He spent 2,300 days in prison plotting revenge—until he saw the man who framed him.
The Long-Awaited Bill
Zeke Buffini smoothed the front of his scratchy tweed coat. Inside the pocket, the nickel-plated .38 felt heavy, a cold weight pressing against his thigh. He was inside Sunnydale now. He had waited 2,300 days for this moment. For six years, three months, and fifteen days, he had traced a new gouge in the concrete wall of cell block C. Every mark was a down payment on a promise to Ernie Cham.
Ernie was the reason Zeke knew the exact texture of prison wool and the specific, metallic taste of fear at lights-out. Ernie had done the job; Ernie had pocketed the haul; Ernie had made the call that sent the feds to Zeke’s door. While Zeke counted scratches, Ernie had lived.
Now, Zeke looked at the man who had stolen his life. Ernie sat in a worn armchair, the afternoon sun highlighting the thinness of his white hair. A tartan blanket was tucked around his legs. He wasn’t the powerful, ruthless ghost Zeke had lived with for six years. He looked small. Frail.
“Ernie,” Zeke said, closing the heavy oak door. The latch clicked home, sealing them in.
Ernie didn’t jump. He slowly turned his head away from the window, looking toward the voice. His eyes were milky, unfocused. He squinted, trying to make sense of the figure standing in his quiet sanctuary. Then, a slow, gentle smile spread across his face, revealing teeth that had seen better days. His eyes remained vacant.
“Hello,” Ernie said, his voice reedy and thin. “Have you come for the checkers?”
Zeke’s hand tightened around the butt of the .38. It was supposed to end here. But looking at the shell of the man who had wronged him, Zeke felt only a hollow silence where his rage should be. He had nursed a demon for 2,300 days, only to find a shadow.
The gun stayed heavy in his pocket.
