According to Eddie Michaels, however, that’s not the case. Mary Fimi is somewhere inside, fast asleep.
Gravel crunches under our feet as we march through the darkness, then transitions into dirt as we make our way from the parking lot to the farm rows. We’re headed toward a flashlight that bobs and sways just a few yards ahead, a night watchman making his rounds.
Eddie is eerily silent as we move, his jovial personality now completely melted away to reveal something sharpand bitter underneath. His physicality has even changed to match this inner turmoil, the once profoundly charismatic swagger now transformed into a haunting asymmetrical lurch on broken bones.
“Hey, guard! It’s your new best friend! Stop moving!” Eddie calls out, his voice a broken gurgle.
The flashlight halts immediately.
“Open up the building and turn off the alarm.”
All three of us head back toward the sprawling central ranch house, a truly bizarre trio cutting our way across the date orchard.
Unlike the last security guard we encountered, this one doesn’t appear to have a gun. I should’ve expected this—private security carrying a firearm is actually pretty rare—but I still find myself disappointed. At some point, I’ll have to make my move, and I’m doubtful the knife tucked away in my pocket will cut it. I keep reaching down to feel the hidden blade, making sure it’s still there.
We arrive at the large, welcoming front entrance of the Fimi Date Farm visitor center. The security guard pulls out a small set of keys, opening the door and holding it for us as we cross the threshold.
Nearby, a wall panel starts to beep, warning everyone that the alarm is seconds away from triggering. Our new friend disables it.
Slowly, the overhead lights begin to flicker on, revealing a large, high-ceilinged room with wide-ranging food displays—specialty goods like spices, candy, hot sauce, and jerky. Of course, dates are the centerpiece, thousandsof the little brown morsels stuffed into translucent plastic boxes and stacked in a massive pyramid. The walls are covered by an extensive painted mural that shows off a whimsical cartoon date farm on a sunny day. A human-size animatronic date with arms and legs stands to our left, and the cartoon mascot moves one arm back and forth in an endless mechanical greeting, warmly welcoming every customer.
In the dead of night, the living date seems more eerie than friendly, his grin a little too wide and his bulbous eyes a little too excited.
“Where does Mary sleep?” Eddie snarls.
The security guard points to a door markedEMPLOYEES ONLY.
“Any more locks or alarms?” Eddie continues.
“One lock, but it’s part of the same alarm system,” the guard explains. “The whole thing is turned off now.” He removes a single silver key from his ring and hands it over.
“Thank you. Go turn off all the cameras and delete any security footage from this evening,” Eddie commands. He reaches down and unplugs something from the back of the animatronic date, causing the robot’s arm to abruptly halt. He holds up a long yellow cable. “When you get back, hang yourself with this extension cord.”
The security guard wanders off toward a differentEMPLOYEES ONLYdoor, getting to work.
A surge of urgency pulses through me. There’s been so much death tonight that one more body might seem trivial, but as he strolls away I find myself noticing thelittle things about this man that will soon be gone forever. I observe the particular gait to his walk, the slight goofiness in the way he smiled and nodded at Eddie’s last command. This is someone’s son, maybe even someone’s father, and I have the power to save his life.
If I make a move right now, sneaking up behind Eddie and driving this knife right into his neck, then there might be a chance. The bones are already broken, which doesn’t bode well for my attack doing much of anything, but it also means that I could sever some very important tendons with a quick sawing motion. I just need to get a little closer and position mysel—
Eddie’s on the move again, cutting my inner monologue short. The lurching, sequin-covered musician pushes onward, forcing me to hurry behind as we make our way through the next door.
We’re now standing at the edge of a massive inner courtyard. The rest of the ranch buildings stretch around us in a protective square, but this middle section is dedicated to a garden and a modest single-story bungalow. The cottage is humble, much smaller than I’d expect from a date-fortune heiress.
I suddenly find myself curious about the woman Eddie’s about to murder. Witnessing the complexity of all these lives, the strange individual quirks of each victim, has changed me. I can feel the sentimentality creeping through my veins in a way I never expected.
A body is a body, but all this biological matter doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Whether I like it or not, there’s a storyto every pile of flesh and blood and bone.
As we pass through the garden, Eddie notices something shiny near a potted plant. He kneels down and picks it up—a pruning knife with a long-hooked blade. This is a tool for harvesting dates, but I have a feeling Eddie’s got something else in mind.
Do it now. Stab deep into that broken neck and saw as hard as you can. Cut the tendons. Split the spine. Take his head clean off.
Eddie is still crouched next to me, his shiny new tool glinting in the moonlight as he inspects its jagged edge, and from this angle the cold flesh of his neck looks beautifully tender. Again, I reach into my pocket, considering my own knife and charting its path in my mind. My heart is slamming with unbridled ferocity, every beat a call to action.
Do it!
I make my decision, moving to pull out the blade … then I immediately reverse course as Eddie straightens up and continues onward.
“This should get the job done,” he announces.
