Poacher’s Knot

Thom made his way down the stairs, his socks a whisper against the hardwood. The kitchen is thick with the smell of dark roast. He takes a mug down from the cabinet and pours himself a cup. Black, two sugars. Behind him, the conversation at the table is already reaching its boiling point. 

“The same neighborhood again? That’s not random, it’s someone local.”

“You really think someone in our little town could do something like that?”

“Has to be. He knows it too well. West Side is where he feels comfortable.”

Thom takes a slow sip, half listening, half staring out through the bay window at a jogger passing by, her dark ponytail swinging behind her. He looks away. 

“Maybe he works here or just passes through every day?” 

“Look at the pattern. Four victims, all within a couple blocks of that park. He spends a lot of time there. A creature of habit.”

Thom untwists the bagged loaf of bread, drops a piece in the toaster, and pushes down on the lever. When it pops back up, he butters it in even strokes. The butter knife clatters back onto the dish. 

“The first victim worked at that cafe on Ashland, right? The one that closed down?”

“Yeah, that’s right, I remember. The Fuzzy Bean or something.”

The Velvet Bean. He used to get brunch there sometimes. The barista, the one with the freckles across her nose. She was nice. She remembered his order. Black, two sugars. Easy enough. Still.

“And the last one volunteered at the library, I think.”

“What did they ever do to deserve to die like that?”

“I don’t think they did anything, they were just there. They were easy to watch without being seen, like the bartender.”

“Well, whoever he is, he’s careful. No witnesses. Never caught on camera.”

“The cops say he’s probably someone you would never notice. He’s not some monster in a mask. He’s the guy that bags your groceries and doesn’t make eye contact.”

He looks at his watch. It’s 7:43. Seventeen minutes. He folds his toast in half. Faster that way. 

“The knot. That’s the key. That latest article said it was a specific kind of knot.”

They’re talking over each other now, listing theories. Military. Sailing background. Some hobby that teaches rope work. Rock climbing maybe.

“It says here it’s called the Poacher’s Knot. A knot that tightens under pressure but can be released quickly.”

“Why? Why would he need to release it? A change of heart?”

“Doubt,” Thom said. “He ties it. Then sees their faces.”

“Change of heart? He’s a damned psycho! No, it’s his signature. A ritual. One he’s tied a thousand times without thinking.”

Thom takes the last swig of his coffee, rinses his mug in the sink, and walks back to the stairs. He sits down on the bottom step and reaches for his sneakers. He loops, loops again, wraps and pulls a lace taut. The knot clinches and everything goes quiet.

The kitchen is violently empty. No voices. He studies his hands for a long moment, as if seeing them for the first time.