I get out of my car and reach for my gun. It’s a Glock 37, standard issue for most State Patrols now, from what I’ve heard, complete with a suppressor.
“Put that away,” Sunset says, stepping off his bike, removing his helmet.
I keep the gun trained on him.
The other two Indians remove weapons from their handbags and point them at me. One of them is that sexy Indian girl and I can’t help but admire the way she handled that Ducati.
“Jack,” Sunset says, “I need a moment of your time.” He signals for me to join him.
There’s precious little else to do.
“Alright,” Sunset says, putting a hand on my shoulder, “I hate playing the part of the bad guy, Jack. I despise it. I’m a pretty good guy. Fun loving. I don’t like coming out here and find you. I’d rather be at a Mariner’s game or watching Seinfeld.”
“Hey,” I tell him, “I don’t think you understand.”
“No,” he says, “I don’t think you understand. Someone is still in the world tonight. Someone is still breathing. Somebody’s motherfuckin’ lungs are still working. Why?”
I brush his hand off my shoulder. Who the fuck does he think he is?
“Hey,” I tell him, “It’s not that easy. I’m not going to just walk up to Ruttleby and stick a gun in his face. There’s planning that’s involved.”
“It is that easy,” Sunset says. “You do just walk up to him and blow his fucking face off. That’s all you have to do. Next time...” he sighs, “next time it’s going to be you.”
“What is?”
Sunset raises a hand.
It’s eerie. My car door is open and Miserere is still playing, building, surreal in the rain and tension.
They open up their guns. They fill the air with silenced gunshots. It sounds like hoofbeats on dirt, like an entire cavalry is running circles around us.
The windshield of my Fahrenheit explodes. My door mirror goes flying, spiraling like a mad satellite. Metal shards blossom from the door, the hood, the back. Glass shatters and sprays. They obliterate the entire left side of my car within five, long seconds.
Then they stop and the music is still playing, cellos and violins.
Distant traffic is a steady hum. The wind is a murmur that smells like the ocean. Gunsmoke scent, acrid, slowly drifts away. Rhonda creaks and groans and shudders off a few loose shards of glass.
I’m going to puke.
“How is that going to help?” I shout. I walk over to my car. My car! My baby! My fucking car!! “HOW?”
“Two days,” Sunset says. There’s a smile in his voice. Oh this bastard is enjoying this.
They’re getting in on their bikes.
“Two days, Jack,” Sunset says.
And then they’re gone.
I pick up the remains of Rhonda’s mirror, the shards of her door handle and silver bits of glass.
#
Surprisingly she still runs.
Ballard. Atom Heart Auto. It’s owned by this guy named Edvard Pickens. He’s the guy I use whenever I need something auto-specific. I chose him because of the cool name of his company.
Edvard meanders out of his gloomy garage, wiping his hands on a soiled cloth. He’s always trying to clean the black grease off his hands and it never works. He squints as the rain hits him, wrinkling up his eyes like black and pink cracks spreading over a clay mask.
“Oy, Sallah!” Edvard declares, seeing my car. “Jacky! What da hell? Rhonda looks like a hag now.”
“I know.” I park the car and get out. This was not a fun drive. I shut the door and more glass falls off. The sound of woe.
Ed stoops down and puts a finger in one of the bullet holes. He whistles, impressed.
“Oy, man! Damn! Forty-five caliber damage. Punches lots a holes, eh? A hunnert or so shots. You were drivin when all dis was going on then?”
“No.”
“Ah, a good thing.” He steps back to take in the full depth and scope of the tragedy before him. He folds his arms and is silent, the way an art connoisseur might study a painting at the museum.
“Can you fix her?”
“Oy, Jacky,” he says with lament, “I’d rather not. Take her out back an’ finish her off I says to ya, be best. But...yes, I can fix her I ‘spose. Whew, you got under somebody’s skin real pro-like then? Heh.”
I don’t find this funny.
“New windows, side door, hood,” he walks around the back, “whew. Gonna be ‘spensive, Jacky.”
“How long?”
He scratches his chin. “Gonna have to order parts. Maybe three weeks.”
“Three weeks! Fuck me. There isn’t anything else you could do to, you know, speed along the process?”
He’s completely engrossed in the wrecked car. He’s also trying not to smile. I find it odd how less than perfect people find great delight in the destruction of beautiful things. It doesn’t make them bad people, but it does piss me off.
“Ed.”
Ed looks up. “Well...”
The rain lessens. They say it might snow tomorrow. I might actually see it snow tomorrow because I’ll still be standing right here waiting for an answer from Ed. I’ll be knee deep in snow by the time this-
“Yeah,” Ed says. He scratches his chin. “Maybe I know someone who can get their grub-mittens on another Fahrenheit for parts.” He smiles at me with cunning.
“All right. You have my number.” I call a cab and wait while Edvard drives my car into the garage.
What a sad, terrible thing my car has become. There was this one scene in Star Trek III, when Kirk had to blow up the Enterprise to save his crew. He’s down on the planet with his crew and they look up into the sky to see the Enterprise streaking across the horizon, like a fallen star. It’s a sad scene and it broke Kirk’s heart to have to do that. That’s exactly how I feel, watching my car leave.
I need a drink.
#
Ten at night and the cab drops me off at the Overlake Safeway. I need cigarettes and I don’t really feel like going home. Plus, I feel like reminiscing a little, and what better place to do that than here, close to where she used to live. But then as I’m walking up to Safeway I see Olsen, an old friend of mine, and my mood is lifted. Olsen is a good guy and he’s always happy. You can’t help but be happy when you’re around him. He’s that affecting.
“Hey Olsen!”
Olsen sees me and grins. He waves. “Hey, bro! Where have you been?”
“Busy.”
We shake hands and he pats me on the shoulder.
“Wow, bro, good to see you again,” Olsen says. He flips his head back, throwing some hair from his eyes.
“Yeah. You still working at Red Robin?”
He grins and nods. “Yeah, man. Still. Except I took a week off to go boarding up at Whistler. Fuckin’ phenom powder, man. Hey, you should come over to Robin’s more often, bro. I’d hook you up with some free burgers.”
“I’ll do it.”
“So what are you up to?” he asks.
“Going in here to get some smokes, and then over to Daman’s for a beer. Hey, you want to join me?”
“Hell yeah, Travis!”
Okay.
Yes, he thinks my name is Travis. I have no idea why. I didn’t say we were that great of friends.
We walk into Safeway for cigarettes. Olsen says he’ll wait by the movie section. It’s late and they only have two check-out lines open. I’m feeling better. A lot better. So what if my car got fucked up? I mean, it’ll get fixed.
Olsen looks up and gives me a thumbs-up. I get into the shortest line and start thumbing through a People’s Magazine, to see if there’s any new news on Rachael Ray.
I’m standing there thinking about Sunset, thinking about my poor car, about the fucking day that I’m having, thinking about Senator Ruttleby, thinking about school and my studies, I’m thinking about everything in the fucking universe excep
t for Keira.
And she’s standing right in front of me.
I smell her perfume. It’s her perfume.
No way.
No fucking way.
It is her. She’s standing right in front of me, her shiny black hair still looks the same, she’s wearing some new clothes, and she’s standing right the fuck in front of me.
I walk by her. I brush by her. I’m acting like the single greatest thing on my mind is to get to the Customer Service desk so I can buy some cigarettes. I’m focused. I’m cool. I’m Jack fucking Tide.
She gasps as I pass by her.
Inwardly I smile.
Outwardly, there’s no fucking way I’m getting back in her line. Customer Service is closed.
So.
So she’s alive.
So there has been no car accident, no hostage crisis, no her falling into a volcano or losing her phone or being ferried away by aliens or getting stranded on some deserted island, she’s not stuck in Peru, no. None of this has happened.
Keira Anastasia Mercile is dandy.
Buying cigarettes.
Safeway.
Ten-thirty at night.
So!
So I get into the next line.
Calm down.
Everything’s cool. What the fuck is she doing here? She’s not looking at me. She’s not even looking at me. And who turned up all the lights in Safeway? And all the noise?
The cashier, she’s ringing the old man up in front of me. My hands are trembling. What the fuck? The cashier, her nametag says Ben. Okay. Ben? That can’t be right. Just calm the fuck down. Oh, Bene. That makes sense. Don’t make a scene, Jack. Don’t talk to her.
Yes. I’m not going to talk to her. Not word one! Why? This is crazy! She’s supposed to be my girlfriend! Three weeks ago she was saying how much she loved me, right? So why can’t I talk to her? Why? Because I don’t want to cause a scene in Safeway at ten-thirty at night and I get this perilous vibe that if I say anything to her that’s exactly what would happen; a scene. A scene would occur. It would be out of my hands.
There’s a rational explanation for this. There has to be. For bigfoot, no. For Roswell, no. For Roanoke, perhaps. For her not calling me for two and a half weeks for no apparent reason, yes. But do not, Jack, find out tonight. She’ll talk to you when she’s ready. Do not cause a scene. Okay?
Fuck it.
“Keira.”
She’s not listening.
“Keira!”
She had to have heard me that time, everyone else did.
Olsen looks up. He’s by the movies reading some magazine.
“Hey, Keira!”
Now she looks up. She smiles at me but... it’s a fucking faux-smile! A FAUX-smile!!
.And now she’s gathering her things. She’s hurrying. Cigarettes in her purse, purse over the shoulder, she’s leaving, not even looking up not even-
“Hey, Keira! Wait up!” I drop everything and give chase.
The bitch runs faster!
I leap by Olsen and two Safeway customers.
“Travis?”
“Keira! What the hell?” I sprint out of Safeway and into the cold night. She’s halfway across the parking lot, heading towards a silver car. “Hey!”
“Leave me alone!” she shouts.
“What?” What? I stop running.
She gets into the passenger’s side of a silver BMW, driven by some clean cut white guy, sandy brown hair. As they (they!) drive off I see her looking at me through her window, and then they’re gone.
I turn around. I feel sick to my stomach, like I’ve been nuked. My hands are shaking. My stomach hurts.
Olsen is standing by the entrance along with a small crowd. They’re all watching. I walk towards them and they make a path for me.
“Travis, what was that about?” Olsen asks.
“Good question,” I tell him.
Olsen looks at the parking log. “Who was that?”
“Just some silly girl.”
Leave me alone?
Who is Beemer guy? Where did he come from?
Ah, but I already know the answer to that, don’t I?
#
It’s... I don’t know what time it is. I’ve had six shots of whiskey and Olsen’s getting another pitcher and Victoria’s not answering her phone but I’m going to keep trying because I got moxie!
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to go and find Beemer and put a gun to his fucking throat and pull the trigger.
No.
That’d be too quick.
“Jack?” Vic’s voice.
“Vic! It all makes sense now! All is revealed! The mystery doth hath been solved! Amen!”
“Jack, how much have you had to drink?”
“Much. Many. Guess who I saw today? Keira! Keira Anastasia Mercile! Yes! She is alive and well in America! And she ran, Vic! She fucking bolted! I chased. I ran but the surly girl was greased lightning!”
“Jesus, Jack, you should quit drinking. Holy…do you know what time it is!?”
“No! I was just thinking that. That question was already realized. You’re too late.”
“It’s almost one in the morning Jack. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
“I hate BMW’s, Vic. I despise them. And my car is shot up! My car is shot all to hell. By the Indians. And I really, really fucking hate BMW’s. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to... are you still there?”
“Yes.” She sounds disgruntled.
“I’m going to kill him. BMW-driving futhermucker! I’m going to take him apart. I’m going to remove all his bones, one by one, and it’s going to be a chore but I have the ambition. And you know what I’m going to do then? I’m going to grind his bones up in my blender and make a paste! And then I’m going to replace all his bones with candy canes and hang his motherfucking ass up in my apartment and have a big party and use him as a piñata! A Beemer Piñata! Are you still there?”
“Jack, can we talk about this tomorrow?”
“Yes! I will still be here.”
“Good night, Jack.”
“Good night, Vic.”
Olsen sits down. He’s wary. He’s wishing that he hadn’t have seen me tonight and he’s reevaluating the enjoyment level of the night and finding it lacking.
“Dude, that was intense,” he says. He pours me a drink.
I finish the drink in three swallows and slam the glass down.
“Man,” he says, “no offense, but she was just a stupid girl.”
“Yes but she was more than a stupid girl, Olsen,” I tell him. “She was my love. She was my one true love and she ran away. We were planning on getting married too.” This isn’t true but I add it to put more severity into the situation.
Olsen shakes his head sadly. “Man, that sucks. How long were you two together?”
“Three months!”
“Wow. Dude. That must’ve been some three months.”
So he does understand.
“That was her ex-boyfriend,” I tell him. “I knew it. I knew she was getting back with him. Something shady. The last few weeks that we spent together she was acting pro-sketchy! I knew it. I found his number on her cell one day. That’s why I tried breaking up with her on Valentine’s Day.”
“You tried breaking up with her on Valentine’s Day?”
“Did you not just hear what I said? She was texting him! Beemer! Her ex! While I was staying over at her place! Is that just not shitty? Top shitty? That makes my Valentine’s Day thing all the less drastic. Says I.”
Olsen is silent. He is allowing me to ruminate on recent events and discoveries. He is trying to comprehend.
“Girls suck,” he says.
“They do.”
I want to go home. I want to dismantle all my rifles, clean them, splay them out on the carpet and behold their significance. They represent violence and chaos. I want to draw my Glock out of my bag a
nd hold it but it would be a bad idea. It might freak Olsen out. Plus I would get kicked out of the bar.
I call a cab.
“You gonna be okay, Travis?” Olsen asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. I’m not though. I’m livid. I’m exhausted. I’m pissed. I’m mad as hell and I want the world to blow the fuck up.
Tomorrow I’m going to kill Ruttleby. He’ll be the target of the storm. Stupid silly girl, wrath have you made me! Biblical doom!
#
On the cab ride home my cell blings. This means I have a text. It’s from her. Fucking of course it is.
Her text says: Don’t try contacting me. You scared me tonight when you chased me in Safeway. And by the way, that was not my boyfriend in the car because I know that’s what you’re thinking.
What the fuck.
“What the fuck!”
The cabbie is startled. He looks in the rear-view mirror to make sure I’m not going to do something to him. He smiles.
Not her boyfriend. Then who the fuck was it, bitch? Bruce Willis? Was that Bruce Motherfuckin Willis then?
I am going to kill the fuck out of Ruttleby. What a fucking stupid day.
“You okay?” the cabbie asks.
“No,” I tell him. “Drive. Let the night pass into obscurity.”
CHAPTER SIX
Six A.M. Wednesday.
I wake up feeling like shit. My eyes are like rotten onions and I think someone has removed all of my warm, vital organs and replaced them with baby puke and prostitute vomit. I spend twenty minutes doing nothing but drinking water.
I find a car for sale on craigslist. 1500.00 for a 1998 Ford Escort. I call the guy and arrange to meet him in an hour. The shower doesn’t help me feel any better. I drank way too much last night. Way much.
Then I catch a cab to Queen Anne, find the guy, buy the piece of shit Escort, and drive it home. The car smells like really bad lesbian sex and Pine Sol. It’s ten in the morning. Time to start the day.
My basic kill-routine is this; one orange, a yogurt (Dannon’s, strawberry) and two bottled waters for breakfast, then one hour of meditation, one hour of low-cardio exercise, and one hour of last minute research on the victim, using a disposable Dell laptop. Then one muffin, blueberry, and another twenty ounces of cold, clean, lovely water.
FEROCITY Chapter Four through Eight Page 3