The Foot

His pickup truck was so old that it still had the shift lever next to the steering wheel, but it was new to Billy. He pushed in the clutch, shifted to reverse, and turned the key to kill the engine. The door creaked loudly as he opened it and got out. As he shut the door firmly, he admired the brand-new decal on the side of his door:

Bill Vickery, Lawn Specialist over a colorful image of a growling mower flinging cut grass to both sides.

He opened the tailgate and slid a wide sheet of fiberboard to the ground to make a sloped surface to unload his mower from the truck bed. His back just wasn’t what it used to be.

After pushing his mower to a closer spot and going back for a gas can, he examined the area he was being paid to spruce up. He estimated the area between two concrete-backed businesses at fifty feet wide and seventy deep. This shouldn’t take too long.

He jerked on the starter cord several times before the engine caught. He managed the control lever until it was throttled at a good enough clip to get the job done. The back lot was overgrown but not too deep. He adjusted the height then began to push the mower in back and forth motions that would put the least strain on it.

He had been at it about twenty minutes when something struck the blades and nearly stopped the motor before it resumed its rotation speed.

Something was tossed from beneath the mower and hit the side of the building on his right before dropping into the grass.

Billy watched its quick flight, but its speed had made it impossible to tell what the object had been. He pulled the mower lever to the left to shut it off, then walked through the tall grass to where the thing had fallen. He’d have to get it up before he could mow there.

Reaching down, Billy moved his gloved fingers around until they touched something. He extracted the object, held it up near his face. A key ring. It held several keys and a leather fob in the shape of Texas. He removed his gloves, dropped them into the grass, and held it nearer. It was embossed with a name, an address, and a phone number.

Priscilla Boyles, the top line read. Billy recognized the address as being an exclusive suburban area. One of the keys was actually the remote and had a BMW logo.

Someone would be missing these, he thought.

She might really appreciate it if they were returned to her.

Billy pulled his trusty old phone from his front overalls pocket and dialed the number from the tag. A recording started immediately without a single preliminary ring, telling him to leave a message. The voice sounded feminine and cultured, possibly belonging to an attractive female.

Possibly rich. He hung up. He decided he would instead deliver the key ring in person.

He loaded up his equipment, figuring he’d get back to it later. No real hurry, other than the quicker pay. Maybe this thing here could work out better, with a little less labor involved.

When he neared the address, he saw the number to the left on a mailbox. Billy glanced past a bank of trees down a winding drive at a car parked beneath a sycamore with the trunk open. He stopped in the road, looked closer. The car was a Jaguar, not a Beamer. And hanging out from the trunk was a high-heeled foot, with obviously the rest of the body inside.

He grabbed the shift knob, pulled it down and in to low gear, and popped the clutch while pressing hard on the gas pedal. The truck stuttered forward before it caught up, evened out, and jumped ahead.

At the end of the block, he pushed in the clutch and let the vehicle coast until the next block. He braked and made a U-turn to sit in the road, facing back toward the house he’d sped away from. He glanced up into the rear view. The road behind was empty.

What had he seen? A car with an open trunk with a foot sticking out.

Was there a good reason someone would be in a trunk like that? He couldn’t think of one.

What should he do now? He should call the police. He should, anyway. In the recent past, Billy had a few confrontations with them. Sometimes, his living on the edge of poverty led him to have a few extra drinks, and that was properly documented somewhere. No, that wasn’t a good option for him. He didn’t believe that with all the new high-tech gear authorities possessed that even an anonymous call was a good idea.

Okay, what did that leave?

He pulled the truck over onto the shoulder and got out. He hoped they wouldn’t haul his ride away before he got back. The lawnmower and other work supplies in the bed might give him a better chance they’d leave it alone, at least awhile.

He walked on the road and stopped at the ridge’s edge beside a tall tree, looking down the long, curved drive.

The foot still protruded from the trunk. He examined the leg closely. It began at the knee and ended at a white high-heeled shoe that hung loosely on her foot, ready to drop at the slightest movement.

There was no movement.

A long red scratch extended nearly the length of her visible leg. Blood had beaded up at several points. Obviously, it was human flesh, not a department store dummy.

Billy looked toward the front of the house. The door was shut. Anyone inside at a window might see him looking down. The vehicle probably wouldn’t be unattended long, with the woman so plainly on display.

Was the responsible party inside the house in the process of loading, or unloading, the body? Either way just as likely, he figured.

He had to risk it. Maybe she still lived. At the least, he could prevent the perpetrator from carrying out a successful conclusion to the crime. He had never in his life been a hero. That might change the direction his life had taken.

Wouldn’t that be something?

Billy saw that the tree line circled on down the property to the left side of the house. He trotted to the next tree on that side, stared at the house, and moved to the next. As he went between each tree, the trunks made a curve down the slight hill.

Finally, he was less than twenty feet from the house. He walked quickly to the brick wall and sidled to the front. He peered around at the porch patio that fronted the house. Just then, a man stepped out the door, body facing the car a short distance away.

Billy rushed him, suddenly wondering if others were just inside the house. The two bodies crashed together and went down. Billy sat atop the man, drew back his fist, and saw the man holding a gun two-fisted and pointed at his face. He turned his head and shifted away just as an explosion deafened his ear. Billy looked to see the gun turning his way. He grabbed the barrel and wrenched at it, turning it in a different direction.

There was another explosion and Billy’s world went silent. The motion of the man below him stopped. Billy looked at the man. He gagged as he saw the bloody face missing its nose and lips.

What had he done? He still knew nothing of what this was about.

He rose and stumbled into the yard, walked erratically to the back of the car, and looked into the car’s trunk. A woman’s full body lay within, clothes torn and bloody. Billy leaned inside, meaning to pull her out. The sun shone brightly into her eyes. One was opening.

She looked up at him and a smile surfaced as she raised her arm from beneath her dress and pointed a pistol into Billy’s face.

“Hello, Jack. I was waiting for you to come get me,” she said and pulled the trigger.