something into his phone.
Again, my cellphone binged.
“What did he say now?” Sander asked me.
I read Lewis’s second text message, “I want to go with Kal.”
Sander shook his head again and blurted, “No way, Lewis. You’re staying here. If Kal gets caught, he deserves it. Let him pay his due.”
“I’ll go alone,” I said. Then I turned my attention to Lewis. “Sander is right. I should have made sure the shovel was in the trunk. It wasn’t all of our jobs.”
“Right!” Sander barked, filling the room with his voice.
Truth told, I expected the front desk clerk from the office to call and tell us to keep it down or they would call the local police on us. Nothing like that happened, though. Good for us. Good for me.
“Go now, before it’s too late,” Sander instructed me. “And don’t come back if you don’t get the shovel.”
Fuck, I thought. Always a minion. A goddamn minion.
Some men would have been proud of such a position, but I wasn’t one of them. Never. Had I known that Sander respected me/loved me/cared for me, then maybe I would have agreed to be his minion. Sander only respected/loved/cared for himself. That’s the way the cookie crumbled.
* * * *
Paul Cromby, are you there? Can you hear me? I said to my dead brother, deep in my thoughts.
I’m here. Never far away.
We killed three men today. Buried them in cemeteries atop buried bodies.
Clever. No one will ever find them that way. It was the best way to hide bodies. I wouldn’t have thought of that myself.
Sander is a serial killer.
You’re all serial killers, Kal. It’s the rules of the game. It’s how you all play together. The mad games of serial killers.
What game?
The game. Or whatever you three want to call it. A killing game. Playing Death a hand of cards. Something like that. It really doesn’t need a title. The both of us know that. There’s no reason for a title. A game is just a game. Don’t let anyone tell you different.
It even feels like a game. Every day is a game. So you’re right.
What did it feel like to kill, Kal? Do you remember? Do you want to remember?
I’m not sure I know what you mean.
You know perfectly well what I mean. Those three young men at the college. The killings a year ago. The bodies. The burying. Tell me how that felt. I want to know. Do you remember any of it?
The frats. You’re talking about the frats.
Yes. The frats. You cut off their balls and c***s. What did that feel like for you?
Generous pleasure. Joy. Bliss. Euphoria. But we shouldn’t talk about that.
You have a mission to carry out. You have a shovel to retrieve. Sloppy work never gets a deed accomplished. We both know that.
We do.
We do. So have at it. No holding back. Get it done.
- Writer
