The Man with the Missing Fingers

Prologue

June 26

 

The first thing one noticed about him was his scarf: a long chunky monochrome piece of fabric bearing a distinct crochet pattern.

And the second thing was possibly his overall look.

Scarr was a man of above average height. A little rugged on the shoulders, his chiseled muscles stood out under his shirt and shifted whenever he moved. And he had this hard-boned way of moving around, as if he expected a boulder to crash into him at any moment and break into pieces.

Most of the time his big strong hands were gloved. And he liked to put them in the pockets of his topcoat, only letting them out when he found use for them.

More often than not he could always find some use for them…

 

Scarr heard the dandy man behind the wheel of the Chevrolet yell and curse at him, and he moved out of the car’s way. The man was half drunk. The car pulled out of its parking spot and shot down the street until it reached a point out of sight. 

Scarr was roaming on Longfellow St., as part of an innocuous walk in a nice upper-crust neighborhood of South Haven, Michigan. He had been in this neighborhood for about two days, and in those two days he had learned a thing or two about the area. He learned the frequency of the occasional police patrols, the lay of the ground, and the general ambiance on the streets past certain hours. He was going to utilize his newfound knowledge over the course of the next few minutes.

Many of the residents here were well-to-do folks who enjoyed their peace and quiet in their marquee family homes. But Scarr was only after one house in particular. And it was the last house on the block, towering at twenty-five feet tall on a slope.

The night had fallen long ago with its layered mass of darkness. The air was moist. Moisture had built up on pretty much everything from grass to gravel. And tree leaves quivered and rustled with each breath of the wind. Many faraway sounds, rising from the deep throat of the night, came to his ears in the form of whispers. The part of his brain that wasn’t focused on the task at hand took to identifying these sounds. All of them were just noise. Good.

He strode up the slope, shoulders squared,  hands buried in his pockets. Thirty yards upward the house came into view. It looked like a small rampart in the gloomy night. But up close it looked more like a nice vacation rental with enough springy personality to attract a B list movie starlet looking for a break from everything. The property was a luxury villa, all fenced in to keep the prowlers out.

Scarr picked a spot with enough foliage to minimize significant exposure. And in no time, he was on the other side of the fence.

All the lights were out inside of the house, save for a room upstairs that may have been a master bedroom. An afterburner glow was illuminating it, and Scarr could see reflections entwine and stir on the glass window. He waited a minute or two to see if there was any sudden stir of motion in the air. The wind was rattling on, and there were no stars in the sky.

Weaving across the front yard clad with patches of cropped grass, Scarr quickly made his way to the porch. It took him about thirty seconds to pick the lock. There was no security system in the house. Nor was there any dog. The woman who rented the villa under a different name had gotten too comfortable. Comfortable and careless while enjoying her slice of paradise.

Scarr broke in through the porch door, entered the property, and stepped onto a small landing. It was pitch black. His eyes began adjusting to the ambient darkness. A quick glance around the foyer, then the living room, then the  kitchen, informed him that these areas were modernly equipped. He got around the downstairs pretty easily, not stumbling even once.

While making sure he was the only soul downstairs, his feet however, bumped against something sitting on the carpeted floor of the living room: two sports bags. He unzipped them, and without any surprise, found them filled with cash, all squared up and taped.

How much money was there in those bags?

The question didn’t even cross his mind.

Suddenly he froze. A faint moan was audible in one of the rooms upstairs. No doubt it came from the bedroom where a dim light was on. Scarr cocked his ear in that direction and registered the unmistakable sound of passionate lovemaking. The woman wasn’t alone up there. And he wasn’t one bit surprised.

The horny noises she and her partner were making sank down for a moment. Then it mounted excitedly like a serenade, and on the verge of their mutual climax developed into a melody of wild moans and cries... And then, they were done.

Scarr decided to make himself at home. He collected the sports bags and went to sit down at the dining room table in the dark...

They were done he thought, as he waited in a chair, his elbows resting on the tabletop, the money bags lying at the chair’s feet.

Then unexpectedly, he heard the lovers go at it for a second round. And even that did not upset his calm. He would wait it out until they were finished. Until they were satisfied with themselves and with life. He would not rob them of their pleasure. He would wait–– He had all the time in the world.



S.K.

Edited: 15.04.2019

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