Kill Six

by C. E. Nelson

  She had slowed again after the Civic, now doing barely thirty. There was a constant symphony of horns around her. Canton accelerated. She hadn’t gone half a block when she spotted more trouble ahead. Another lane of vehicles entering the highway on her right, traffic that had exited off 35W going south. Suddenly there were vehicles on both sides of her again. Some cut in front of her as they passed on her right, but others were continuing on. Canton slowed, assuming the lane on the right would end, but it didn’t. She was now trapped in the center lane.

  It was worse than when she got on 2. Now she had vehicles honking and people swearing at her from both sides. On top of that, the bridge curved to the left ahead. When she had space to see, there was only water. Perspiration formed on her forehead and ran down her sides. Canton considered stopping. But then what would she do? Afraid to look to either side, Canton continued on, eyes fixed ahead. A quarter mile more of her death-grip on the wheel passed when the sun behind her was blotted out. She risked a glance in the mirror. A semi. The truck was close, within a car length. It flashed its lights.

  Why wouldn’t he just go around? Canton continued forward, glancing back. The truck was still there, and it flashed its lights again. Why doesn’t he just go on the right? There’s no one there. There wasn’t anyone in the right lane. The semi had effectively blocked the center lane and the right lane. Canton took another glance back as the truck flashed its lights and then looked in her mirror on the passenger side. She could see the right headlight of the semi. Canton took a deep breath and moved to the right. The semi eased back into the center lane; the driver blowing his horn as he passed Canton.

  The remainder of her trip was uneventful. She took the first exit off the bridge in Wisconsin, Belknap Street, and stayed to the right. Less than a mile further, New York Street came up on her left. The Naulty’s home would be almost immediately on her right according to the notes she had taken looking at Google Maps. Canton slowed. The woods and brush were thick, enough of the leaves hanging on that she could not see the house or down the driveway from her approach. The black mailbox at the end of the driveway said NAULTY in bold silver letters. Canton was not waiting this time. She began her turn into the driveway.

  Her foot pounded the brake. The driveway was full of cars. Two were side-by-side in front of the two-car garage and two more in a row directly behind the car on the right. Canton stared, trying to understand what she was seeing, and what it meant to her, when someone walked out on the front step. Canton thought it was Fran, but from this distance she couldn’t be sure. She cranked her wheel to the left and sped off.

  Canton drove to the end of New York Street where she was forced to go left. Now she was driving through a neighborhood of smaller, 1950s vintage homes. She did not know where the street she was on would take her, afraid she would get lost. A Texaco station appeared on the corner to her right. Pulling into the lot, she parked behind the station in the shade. Cracking her window open, she could feel the cool air seep in. Leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, exhausted. What should she do? The trip here had been harrowing, the thought of the return trip now looming like a monster in a bad dream. If she could make it back, she knew there was no way she would return. She glanced at the plate of cookies on the passenger seat, the plastic wrap still snug on the plate. All the effort she had put into the cookies passed through her mind. And then she thought about the abuse by the Bishops, and how she had been a victim, afraid, all of her life. She couldn’t let Fran get away with what she had done. But how could she kill Fran without killing others? The driveway was full of cars. They could be having a party. Who knew how many people were there? She sat in her car, trying to think of some way she could get Fran alone. Killing a house full of innocent people was not an option.

  Canton now realized something else. The shade had deepened. The sun was now behind the house in front of her. Driving here had been a nightmare. Driving home in the dark. That was not an option. She needed to leave. Nearly in tears, Canton slammed her palms against the steering wheel. The terror of the trip home had her on edge, but her failure to make Fran Bishop pay for the part she had played in what her life had become, pushed her over. Canton let out a yell.

  But there was no option. And no time. She started her car, rolled up the window, and backed out of her spot. Reaching New York Street, she turned right, heading back towards 2. The stop sign at Belknap appeared, and Canton slowed, staring straight ahead, not wanting to look at the Naulty home and be reminded of her failure. But something caught her eye as she reached the Naulty driveway. Empty space. There were no cars in the driveway.

  Canton pulled to the side of the road and stopped. Whoever had been visiting the Naultys had gone. It was possible no one was home now, but she thought she had seen a light inside the home too. Didn’t mean anyone was there, but now was her chance to find out. She reversed, looking down the driveway at the house again as she did. Definitely a light on inside. Canton braked, put the car in drive, and pulled into the driveway.

  Chapter 23

  Canton stopped a car-length in front of the garage. It had two single-car garage doors with recessed panels and arched windows overhead. There was hardware on the deep burgundy doors, two handles and faux hinges to make them look like they should swing open in the middle. Canton was jealous. She longed for a garage, especially in the brutal long winters. Scraping ice from her windows, brushing the snow off her car, digging it out from the snow piles, especially the hard, compacted snow left by the plows, made the winters even more miserable. If only she had a better job. If only she had more money. If only the Bishops had not treated her like scum.

  She glanced at the house and caught a shadow moving across the window. What if it was Fran’s husband? Or one of her boys? Fran might not be here at all. Canton took a deep breath, pushed open her door, and picked up the plate of cookies. Saw the latex gloves next to the plate, put the plate down, pulled on the gloves, and then stepped onto the driveway.

  A cement sidewalk ran from the garage to the front steps, thick trimmed shrubs with tiny golden leaves lining the walk. Three cedar steps led to a small porch. The front door was painted the same color as the garage doors, a small arched window to match. Canton held the tray in the palm of her left hand and rang the bell. The single light above her came on and she looked up. It was shaped like a bell matching the two lights on either side of the garage. Heavy steps could be heard inside, moving down the stairs towards the door, a light coming on in the entryway. The door swung in, and Bill Naulty looked out.

  “Can I help you?”

  Canton was momentarily flustered. She had decided to ask for his wife if Bill answered, their mother if one of the boys came to the door.

  “Um, yes, I –- “

  “Who is it, Bill?”

  Fran Naulty came down the steps and stood next to her husband. Canton smiled.

  “Hello. I’m here handing out free cookie samples. I’m wondering if I can get you to eat a cookie for me?”

  “Do I know you? You look familiar?”

  Canton was taken back. Almost ran. It was possible he’d recognized her from the funeral, but Helen Johnson had not had a clue, and she was sure that she looked considerably different than she did at the funeral.

  “Uh, no. I don’t think so.”

  He stared at her a moment more. “So, why are you handing out samples?” said Bill.

  “The company I work for is considering selling these cookies in this area but they would like to get feedback on what people think of the cookies before they make that decision.”

  “Interesting,” said Bill as he looked at the plate. “So, you’re not selling anything?”

  “No. The cookies are free.”

  Bill still seemed skeptical. “Have you tried one?”

  “I have, and I have to say they are pretty darn good.”

  “Too bad our boys just left. They’d eat them all.”

  Canton snickered. “Only one per person, I’m afraid.” She held o
ut the plate.

  Bill looked at his wife who was eyeing the cookies. “What do you say, dear? They look pretty good.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. This would totally ruin my diet.”

  Canton hadn’t expected that someone would even consider turning down a cookie. Her face went blank. Bill lifted the plastic off of the plate and slid a cookie out. He turned it in his hands.

  “They look pretty good, dear.”

  He took a bite and chewed. It horrified Canton. She had seen how fast Helen Johnson had reacted to the poison. The man could be choking in seconds.

  “Mmm. They are good.”

  “Oh, yes,” Canton quickly added. “And there is nothing to buy. Please.” She moved the plate in front of Fran and pulled back the plastic.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t.” She looked up at her husband and then back at the plate. “Well, I guess one cookie couldn’t hurt.”

  She picked up a cookie and took a bite as her husband took another. Canton released a silent sigh of relief.

  “They are pretty tasty,” said Fran as she looked over the cookie before taking another bite.

  Fran chewed as she looked up at her husband. He was just shoving the last of his cookie in his mouth, licking his fingers. Fran swallowed and took another bite.

  “What do you think, Bill?” said Fran as she turned her attention to the cookie that remained in her hand.

  Her husband’s tongue pushed through his lips, and he opened his mouth as if he was about to say something. His eyes got big, and his hand went to his throat. He made a choking sound. Fran looked over at him.

  “Bill? Are you OK?”

  Canton giggled. “He’s not OK, Fran. He’s dying. And so are you.”

  “What? Who are you?”

  “Grace Canton. Do you remember how you and your brothers and sisters tortured me day after day, Fran?”

  “Grace Canton?”

  “You and your family ruined my life, Fran.”

  Bill collapsed in the entryway, writhing on the floor in the fetal position, making hacking sounds. Fran looked down at him in a daze, mystified. She looked back at Canton.

  “Grace Can…”

  She never got the words out. Her body began to quiver, and her throat constricted. Her eyes grew wide as she dropped the remainder of her cookie on the floor. Both hands went to her throat as she tried to suck in her last breath. Canton took a step back as she watched the woman fall on her husband, her mouth bubbling, her eyes closing as the spasms subsided. Canton stepped up, bent at the knees, and picked up the remainder of Fran’s cookie. She placed the remnant on the plate and covered the cookies again. Looked down at the dead woman and smiled.

  Chapter 24

  The phone on the table next to his chair was buzzing, startling Ken Bishop from his sleep. The television was on, a program he didn’t recognize. There was a large clock made to look like a wagon wheel on the wall next to the television. It was one of the few things his ex-wife had purchased that she had left behind. He didn’t really care for it when she first bought it, but it had kind of grown on him, and he was glad she had left it. The clock told him it was nearly eight Sunday morning. A glance at his phone told him his brother was calling.

  “Hello.”

  “Ken. It’s Tom.”

  “Tom. What’s up?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  Ken was instantly awake. Had Tom seen him at his house? Shit. The guy was a hunter. Maybe he had game cameras on his lot?

  “Um, I was out,” said Ken.

  “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  “Yeah. I found it when I got home. Forgot it. Didn’t see the message until late.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, Fran and I met and Helen’s funeral will be Tuesday at Holy Cross. That’s just off Superior on 52nd. One o’clock.”

  “OK. Um, --"

  “And I talked to Dan’s kid, and he said Dan and Lisa’s funeral will be tomorrow at 11.”

  “Where?”

  “First Lutheran. Two Harbors. Lunch after. There’s an obituary with the information in today’s paper. Did you see it?”

  “Uh, no. I don’t get the paper,” said Ken.

  “Well, you can look online,” said Tom. “Are you going to make it tomorrow?”

  “Of course.”

  “And Tuesday?”

  “Sure,” said Ken. “Uh, is there anything I can do?”

  “No, I think Fran and I have it taken care of,” said Tom. “We can talk at the funeral tomorrow.”

  There was silence. Ken wondered if his brother had hung up. “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. After a pause he said, “What’s happening to us, Ken?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To our family. First Laura, and then Dan, and now Helen. Christ. Do you think someone is killing us off?”

  “It’s just a coincidence. Helen died of a heart attack or something, and Laura had Alzheimer’s.”

  “The police said Laura was smothered.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t buy that. I saw her just two days before she died. She didn’t have long.”

  Ken could hear his brother blow out a long breath.

  “Yeah, whatever. All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See you.”

  Ken disconnected and put down his phone. He should have called last night instead of getting drunk. Or, at least before he got drunk. Maybe gone over to Fran’s. Could have talked to them both at the same time, calmed them down some. Now he wondered if Fran wasn’t thinking the same thing as Tom. She could have brought it up. He could see her doing that. She was always an alarmist. Making stuff out of nothing. Like when they had teased that girl at the bus stop. Said we shouldn’t be so mean. Said we should stop. But she had laughed with the rest of us. At least at first.

  Yeah, Fran was probably thinking that they were all the target of some psycho-killer. Probably had her liberal husband wondering the same thing. Fran had always hated guns, both of them had. Now he wondered if they weren’t thinking about getting one for a little protection. Ken laughed. Better call Fran and tell her he’d be there tomorrow and Tuesday. Offer to help any way he could. And then tell her what Tom had said about the family being targeted by a killer and put that to rest.

  Bishop punched the icon for his sister’s house. One of the few who still had a land-line. No answer. Left a quick message and called her cell. Nothing.

  “Hmm.”

  Bishop disconnected. The mostly empty bottle of whiskey along with an empty glass was on the table next to his phone. He’d celebrated last night after getting the message Helen was dead. Felt a little bad about it as he did, even got a little emotional after he got more into the whiskey. Of all of his siblings, he had been closest to Helen. She helped him with subjects he had trouble with in school and always made sure he wasn’t alone after his divorce on holidays. The only one to lend him any money when he got in trouble too.

  But, that’s the way it goes. Sometimes it’s just your time. And Helen’s time had come. And she had helped him out again by dying. With three gone he had enough to cover his mortgage. He’d still have his credit card bills and gambling debts, but the mortgage would be gone. He could tell those assholes from the bank to just fuck off.

  But when he woke late in the morning, feeling like someone was trying to escape from the inside of his head by breaking a hole in his skull, he knew one more had to go. Then he would be square. And he could still get it done in time, if he was quick. He just needed to decide. Should he go back to Tom’s or go after Fran?

  Chapter 25

  Ants in her pants. That’s what her mother used to say about her and still did when they got together. Always on the move, trouble sitting in one place for more than a minute or two. Carlisle would try to chew her way out of her crib when her mother would deposit her there for a nap. Gnawing on the side rails and top of the headboard. Finally got a crib with metal rails and edging so she wouldn’t get splinters in her mouth.


  Carlisle never especially cared for her mother’s assessment but couldn’t help but hear her voice when she started to feel it. Pacing, looking out windows, pacing some more. Anxious. Like maybe she had to make a speech or go to the dentist. She hated going to the dentist.

  “You should go.”

  Pearson was sitting at the kitchen counter finishing his lunch, a turkey sandwich on wheat toast and some chips. Carlisle’s half-eaten sandwich lay on the plate next to his, her stool empty.

  “What?” Carlisle was walking towards the picture window overlooking Superior, a cup of coffee in her right hand. She stopped and turned to look at Pearson who had his back to her.

  “You should go,” he repeated.

  “You’re kicking me out?” said Carlisle.

  “I think so. You’re making the fish nervous.”

  Carlisle turned to look at the massive wall aquarium separating the entry from the kitchen. The fish did all seem to be lined up on the glass staring at her.

  “It’s just --"

  “I know, Danny. It’s OK. You’ve got a case going, and time is slipping away,” he said. “So, are you always going to be like this?”

  Pearson had swiveled toward her. She walked up to him. Set her cup on the counter.

  “Like what?”

  “Like wearing out my floor walking back and forth after just a day alone with me?”

  “No. No. It’s just that I should really try to get hold of some people on this drug thing,” she said. “And it’s been over a day and a half.”

  Pearson smiled. “I guess I didn’t realize it had been that long.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”