Playing the Hand She's Dealt

Sweat dribbled down Walter Farkos’ brow as a man clad in black walked straight to the hidden wall safe. Four paintings lined the wall. Odd, the stranger seemed to know exactly where to go. He removed the Degas and placed it on the floor, leaning it against the curio that held Walter’s trophies and medals from all the way back in high school. The intruder pried the false panel off the wall and gingerly touched the safe’s dial. Walter refused to struggle against the binds that held his wrists to the arms of the chair. The Victorian swivel chair just set him back seventy-five hundred dollars. He didn’t want to risk damaging his new antique.
Shouting would be pointless. The walls were thick, the windows double paned. Even if they weren’t, the velvet drapes would soak up the sound. His wife and kids would be of no help. Muriel was vacationing with ‘the girls’ in the Hamptons. Walter Jr. lived on the other side of Minneapolis, Elissa lived in Edina, and Jessica was out east attending Yale.
The silent man dressed like a ninja with sunglasses spun the dial back and forth. The safe didn’t open. He tried the combination again. And again, nothing. Walter grinned at the man’s back. Two days ago the asshole would’ve emptied the safe.
Very few people knew where the safe was located. His wife and kids, of course, and he could think of two, maybe three friends who might. But the day before yesterday, on a whim, Walter changed the combination. Only he knew the new sequence of numbers.
The man walked toward him with a purposeful stride while reaching into his pocket. Walter cringed, not knowing what the canister might be that the thief now held in his hand. The stranger brought it up to his own throat and spoke. “What’s the combination?”
Walter had heard the same metallic voice before from an old friend suffering from throat cancer. The artificial voice box amazed and disgusted him at the same time. Two simultaneous thoughts made him shudder. One, his old friend dying of the dreaded disease, and two, this man in front of him hiding his voice for a reason. The ninja-burglar appeared to be in too good shape for throat cancer. Do I know him? Walter studied the man’s size and posture, the way he moved himself as he approached. Though nothing remarkable, it did seem familiar. He recalled the men from his office, then the men from his club. He gave up. It could be anyone. He never paid much attention before.
A sharp rap sent a jackhammer of pain through Walter Farkos’ head. The intruder hit the exact spot where a welt had risen above his left eye, the same spot that laid Walter out when he stepped into his study to investigate a noise. On hindsight, he should have called the police, but the alarm never went off. Now he knew that whomever this man might be, he was clever enough to bypass the system.
The stranger leaned over. “The combination.” The fake voice rang in his ear.
“Fuck you!” Walter spit on the black mask.
The man stood up and reached into his pocket and casually pulled out an Exacto Knife. The quality was top-notch. It must have set him back thirty or forty dollars. The handle fit perfectly in his hand. It even had little indentations for the fingers. Then the blade came out about a quarter of an inch.
The binds dug into Walter’s wrists as he finally began to struggle, no longer thinking about the value of the chair. A quick slash across his belly opened a flawless slit in his shirt. Blood seeped out of the cut staining the white silk.
“I paid seventy-five dollars for this shirt.”
“The combination,” the robotic voice repeated.
“Do you think I’m going to tell you because you ruined my shirt? Hardly worth that.”
“Is it worth your life?”
The voice had an eerie effect. The words came out clear enough, but with no emotion.
“If you kill me you’ll never get into the safe.”
The man set his voice box on the oak desk. Then he grabbed a handful of Walter’s thick gray hair and jerked his head back. He sliced across Walter’s neck, not deep enough to do any permanent damage, but enough to make a point.
Rivulets of blood oozed down Walter’s throat, soaking into the collar of his now worthless shirt. The blade slid into its chamber and the man slipped it back in his pocket. He picked up the voice box.
“Think hard. This is your last chance. I have no desire to kill you, but if I have to leave empty-handed, your life means nothing to me. Is your life worth so little to you?”
Walter sneered at his captor. “How do I know you won’t kill me after I give you the combination?”
“Faith,” the tinny voice rang.
“Forget it. If I’m going to die anyway, I’m not letting the likes of you profit from my death.”
The man slammed his gloved fist onto Walter’s left hand. Walter screamed.
The fake ninja reached into his pocket and came out again with the Exacto. This time the blade extended to its full length.
“Three joints on each finger, ten fingers, you do the math. Then I move to your toes. After that I get creative.”
He laid his voice box down and grabbed Walter’s left hand, forcing it open, the palm being pressed against the arm of the chair. Holding it securely, he used his other hand to place the blade just below Walter’s cuticle on the pinky finger.
Sweat rolled down Walter’s face mingling with the blood as it reached his throat. His eyes felt like they were gaping. “If I tell you do you promise not to kill me?”
The blade disappeared inside the handle, leaving a small but harmless cut on Walter’s finger.
Reluctantly, Walter spit out the numbers.
As the lunatic walked across the room and tried the new combination, Walter once again struggled with the binds and the arm of the chair loosened below his left wrist. He wriggled his arm more until a crack of wood shattered the silence.
The masked man, surprised at the noise, spun around and charged. Walter struggled with the broken arm of the chair and wiggled it down until he had a good hold on it. Because of the restraints, he could only use the strength of his arm. He swung.
The attacker ducked to his right. Still, it knocked him off balance enough that he tripped into the desk, his sunglasses falling to the floor. Leaning over he picked up the marble paperweight, some achievement award from 1997, and raised his arm.
The man stood like a statue. The two stared at each other. Walter’s jaw dropped as he recognized those eyes. Then the arm came down and those eyes were the last vision Walter Farkos ever saw.