The Killing Kind

“Warm today,” he said, the hat still slapping softly against his leg.

I nodded but didn't reply.

He inclined his head back in the direction of the road. “I see you had an accident with your mailbox.” He smiled, revealing uneven yellow teeth with a pronounced gap at the front, and I knew immediately that he had been responsible for the recluses.

“Spiders,” I replied. “I burned them all.”

The smile died. “That's unfortunate.”

“You seem to be taking it kind of personally.”

His mouth worked at the sugar lumps while his eyes locked on mine. “I like spiders,” he said.

“They certainly burn well,” I replied. “Now, can I help you?”

“I do hope so,” he said. “Or perhaps I can help you. Yes sir, I feel certain that I can help you.”

His voice had an odd nasal quality that flattened his vowels and made his accent difficult to place, a task complicated further by the formal locutions of his speech. The smile gradually reappeared but those hooded eyes failed to alter in response. Instead, they maintained a watchful, vaguely malevolent quality, as if some entity had taken over the body of this odd, dated-looking man, hollowing out his form and controlling his progress by looking through the empty sockets in his head.

“I don't think I need your help.”

He waggled a finger at me in disagreement, and for the first time, I got a good look at his hands. They were thin, absurdly so, and there was something insectlike about them as they emerged from the sleeves of his jacket. The middle finger seemed to be about five inches long and, in common with the rest of his digits, tapered to a point at the tip: not only the nail but the entire finger appeared to grow narrower and narrower. The fingernails themselves looked to be a quarter of an inch at their widest point and were stained a kind of yellow-black. There were patches of short red hair below each of the knuckles, gradually expanding to cover most of the back of his hand and disappearing in tufts beneath his sleeve. They gave him a strange, feral quality.

“Now, now, sir,” he said, his fingers waving the way an arachnid-will sometimes raise its legs when it finds itself cornered. Their movements appeared to be unrelated to his words or to the language of the rest of the body. They were like separate creatures that had somehow managed to attach themselves to a host, constantly probing gently at the world around them.

“Don't be hasty,” he continued. “I admire independence as much as the next man, indeed I do. It is a laudable attribute in a man, sir, a laudable attribute, make no mistake about that, but it can lead him to do reckless things. Worse, sir, worse; it can cause him to interfere with the rights of those around him, sometimes without him even knowing.” His voice assumed a tone of awe at the ways of such men, and he shook his head slowly. “There you are, living your own life as you see fit, and you are causing pain and embarrassment to others by doing so. It's a sin, sir, that's what it is, a sin.”

He folded his slim fingers across his stomach, still smiling, and waited for a response.

“Who are you?” I said. There was an element of awe in my own voice as well. He was comical yet sinister, like a bad clown.

“Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Pudd, Mr. Pudd. At your service, sir.” He extended his right hand in greeting, but I didn't reach out to take it. I couldn't. It revolted me. A friend of my grandfather's had once kept a wolf spider in a glass tank and one day, on a dare from the man's son, I had touched its leg. The spider had shot away almost instantly, but not before I had felt the hairy, jointed nature of the thing. It was not an experience I wanted to repeat.

The hand hung in midair for a moment, and once again the smile faltered briefly. Then Mr. Pudd took back his hand, and his fingers scuttled inside his jacket. I eased my right hand a few inches to the left and took hold of the gun beneath the newspapers, my thumb flicking the safety off. Mr. Pudd didn't appear to notice the movement. At least, he gave no indication that he had, but I felt something change in his attitude toward me, like a black widow that believes it has cornered a beetle only to find itself staring into the eyes of a wasp. His jacket tightened around him as his hand searched and I saw the telltale bulge of his gun.

“I think I'd prefer it if you left,” I said quietly.

“Sadly, Mr. Parker, personal preference has nothing to do with this.” The smile faded, and Mr. Pudd's mouth assumed an expression of exaggerated sorrow. “If the truth be known, sir, I would prefer not to be here at all. This is an unpleasant duty, but one that I am afraid you have brought upon yourself by your inconsiderate actions.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I am talking about your harassment of Mr. Carter Paragon, your disregard for the work of the organization that he represents, and your insistence on attempting to co

Throughout this speech, Mr. Pudd's tone did not vary from one of quiet reasonableness. He spoke to me the way a parent speaks to an errant child. I made a note to add “patronizing” to “creepy” and “insectlike” where Mr. Pudd was concerned.

“That, and the Second Amendment,” I said. “It seems like you've heard of that one too.” I removed my hand from beneath the newspaper and pointed the gun at him. I was glad to see that my hand didn't shake.

“This is most unfortunate, Mr. Parker,” he said in an aggrieved tone.

“I agree, Mr. Pudd. I don't like people coming onto my property carrying guns, or watching me while I conduct my business. It's bad ma

Mr. Pudd swallowed, took his hand from inside his jacket, and moved both hands away from his body. “I meant you no offense, sir, but the servants of the Lord are afflicted with enemies on all sides.”

“Surely God will protect you better than a gun?”

“The Lord helps those who help themselves, Mr. Parker,” he replied.

“I don't think the Lord approves of breaking and entering,” I said, and Mr. Pudd's eyebrow raised slightly.

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Why, do you have something to confess?”

“Not to you, Mr. Parker. Not to you.”

Once again his fingers danced slowly in the air, but this time there appeared to be purpose in the movement and I wondered what it meant. It was only when I heard the car door open and the shadow of the woman advanced across the lawn that I knew. I stood quickly and moved back, raising the gun to shoulder height in a two-handed grip and aiming it at Mr. Pudd's upper body.

The woman approached from behind his left shoulder. She didn't speak, but her hand was inside her thigh-length black coat. She wore no makeup and her face was very pale. Beneath her coat she wore a black pleated skirt that hung almost to her ankles, and a simple white blouse unbuttoned at the top, with a black scarf knotted around her neck. There was something deeply unpleasant about her looks, an ugliness from within that had seeped through her pores and blighted her skin. The nose was too flat for the face, the eyes too big and too white, the lips strangely bloated. Her chin was weak and receded into layers of flesh at her neck. No muscles moved in her face.

Mr. Pudd turned his head slightly toward her but kept his eyes on me. “You know, my dear, I think Mr. Parker is frightened of us.”

The woman's expression didn't change. She just kept moving forward.

“Tell her to back off,” I said softly, but I found that it was I who was taking another step back.