DEVIATION
THE SEVENTH

URIEL CRADLED his son’s limp body. Rain pelted him. Tears from far above.

Adram stood to the side, a trail of blood washing from the cut on his head and streaming down his face. He raised his hands beside his head, blabbering nonsense, eyes wide.

“Jori . . . Jori . . .” Uriel whispered, shaking.

“I didn’t see him!” Adram screamed. “The rain! I couldn’t see him!”

The too-red car rested with one tire up on the curb, the other on the mangled remains of Jori’s bicycle.

“This is your fault, Uriel!” Adram bellowed into the rain. “You . . . you should have stayed at work! You were supposed to stay late! You did this! You forced this!”

“Yes. I did.” Uriel laid down the broken body. “Cause and effect.”

“Yeah . . .” Adram said. “Cause . . . cause and effect . . .”

“No emotions,” Uriel said, rising.

Killing a man turned out to be more difficult than Uriel would have expected. Even as Uriel had Adram pinned up against the car, hands around his neck, the man fought back. Adram was wounded, dazed from the wreck, but he was still stronger than Uriel and managed to batter his way free.

As he was running away, Adram slipped on the grass, just as Uriel noticed a large wrench in the passenger seat of the man’s car. Presumably for “tweaking the engine,” as Adram always said. Uriel picked it up, hefting it, feeling its weight. It would do for fixing other problems.

As Adram scrambled to get to his feet, Uriel stepped behind him and slammed the weapon down. Heavy as the wrench felt, it still took a good five hits to break the man’s skull open.

Fortunately, the rain washed the blood away. That kept things neater. Cleaner.