Free Faces in Time by Lewis E. Aleman Page B

quickly slams his head back into the bricks again. Deep red streams run down the wall. Rutherford’s e roll back, and Edmund lightens the squeeze on his throat as he steps toward him, putting his mouth within an inch of his victim’s ear.
    “Sorry for the ruse, Mr. Deputy Warden Rutherford, but we needed your prints on the door switch.” Air and blood resume their flow, and the deputy warden squirms. Edmund grunts and tightens his grip to maintain his control on the flailing and continues, “Wish we had a nicer way to take you out, but this’ll just have to do.”
    Legs kick at the bed, trying to gain a grip on something in the hopes of pushing off hard enough to break the hold of the powerful arm holding him in place and its hand squeezing the life out of him.
    “You see I’m a bad man, but I ain’t no one to hurt a child. Our good friend, Mr. Nathan Chapetta, is taking care of his retarded niece,” the struggling body moving slower, “I can’t have you offing the only person who could take care of her. Foster home ain’t no place for a kid like that; been there myself.”
    While the crimson escapes the back of his head, the blueness begins to overtake the red of his lips, and his tongue hangs out the corner of his mouth. With wide eyes, Rutherford sends a knee flying into the air, on perfect course to crash between Edmund’s legs.
    Without even glancing downward, Edmund notices the movement in his periphery, and quickly turns and raises his thigh. The knee crashes into his meaty thigh, and his hand loses its grip on the neck holding up the bleeding head.
    Rutherford gasps desperately.
    Edmund’s fist connects hard into Rutherford’s chest, knocking the breath that he just sucked in back out of him.
    Swinging an uppercut while he gasps again, Rutherford connects with Edmund’s mouth. Lower jaw smacks the top one, catching the tip of his tongue in between. Blood seeps onto his lips. Uglier than that is the expression to which Edmund’s face contorts as he pummels Rutherford with a fast combination of punches, all pounding his head until he flops back to the floor, resembling a mannequin broken at all of its joints and collapsed in an awkward pose.
    Bending down Edmund grabs Rutherford by his throat. The deputy warden’s eyes stare at his attacker but are glazed over and devoid of energy. Dragging him by his throat, Edmund hauls him across the tiny room and drapes his neck over the rim of the stainless steel toilet seat. He jams his foot across the back of Rutherford’s neck and holds it pinned tightly.
    “Have to admit that was more fight than I was expectin’ from you.”
    Edmund spits into the sink. It is bloody, and some of it runs over the edge of the sink with a few drops hitting the floor.
    Looking down at the pinned body beneath him, he still sees twitching and a straining to breath.
    “Hehe, kinda funny, Rutherford, that you’re getting smashed into that same toilet you were running your mouth about earlier. Your toilet. It’s all yours now.”
    Rutherford’s eyes strain to see. The shiny metal bowl in front of him glistens in the dim light from above, both on the water and the bowl itself. The yellow begins to turn to a flesh-colored orange. On the orange his suffocating thoughts materialize. Cold metal. Squished throat. Death…Tom A. Swift and his Electric Rifle…It’s Taser. Acronym…That’s it... A hint of a smile twitches at his lips which gasp for air that isn’t coming. His face turns pale with harsh blue lips, the look of winter, colors of freezing.
    Edmund sees the body is no longer moving. He gives one strong kick to the back of his head.
    No movement.
    He turns around and throws the polyester cover onto the cell floor. With speed he grabs the body and hurls it onto the mattress. Lifting the head he slides the pillow underneath it.
    He bends down to pick up the cover and feels his pants slipping at the waist. Looking at the lifeless lump in the bed, he drops the cover and