Page 35 of The Hunted
Silva: from years ago
Silva: that could connect you to the people you know now?
Silva: But yes I am single
Silva: and I think Amra really likes you and enjoys disliking you.
Silva: She hasn’t shut up about you.
Santino’s eyes widened, wondering what shit Amra could possibly have to complain about? He was a diligent worker, kept to himself, and didn’t cause problems.
“And I don’t kiss her ass.” He slid his phone back into the center console and put his gloves back on. He had sat here too long and his window to position the body the way that he wanted was slipping away from him. He could worry about Amra and her influence later. It was time for him to get to work.
He zipped up his hoodie and threw his face mask on. A precaution he was taking just in case there was some young couple or homeless person out here lurking behind foliage and old rides.
When he stepped out of his truck, his feet so light he barely heard the crunch of leaves beneath his boots. The wind stirred around him and he closed his eyes, letting his senses stretch to his surroundings. He slowed his breathing, listening for any signs of life left in this old fair. He couldn’t hear anything lurking beyond the shadows, and he slowly pushed everything out of his mind, centering himself.
Easy, mijo. Just breathe. You know what to do.
Santino opened his eyes and moved to the back of his truck, opening the door. He looked over the freshly wrapped body, a smile teasing his lips, remembering how strong Denise Miller tried to be in the end, but she faltered when her mind finally understood there was no freedom in her future unless it was death.
“They always break,” he whispered, dragging the body out. He hefted it over his shoulder, grabbed some rope, and walked toward the carousel.
“You’re letting us on the carousel? Why?”
“Did you not just say you don’t get on any of the rides?”
A curly-haired kid clapped their hands with a wide smile on their face. “Come on,” they said, all but running toward the carousel. The joy was infectious. It was the first time they could remember being allowed to be kids and enjoy what other kids could.
They rushed toward one of the horses only for someone to guide them toward the carriage. The joy that filled the air only moments ago disappeared when a stranger joined them.
“I hate coming here.” The curly-haired kid’s shoulders sagged. “They always lie.”
Santino shook the image from his mind, still unsure if that was his memory or someone else’s. He knew he came here every so often once he stayed with his guardian, but he’d been older by then—way older than those kids his mind kept conjuring up.
“Who are you that haunts me?” He let his words carry on the wind, hopeful to get a response. He picked the carriage for his display and sat the body upright. “Who do you think it is?” he asked the body.
“Maybe it’s just my mind holding onto all the evidence I’ve seen in my years.” He unhooked the rope he had grabbed and slowly unwrapped the tarp till the face was exposed. He used the rope to tie it around the neck and secure it to one of the hooks that sat behind the carriage. He wanted the body upright so anyone who came to hide here would see it.
“Do you think that’s a memory of me?” He talked while he worked, keeping his voice low. He never cared that he couldn’t remember his time before he settled in with his guardian. That time was broken into bits and pieces, fragments he wasn’t sure were real, and once he found an outlet for his talents, he never cared to look back.
“But maybe I should unlock my past?” He ran back to his car for the leg the Reaper had gifted him. He didn’t need it anymore.
Oh wait, wasn’t repurposing a gift frowned upon?He shook himself, grabbed a staple gun, and jogged back toward the carousel. He remembered to shift his weight as he moved, in case nature didn’t cover his tracks.
“What do you think?” He asked the body, positioning the leg on their lap. “Is that too on the nose? Or should we leave it at your feet?” He took a step back and tilted his head to admire his work. He wasn’t one for staging a scene, even in his early years, but he could see its merit—the poetic art behind it. The fact that he chose a place filled with innocence and life to bring death to, a stark reminder that nothing lasted forever.
“And this is why I’m not one for staging,” He lifted the leg and put it beside the body. “Never satisfied with the vision,” He mumbled, checking his watch. “And I can’t do this all night.” He let out a sigh. “It’s fine the way it is. You’re only doing this to entice the Reaper.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the note. He wondered how long it would take for his colleagues to figure out there wasn’t one killer here but two caught in a game. Santino hoped he’d just taken the lead.
“This might hurt.” He pressed the note to the body and grabbed the staple gun, praying the weather held up long enough that the note wouldn’t be ripped from the body.
He stepped back, taking one last look at his work, wishing he knew who the Reaper was. He would have loved to watch them creep up to the carousel with the sound of sirens in the distance. It would be a fun payback, watching them scramble trying to get out undetected or come up with a feasible story for being here.
“It’s been fun, and thank you for your contribution. I wonder what the Reaper will say about me now.”
When was the last time you indulged?
