Short Story: THE FOUNDRY
‘At least he doesn’t have to go back to that horrible place tomorrow.’
START
I
PLANNING
It was a slow process, but they eventually decided they’d murder Simon Ranner instead of arrest him. They did this over the phone together, over distance, as they zeroed in on him.
Monica wanted a concrete end to it. ‘They all deserved it,’ she said.
Diangello: ‘So, how do we do it?’
He was drinking. Monica could hear the bottle, through the receiver.
‘Something quick. And neat. I can get us something.’
And nothing at all would have come of all this faux-planning — it remained talk — if it not for the fact that the world was ending. Simon Ranner picked the worst time in human history to get caught for his crimes. Monica and Diangello’s central office was distracted; growing civil unrest all over the country. The home office was calling in the agents, left, right and centre. Monica and Diangello had orders to report back, to drop everything.
The following night, on the same phones:
‘You know,’ said Diangello, ‘We really could just kill the guy, case closed. I spoke to Plant and he said they’re about to call in the Guard up north. It’s a war zone. It’ll be months before anyone reopens this case, if anyone ever does.’
‘That’s what I’m thinking too. No one’s watching.’
‘When are you due back?’
‘Thursday.’
‘Same.’
‘Okay, you think you can get here by tomorrow?’ she said.
‘I virtually have to come through there to get my plane…’
II
EXECUTION:
The foundry was no work of art. A patchwork of steel sheeting thrown over a long, tall frame. No real doors or windows, just square holes. And it sat out in the open, on a dirt gravel pad by the outskirts. Monica looked at the foundry and figured it would have to be the coldest place in America to work when the ovens were out. It was the exact sort of place for their guy, though. No doubt about it.
Diangello came across the car park. He stood by the driver’s window, lit a cigarette.
‘Ranner is in there right now. The office girl handed over his personnel file. Didn’t give a shit.’
‘The address check out?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you think?’
‘No one made us. They’ve had people in and out of there all month.’
‘Why is that?’
And he tells her. Turns out that a fortnight back, the local police swabbed the whole place down, looking for a rapist. Didn’t find him, but that’s where their guy popped out of the agency database. A direct match. Case closed.
Monica rubbed her hands together. ‘What do you think? Last chance to back out.’
‘He’s driving that blue van, apparently, so…I dunno, let’s park over there and wait. Then back to his, I guess.’
Diangello lit another cigarette off the first.
Monica looked back at the cold building.
It was dusk by the time Ranner came out and dark by the time they followed him to his home. According to the records, he was a homeowner. According to the agency profile, he lived by himself or with a parent or a carer. Both checked out: he had a home, he live alone. His house was a small low-set place at the end of the street. No dog. No peeping neighbours. No safety light. It was like he was waiting for them.
Monica and Diangello drove away and suited up:
White plastic coveralls.
Latex gloves.
Something the techs called ‘a spit net,’ a veil of sorts.
Black hooded coats.
They drove back to Ranner’s house.
‘Any last words?’ Monica said.
They’d both killed people before. Diangello had come up through the police. Monica had been to the Gulf. It was going to be straight-forward on some level.
‘At least he doesn’t have to go back to that horrible place tomorrow,’ said Diangello. ‘He’s about to die, but at least there’s that.’
Tears welled up in Ranner’s eyes when he saw their gun, but that was the worst of it. They went inside to the living room and had Ranner stand there on the carpet with his hands up. Monica choked him out, a little because she wanted to, mainly because she’d done it before. Diangello readied the syringe.
Injected him.
A home death penalty for seven unsolved murders.
Some sort of justice, right at the end.
A minute later, they were back out on the street and it was over, without another word.
END
— IAIN
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