The Ballad of Devil Jack - Boondock Saints fic - R
Title: The Ballad of Devil Jack
Fandom: The Boondock Saints
Disclaimer: only Connor, Murphy, and Smecker aren't mine. The quote at the beginning is said by Murphy in the movie. Just for fun.
Warnings: non-con; mentions of necrophilia; post-movie
Pairings: a few original characters mate, though half of the couple is unwilling
Rating: R
Wordcount: 3620
Point of view: third
Notes: I did not mean for this to be Mary-Sueish, and if you find it so, I beg pardon. It was originally about Micah and the boys ending him-but poor old Ann raised her hand and begged so prettily-
More notes: I tried my best to get the writing of their accents right, and if I failed-well, again I beg pardon.
Still more notes: Also, I know nothing of Boston beyond The Boondock Saints and Good Will Hunting. All my knowledge of police work and how to foil them is from TV, movies, and my own imagination.
Do not kill, do not rape, do not steal. These are principles which every man of every faith can embrace.
---
Micah Johnson impressed even himself with his cleverness. He stalked whores, scared them, convinced them they were insane. He’d break into their apartments, move things around, steal small items, stuff they wouldn’t miss until later.
One slut at a time, he followed them, got them worked up, and then moved on, let them calm down. Then he struck.
The sluts wouldn’t go to the cops, wouldn’t dare. Micah chose them carefully, studied all the hookers of south Boston. Finally he picked three who would do.
Danae McKellen, Emma Roson, and Kerry Shaw were the final choices. Danae and Kerry were young, late twenties, new to the business. They were still beautiful, not yet worn out. Danae had the classic beauty: dark hair, regal face, pale skin, green eyes, statuesque build. She wasn’t yet stained by her profession. Kerry was the opposite, short and blond with blue eyes; her skin was tan and she had a light dusting of freckles across her nose. Emma, on the other hand, was forty-three, an old pro. Her hair had been dyed so many times even she couldn’t remember the original color; it was stringy, like straw. Her skin was sallow, wrinkled-old at middle age.
Micah took Kerry first. She fought hard, but he was twice her size. He raped her three times the first night, then bathed her unconscious body, erasing all evidence of his actions. He patted her face after laying her on the bed and smirked. “Such a pleasure, m’dear,” he said and left swiftly.
He came back two nights later. It was a complete repeat, to the last detail. Kerry fought, Kerry lost, and Micah took the evidence with him when he left.
Next he took Emma, who knew fighting was useless. She lay there and waited for it to be over, so he flipped and sodomized her. She remained silent through it all, never begging or whimpering. Micah could tell she’d been used like this before and knew how to survive. After he’d finished, worn himself out, he cleaned her, took the clothes and sheets, and left. He waited a week before visiting again, and after another session sated him for a month.
Kerry, he heard, talked to a priest about her experiences, asked the kind man of the cloth if God had punished her for her sinful life. Micah killed her, of course, after he took her again.
He then went for Danae, the most beautiful of the three. He fucked her senseless, beat her, then fucked her again. He bathed her, cleaned her, then killed her, choked her till she died. He stared at her body for a moment-this was his first crime of passion. Kerry had been planned, cold, ruthless. So would Emma be. But Danae-beautiful, statuesque Danae-she was killed in lustful rage. He licked his lips and fucked her corpse, then gave it a shower and left it in the bath.
Kerry’s body had been hidden and so was Emma’s later that night. But Danae sat in the tub for almost a week, rotting, and finally the smell drove the neighbors to break down the door.
If Micah had buried her somewhere, the Saints might never have gotten involved.
-
Micah knew he had nothing to fear. There was no evidence in the apartment; he’d been to college, he watched TV, and he’d researched crimes. He’d cleaned everything too well-no evidence was left.
So Micah watched the police run in circles. If the media hadn’t been informed it would have gone down as a trick gone south. But the brutality of it sparked the imagination. The terror she’d clearly felt hit home.
Micah felt proud as women began to look fearfully over their shoulders, as tales circulated about a new Jack the Ripper. The police actually referred to him as Jack; he became Devil Jack when Emma and Kerry were found.
Micah knew he was safe-there was no connection, no evidence, no proof. He went about his normal routine: work, bar, home.
After almost a month and nothing new, the search faded and Micah felt the stirrings again. He began watching women, not just whores, and one struck his fancy: Ann Davids, a young waitress from the South.
---
Ann never really understood how she fell in with Connor and Murphy. She’d been drunk, after the third breakup with Will, trying to stumble home.
You know, after the first time, she’d been telling herself-and even her mental voice was slurred-gesturing appropriately, I should have known! He’s just a bastard, a selfish bastard, and I’m too good for him!
She stumbled and felt a hand grab her shoulder, halting her fall. Terror filled her, as she remembered all the news-stories about Devil Jack, and she whirled around swinging.
Of course, she was totally trashed and lost her balance; he caught her again, dark blue eyes laughing, and she passed out.
-
“She’s comin’ ‘round.”
A lilting voice echoed in her mind, with an accent-English? Scottish? Irish-yes, Irish, she decided.
“Aye, ‘bout time,” another answered. “You cannae keep bringin’ in strays, Murph.”
“Oh, shut it, Connor. You’d’ve done the same, an’ you know it,” the first voice-Murph?-responded.
Ann heard a tussle and something-one?-falling onto the floor. She strained, trying to open her eyes; and as her lids rose, no matter what was said later, she did not whimper.
“Oh, poor dear,” Connor said. “I think she’ll a headache, Murph. Be a good boy-fetch some painkillers and water, yeah?”
“Connor, d’ya have to be such a fuckin’ bastard?” Murph asked, defiant affection in his tone.
If Ann didn’t feel like killing herself, she’d laugh. Instead she moaned and tried to move her head. She’d had worse hangovers in her life, but she couldn’t remember when.
“Here,” Murph said, his hands wrapping hers around a glass, but they didn’t respond, so he held the glass to her lips-she really wanted to see these two men, but her eyes didn’t seem to be focusing-and water flowed into her mouth. “Swallow, dear,” he commanded kindly, brushing hair off her face. She closed her mouth and did; the cold water soothed her throat as it went down. “Good, good,” he murmured, pulling the glass away. “Now, take these.” She opened her mouth again and he placed two pills on her tongue; he gave her more water and she got the pills down.
“Now,” Connor told her, his voice coming from far away, “rest some more.”
That seemed a mighty fine idea and she slipped back under.
-
She woke again to two Irish voices arguing quietly. It seemed almost every other word out of their mouths was ‘fuck’, which struck her as odd-they’d been so gentle; it was wrong for them to curse so much.
“Look, Murph, we cannae keep her. The entire fuckin’ country is lookin’ for us. We cannae have some little girl in our apartment-we’re outlaws, Murph!”
“I know that, Connor. I just planned on nursin’ her back to health and then takin’ her to her place, but you came home early and jumped all over me-like you always do. You din’t let me explain, just started rantin’!”
The sound of a tussle and then a hiss of pain. “Oh, shit, Murph-I’d forgotten. It still hurts, then?”
“Of course it fuckin’ hurts, you bastard. I only got shot last week, takin’ a bullet for your fuckin’ slow ass.”
Ann opened her eyes to the sound of a slap and a laugh. She sat up groaning and they turned to face her. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened-they were beautiful. Same height, same size, both with bright blue eyes. One had dark blond hair and the other brown, with a mole by his mouth. Both had cheek bones carved like diamond-and she cut off her thoughts from where they were swiftly heading when the brunette spoke.
“Good mornin'.” She realized he was the one called Murph. “Would you like some water?”
She nodded, licking her lips. The blonde, Connor, strode to the kitchen area, grabbed a glass from the counter, and filled it with water. He walked back to Murph and handed it to him; Murph gave it to her, and her hands listened this time.
She drained half of it and said, “I’m Ann.”
“I’m Murphy,” Murph told her. “This’s my brother, Connor.” Connor nodded, a smile curving his lips, then he turned towards the door.
“Someone’s comin’, Murph,” he said softly. “Take ‘er out the back; we’ll meet at the church.”
Ann watched blankly as they quickly grabbed coats and guns. As Connor walked to the door, Murphy grabbed his shoulder and they looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, then nodded.
She wasn’t close to her siblings so she didn’t understand, but she could tell they’d been in situations like this before.
The entire fuckin’ country is lookin’ for us. We’re outlaws, Murph!
“Oh, shit,” she said dumbly. “You’re the Saints.”
Connor gave her a look, not at all like the one shared with his brother, and slipped out the door.
Murphy turned back to her, taking her hand, and led her through the apartment too fast to really see anything; she realized, quite suddenly, that she was in far over her head.
His hand, warm and strong, caught her attention. There were calluses on his palm and scars on the back of his hand. She noticed the tattoos on his wrist and knuckles, and some word down his arm, in Greek or Latin, she wasn’t sure which. “What does that mean?” she asked, nodding to his arm as he looked over.
“Justice,” he answered, leading her through a door. “Connor has one that means truth.” They rushed down three flights of stairs; he steadied her as her feet fell out from under her. The echo of distant gunfire reached them and Murphy’s fingers tightened around hers. Screaming sounded from the apartments, almost louder than the gunfire.
“Why are people trying to kill y’all?” she asked, shouting to he heard over the noise.
“We’re the Saints!” he yelled back, shoving open an emergency door; they’d finally reached the bottom. He exited first, gun drawn but shielded from sight. “We’ve a lotta enemies,” he finished, softer because outside was not nearly no loud. “Where’s your home?” he asked, leading the way from their loft, keeping an unobtrusive eye on the people hurrying to and fro.
Ann looked at everyone, trying to discern what he was looking for. “Um… three blocks that way,” she said, gesturing to the south.
“Alright,” he decided, “Let’s go. You lead the way.” She glanced back at the building then hurried away with him following, gun hidden in his coat.
-
If someone at the diner had told Ann she’d be taken home by the Saints, the vigilantes sent from God, she’d have slowly backed away, quite certain they were mad. If someone had gone even further and said they’d take care of her, give her Advil and water, and keep her safe while she slept off the hangover, she’d have probably started laughing.
And yet… that was exactly what happened.
Murphy saw her home, checked her apartment for any untoward things, and left, with one look over his shoulder.
Ann wandered around her two-room apartment, looking at everything with new eyes. Her bedroom with its old bed and worn-out dresser, brown carpeting and peeling blue painted walls. The pale yellow comforter was falling off the bed, so she put it back on, tidied her room. She glanced at the mirror on the dresser, took in her appearance: short, black hair in a messy bun; skin Will had called ‘dusky’ in his more poetic moods; small, beady green eyes. No, she decided for probably the millionth time, she was no prize. Hell, she was five three, short and squat.
Ann ‘harrumphed’ her reflection and went into the kitchenette, deciding she wanted hot chocolate. While the water boiled, she prepared a sandwich-old ham, the last two slices, and almost moldy cheese-eating it while standing over the sink. As she chewed she thought about calling her family; it had been a while since she talked to her mom or sister, just chatted. She even missed her baby brother telling her to be careful in the big city; the Saints had probably worried him-he’d want to know she was safe.
Ann finished her sandwich, drained a glass of milk, and loaded all of her five dirty dishes into the dishwasher. She grabbed her cellphone-left over from when her parents took care of everything, back before she’d decided she wanted independence, and now a necessity for single life in Boston-and wandered into the living area, falling into the shabby chair. She sighed, the excitement and lingering hangover getting to her-sleep beckoned, a seductive siren’s call, and she closed her eyes, surrendering.
If she had known what was to come, she’d have never slept again.
-
Her dream was a mixture of life and fantasy, like all dreams are. It began at work, with Marco fussing at her for being late and Cass shooting her an understanding smile. Ann shook her head like always and grabbed her notepad, heading to her section to take orders. There were the stereotypical customers: snotty women, leering men, fussy kids. There were the compassionate customers, the one or two who used to be waiters and knew how hard it was.
And then Connor and Murphy appeared, still bickering, except Murphy was wounded and kept pushing Connor away.
“m'fine,” he was saying as Ann came over. “Stop, you fuck.”
“You’re bleeding,” she said, horrified. “Here, have some napkins.” She placed napkins on the table and Murphy picked them up with a smile.
“Thanks,” he told her, pressing them to his shoulder, which continued leaking blood.
Connor ordered and she wrote it down, but the ink turned to water and soaked through the page, dripping all down her blouse and skirt. Ann then picked up some of the never-ending napkins and dabbed her own clothes.
Murphy started laughing then slumped over onto Connor, who pushed him away.
“I think he’s dead,” she said, staring and reaching forward to touch his face.
“Aye,” Connor replied, lighting a cigarette. “Most likely. He’s always playin’ the fool, gettin’ himself kilt.” He took a long drag and blew out the smoke.
Ann pulled back, coughing, and said, “You know smokin’ll kill you, right?”
Murphy laughed, sitting up and grabbing the cigarette from his brother. “I don’t think we have to worry about that, m’dear.”
Ann felt something touch her chest and glanced down: her shirt had come unbuttoned and a hand was ghosting its way down, fondling her breast.
“I think you need to wake up,” Connor said and Murphy nodded.
She looked around, for whoever was undressing her.
“Ann,”’ Murphy said, and she turned back to them. “Annie, wake up now.”
She nodded and opened her eyes.
---
Micah walked up the stairs to Ann’s apartment. He would have taken her the night before, but she never came home.
He paused at her door, listening for any sounds. There were none, so he grabbed the knob, looked around, and began to pick the lock, but it turned after a second. Stupid bitch, he laughed mentally, you should have locked the door. He opened the door and padded inside, softly closing and locking it behind him.
Micah’d been in here before, so he didn’t stop to examine anything, just made sure no one else was present.
He found Ann in the living area, asleep in on old, shabby chair. A cellphone was held loose in her hand and he gently pulled it out, placing it on the table beside the chair. He reached out and touched her chest, smiling at the sense of power. Micah grabbed her shirt, unbuttoning it, and smirked as her eyes flew open.
Before Ann had the chance to scream, he covered her mouth.
-
After he finished, Ann unconscious on her bed, Micah knew he had to kill her. He’d have to kill every toy from now on. He reached out and touched her chest, letting his hand trail down.
Ann lunged up before he could stop her, kicking and clawing; she scratched him, bruised him, and got out a piercing scream before he hit her, knocking her back out.
“Ooh, a wildcat,” he laughed. “I might have to keep you around for a bit.” In vengeance he fondled, fucked her again.
---
Ann woke again to rushing water. She was held beneath cold water in a shower she recognized as her own by a man she remembered attacking. She began struggling, kicked at him, and opened her mouth to scream; his hand flew to cover her lips, his other arm wrapped around her, and he slammed his body against hers.
“Calm, dear,” he said sweetly, mouth close to her ear. “Let’s let this go easily, yeah?”
She glared at him, resumed struggling-and the rape ran through her mind, filling her with shame, nausea, grief, and a bottomless rage.
But no matter how she fought, how many times her legs broke free and she kicked him, he remained as unmovable as a mountain. Ann felt tears pouring down her cheeks, tears of fury, helplessness, fear-she knew this couldn’t end well-and sorrow.
I should have called Mom, she told herself, surrendering at last. I should have talked with Momma and Daddy and Christy and Adam, told them how much I love them. She closed her eyes to the man’s cold brown eyes, laughing and lit inside from madness. She tried to take herself away from it, to shut off her mind, to just leave. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t escape. No matter how deep she burrowed into her mind, behind memories and dreams and a whole river of denial, she couldn’t not feel it, remember the first invasion.
Finally she felt the blackness looming, the sweet escape of feeling nothing, and she gave in.
---
Micah lay Ann on the bed, crawled on top and straddled her, wrapping his hands around her neck. He tightened his hold, the thrill of power over life and death filling him. He watched with excitement and pride as the breath of life left her and let go just as she died.
“Such beauty,” he said, tracing her cheekbone and then he leaned down to kiss her lips.
Ann Davids was his second bout of necrophilia, and he hoped she wouldn’t be his last.
-
A week later, after watching the police run around like headless chickens, the rush of his actions led him to stupidity.
Micah got himself completely trashed and began bragging to two Irish guys about his conquest.
He was at a bar he’d never been to before, drinking some of the best beer he’d ever had, and the alcohol loosened his tongue.
He’d overheard part of their conversation, something about “You couldn’t’ve done anythin’, Murph. You din’t know,” and ‘fuck’ a lot. If he hadn’t been trashed, Micah reflected a short time later, he’d have known to not say a thing.
So he began regaling the two men about his escapades. He didn’t notice how they sharpened, straightened, focused completely on him with a predator’s air. He didn’t notice how everyone else quietly slipped out of the bar in twos and threes, because they knew what was to come when these two Irish boys got those looks on their faces.
“So,” the darker one drawled, taking a long sip of his beer while the blond took a long drag of his cigarette, “you killed Ann Davids, then?”
“Yeah,” he slurred, laughing and gesturing, sloshing his beer. “She was a good fuck, too, a wildcat.”
Micah didn’t notice the clenched hands, the clenched jaw, or the deep, dark rage in the Irishman’s eyes.
“Why?” the blond asked, stabbing his cigarette down into the ashtray.
“Because…” Micah’s voice trailed off, as he thought about all of his reasons. “I don’t know. I could. It was fun.” He shrugged and took another gulp of his beer.
He didn’t notice the looks exchanged between them, the nods and acknowledgment. Normally he would have seen, would have found a way out of this situation.
“My name’s Connor,” the blond said, “and this’s my brother, Murphy.” He smiled and stood, Murphy joining him.
Micah looked up and frowned, reached for his beer. Murphy’s hand lashed out, knocking the glass away. It flew through the air and shattered on the floor. “Why’d you do that?” Micah slurred, slumping off the stool and slouching to the floor, trying to get his feet under him.
“See,” Connor said, “my brother here had developed a little crush on young Ann. Given time and a chance, he might’ve even fallen for her.”
Micah knew then, in his drunken haze, that he was royally fucked. Even if he wasn’t drunk, he realized, he could never match these two, either of them.
Murphy stepped in close and said softly, “Usually, when we dispense justice, Micah, we make it quick, painless. In your case, though-”and he paused to look at his brother, who nodded, “-I think we’ll make it hurt.”
---
Smecker smiled, sifting through his mail. He found the postcard with a Shamrock; on the back there were only four words, written in a sloping hand. He laughed and said, “Oh, you silly boys,” then went back inside.
Devil Jack is dead.
Fandom: The Boondock Saints
Disclaimer: only Connor, Murphy, and Smecker aren't mine. The quote at the beginning is said by Murphy in the movie. Just for fun.
Warnings: non-con; mentions of necrophilia; post-movie
Pairings: a few original characters mate, though half of the couple is unwilling
Rating: R
Wordcount: 3620
Point of view: third
Notes: I did not mean for this to be Mary-Sueish, and if you find it so, I beg pardon. It was originally about Micah and the boys ending him-but poor old Ann raised her hand and begged so prettily-
More notes: I tried my best to get the writing of their accents right, and if I failed-well, again I beg pardon.
Still more notes: Also, I know nothing of Boston beyond The Boondock Saints and Good Will Hunting. All my knowledge of police work and how to foil them is from TV, movies, and my own imagination.
Do not kill, do not rape, do not steal. These are principles which every man of every faith can embrace.
---
Micah Johnson impressed even himself with his cleverness. He stalked whores, scared them, convinced them they were insane. He’d break into their apartments, move things around, steal small items, stuff they wouldn’t miss until later.
One slut at a time, he followed them, got them worked up, and then moved on, let them calm down. Then he struck.
The sluts wouldn’t go to the cops, wouldn’t dare. Micah chose them carefully, studied all the hookers of south Boston. Finally he picked three who would do.
Danae McKellen, Emma Roson, and Kerry Shaw were the final choices. Danae and Kerry were young, late twenties, new to the business. They were still beautiful, not yet worn out. Danae had the classic beauty: dark hair, regal face, pale skin, green eyes, statuesque build. She wasn’t yet stained by her profession. Kerry was the opposite, short and blond with blue eyes; her skin was tan and she had a light dusting of freckles across her nose. Emma, on the other hand, was forty-three, an old pro. Her hair had been dyed so many times even she couldn’t remember the original color; it was stringy, like straw. Her skin was sallow, wrinkled-old at middle age.
Micah took Kerry first. She fought hard, but he was twice her size. He raped her three times the first night, then bathed her unconscious body, erasing all evidence of his actions. He patted her face after laying her on the bed and smirked. “Such a pleasure, m’dear,” he said and left swiftly.
He came back two nights later. It was a complete repeat, to the last detail. Kerry fought, Kerry lost, and Micah took the evidence with him when he left.
Next he took Emma, who knew fighting was useless. She lay there and waited for it to be over, so he flipped and sodomized her. She remained silent through it all, never begging or whimpering. Micah could tell she’d been used like this before and knew how to survive. After he’d finished, worn himself out, he cleaned her, took the clothes and sheets, and left. He waited a week before visiting again, and after another session sated him for a month.
Kerry, he heard, talked to a priest about her experiences, asked the kind man of the cloth if God had punished her for her sinful life. Micah killed her, of course, after he took her again.
He then went for Danae, the most beautiful of the three. He fucked her senseless, beat her, then fucked her again. He bathed her, cleaned her, then killed her, choked her till she died. He stared at her body for a moment-this was his first crime of passion. Kerry had been planned, cold, ruthless. So would Emma be. But Danae-beautiful, statuesque Danae-she was killed in lustful rage. He licked his lips and fucked her corpse, then gave it a shower and left it in the bath.
Kerry’s body had been hidden and so was Emma’s later that night. But Danae sat in the tub for almost a week, rotting, and finally the smell drove the neighbors to break down the door.
If Micah had buried her somewhere, the Saints might never have gotten involved.
-
Micah knew he had nothing to fear. There was no evidence in the apartment; he’d been to college, he watched TV, and he’d researched crimes. He’d cleaned everything too well-no evidence was left.
So Micah watched the police run in circles. If the media hadn’t been informed it would have gone down as a trick gone south. But the brutality of it sparked the imagination. The terror she’d clearly felt hit home.
Micah felt proud as women began to look fearfully over their shoulders, as tales circulated about a new Jack the Ripper. The police actually referred to him as Jack; he became Devil Jack when Emma and Kerry were found.
Micah knew he was safe-there was no connection, no evidence, no proof. He went about his normal routine: work, bar, home.
After almost a month and nothing new, the search faded and Micah felt the stirrings again. He began watching women, not just whores, and one struck his fancy: Ann Davids, a young waitress from the South.
---
Ann never really understood how she fell in with Connor and Murphy. She’d been drunk, after the third breakup with Will, trying to stumble home.
You know, after the first time, she’d been telling herself-and even her mental voice was slurred-gesturing appropriately, I should have known! He’s just a bastard, a selfish bastard, and I’m too good for him!
She stumbled and felt a hand grab her shoulder, halting her fall. Terror filled her, as she remembered all the news-stories about Devil Jack, and she whirled around swinging.
Of course, she was totally trashed and lost her balance; he caught her again, dark blue eyes laughing, and she passed out.
-
“She’s comin’ ‘round.”
A lilting voice echoed in her mind, with an accent-English? Scottish? Irish-yes, Irish, she decided.
“Aye, ‘bout time,” another answered. “You cannae keep bringin’ in strays, Murph.”
“Oh, shut it, Connor. You’d’ve done the same, an’ you know it,” the first voice-Murph?-responded.
Ann heard a tussle and something-one?-falling onto the floor. She strained, trying to open her eyes; and as her lids rose, no matter what was said later, she did not whimper.
“Oh, poor dear,” Connor said. “I think she’ll a headache, Murph. Be a good boy-fetch some painkillers and water, yeah?”
“Connor, d’ya have to be such a fuckin’ bastard?” Murph asked, defiant affection in his tone.
If Ann didn’t feel like killing herself, she’d laugh. Instead she moaned and tried to move her head. She’d had worse hangovers in her life, but she couldn’t remember when.
“Here,” Murph said, his hands wrapping hers around a glass, but they didn’t respond, so he held the glass to her lips-she really wanted to see these two men, but her eyes didn’t seem to be focusing-and water flowed into her mouth. “Swallow, dear,” he commanded kindly, brushing hair off her face. She closed her mouth and did; the cold water soothed her throat as it went down. “Good, good,” he murmured, pulling the glass away. “Now, take these.” She opened her mouth again and he placed two pills on her tongue; he gave her more water and she got the pills down.
“Now,” Connor told her, his voice coming from far away, “rest some more.”
That seemed a mighty fine idea and she slipped back under.
-
She woke again to two Irish voices arguing quietly. It seemed almost every other word out of their mouths was ‘fuck’, which struck her as odd-they’d been so gentle; it was wrong for them to curse so much.
“Look, Murph, we cannae keep her. The entire fuckin’ country is lookin’ for us. We cannae have some little girl in our apartment-we’re outlaws, Murph!”
“I know that, Connor. I just planned on nursin’ her back to health and then takin’ her to her place, but you came home early and jumped all over me-like you always do. You din’t let me explain, just started rantin’!”
The sound of a tussle and then a hiss of pain. “Oh, shit, Murph-I’d forgotten. It still hurts, then?”
“Of course it fuckin’ hurts, you bastard. I only got shot last week, takin’ a bullet for your fuckin’ slow ass.”
Ann opened her eyes to the sound of a slap and a laugh. She sat up groaning and they turned to face her. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened-they were beautiful. Same height, same size, both with bright blue eyes. One had dark blond hair and the other brown, with a mole by his mouth. Both had cheek bones carved like diamond-and she cut off her thoughts from where they were swiftly heading when the brunette spoke.
“Good mornin'.” She realized he was the one called Murph. “Would you like some water?”
She nodded, licking her lips. The blonde, Connor, strode to the kitchen area, grabbed a glass from the counter, and filled it with water. He walked back to Murph and handed it to him; Murph gave it to her, and her hands listened this time.
She drained half of it and said, “I’m Ann.”
“I’m Murphy,” Murph told her. “This’s my brother, Connor.” Connor nodded, a smile curving his lips, then he turned towards the door.
“Someone’s comin’, Murph,” he said softly. “Take ‘er out the back; we’ll meet at the church.”
Ann watched blankly as they quickly grabbed coats and guns. As Connor walked to the door, Murphy grabbed his shoulder and they looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, then nodded.
She wasn’t close to her siblings so she didn’t understand, but she could tell they’d been in situations like this before.
The entire fuckin’ country is lookin’ for us. We’re outlaws, Murph!
“Oh, shit,” she said dumbly. “You’re the Saints.”
Connor gave her a look, not at all like the one shared with his brother, and slipped out the door.
Murphy turned back to her, taking her hand, and led her through the apartment too fast to really see anything; she realized, quite suddenly, that she was in far over her head.
His hand, warm and strong, caught her attention. There were calluses on his palm and scars on the back of his hand. She noticed the tattoos on his wrist and knuckles, and some word down his arm, in Greek or Latin, she wasn’t sure which. “What does that mean?” she asked, nodding to his arm as he looked over.
“Justice,” he answered, leading her through a door. “Connor has one that means truth.” They rushed down three flights of stairs; he steadied her as her feet fell out from under her. The echo of distant gunfire reached them and Murphy’s fingers tightened around hers. Screaming sounded from the apartments, almost louder than the gunfire.
“Why are people trying to kill y’all?” she asked, shouting to he heard over the noise.
“We’re the Saints!” he yelled back, shoving open an emergency door; they’d finally reached the bottom. He exited first, gun drawn but shielded from sight. “We’ve a lotta enemies,” he finished, softer because outside was not nearly no loud. “Where’s your home?” he asked, leading the way from their loft, keeping an unobtrusive eye on the people hurrying to and fro.
Ann looked at everyone, trying to discern what he was looking for. “Um… three blocks that way,” she said, gesturing to the south.
“Alright,” he decided, “Let’s go. You lead the way.” She glanced back at the building then hurried away with him following, gun hidden in his coat.
-
If someone at the diner had told Ann she’d be taken home by the Saints, the vigilantes sent from God, she’d have slowly backed away, quite certain they were mad. If someone had gone even further and said they’d take care of her, give her Advil and water, and keep her safe while she slept off the hangover, she’d have probably started laughing.
And yet… that was exactly what happened.
Murphy saw her home, checked her apartment for any untoward things, and left, with one look over his shoulder.
Ann wandered around her two-room apartment, looking at everything with new eyes. Her bedroom with its old bed and worn-out dresser, brown carpeting and peeling blue painted walls. The pale yellow comforter was falling off the bed, so she put it back on, tidied her room. She glanced at the mirror on the dresser, took in her appearance: short, black hair in a messy bun; skin Will had called ‘dusky’ in his more poetic moods; small, beady green eyes. No, she decided for probably the millionth time, she was no prize. Hell, she was five three, short and squat.
Ann ‘harrumphed’ her reflection and went into the kitchenette, deciding she wanted hot chocolate. While the water boiled, she prepared a sandwich-old ham, the last two slices, and almost moldy cheese-eating it while standing over the sink. As she chewed she thought about calling her family; it had been a while since she talked to her mom or sister, just chatted. She even missed her baby brother telling her to be careful in the big city; the Saints had probably worried him-he’d want to know she was safe.
Ann finished her sandwich, drained a glass of milk, and loaded all of her five dirty dishes into the dishwasher. She grabbed her cellphone-left over from when her parents took care of everything, back before she’d decided she wanted independence, and now a necessity for single life in Boston-and wandered into the living area, falling into the shabby chair. She sighed, the excitement and lingering hangover getting to her-sleep beckoned, a seductive siren’s call, and she closed her eyes, surrendering.
If she had known what was to come, she’d have never slept again.
-
Her dream was a mixture of life and fantasy, like all dreams are. It began at work, with Marco fussing at her for being late and Cass shooting her an understanding smile. Ann shook her head like always and grabbed her notepad, heading to her section to take orders. There were the stereotypical customers: snotty women, leering men, fussy kids. There were the compassionate customers, the one or two who used to be waiters and knew how hard it was.
And then Connor and Murphy appeared, still bickering, except Murphy was wounded and kept pushing Connor away.
“m'fine,” he was saying as Ann came over. “Stop, you fuck.”
“You’re bleeding,” she said, horrified. “Here, have some napkins.” She placed napkins on the table and Murphy picked them up with a smile.
“Thanks,” he told her, pressing them to his shoulder, which continued leaking blood.
Connor ordered and she wrote it down, but the ink turned to water and soaked through the page, dripping all down her blouse and skirt. Ann then picked up some of the never-ending napkins and dabbed her own clothes.
Murphy started laughing then slumped over onto Connor, who pushed him away.
“I think he’s dead,” she said, staring and reaching forward to touch his face.
“Aye,” Connor replied, lighting a cigarette. “Most likely. He’s always playin’ the fool, gettin’ himself kilt.” He took a long drag and blew out the smoke.
Ann pulled back, coughing, and said, “You know smokin’ll kill you, right?”
Murphy laughed, sitting up and grabbing the cigarette from his brother. “I don’t think we have to worry about that, m’dear.”
Ann felt something touch her chest and glanced down: her shirt had come unbuttoned and a hand was ghosting its way down, fondling her breast.
“I think you need to wake up,” Connor said and Murphy nodded.
She looked around, for whoever was undressing her.
“Ann,”’ Murphy said, and she turned back to them. “Annie, wake up now.”
She nodded and opened her eyes.
---
Micah walked up the stairs to Ann’s apartment. He would have taken her the night before, but she never came home.
He paused at her door, listening for any sounds. There were none, so he grabbed the knob, looked around, and began to pick the lock, but it turned after a second. Stupid bitch, he laughed mentally, you should have locked the door. He opened the door and padded inside, softly closing and locking it behind him.
Micah’d been in here before, so he didn’t stop to examine anything, just made sure no one else was present.
He found Ann in the living area, asleep in on old, shabby chair. A cellphone was held loose in her hand and he gently pulled it out, placing it on the table beside the chair. He reached out and touched her chest, smiling at the sense of power. Micah grabbed her shirt, unbuttoning it, and smirked as her eyes flew open.
Before Ann had the chance to scream, he covered her mouth.
-
After he finished, Ann unconscious on her bed, Micah knew he had to kill her. He’d have to kill every toy from now on. He reached out and touched her chest, letting his hand trail down.
Ann lunged up before he could stop her, kicking and clawing; she scratched him, bruised him, and got out a piercing scream before he hit her, knocking her back out.
“Ooh, a wildcat,” he laughed. “I might have to keep you around for a bit.” In vengeance he fondled, fucked her again.
---
Ann woke again to rushing water. She was held beneath cold water in a shower she recognized as her own by a man she remembered attacking. She began struggling, kicked at him, and opened her mouth to scream; his hand flew to cover her lips, his other arm wrapped around her, and he slammed his body against hers.
“Calm, dear,” he said sweetly, mouth close to her ear. “Let’s let this go easily, yeah?”
She glared at him, resumed struggling-and the rape ran through her mind, filling her with shame, nausea, grief, and a bottomless rage.
But no matter how she fought, how many times her legs broke free and she kicked him, he remained as unmovable as a mountain. Ann felt tears pouring down her cheeks, tears of fury, helplessness, fear-she knew this couldn’t end well-and sorrow.
I should have called Mom, she told herself, surrendering at last. I should have talked with Momma and Daddy and Christy and Adam, told them how much I love them. She closed her eyes to the man’s cold brown eyes, laughing and lit inside from madness. She tried to take herself away from it, to shut off her mind, to just leave. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t escape. No matter how deep she burrowed into her mind, behind memories and dreams and a whole river of denial, she couldn’t not feel it, remember the first invasion.
Finally she felt the blackness looming, the sweet escape of feeling nothing, and she gave in.
---
Micah lay Ann on the bed, crawled on top and straddled her, wrapping his hands around her neck. He tightened his hold, the thrill of power over life and death filling him. He watched with excitement and pride as the breath of life left her and let go just as she died.
“Such beauty,” he said, tracing her cheekbone and then he leaned down to kiss her lips.
Ann Davids was his second bout of necrophilia, and he hoped she wouldn’t be his last.
-
A week later, after watching the police run around like headless chickens, the rush of his actions led him to stupidity.
Micah got himself completely trashed and began bragging to two Irish guys about his conquest.
He was at a bar he’d never been to before, drinking some of the best beer he’d ever had, and the alcohol loosened his tongue.
He’d overheard part of their conversation, something about “You couldn’t’ve done anythin’, Murph. You din’t know,” and ‘fuck’ a lot. If he hadn’t been trashed, Micah reflected a short time later, he’d have known to not say a thing.
So he began regaling the two men about his escapades. He didn’t notice how they sharpened, straightened, focused completely on him with a predator’s air. He didn’t notice how everyone else quietly slipped out of the bar in twos and threes, because they knew what was to come when these two Irish boys got those looks on their faces.
“So,” the darker one drawled, taking a long sip of his beer while the blond took a long drag of his cigarette, “you killed Ann Davids, then?”
“Yeah,” he slurred, laughing and gesturing, sloshing his beer. “She was a good fuck, too, a wildcat.”
Micah didn’t notice the clenched hands, the clenched jaw, or the deep, dark rage in the Irishman’s eyes.
“Why?” the blond asked, stabbing his cigarette down into the ashtray.
“Because…” Micah’s voice trailed off, as he thought about all of his reasons. “I don’t know. I could. It was fun.” He shrugged and took another gulp of his beer.
He didn’t notice the looks exchanged between them, the nods and acknowledgment. Normally he would have seen, would have found a way out of this situation.
“My name’s Connor,” the blond said, “and this’s my brother, Murphy.” He smiled and stood, Murphy joining him.
Micah looked up and frowned, reached for his beer. Murphy’s hand lashed out, knocking the glass away. It flew through the air and shattered on the floor. “Why’d you do that?” Micah slurred, slumping off the stool and slouching to the floor, trying to get his feet under him.
“See,” Connor said, “my brother here had developed a little crush on young Ann. Given time and a chance, he might’ve even fallen for her.”
Micah knew then, in his drunken haze, that he was royally fucked. Even if he wasn’t drunk, he realized, he could never match these two, either of them.
Murphy stepped in close and said softly, “Usually, when we dispense justice, Micah, we make it quick, painless. In your case, though-”and he paused to look at his brother, who nodded, “-I think we’ll make it hurt.”
---
Smecker smiled, sifting through his mail. He found the postcard with a Shamrock; on the back there were only four words, written in a sloping hand. He laughed and said, “Oh, you silly boys,” then went back inside.
Devil Jack is dead.