The Skillful Huntsman (Part Four) – A Grimm BMore Story
The following short story is fiction. It is a retelling of a Grimm Fairy Tale. It was selected from a list of Grimm Fairy Tales with a random number generator. You can find the original story here.
This is Part Four. If you haven’t read Part One, Part Two, and Part Three the following story won’t make a lot of sense to you. Click here to read Part One. Click here to read Part Two. Click here to read Part Three.
Abby hated the coffee house, but she put on a happy face. As her father had said, working here wasn’t about the money. They had money. Working here was about resume building. Few stories played better than a wealthy girl sacrificing her time and energy to volunteer at a place designed to take care of suffering citizens. The name of the coffee house was, “Today Free. Tomorrow Sold.” The well intended owners had hoped to create a space where anyone could get a cup of coffee, even if they couldn’t pay. They, the owners, were ex-elementary school teachers who wanted to continue giving back to the city in their retirement. Their idea was that if you couldn’t pay today, you would pay later when you were able. Had it not been for a twenty-something hipster following who thought the concept was cool, the homeless of Baltimore would have drained the shop dry years ago.
Abby looked out over the room. Nothing out of the ordinary for a Saturday morning. Three guys with overgrown breads and ironic hats sat at different tables typing away on their laptops. A sweating, overweight high-school boy with bad skin tried to make conversation with an average looking girl who didn’t realize until a few minutes ago that she was on a date. Stinky Joe was half-asleep at the corner table. Crazy Will and Laughing Spencer were outside arguing about something inconsequential. And then there was her father’s security guard. He sat at attention taking up a table by the door, pretending to read the City Paper. Abby allowed herself a moment to glare at him with disdain.
The fresh pot of coffee finished percolating. She took it off the burner and crossed the room to refill Joe’s cup. He smelled like vomit and mold. ”Uh, thanks,” he mumbled through his haze.
She smiled back and said, “You’re welcome, Joe.” She knew he couldn’t remember her name, even though in more lively moments, he’d introduced himself to her over and over. ”How are you feeling today?” she asked. ”Um. Oh. Um. Fine. Fine,” he mumbled back.
The bell at the door rang signaling a new customer’s arrival. Abby turned to look and see who was coming in. A scrawny African-American kid in a blue t-shirt and black running pants stepped into the shop and looked around. He wore a grey, ratty back pack. Abby laughed to herself at how her security detail looked the kid up and down, intensely assessing whether or not he was a threat.
“Seat yourself,” Abby called heading back to the counter. She returned the coffee pot to its burner and grabbed a menu. ”No way this kid is paying,” she thought to herself as she crossed the room to the table he’d chosen. When she arrived at the table, she was surprised to see the kid reading a book. ”Can I get you anything?” she asked as she lay the menu in front of him.
The boy looked up. Abby noticed a moment of panicked surprise in his eyes, but it vanished quickly. ”Um,” he said looking at the menu, “I heard people can eat for free in here?”
“Coffee’s free,” Abby said, distracted. ”The food costs.” She couldn’t stop looking at the book the boy had laid on the table: “The Talented Mister Ripley.” She’d read it. Knew it well. But something about that copy, she couldn’t stop staring at it. Something about it was familiar.
The boy saw her staring. He snatched up the book and put it in his lap. ”Just a coffee then,” he said looking her in the eye.
Abby looked back at him puzzled. She knew there were pieces to be put together, but she couldn’t get them to fit. ”I’ll be right back,” she said.
She grabbed a mug from behind the counter and filled it. Then she returned to the unsettling kid. She put the mug on the table and sat down across from him. He was reading the book again. He didn’t acknowledge her.
“Are you reading that for school?” she asked.
“Nope,” he said plainly without looking up.
There was something about it. She just couldn’t get her mind to wrap around it. She didn’t understand why it was bothering her. It was just a beat-up paperback. “Did you get that from the library?” she asked.
“Nope,” the kid said again without looking up.
She huffed. She didn’t like being ignored. She wasn’t use to it. She was beautiful. She knew it. Usually boys like this one went out of their way to stare at her, to talk to her, to make her notice them. Here she was giving this one generous attention and he didn’t seem to care. It was off setting. ”Can I see it?” she asked.
The boy closed the book, place it in front of him on the table, and looked her in the eye. His dark brown eyes pierced her. They reminded her of her father. There was far more growing inside this egg than the outer shell revealed. He drummed his fingers on the top of the book in a strange rhythm. After a few seconds he slid the book to her with both hands. He continued lightly drumming on the table top.
Abby picked it up and flipped through the pages rapidly. There wasn’t anything special about it. Then something inside the front cover caught her eye. She opened it wide. There in the bottom corner was her small stamp – “Property of Abigail Deces”. She placed the book on the table, leaned back in her chair, and folded her arms across her chest. ”Now where exactly did you get that?” she said nodding at the book.
Cold, without fear or menace, the boy replied, “I took it from your room last night while you were sleeping.”
“You did?” Abby said surprised by his forthrightness. She didn’t know why, but she liked him. Maybe it was his confidence. Or maybe it was his fearless honesty. ”What exactly were you doing in my room last night?” she said coyly.
“Just looking around,” the boy said with a grin.
Abby leaned forward across the table. ”You see that man over there by the door,” she whispered fiercely. ”All it would take is one word from me and he’d come over here and snap your neck in half.”
The boy leaned forward too, unphased by her threat. There noses were only inches apart. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. ”Go right ahead,” he said with a smile, calling her bluff.
She laughed, leaned back, and folded her arms again. ”How exactly did you escape last night?”
He mirrored her body language. ”I walked out the back door?” he replied with curiosity in his voice.
“No, no,” she said. ”How’d you get away from Wellesley over there?” She motioned toward the security man with her head.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” the boy said without looking at the man by the door.
She couldn’t tell if he was playing a game or telling the truth. She raised an eyebrow and asked, “You didn’t see him kill your three friends in my kitchen.”
“I saw three men and a dog die last night,” the boy said coldly. ”But Mr. Suit over there wasn’t around.”
“Can you prove that?” Abby asked with doubt.
The boy grinned with pride before moving. After a brief moment, he picked up his backpack off the floor, sat it in his lap, unzipped the top compartment, and held it open for Abby to see.
She had to stand to look inside. What she made her smile from ear to ear. It was her first honest smile of the morning. She extended her hand to him, “My name is Abigail. You can call me Abby.”
The boy shook her hand gently. ”Hunter,” he said.
“I get off in four hours,” Abby said sweetly, holding his hand in both of hers. ”I’d love for you to meet me at my house. I think my father would love to have a chat with you.”
The day droned on for Abby. She couldn’t wait to see how her father would handle the revelation of Hunter. The minute the clock clicked one in the afternoon, she tossed her apron behind the counter and walked out of the shop. She moved across the inner harbor at such a brisk pace, the security guard struggled to keep up.
As she approached her house, she didn’t see Hunter waiting. ”That little jerk went in without me,” she said a loud to herself.
“What was that?” Mr. Wellesley called from behind her.
“Nothing,” she said with glee. Then she added with a giggle, “You’ll see.”
She threw open the front door, and without breaking stride, headed up the stairs. She found her father laying on on the weight bench, doing slow reps with a partially filled bench-press bar. Hunter stood behind him in the spotter’s position. She looked at Hunter with disappointment. ”I thought I told you to wait for me outside,” she said curtly.
Hunter smiled innocently back as if she had no idea what she was talking about.
Abby’s father did one final rep, placed the bar back in its holder, and sat up to face his daughter. ”Now Sweets,” he said catching his breath. “Don’t be mad at the young lad. He was standing outside and I had him brought in. Couldn’t have him just sitting on the curb in front of the house. We’ve had a very nice chat. You did the right thing.” Her father then looked past her to the security guard who was moving slowly up the stairs. ”Ah Mr. Wellesley,” he said pointing at the man with two fingers. ”The hero of the house. Come in. Come in.”
Taking great pride at being called a hero by his boss, Mr. Wellesley marched into the room and stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands behind his back, in a Parade Rest position. ”Yes, sir,” he said respectfully.
“Did you know, Sweets,” Abby’s father continued, “That Mr. Wellesley used to work for the C-I-A?” He paused on each letter, to accent them.
“Why no, Daddy,” Abby responded innocently, “I did not.”
“And before that,” he continued, “he was a marine.”
Abby crossed the room to stand next to her father. She looked the security guard up and down. ”Now I can see that, Daddy. He looks like a marine.”
“He was. He was indeed,” her father said in his thick southern drawl. ”A very good marine too.”
“Hmm,” Abby said taking great joy in this game. She had guessed the outcome hours before. There was no mystery for her as to what was to happen next; but she loved how her father built anticipation for no other reason than his own amusement. He was like a cat with a toy. It was unfortunate for Mr. Wellesley that he did not appear to yet have realized the game he was a part of. It was to late now anyway. The outcome was set the minute he’d stepped in the front door.
“Did I tell you all about what Mr. Wellesley did for us last night?” her father said, not taking his eyes off the security guard.
“You did,” Abby said. ”You most certainly did.”
“And you know what he did that was so kind? Really above and beyond,” her father said.
“Why no, Daddy? What kind thing did he do?”
“He emptied the three robbers pockets for me. He brought me their wallets, and some rolls of cash, and even some small packets of drugs.”
“Drugs, Daddy? These were terrible men,” she said with childlike surprise, savoring the growing tension. Drops of sweat were forming on Mr. Wellesley’s brow.
“They were indeed,” her father said. ”But one thing has puzzled me, Sweets. Just one thing.”
“What’s that, Daddy?”
“Well, Sweets, have you ever known a drug dealer to go without a cell phone?”
Mr. Wellesley looked over his shoulder toward the stairs. Two more men from his team of security guards, both in suits exactly like his, had silently taken up a strategic position in the small hallway and were blocking any hope of escape. He nodded to himself and looked forward again. His lips moved into a tight, small line of resolve. He understood now.
“It was Hunter here that solved the mystery for me,” Abby’s father continued. ”He brought me this lovely bag of phones and explained.” Reaching under the weight bench he retrieved the three cell phones. He tossed two at Mr. Wellesley’s feet but held onto one, lifting it up in the air as if he were examining an alien artifact. “I was shocked,” he said. ”Just plain shocked.”
“It is shocking,” Abby said with a wide eyed smile, staring at Mr. Wellesley.
“And this made me think,” her father said. ”If it was Hunter who was here to collect the phones, where exactly was Mr. Wellesley last night?”
“That is an excellent question, Daddy,” Abby said.
“So I began looking through the phones and look what I found.” Abby’s father touched the screen of the phone in his hand. A buzz went off in the security guard’s pocket. The two men in the hall inched forward; but before they could pounce, Abby’s father reached down with the speed of a cat. He dug his hand into a small white towel balled at his feet. Just as quickly, he popped back up to a sitting position with a black revolver in his hand. Without pause, he fired a single shot that connected with Mr. Wellesley’s forehead, throwing the man’s body back into the corner of the room. In less than a second, in one solid, smooth motion, Mr. Wellesley’s life was gone.
Abby looked into the mirror on the wall across from them at Hunter. The boy hadn’t flinched. She smiled at him with respect, one predator to another.
“Good help is so hard to find these days,” her father said standing. ”Gentlemen,” he then said to the two men in the hallway. ”Please call the cleaners back. It appears this morning when they were working on the kitchen, they missed a body.” He then turned to Hunter and extended his hand for a shake. ”I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” he said. ”My name is Ignatius. Ignatius Deces.” Hunter took Mr. Deces’ hand and shook it firmly. ”My friends call me Iggy,” he continued. ”But you can call me Sir.”
“My name’s Hunter Stockton, Sir,” the boy replied.
“Well, Hunter,” Mr. Deces continued as he turned and walked toward his study. ”How would you like a job?”
Hunter and Abby followed Mr. Deces down the hall. ”I would like that very much,” Hunter said.
Mr. Deces smacked his office desk with his hand and said, “Excellent!” Then pointing two fingers at Hunter, he continued, “Welcome to the family. I’ve got big plans for you already. We need to work on your signature though,” he said sitting down behind his desk. ”The whole writing in blood thing is a messy business. Maybe business cards?”
Abby moved to stand behind her father’s chair. ”Oh I like that, Daddy,” she said. ”Simple. Just with the name ‘Hunter’ on them. Maybe on white linen paper?”
“Beautiful idea, Sweets. I’ll have some made up right away.”
Hunter’s heart tingled in his chest. He drummed his fingers on his pants legs. He knew that finally, at long last, he had found his thing, and he was going to earn some respect.
The End?
