The book towers came next.  Ivory white, green, red, the deepest blacks and blues.  Hardback books.  I kicked wildly, laid waste to lands of make believe.  Grabbed ‘em by the spine.  Shook.  Nothing fell out.  More drawers in the kitchen.  Bathroom cabinet nothing but aspirin and generic laxative.  Surely, we wore gloves.  The second bedroom.  A trove of baseball cards and old comic books. 

            “Davis,” I yelled, “Come here.”

            “Money?” he asked. 

            “Look at all this awesome shit.”

            “What?”          

            “He must’ve been collecting all his life.”

            “Who cares?  Look for some pills or cash and let’s get on with the plan.”

            “This stuff is worth money.”

            “And completely traceable.  Ask yourself, who are we gonna sell that shit to?”

            “I could keep it,” I said.  “Sell it years from now.”

            “Why the fuck would you wanna do that?” Davis asked.  “Keep to the pills and money and move on.” 

            It’s not like I could tell the old man I needed to cut off his clothes, so he got real freaked out when he felt the cold steel of the scissors against his skin, but I put a stop to all that with a rabbit punch to the ribcage.  I felt poignant and awful.

            The shirt, thin flannel fabric, cut easily.  The old man sucked in his stomach, must of blindly hoped I wouldn’t slice him.  The sweat pants were more a chore, especially the elastic waist-band, and I never did figure out how to remove the pants without having to re-tape the feet.  Luckily, the old man didn’t attempt anything silly. 

Davis came back with the car.   We carried the old man like a rug being taken out to have the dust beat from it.  He’d stopped squirming by this point.  Car trunk was open and waiting.  Deposit made.  

            Back inside, voilà.  Small roll of twenties inside a coffee can in the hall closet underneath boxes and boxes of paperwork. 

            “Revenge is sweet, no?” Davis asked. 

            “Shouldn’t we tell him something?” I asked.  “Like maybe, you’re not going to die?  He’s probably pissing all over my trunk.” 

            “How’re you supposed to talk to a blindfolded deaf man?” 

            Hanging.  Serious defeat.  How else to describe the silence?  “Where to now?” I asked. 

            Davis raised his eyebrows and smiled.  I don’t have to tell you it was rather menacing. 

*** 

            It’s the color I remember most.  Pink, grape-fruited dawn rising behind luscious, flowing greens.  Sunlight burst through leaves, crested the hill like golden trumpets of goodwill.  Great day to be alive.  The feeling so overwhelmed me I convinced Davis to join me for a scenic view. 

            “Take it in,” I said. 

            “It is pretty,” he said, “I’ll give ya that.” 

            Big oak tree halfway up the hill.  Surrounded by nothing but grass and fence.  Isolated, but centered in the hill’s upward climb.  You couldn’t plant a more perfect sunrise.  And the old man.  Naked.  Tied to the oak tree.  Still blindfolded and duct taped.  Pretty little note taped to his chest.  The note read: