Seven Deadly Tales of Terror by Bryan Smith Page A

the truck and removed Calvin’s body from the back. This time he carried the body in his arms. This required a tremendous, back-straining physical effort, but Luke didn’t want to leave evidence of a body being dragged into the house. It was a warm summer night and the sweat was rolling off him in rivers and stinging his eyes before he was able to get back inside. Once he was back inside, he carried Calvin into the master bedroom and set about trying to stage the scene.
    Like most of his firearms—of which he had several—Luke’s .357 was unregistered. He didn’t like the idea of anyone in any kind of official capacity having an accurate idea of his self-defense capability. This was a product of the deep paranoia that had taken root within him in the aftermath of his trial. He didn’t trust anyone in general, a mindset that absolutely included anyone wearing any kind of uniform. Hell, especially those assholes. After thoroughly wiping it down, he wrapped Calvin’s dead fingers around the grip of the gun, threading his forefinger through the trigger guard.
    What he had in mind was pretty straightforward. Calvin was obviously a troubled kid. He’d had some kind of heated dispute with his parents. Things got out of hand and he wound up killing them in their sleep. In the wake of this act, the reality of what he had done hit the boy hard and, understandably distraught, he wound up taking his own life with the very gun he’d used to murder his father. No one would bat an eye over the unregistered gun. Such things weren’t unusual. There would be nothing at all to connect Luke to any of it.
    Satisfied he’d done his best to set the scene, Luke got to his feet and headed out of the bedroom. A sudden thought made him halt in his tracks in the hallway. His face contorted with frustration and disgust as he realized he’d overlooked a potentially crucial detail. He went back into the bedroom, knelt next to Calvin’s body, and rolled it onto its side in order to aim the flashlight beam at his back. And there it was—the exit wound.
    Fucking hell.
    The .357 slug had passed through his body. The damn thing was still out there in the woods behind his trailer. Luke was no forensics expert, but he knew the investigation would need to turn up the bullet that killed the boy.
    Or at least the one that had apparently killed him.
    Luke curled his hand around Calvin’s fingers and used them to press the barrel of the gun against his abdomen, lining it up with the original entry wound. This was risky. He didn’t like the idea of having to fire a second shot. Luck had been on his side the first time, but doing it a second time would really be pushing it. And yet, what other choice did he have?
    None at all, that’s what.
    So he did it.
    And then he got the hell out of that house.
    The house where he had grown up was just three streets over. He kept his head down and walked at a brisk pace in that direction. Along the way, he passed just one house where someone appeared to be awake. There was a single dim light on at a window in the back. He eyed the window carefully as he continued on past the house, but he detected no signs of movement. Dogs on chains or in fenced-in yards barked as he hurriedly passed through their territory. This didn’t concern Luke much. A nighttime canine chorus wasn’t unusual in this kind of neighborhood. Dogs got bored and started talking to each other. For the most part, no one paid it any mind.
    The lights were on at 3366 Montgomery Street. The place was lit up like the fourth of goddamn July. Of course. Josh Benson was a retired union man with a generous pension. He was always up all hours of the night, or at least that was how it’d been back when Luke still came around semi-regularly. At first glance, it looked like nothing had changed. He had been counting on that. Josh was his way back home. They had their differences. Big ones. There had been some violent episodes. But when it came down to it,