by Tom Pitts
“Stay down, both of you. Don’t fucking move.”
Stephan was out of breath, panting and flushed. He’d regained his position in front of the movie screen and was pivoting the .38 between them. A thin trickle of blood worked its way over his lip and he sucked in the runoff with each deep haul of oxygen. Calper’s fingermarks glowed in deep purple stripes wrapping around his neck. “No one’s going to move. No one’s going to say a word. We’re just going to wait here.”
“What are you afraid—”
“Shut up. I mean it.”
“Oh, I know you mean it. You’ve already killed enough.”
“Shut the fuck up, Calper.” Stephan wasn’t apt to swear, and when he did, it sounded strange and clunky in his mouth.
“Is that what you think I told the police? About your sister and her husband? About your brother?”
“Shut up. We’re going to stay here and stay quiet.”
“He means it, Linda. If he’s willing to kill family members, he’s willing to kill us.”
Linda stayed quiet. She watched Stephan closely, watched the beads of sweat dance on his forehead, watched the trickle of blood from his nose grow into a small stream.
Calper went on, “You don’t think the cops are going to figure all this out? They may be slow, but they’re not stupid.”
“Calper, I know what you’re trying to do.” Stephan suddenly feigned an air of calm. “It’s not going to work. I’ll shoot you just so I don’t have to hear your voice.”
“What am I trying to do?”
“Upset me. Throw me off guard. Hope the anger will force me to slip up.”
“If I wanted to piss you off, I’d mention your wife.”
Stephan swung the barrel back at Calper.
“Didn’t think I knew about that one, did you? Shit, if you think about it, you’ve had most of your family killed off. Wife, brother, sister, brother-in-law—”
Stephan fired one off, just to the left of Calper’s shoulder. It punched a hole in the seat bottom beside his head. Calper flinched but held his cool. His heart thundered in his chest. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the blood pounding, thick, squishing through his arteries, pushing through his neck like syrup. He saw the doubt in Stephan’s eyes, the lack of conviction.
“What are we waiting for, Stephan?”
Stephan touched his lip with the back of his wrist, noticing for the first time the blood, somehow in awe that he was injured.
The door to the screening room swung open and Taber came trotting down the stairs, shaking Calper’s car keys in his hand. “Your car’s a piece of shit, Calper. I can’t even get the damn thing started.” When he saw Stephan and his bleeding lip, Calper and Linda crouched on the floor, and his gun in Stephan’s hand, he slowed. “What happened?”
With the .38 still trained on Calper and Linda, Stephan turned his head, and with a wounded look said, “What happened is you weren’t here. What happened is I have to do everything.”
“You…you told me to take the car.”
“I don’t care what I told you. You should not have left me vulnerable.” The strength in his voice deteriorated to a near whine. When Taber was close enough, Stephan shook the barrel of the gun at Calper and said, “Stay. Just stay.” He took a step closer to Taber and they began to deliberate, not caring what their hostages heard.
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t get it started. Maybe the lights were on, maybe he sabotaged it somehow. I’m not sure.”
“Why would he sabotage it if he didn’t know you’d be driving?”
“I don’t know.”
Stephan looked disgusted with the answer and shook his head, then, with new resolve, said, “We’ll have to change the plan, again. We’ll make it work, it’ll have to work. We’ll put them in their own car and get ’em out of here.”
“We can keep it clean that way,” Taber said.
Stephan growled. “There is no clean. I already fired the gun in here, we’ve all bled in here, they’ve got DNA all over the place. It’s a mess. It’d be easier to burn this place down than clean it up.”
Calper and Linda both strained to hear. Clips of sentences and single words fell unto their ears and they quickly calculated their sums. When Linda heard the last phrase, something about DNA, her thoughts shot back to Gary. The finality of never seeing him again, of him not knowing what’d happened, how hard she fought.
From her sitting position, she crab-crawled up and shuffled a few feet closer, then she swung her leg and kicked hard at the back of Stephan’s knee. He crumpled backward, both knees folding, flat on his back. When the hand holding the gun hit the ground, Linda grabbed his wrist, squeezing and banging it to the floor.
Stephan hadn’t even hit the floor when Taber jumped to help him. Fresh to the fight and not depleted by a previous assault, he pummeled Linda with hard blows. And Calper was on him, first digging his fingers into his neck and yanking him backward, then trying to gouge his eyes as he twisted his head. The four of them rolled on the floor in a sloppy melee. Then, in the midst of all the chaos and confusion, the gun spun free, spinning onto the carpet beyond their reach. Linda was first to scratch herself free and scrabble toward the gun. She grabbed it and rolled over onto her back to take aim, but Taber was right on top of her and sandwiched her against the carpet. The gun went off and Taber fell limp.
The shock of the blast froze Calper and Stephan. Pretzeled into each other, they both turned their heads, but only a moment. When it was clear Taber’d been shot, they resumed their struggle, but Calper was besting him now, on top of him, banging his head against the floor.
Linda was on her feet and Taber was moaning softly, face against the carpet. “Calper,” she said, “let’s go. Now’s our chance.”
She wasn’t sure if he could hear her, but then he sprang up, wide-eyed and winded, nodding breathlessly because he didn’t have the air to form words. They ran, dashing up the few steps to the door of the screening room, into the narrow hall, and up the stairs to the first level.
From the room near the front of the house they heard Jason yelling, “What the fuck? Dad? What the fuck was that?” as they made their way to the front door.
When they reached the Camry, Calper laid his hands on the hood and hissed toward the sky, “Shit.”
“What? What is it?”
“The keys. Taber has the fucking keys.”
“Call,” Linda said. “Call for help.”
“Our phones are sitting on the goddamn kitchen counter.” He felt foolish, rank amateur. “Gimme the gun.”
“Don’t go back in.”
“I have to.”
“Let’s run to a neighbor’s and call for help.”
Calper looked over his shoulder at the secluded driveway leading to a gated entry. “Fuck it. Gimme the gun.”
Chapter Thirty
Calper jogged to the front door, every step pounding shockwaves of pain up his legs. He was beaten, bruised, exhausted. He swore he’d never put himself in a situation like this again. He was indeed too old for this shit. He needed a normal job.
They’d left the front door ajar and Calper paused there a moment, listening for movement inside the house. There was none. Taber and Stephan were probably still down in the screening room, walled in with soundproof panels. He visualized the cell phones sitting on the kitchen counter and was sure they were still there.
He stepped over the threshold and a shot rang out. The door splintered above his head. Shock and instinct drove him down, falling onto the welcome mat. It was a nice-sized hole in the door. He couldn’t guess the caliber, but it looked big. The shot had to have come from the direction of the living room. If the shooter were in the kitchen, he’d have a hole in his chest right now. He held the .38 against his chest, trying to remember how many shots’d been fired.
Who else was in the house? No on
e but Jason. Taber was definitely down and he doubted Stephan would’ve gone past the open front door without sticking his head out. Calper wondered what other firearms were stocked away in the big house. He wondered if Jason was holding the same .45 he used that night at Ocean Beach.
Then he heard Jason’s loud rasp, a voice that cracked and whined as much as it growled. “What the fuck? Who is that?”
Calper stayed quiet, stayed crouched.
“Fuck you, you son of a bitch. I’ll fucking kill you. Get up—get up!”
Jason’s voice sounded closer now, almost to the kitchen. If Calper ran back out the front door, he’d be an easy target and Jason’d be able to peg him in the back before he reached Linda. Then he’d shoot her.
Calper breathed deep and flexed on his knees, ready to spring upward. He tightened his palm against the grip of Taber’s .38 and sucked in one last breath.
He jumped up, straight-elbowed, with the gun pointed directly ahead of him. “Drop it, Jason. Drop the gun.”
There he was, directly in front of him, a mirrored image: straight-elbowed, gun held high, barrel pointed directly at Calper’s head. Again Calper started to yell drop it, but the boom of Jason’s gun froze him. He felt no pain, no impact. The bullet must have gone right through him. He smelled the gunpowder, heard the tinnitus ring in his ears, but felt no pain.
Then Jason’s gun went off again.
The zip of the bullet tracing by Calper’s head on its sonic tear let him know he’d not been hit. His reflexes kicked in and he dropped to the ground, falling against the wall beside the front door. As soon as his ass hit the floor, he saw what Jason had fired at. He didn’t miss his target. It was a fucking bull’s-eye.
On the long white shag carpet of the hallway lay Stephan DeWildt with a silver-dollar-sized hole cratered into his forehead. His eyes were wide with surprise, locked open, as blood from the wound began to flow. A deep red creek, thick and warm, ran from his forehead into his hair.
“Is he dead? Is he dead?”
There was an excitement in Jason’s words Calper couldn’t place. It was boyish and giddy and sounded as odd and foreign as his own heartbeat.
Jason stepped over him now, ignoring Calper’s pointed gun and his command to freeze. Was he was saying it out loud? With the ringing in his ears, he wasn’t sure.
Jason straddled his father, placing one foot firmly on either side of his chest, towering over him. “Fuck you,” he said, spitting the words down.
Then he fired three more rounds into the dead man’s chest.
Calper shouted, but Jason didn’t flinch, his gun was still squeezed between his hands. He kept yelling “fuck you” over and over until he fired again, the lifeless body jumping with the inertia of the bullet.
“Jason, stop. It’s over.” Calper had his gun pointed at the back of Jason’s head as he pushed himself up the wall, keeping the sight locked right on the base of the boy’s skull. “Drop the fucking gun. It’s over.”
Jason spun around, his eyes wild and lit up. He pointed the barrel of his gun at Calper’s chin, and said, “Fuck you too,” and pulled the trigger to a dry, empty click.
Linda heard the shots and froze, statue still, as though her stillness would make her invisible. One crack, then another. She held her breath until she heard more shots. Three in a row. Then a pause, then two more. She glanced at the gate Calper had pointed out, realizing now she’d have to climb it, one way or another, she had to get out. But instead, she stepped toward the house, unsure of what she’d do in there. Drag Calper out, she guessed, get her cell phone and call Gary’s room at the hospital. Tell whoever answered she loved him and to make sure he knew.
He knew.
One foot toward the front door, not even a step, just one foot placed ahead of the other, and she saw Calper stumble out, looking deflated. He flopped down the front step and held up his hand. He looked like he wanted to wave but was too defeated to even move his wrist.
“Are you…are you okay?” she called.
His head bobbed downward, too spent to even nod. He was okay. The danger had subsided. They were both going to be okay.
Chapter Thirty-One
When Linda arrived at the hospital, she was greeted by the friendly and efficient head of neurology, Rajinder Singh. He held his palms up to slow her from racing to Gary’s room. It was his job to explain what to expect, to dilute her hopes. He was kind and spoke slowly to ensure she understood all of what he was telling her. While he talked, she caught him taking quick peeks at her injuries. She waited for him to mention them, to suggest some sort of treatment, but, thankfully, he did not.
He told her Gary’s recovery would be slow. So far only part of his motor skills had come back. When she talked to him it’d be a bit like speaking to a victim of a serious stroke. But, in cases like this, he said, improvement is usually quick, although he most likely would never make the complete return to his former self. The time he’d been under was unusually long and the longer a patient spent in a coma, the greater the loss of cognitive ability.
It went on like this, his melodic Indian accent playing out hopes and warnings as she listened, tuned out, then began to glaze over. She’d driven straight from Los Angeles the minute the police let her go. It’d been statement after statement, form after form. She wondered if they were more concerned about liability than facts. Eventually, they released her, saying she’d need to return for court dates and other proceedings. She kept looking over Dr. Singh’s shoulder till he relented and let her pass.
As her feet clapped down the hospital hall, she read the numbers beside each of the doors, peeking in at the poor souls trapped in harnesses, plugged into respirators, and withering in their respective beds. She reached Gary’s room and a cold wave of fear washed over her and gooseflesh pimpled up on her arms. She sucked in a deep breath and walked in, forgetting to exhale.
It was Gary’s eyes that lit up with surprise when Linda walked into the hospital room.
“What happened?” His speech slurred like the doctor had warned her, but there was no mistaking the concern in his voice.
Her bruises hadn’t yet begun to fade, the new dark purple blotches layered on top of the faded green and yellow ones she’d received over a month before. A crest of thick scab arced high on the bridge of her nose and she stepped toward the bed with a noticeable limp.
As she neared, Gary focused on the tears welled in her eyes and the love cradled in them. She reached out and squeezed his hand, leaned over the raised railing at the edge of the bed, and kissed him, and he made a soft animal noise that let her know he was in there. He was coming back.
“If you ever get another call from Calper Dennings,” she said. “Don’t answer it. Fuck that guy.”
He smiled, relived. He wasn’t sure what it meant, he only knew she was here now. Safe. They were going to be okay. He tried to tell her, but words were tough to form and it seemed easier to say it with his eyes.
They were still for a moment, simply holding hands and enjoying each other’s eyes. There was a completeness to them. As fragmented as their lives had become, they were whole now. Things would be repaired, their significance diminished. As long as they had each other. Gary squeezed her hand.
“What is it, baby?” she said. “What can I get for you?”
His throat was dry and his speech warped, but he managed to say it all with one breath.
“A cigarette would be nice.”
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Tom Pitts is a Canadian/American author and screenwriter who received his education on the streets of San Francisco. He remains there, working, writing, and trying to survive.
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BOOKS BY TOM PITTS
Piggyback
Hustle
Knuckleball
American Static
101
Coldwater
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H
ere is a preview from Some Awful Cunning, a crime novel by Joe Ricker.
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1
She had the perfect amount of fear in her eyes. They darted beyond him to the pointed corners of the room, where she looked for some consolation for what was happening, what had already happened—some kind of gesture or comforting embrace from the truth perching on her shoulders. Each breath Melissa took splintered a sharp ache through her ribs, like fingers had bored their way through the thinner gaps of pain that were already there and squeezed, crushing her into another shape to lift her from the world she knew and shake what life was left in her lungs. Mashed fibers of muscle tingled along either side of her spine.
Ryan noted every miniscule adaptation in her eyes while she thought—a cautious awareness of any movement. He sat motionless, watching her acceptance of where she was, a recycled anticipation of the pain that had already drummed the chorus of a song she was trying to forget. Fear. Enough for him to know that she’d do everything he’d told her.
Beyond her fear, a coiling panic flexed her pupils in the pulsing of the light from the lamp in the corner behind her. The silence in the room began to drone a new noise in her head—blaring static.
Her son squatted between her thighs where she sat on the polyester comforter at the edge of the bed. He’d draped his arms over her knees, the frail seams along the calves of her jeans convenient crannies for his roving fingers. Sputtering came from his bottom lip, and Ryan looked down at the boy’s purple-bruise raccoon mask—the fragments of white tape still on his skin that had bandaged the split in his nose.
The woman lifted a shoulder slightly, wincing at the struggle to turn just a few degrees to check the clock again—one minute and forty-six seconds since her last check. Her back was rigid, and the panic in her eyes had drifted, replaced by something else that she didn’t have the capacity to acknowledge just yet, but it was him, Ryan sitting across from her on the wooden chair he’d pulled from the desk.