House of Cuts: A Hillary Broome Novel, Chapter One

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PART I  October 2005

Revenge is a kind of wild justice. –Francis Bacon

Chapter One: Mission and Strategy

I slashed the black marker one last time across the white paper, perfecting my plan. His flesh and bones would separate under my knife, like I had been parted from my work. Final. Businesslike. Nothing personal. Brookfield was just doing his PriceCuts job—hiring and firing the little people.

After gravity settled his blood below the waist, I’d sever his arms from the shoulders. Then slice through the elbows one at a time. My boning knife would slide right through cartilage. Separate the humerus from the lower arms, give me four pieces. Keep it clean. Place the parts on his desk, palms up, reaching out for money.

I’d stashed a couple twenties in my wallet—twenties seemed the right size, not too big, not too small. Get shoppers to picture the flow of dollars into the retailer’s greedy hands.

I would cut off his blond head, leave his torso sitting at the desk, one of the mindless millions serving the global giant. Bring his head home to the basement, save it for later, keep those blue eyes bright in formaldehyde. Keep a couple other parts, too. Come in handy to underscore the message in case folks didn’t get it.

Scraping the stool back from the workbench, I lifted up my design and stepped over to the bulletin board.  Humming, I tacked the drawing onto the corkboard, stained and stabbed over the years with important papers. Keeping my gaze on the pattern, I backed up to the middle of the room, turned and stretched up to snap on the overhead light bulb. I leaned against the load-bearing post in the center of this space I knew so well. The length of my body relaxed, and I grinned. Let the lessons begin.

Shutting my eyes, I listened for Mother, hoping she'd return and help out. In that dream she'd come back from the dead and whispered that I should apply at the monster store after they forced our little butcher shop out of business.

In the dim, cool space her soft voice chanted: Thou shalt not kill, Thou shalt not kill, Thou shalt not kill.

No. She of all people should see the difference.

Praying her spirit might hear me, I shouted into the silent air: “Some kills are evil, Mother! But this one, it’s sacred. Sacred, pristine. Not a drop of blood will I spill.”

I listened. Nothing. “You’ll be proud of me when you see the clean work and the good it will do.”

Turning, I studied her canned goods lining the basement shelves. Mason jars glistened, packed with peaches and pears. Pint size glass containers would hold his small parts. I’d empty out the wide-mouthed gallon pickle jar, make room for his head. My gut tightened.

Bungee cords stretched in front of the shelves, keeping jars back from the edges. Bungees. No time-consuming knots to slow me down. I would subdue him with bungees, grateful that Father had kept the extras color-coded by size and coiled up on the bottom shelf. They were ready to pack and take along to Brookfield’s office.