Page 30 of No Quarter

With the graying skies above and the clouds swirling with dark intent, a tiny light shone from the house in the early evening.

You’re up there, Patrick Ives, Valerie said to herself, looking at the light.You’re getting ready for work at the retreat, and you don’t know what’s about to hit you.

A car appeared on the horizon, moving up the empty road that led onto Argent Street.

Its headlights gave off a dull yellow hue as it pulled into the side of the road next to Valerie’s car.

Charlie and Will got out.

“In the name of God,” Will said, his foot sticking in some mud.

“You’re not built for the outdoors, Will,” Charlie laughed as he exited the car.

“I assure you, the outdoors are fine,” Will answered. “As long as it’s dry. This mud is wet. And these shoes are Italian leather.”

“Leather is leather,” Charlie said.

“And I suppose every football team across the nation is exactly the same, then? Should one just call them by the color of their shirts? Oh, look, I can’t wait to celebrate the Blues. Or is it the Reds? The Greens, maybe? Perhaps they should all wear the same costumes.”

“Uniforms,” Charlie sighed.

“Yes, it doesn’t matter what they wear, does it? Or perhaps thereisa difference in what the teams wear. And maybe, just maybe, leather differs in quality too.”

Charlie turned to Valerie. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“We’ll get your shoes cleaned, Will, courtesy of the FBI,” Valerie said.

Will sighed, pulling his feet out of the mud.

Charlie patted him on the back. They smiled at each other and started laughing.

“Guys, reel it in,” Valerie said. “Look up there.”

Valerie pointed to the light in the farmhouse at the end of the dirt track.

“So, this is where the security guard Patrick Ives lives,” Will observed. “Reminds me of Ed Green’s farmhouse.”

“Ed Green?” Charlie asked as they began walking up the track to the house.

“Yes,” said Will. “He was a killer back in the fifties. After his mother died, he began to escalate his urges. It started with digging up bodies from the local graveyard just to be close to someone.”

“He sounds delightful,” Charlie said, grimly.

“Then,” Will continued, “he began to use the bodies to make furniture around his house, even clothes. After that, he escalated further to killing a local woman and bringing her remains to his house.”

“And this place looks like that?” asked Charlie.

“Yes,” said Will, side-stepping a pool of water in the ground. “When the local police officers entered Green’s house, it was, for want of a better term, a house of horrors.”

“It’s what inspired that chainsaw movie in Texas,” Valerie added.

“Well,” Charlie said, looking up at the looming, decrepit farmhouse. “Let’s hope Patrick Ives isn’t an Ed Green.”

At that comment, the door to the farmhouse suddenly opened up and a man stood there brandishing a shotgun. He was wearing his security guard uniform.

Patrick Ives was not an Ed Green: A wiry, emaciated recluse.

He was a gigantic, hulking man, whose arms were as thick as Charlie’s thighs.

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