Authors: Robert Swartwood
The Silver Ring
THE SILVER RING
Robert Swartwood
Also By Robert Swartwood
NOVELS
The Dishonored Dead
The Calling
NOVELLAS & SHORT STORIES
In the Land of the Blind
Spooky Nook
In Solemn Shades of Endless Night
Through the Guts of a Beggar
AS EDITOR
Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer
The Silver Ring
copyright © 2009 Robert Swartwood
“Blind Insight” copyright © 2000 Robert Swartwood
(previously appeared in
Burning Sky, Adventures in Science Fiction Terror
, issue 6)
Cover art and design copyright © 2010 Wyatt Perko
This E-Book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Robert Swartwood.
Contents
Excerpt from THE SERIAL KILLER’S WIFE
1
Five minutes before the man with the gun entered the store, two little girls cut in front of me in line.
It wasn’t really their fault. I was waiting in line, yeah, but this being a convenience store, the tabloid magazines were stored on a rack beneath the counter, and I was turned toward them, reading the ridiculous headlines about even more ridiculous celebrities. Above me, the speakers in the ceiling poured out some song by Bruce Springsteen.
It was summer and the temperature was stifling and for the past week after work I’d been stopping in for a slushie. The movie theater where I worked was having a promotion with this chain of stores: bring in your ticket stub for a free sixteen ounce soda or slushie. The theater floors always littered with stubs, I figured what the hey and stocked up on ticket stubs.
So I was standing there, a Cherry Coke slushie in one hand and reading a recent headline about Tom Cruise, when the man who’d been in line before me finished his purchase and turned away. The two girls stepped up and threw candy bars down on the counter.
The cashier—a woman named Dorothy, who never seemed to have a night off because I always saw her in here—gave me a look, as if asking,
You mind?
I shrugged, took a sip of my slushie, and reached into my pocket for a ticket stub.
Among some change and a pack of gum, my fingers touched something solid that at first didn’t make sense. Pulling it out, I realized it was a ring I’d found tonight while cleaning house seven, one of the biggest houses. It was silver and looked expensive and I’d meant to turn it in to one of the managers but then we’d gotten busy and I’d forgotten. And now here it was resting in the palm of my hand.
It had a neutral look to it, like it could belong to either a man or a woman, and I don’t know why, but right then I needed to try it on. Just to see if it would fit, I told myself, and so I slipped it onto my finger. Not that I knew much about jewelry at seventeen, but it fit perfectly.
Before I had a chance to slide it back off the two girls shouted, “Thank you!” and suddenly turned away. The one closest bumped into me, causing me to drop my slushie. It hit the floor and spilled reddish-brown slush across the linoleum.
The girl who’d bumped me stood completely still, her mouth open and her eyes wide. The other girl had to cover her mouth as she giggled.
“I’m so sorry,” the one girl said.
Outside, a car beeped, and the other girl said, “Come
on
, Mom’s waiting,” and then the girls were hurrying away, an electronic buzzer going
ding-dong
when they exited.
Dorothy was already coming out from behind the counter, a roll of paper towels in her hand.
“This is why I don’t have any kids,” she said with a sigh.
She looked to be forty, fifty years old. She had long gray hair. Because of the silver ring now on my finger, I happened to notice she wore nothing on any of her long fingers.
Tearing off a long piece of paper towel, she said, “Go get yourself another. I’ll take care of this mess.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind cleaning this up. I’m used to it.”
She was already lowering herself down to the floor, holding on to the counter for support. “Used to it. What does that mean?”
“I work over at the movie theater as an usher. I’m always cleaning up people’s messes.”
“Is that how you get all those ticket stubs? I just thought you liked watching movies.”
I smiled. “To be honest, I don’t really have much time to see movies.”
She placed the long sheet of paper towel over the bulk of the mess, tore another sheet.
“Go get yourself another,” she said. “I’ll be fine here.”
Deciding it best not to argue, I turned and headed toward the back of the store where they had the soda and slushie machines. I reached for one of the sixteen ounce cups but then stopped.
The ring on my finger was glowing.
“What—” I started to say.
And that was when the electronic buzzer went
ding-dong
and the man with the gun entered the store.
2
“Get up off the floor, bitch!” The voice was loud, angry, scared, hyped up on some kind of drug. “I want the money! Everything you got!”
The ring continued to glow and I just stared at it, completely calm.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” the man shouted, and while I couldn’t see the front of the store I somehow knew he had a .45 pointed at Dorothy’s face—Dorothy, who had her shaking hands up in the air and was having trouble getting to her feet.
“Please, please,” she started to sob.
The man with the gun struck her across the face, knocked her back down. She landed in the spilt slushie.
“Don’t fucking talk,” the man said. He was Hispanic and his eyes were red and his name was Irving and he needed only fifty bucks for another hit.
How I knew all that I didn’t know, just as I didn’t know why I started to slowly turn around, began to walk toward the front of the store.
“Please, please,” Dorothy sobbed.
“Bitch, you don’t shut your goddamn mouth, I’ll shoot you.”
Dorothy went silent.
“Now get the fuck up and get me my money.”
Her hands still raised, her bottom soaked with slushie, Dorothy managed to get into a sitting position, lean forward, place her weight on one knee, and stand.
“Fucking
hurry
,” Irving said. He’d waited outside until those two girls left, until there were no more cars in the parking lot, and knew the woman was alone (thought he knew, anyway), and he needed that money, he
needed
it.
Now standing on trembling legs, tears running down her face, Dorothy started to turn back toward the counter. But her sneaker skidded in more slushie, causing her to slip, to wave her arms wildly, and Irving, already hopped up and wired, thought she was trying to attack him and did the only thing he could do to protect himself.
He shot her three times in the back.
Dorothy stood still for an instant, her arms no longer waving, and then fell forward dead.
“Irving,” I said, standing now at the end of the chip and candy aisle, just a few feet away.
He turned, his eyes even wider, and unloaded the rest of the bullets into my chest.
3
I stumbled backward, my body went limp, my legs lost their strength, and I landed on the floor and knocked my head hard.
I didn’t feel it.
I didn’t feel anything.
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, at one of those speakers hidden somewhere in the plaster tile. Bruce Springteen was over—he’d been over—and now someone else was singing. I couldn’t tell who it was or what they were saying.
All I could hear was my heart beating in my ears. That and Irving cursing again, the sound of his footsteps as he ran for the door, the electronic buzzer going
ding-dong
.
And then silence.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to do both so very much but I couldn’t. I just lay there and stared at the ceiling, at that speaker emitting music of someone I didn’t know, didn’t recognize, and before I knew it I closed my eyes.
For an instant I saw darkness.
Then I saw a glow through my closed lids—somehow I knew it was the glow of the silver ring on my finger—and I opened my eyes again, took a breath, and sat up.
The first thing I did was touch my chest.
There was no blood. No bullet holes. Nothing.
The second thing I did was scramble to my feet and look wildly around the aisle, searching for those spent bullets.
Everything in that aisle—the bags of potato chips and pretzels, trays of candy bars and gum—looked no more disturbed than usual.
The ring glowed on my finger again—I somehow
felt
it glowing, like a pinprick—and I turned and hurried over to where Dorothy lay on the floor in a growing pool of blood and slushie.
She was clearly dead, the back of her blue uniform shirt ravaged where the bullets had entered.
“Dorothy,” I said, like she would answer.
She didn’t.
I stood back up, reaching into my pocket for my cell phone, when the silver ring glowed again.