This story was originally published in The Edge of Propinquity.
Read by Bob Eccles
“Bit by bit, he took apart his wife’s
murderer, hammering the cracked windshield behind his desk like a strange
map, tacking the rubber hoses in snakelike trails around the room, carefully
nailing every gear and fanblade to each of the four walls until he sat at
his desk, surrounded by the guts of a dead car.
He took the key out of the ignition and kissed it, then hung it on a silver
chain around his neck.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘I am ready to begin.’