The Mark

14

The Ringer slipped into his black Ford and closed the door. He could feel the warm sun on his face. He sank deep into the leather seat, closed his eyes and began the process.

His hand moved absently to his chest, stopping at the slim bulge in his shirt pocket. His fingers felt what lay beneath, pressed on it gently, making sure not to leave a mark or a dent. After so many years the photo was worn, faded around the edges, but the colors were still strong and vibrant. Just like his memory of Anne. The only woman he’d ever love in this lifetime.

In his mind’s eye he could see her face, her stunning blue eyes. He could almost touch her, feeling the silky strands of her hair as she gazed at him with a happiness he never knew existed. Anne had accepted the life he’d chosen. A selfish life, but one he would have abandoned in a heartbeat if he knew its consequences.

Breathing in, he could smell a hint of her favorite perfume, the acrid scent of sweat as they made love. Her soft moans and touches on his back, fingers tickling his senses, knowing just how to make him shiver. She was his first and his last. His only.

Anne.

Then agony ripped across his face as he saw blood splashed over his hands. Her eyes contorted into shock and then glazed over as she fell, dead, into his arms. His wails shook the walls as flames began to lick the ceiling. Cries that God himself must have heard. Cries that made the devil smile.

He saw his wife’s killer in the darkness, the knitted hood obscuring his features. Hands pale, skin soft. A young man. Only his eyes and mouth were visible. Eyes the Ringer would never forget.

His retribution was almost complete. There was only one man left.

The Ringer opened his eyes and picked up the newspaper. He looked at the photo of Henry Parker. Just twenty-four. Already a killer. Just like him.

In his mind’s eye the images slowly merged and became one, Henry’s face transposed as Anne’s killer. When he was finished, the shrouded face of the man who’d killed his wife was replaced by Henry Parker.

And now Parker was responsible for Anne’s death. A death waiting to be avenged. Hatred for this young man boiled up inside the Ringer. The tendons in his fingers tensed as he gripped the steering wheel, blood pounding in his temples.

The Ringer started the car and pulled onto Seventh Avenue, away from the old church where he’d been summoned, whose recesses currently housed some of the most remorseless men ever to walk the earth.

He cracked the window, let the breeze in.

Removing a cell phone from his pocket, the Ringer dialed the first number on his list. He had lots of calls to make.

He had a killer to find.