Some books exercise an ineluctable pull on a man’s mind, their pages calling like the sirens of ancient myth. Jasper was no bibliophile, but there was one story book he liked to read, and he’d been leafing through its well-thumbed, filthy pages that morning. He closed his pocketbook and returned it to his version of a bookcase, the cushion swallowing its charge like a snake a rodent.

Brett Newby was next. As Head of Credit Control, Jasper decided when an overdue account needed to be settled. The position came with the kind of perks he enjoyed, things some might not like doing, but there was no accounting for taste, especially in Avery. Jasper would have been a model employee, if the Devil was recruiting, such was his devotion to the job.

The red circle denoting Brett’s time had come, left the page and had now burnt a carbon copy of itself into Jasper’s venomous mind. Glowing like hungry flames in the pits of Hades, it warmed Jasper’s cold blood and spurred him into calculated, but ruthless action. Without the need for any further incentive, he’d carry out his task with the same enthusiasm a drunk pours his next drink. The only difference being that Jasper was addicted to vengeance, rather than bourbon.

Newby liked his liquor. He liked it more than the consciousness he continually sought to escape. By late afternoon, he’d be halfway to happiness if the word meant semi-conscious, or shit-faced. Brett drank most days and the more he honoured that habit, the less Avery haunted his soul. He wanted to blot out the memories and not have to endure their guilt-soaked details. He knew what he was and what he’d done to her, and one day Clarke might put the pieces together. Not her pieces thanks to the coyotes, but the facts Newby hoped stayed buried along with her clothes.

Jasper needed to be careful. The weapon he’d chosen was just as potentially deadly to him, as it would be fatal to Newby. Clarke had nothing on him, and he knew he needed to be creative, if he was going to avoid suspicion. He reconciled the need for job satisfaction with self-preservation and his plan would give him both, neither compromising the other. He was glad a bullet or a knife could not be used, though he’d keep thinking about using a knife. Solving that conundrum could wait for now. He had work to do.

Brett’s failure to pay his bill was not his only sin. He’d told most of the guys in the bar to use Garrington in Denby, pouring his poison into their willing ears. His forked tongue embellishing tales of Jasper’s incompetence and unreliability, with spiteful anecdotes contrived to destroy Jasper’s already variegated reputation. Brett knew his lies would seep into Jasper’s world and cause his business to die slowly. Brett was not trusted anymore than a man trusts a viper not to bite, but in Avery lies always trumped the truth.

Jasper parked his truck up and walked the rest of the way to Brett’s place, its isolated silhouette standing out like a lone tombstone in a desert graveyard. The sky’s mottled orange light was fading, dark purples blending with hints of soot grey. Soon, it would be as black as his heart. He crept up to the rear of Brett’s ramshackle shithole and quietly dropped the sack on the ground. He’d need Brett to be in his usual place. If he was not, he’d try again in a few days’ time. Sooner or later, the right opportunity would present itself. He just had to be patient. Cold hearted retribution gives a man the ability to keep his blood lust simmering and Jasper’s blood was far too cold to ever reach boiling point.

Brett was out cold, the bourbon bottle half drained. He slumped in the rocking chair on his deck and slept, his mouth open and saliva dribbling down his bristled chin like blood from a shallow knife wound. Jasper retrieved the sack and began. He stealthily mounted the five steps to the veranda and quickly wound the ratchet straps around Brett’s unconscious form. He stuffed the soiled dishcloth into his gaping mouth and placed the water flask next to the motionless chair. He walked over to the empty chair opposite Brett and settled in. He’d give the guy a little peace and quiet so that he’d be wide awake when the show started. Brett might not have bought a ticket, but Jasper was feeling generous.

Jasper slapped Brett’s face harshly and shook his comatose form. He slapped him again and poured the ice-cold water over his head. Brett’s eyelids fluttered open and he gradually regained consciousness, groggy but sentient. Jasper emptied the rest of the water onto Brett’s scalp and slapped him again for good measure. He had the man’s shocked attention, and his muffled complaints gave Jasper reason to proceed.

Jasper had killed it a week ago. One shot virtually ripping it in half. Crotalus Scutulatus, better known as the Mojave Rattler. He pulled on his thick rigger gloves and prized the viper’s jaws open revealing two ivory white fangs glistening in the soft dawn light. Jasper stared into the snake’s eyes and recognised a kindred…both predatory reptiles loaded with poison, and keen to bite.

Jasper dangled the pale green snake’s head in front of Brett’s saucer-like terrified eyes and then firmly pressed the fangs into his left forearm, pumping the dead snakes head rhythmically until he was sure its venom sacks were as dry as the sandy grit surrounding the shack. Brett’s screams of protest assailed the cloth, reforming as rapid, fear-drenched grunts rather than pleading, desperate words.

Jasper placed the snake a few yards from the shack and took Brett’s 45 out of his holster. He shot the ground around the snake, making sure his aim was unsteady and inaccurate. He replaced the gun into the holster as Brett fought the ratchet straps with ineffectual urgency.

Post-mortem envenomation. The viper’s venom was a presynaptic neurotoxin. The lethal neurotoxic- hemotoxic liquid would attack Brett’s nervous system and then his brain, whilst simultaneously causing massive tissue and muscle destruction. At first, he’d have trouble swallowing and then as the venom worked its way through his veins, he’d experience severe muscle weakness shutting down his torso’s movement and leading to respiratory failure.

If treated within a few hours, the bite would not be lethal. If left untreated, Brett would gradually lose his vision and then be plunged into a world of excruciating pain. Brett would die as though a man drowning, one slow mouthful at a time whilst his blood turned to molten lava and fried his pain synapses.

Jasper watched until Brett’s bucking body had stopped convulsing and he’d slid into unconsciousness. He’d wanted Brett’s eyes to stay open for longer, savouring the primal fear they could not voice. Brett’s death had been satisfyingly horrific, and Jasper felt contentment sooth his own inner serpents.

The ratchets came undone easily and Jasper placed both into his sack along with the canteen. He checked Brett’s chevy and finding the ignition sans the keys, went back into the shack. Hanging on a hook by the front door, he grabbed the car’s keys and tipped Brett’s limp body down the steps. Brett moaned almost soundlessly, a fact saving Jasper’s bacon. He removed the spit damp cloth from Brett’s mouth and made a mental note to be more careful. Jasper shoved the keys into Brett’s left palm and went back into the shack in search of more liquor. Another empty bottle of bourbon joined the first, abandoned next to Brett’s chair and the empty glass.

Brett had seen the snake, taken aim and been bitten. He’d killed the fucker and gone inside to get his keys, desperately aware that he needed an antidote. Out of his skull on bourbon, he’d tripped and fallen down the steps, maybe knocking himself out or perhaps succumbing to the poison or the bourbon. Either way, he’d lost both his senses and his life. Jasper’s thoughts slithered to the conclusion that Clarke would arrive at, when the bar missed Brett enough to give a shit.

As Jasper drove back home, he smiled. Drink really would be the death of Brett, with a little help from one of Avery’s viperous locals. His pocket book began to call and Jasper looked forward to a quiet night in, thumbing its irresistible pages.