Short Story - Blue Bird

 Two professional criminals break into a home and disrupt the peace of a small New York town.

     The school bus squeals to a halt at the corner of Autumn and Meadowvale. Only one child gets out, a nine year old girl. She waves at her friends as the bus pulls away and disappears behind a house. The child trots down the sidewalk, her shoes pattering along the concrete eagerly toward the off-color family home.

Give or take a few minutes, this is where the bus would be every morning and every afternoon. The stop was no problem, but watching the house wasn't as easy for Conley. Small neighborhood; they could notice a squeak in their well greased wheel a mile away. It'd be a matter of minutes before suspicions would be raised should he, in his delivery van, park on the side of the street. 

In the dead of night, he set up a camera with a live feed in the neighboring bush. It was a new trick taught by a younger colleague of the game. Conley, the old dog, hooked to his laptop an external drive used for storing the footage. He would scroll through and note arrivals, exits, deliveries, and unexpected guests. It’s a family of three. Dad was gone from 7am to 4pm five to six days a week. Mom rarely went out aside from groceries and errands, all midday. She was home before the girl.

It was a routine of reducing variables, of studying others’. The Doc was his nickname, for his work was surgical. You don't need to be exceptional at executing plans when they're perfectly laid out. If there was a sickness, he had the antidote. This was his job.

It couldn't be a daytime break-in. This is something Conley prepared himself for. He had no resources for investing in social engineering. Most importantly, he had no need in taking any risks. He knew the moral ramifications of involving the kid. Conley’s profession is not beholden to moral standards, nor is his conscience. There is only the job. 

It's the day of, now. Conley was getting to be a right old bastard, well-acquainted with the number fifty and soon to part with it. For his surgical procedures, he needed sharp tools. His had dulled over the years. So came Kieran—a last minute addition thanks to a trusted mutual party. Kieran was no doctor, nor was this his internship. He was told to do a job, and so he is. There's no shortage of work in America for the able-bodied laborer.

The school bus squeals to a halt at the corner of Autumn and Meadowvale. Kieran, sitting in the passenger seat, squints as the child gets off the bus and disappears behind a house. He glances back at Conley who's sitting in the back of the van on his laptop. 

“That's not their kid, is it?” Kieran asks. His question is answered moments later with evidence on the computer screen. There's no follow up from either men, only silence and the light sound of a foot tapping. Kieran's profession is not beholden to moral standards. 

Two after midnight—when most people are in deep sleep, and before most people have to wake up. The men made their move, tools in hand. In and out as quickly and efficiently as possible, that was the modus operandi. The house had an ADT sign out front, a bluff called with a cut landline and a signal jammer. Handiness with a lockpick had them in the back sliding door within a minute. 

Kieran laid an assortment of supplies out by the back door before they entered, everything they'd need to make the laborious moving part easier. The two had handguns tucked into their front waistband, a contingency plan and nothing more. They wear all black clothes with ski masks to conceal their identity. The latter wouldn't matter, The Doc always put on a clinic. He had a special belt, almost military in utility, filled with all sorts of tools and back-up plans.

They entered through the kitchen and dining room, well-kept with dishes stacked in the sink. Clear. They made a quick pass through the living room, couch disheveled with a blanket hanging off the edge. Clear. There was only the hallway to the beds and baths. The house had solid sub-flooring and no basement, so the floor made for an easy creep. They move down the hall in a single file formation, Kieran trailing behind and watching the doors. The family kept night lights plugged into various outlets around the house for the young one, including the hallway. This is bad, because it makes it harder to see if the lights are on inside of the rooms. It also casts shadows. 

“Nance?” they hear coming from the door on the left. Hi, dad. The Doc immediately draws his pistol from his waistband, moving to the end of the hall and positioning himself between the two bedroom doors. Kieran proceeds to do the same, his hands shaking as he reaches for his gun. The suppressor catches on his belt, stuck for a few seconds as he tugs on it.

The Doc opens up the bedroom door on the left and heads inside. It's a kid's room, pink and littered with toys. Bed’s empty. Clear. As he makes his way back out into the hall, Kieran has begun kicking the locked bathroom door.

“Nance! Get the gun!” the man yells from inside the bathroom. The Doc quickly opens up the other bedroom door and storms inside. Kieran forces his leg into the splintering wood as The Doc flips the light on. It bleeds into the dim hallway. Various curses come from both the men in their battle of attrition, the father on the other side pressed up against it. 

Shrill screams spill out into the hall. There's two of them, and the kicking's stopped. The entire house is frozen in place for a moment, all except The Doc. Then the bathroom door opens. 

Kieran has his gun in hand, leg lifted for another push, only to find an enraged man in the doorframe. Three sharp snaps come from the subsonic Ruger .22. The adrenaline was enough for the man to fight through them, but a concurrent, final kick sent him to the ground before he could reach Kieran. 

Four more shots to the man grounded on the floor, his body twisting and contorting as he attempts to stand, but is unable to. A deathly rattle comes from his chest as he breathes through pooling lungs. Blood begins to collect on the tile floor, snaking through the grout-filled cracks in between. The man has a few more minutes of suffering before he’ll finally croak. Kieran looks back towards the now silent bedroom before hesitantly raising his gun. One final shot between the eyes ceases all function.

There is now only silence, that and the deafening heartbeat in Kieran's throat. It takes a few moments for him to return to normality. It takes a few more for his mind to wander. 

Don't.

The Doc exits the bedroom and examines the dead man. “Get the tarp, we gotta get him outta here before it spreads.”

There was already a large helping of blood scattered across the floor, but like The Doc had hoped, the body was transferred to the tarpaulin before it had spread to the wooden sink cabinets. It was easy enough to mop up—police won’t be searching for a missing mop. None of the bullets penetrated the body and into the wall, which also made for easy evidence clean-up. Kieran could only assume The Doc specified .22 for this very reason.

“Fucking stoolie cunt,” The Doc says, flipping on a UV light. “Go on take care of the bedroom and we’ll start movin’ ‘em when I’m done here.”

Don't think about them.

The bedroom was spacious and inviting, with cream colored walls contrasted by dark brown accents. The bed covers are harshly drawn back, a dark brown comforter exposing white sheets three-quarters of the way. Bare-skinned legs, pale and thin, peek out around the bed.

The ceiling is white with swirled, circular strokes of the brush to add texture. Coating the floor is a cream-colored, off-white polyester carpet—thin and bumpy, and at a squint reminiscent of the Gulf sands. Another, smaller pair of legs indent the sandy surface.

Both bodies, corpses. Both corpses, pristine. There is no sign of any foul play beyond the purple, swollen entry point of The Doc's euthanasia in their necks. United in heaven, they now were. This is the only form of solace Kieran could hope to find, except their father wouldn't be joining them. Not for his crimes. 

Kieran bore the Catholic cross on his dominant forearm, though it was only right side up when it laid by his side, dormant. The one normally around his neck was also absent tonight, for the sake of being habiliment and subsistent. Behind him, in the hall, the almost-blue glow of the ultraviolet light casts a halo around the doorframe. The tarp was hard to grasp, hard to unroll. His hands were chilled numb, still shaking with adrenaline. He holds his trigger finger up to look at it, jittering back and forth like a broken metronome until a concentrated effort slows it to a halt. The cross inverts itself once more.

It was a silent breakfast at Waffle House come sunrise. For the two men and their adaptive schedule, this was their dinner. Conley returned to his aloof social nature, only bothering to engage in conversations when initiated by someone else. Kieran had no such interest. He had nothing to say, because that was what was expected of him.

Upon the checkbook's arrival, Kieran opted to pay. This, too, was expected of him. The only faces occupying his mind were the ones he used to pace himself for work. Seven twenty-three a.m. they now read. As he opens his wallet to grab the cash, he's greeted with three more.

There is a method to bear the load one is asked to when it comes to killing. To have a clean conscience, one must separate it entirely from the work they do until they return home and decompress. Failure to do so can cause empathy, regret, or worse, inefficiency. Kieran quickly snatches a handful of bills, not even counting them, and presses the wallet shut. He’s unable to shake the faces now burned into his mind. Mother, daughter, husband. In the image, home.

He still had a five hour drive back. The clock face would tick much slower now that three others accompany it. This was Kieran's routine. The stoic man leaves his generous 110% tip on top of the charge, refusing to return the extra bills to his pocket and refusing change.

Caution tape covers both the front and back doors of the off-color family home, warning off any potential trespassers. They were a day late. There’s a harrowing quiet in the air on this cold winter morning. The traffic is particularly absent and the birds have yet to migrate back north. A disruption in the silence comes from the agonizing cough of a diesel engine encroaching on the neighborhood. Not all birds have migrated, the Blue Bird is a constant. Every morning, it leaves its nest and flies forth.

First Jerry, then Kelvin, and now Autumn Drive. The school bus squeals to a halt at the corner of Autumn and Meadowvale. This time, the doors don’t open. After only a second, in fact, the bus starts to move again.

“Shit,” the bus driver quietly says to himself, making sure the children don’t hear. Another falter as he gets used to his new route.