by Lucy Auburn
As soon as the barest, two second gap appears between the cars, I race between them. They come so close I'm certain that I'll lose my legs—but somehow they pass through me. No, pass by me, obviously. Heart racing a mile a minute, I swerve into the diner, doors closing loudly behind me, drawing attention.
Glancing out the big plate glass windows, I watch as the man across the street does his best to fend off the snarling, snapping, lunging dog. A smirk curls up my lips. Moments later, a woman comes out and grabs his leash, frowning and trying to calm him down, but he acts like he's been possessed by a spirit full of rage.
Meanwhile, I don't feel any anger at all.
"Ma'am?" I glance towards a waitress near the front of the diner, who has a giant laminated menu in her hands and is staring at me in boredom. "Booth or table?"
"Booth. In the back."
I follow her, tugging my hood down to hide as much of my face as possible. She leads me around the corner, but I jerk my chin towards the very back section, past a set of double doors.
"You sure?" The waitress frowns at me. "That used to be the smoking section. The carpet back there still smells like cigarette smoke. They could never get it out."
"Positive."
A booth in the back corner is dark enough, and far enough away from the windows, to satisfy me. More importantly, there's a way out towards the back, an employees only door propped open with a bucket and a long hallway with a door at the end that must lead to the dumpsters out back. If the man does manage to follow me all the way back here, I have a way out.
"Thanks. I just want a coffee and a bagel." I slide in to the side of the booth that faces the door, then hunch down so my hood falls forward. "I'll pay now."
The waitress frowns as I slide a bill towards her, then shrugs. "Suit yourself. I'll be right back with your order."
She disappears around the corner, seemingly used to strange requests and odd people with secrets to keep. Tucking strands of short blonde hair behind my ears and into the recesses of the hood, I do my best to blend into the dark brown pleather of the diner booth, hoping the light is dim enough back here to hide me.
One thing is for sure: the waitress was right. This entire back section smells of stale cigarette smoke. The carpet beneath my shoes is so short, fuzzy, and clouded that it must have decades of dirt ground into it. But the wifi is free, and no one will care if I spend hours back here, nursing my mug of coffee and nibbling on the bagel while I try to set my mind straight.
There's a TV in the corner opposite me, mounted on the wall. It's playing a football game—probably a repeat from Sunday. I glance at it curiously, even though I'm not really into sports. The game lasts for a while, then changes—splashing the news across the TV.
Glancing at the front door, I watch as the man enters the diner. And I prepare to run, heart racing, wondering what the ever-living fuck he could possibly want from me. I'm nobody.
"Here you are, sweetie." The waitress stops by to give me my coffee, bagel, and change, temporarily blocking my view of the man. "Let me know if you need anything else."
"Thanks."
She moves out of the way, and the man is gone, almost like he timed it perfectly. I take a nervous sip of my coffee, wishing that I'd taken some kind of self-defense weapon with me—pepper spray, or a knife from Eve's kitchen, though that would be ironic given that I killed Jack with a kitchen knife.
The man comes back into view, his braid swinging as he asks a couple at the counter a question. They both shake their head; they haven't seen me. But it's only a matter of time before he heads to this dark back room, and I'm forced to run again, only this time I'm certain he'll catch me.
I watch him make his way closer and closer, forcing myself to take a bite of the bagel, all too aware of how empty my stomach is and how precious every dollar I have is. Just as the man is about to reach the end of the tiled portion of the diner, left with just this back room to come to, I hear my name and nearly jump out of my seat.
"In other news, the notorious case of Ellen Arizona was brought to a close Thursday when a jury declared the killer 'not guilty' of the murder of Jack Johnson, releasing her from prison. A new chapter in the case has unfolded, as the day she was released, Arizona's mother and stepfather were brutally murdered—by, the police claim, the Black Serpent. Here to comment is Harriet Johnson, mother of the late Jack Johnson. Harriet?"
My mouth drops open, bagel forgotten at the sight of Jack's mom casually sitting next to the reporter. I knew she hated me, but it's clear from the way she dabs at her eyes and speaks about my mother's murder that it's more than just hate—it's conviction.
She thinks I murdered her son in cold blood. That was how she testified in my case; she claims that he never laid a hand on me, said she was sure I had faked the bruises, and had texts from Jack saying there was trouble in our relationship. It wasn't enough to convince the jury, but I have no doubt that she's convinced of her own theory regardless. Together with the DA, Jack's friends and family came up with a theory that I caught him cheating and stabbed him to death in a rage, when really I was just desperately trying not to die.
Which isn't to say that I didn't enjoy it, or wouldn't do it again. That's the part that sits funny in my stomach, late at night when I can't sleep—sleeping is hard to come by in prison. People who kill out of desperation are supposed to be upset about it, but not me. I'm glad that bastard is dead, and even gladder I killed him.
Tearing my eyes away from Harriet as she goes on yet another rant, one that will get the media plenty of eyes and dead Jack undeserved sympathy, I watch the man as he walks into my dark section of the diner.
His eyes skim the booths, and I sink down, turning my face away, trying to disappear. But it's no use; I know he's going to see me and I'll have to run. Quietly, I shove the rest of my bagel into my jacket pocket and drink as much of my coffee as I can, leaving some change on the table. Then I slide towards the end of the booth, tensing, prepared to run.
A phone rings.
The man answers. "Yeah?" A pause. I wait, eyes darting to him, hoping he'll turn away soon. "No," he continues, "not yet. But I got close. You?" He's talking about me; I have no doubt of it. A low chuckle, then he turns towards the window and says, "Between the four of us, we'll have her by sunset. I guarantee it. In fact, I think I'm about to get her now."
He’s seen me. He’s only pretending not to. Toying with me, like a cat that teases the mouse it’s about to kill.
I don't think. I don't wait. Heart in my throat, I lunge out of the booth and run straight for the back door without looking.
The exit takes me out into the parking lot, and I run past the dumpsters, out towards an adjacent gas station, across that lot—ignoring the honking of cars as I streak by—and out back behind the gas station to a set of residential buildings. Running through the open backyards behind them, I swerve between two and across the street, then pause for a moment to look over my shoulder.
There's no sign of the man.
I lost him—for now.
Chapter 7
Four. There are four men hunting me, trying to capture me, for reasons I don't understand.
Okay, sure, I'm a killer. But I practically turned myself in; the cops didn't have to do much besides look at me before I’d confessed. Even though I killed a man, I wasn't very good at it. It was a relief when the detective knocked on my door, and he wasn't even halfway through asking me where Jack was before I told him. My lawyer joked that of all the cases he defended in court, I was the first killer to both try to hide the body and immediately 'fess up.
So I can't imagine why anyone would be hunting me. Unless Harriet managed to get enough money to hire some professional assassins to take me out, all because I stabbed her precious only son to death. But even with a fundraiser on her side and the wrath of all the people who hate me after watching my case—based on the angry signs outside when I was released from the courthouse, there are plenty of them—she couldn't hire four men.
Four hulking, handsome, impossibly strong and fast men who somehow do things like appear in Eve's house in the middle of the night and write cryptic messages on the mirror in her bathroom.
I consider going back to her for help, but I don't know how I explain any of this. I'm pretty sure telling her that four men are after me will test her patience. Not to mention, I wasn't safe at her house before, so I won't be safe if I go back. I only hope that the men who are after me won't be going after her too now that they know I'm not there anymore.
There's only one place left I can think of where the men won't be able to follow, and I'll be somewhat safe—at least, compared to how safe I am being chased by apparently trained attackers.
The thing is, it's the last place I want to go.
Too bad I don't have any choice.
With a sigh, I check the street and sidewalk on either side of me for any hulking handsome men stalking my way. The coast is clear. Picking the direction I need to go—and thankful for my inner map and ability to place myself in the city I grew up in—I head towards my father's place.
Vincent Arizona was buried in a family mausoleum on the same grounds as the old Arizona Manor on the west side of town. The property is at least twenty acres, surrounded by a tall wrought iron gate, the driveway up to the main house long enough to hold a parade on.
Too bad the whole thing is cursed—and probably, I admit to myself, haunted. It's been abandoned ever since Dad died, when I was only six years old.
Technically it went to me in his will, something the distant Arizona cousins objected to, but I've never used it for anything, and Mom never moved us in. She claimed Dad always warned her off that place; the day he died, the carriage house burnt to the ground, and took a good portion of the siding off the main house with it. When she sent contractors out to check on the property, two headed over, but only one came back, screaming and tugging at his hair, ranting gibberish about spirits. He refused to work on the house and warned us none of his colleagues would want to either.
If the men who are after me follow me all the way here, they'll probably get eviscerated by a ghost. There's a good chance even I won't survive the night here, and I've got Arizona blood flowing through me.
I once asked Mom why Dad and I were named after the state. She claimed that Dad's great-great-grandfather woke up from a coma in the middle of the dessert with no clue who he was or where he came from, and promptly named himself with the first words he found: Glenavon for the whiskey at the bar he stumbled into, and Arizona for the state sign on the highway. Everyone called him Glen Arizona, and the name stuck, spreading out through his eleven children—and my great-grandfather's ten sons.
There are a lot of Arizona cousins out there in the world to account for.
Only one Arizona gets this manor, though, and it's me. The old brick is scorched along one side, growing ivy that's about to tear down one of the upstairs balconies, has three broken windows—courtesy of the kids who think it's a haunted house—and no central heating or air conditioning. Slipping through the front gate, which is barred and locked by chains that leave just enough space for a kid or a thin person to get through, I reflect that I'm probably cursed too since I own this place.
The good news is, though, it isn't on any maps, and doesn't look like anyone would want to live in it. Even the squatters have been kept away by the ghosts that haunt the place. Taking the stairs up to the front door, I nudge it open with the toe of my shoe and glance inside: same floral wallpaper, damp smell, and old ruined floor covered in dirt and leaves that no one's bothered to sweep up. There are long, deep furrows in the walls and floor, scratches left behind by angry ghosts, and the distinct, sharp scent of blood in the air.
Yeah, I won't be staying in here. Thankfully neither will anyone else.
Pulling the door shut, I take the steps down two at a time and walk around the side of the house. It's the rear wall that has the scorch marks from the old fire, though at this point the ivy has climbed up the brick towards the roof and taken over the house so much that you can barely tell the difference. A pile of burned wood and scraggly weeds is what remains of the carriage house.
The place I'll be sleeping is far too sturdy to fall from a simple fire. A path through the trees out back leads to the Arizona family graveyard, where stone angels watch me pass with judgmental eyes, whispering that I haven't bothered to visit my father in nearly twenty years.
Truthfully, I don't remember Vincent Arizona much at all. I have an image of him in my mind, created mostly from stories Mom told me and old photos she kept around, at least until she met Herb and started to fill her frames with new memories. From what I've seen, he has sandy blond hair that he passed down to me, piercing ice blue eyes—mine are a sea foam green—and an ever-present grin on his face, flashing his white teeth for even the stiffest of family portraits.
He was affable. Good looking. Charming. People who knew him always had stories to tell of times he'd gotten them out of a jam: a flat tire here, a rent check there, maybe even help getting a new job or advice about their pending marriage. Vincent Arizona was the guy you went to when you needed something, and you knew he wouldn't turn you away.
He was also, according to my mother, a killer.
I can't seem to reconcile the version of him she told me about when I was a child with this dying confession of hers. The way she said it, it's not your fault, is almost as if she expected me to turn into some kind of killer just like Dad.
But I've never heard stories of him being angry or violent. He was an Air Force pilot, sure; he probably shot his fair share of enemy combatants. There wasn't a single black mark on his record, though. Far from it. For years after he died, men in uniform would come to our house, ask Mom if she needed anything, and slide her envelopes of cash, just in case. They looked at the photo of Vincent over the fireplace like it was an altar, reverence on their faces, and smiled at me with sadness in their eyes, then told me stories about how my daddy was the hero who saved them when they needed saving the most.
Surely when Mom called him a killer, she wasn't talking about his tours overseas. It didn't sound like that at least. What she said, the way she said it, sounded much more serious. People don't make dying confessions that aren't secret, and it was no secret that my dad was in the military. Everyone knew.
She had to be talking about something else entirely.
Walking through the graveyard, I make my way to the south end, which is where a large mausoleum with Roman columns is located. Poured out with concrete and stone, the mausoleum is the one part of Arizona Manor that survived the ravages of time and inattention.
It's also probably haunted, given my luck. But at least it makes for a good defensible position: there's only one way in or out, and plenty of nooks and crannies to hide behind in case an intruder comes. Unlike the main house, it hasn't been destroyed by fire and time, and it shouldn't be drafty.
Just terribly lonely and full of dead people.
With a sigh, I reach the mausoleum, push the heavy door open, and go inside. It's dark save for a little light filtering in from a skylight overhead. The doors lock from this side, so I twist the padlock over the handle. Then, considering, I grab one of the heavy vases and sit it in front of the doors—just to make sure no one can sneak in without waking me up.
Somehow hours have passed between getting here and leaving the diner. Pulling my now-stale bagel out of my jacket pocket, I bite down into it, and consider my options.
I could go to the police.
Based on the way that news report went about Mom dying, though, I doubt they're looking at me very favorably right now. After the furor about the discovery of a possible serial killer victim died down, no doubt the cops are thinking to themselves that it would be much easier to arrest the easy target and call it a day. A snake alone isn't enough to make for a Black Serpent killing, and without any prints to lift or a trail to follow, they have to be considering the simple way out.
Me showing up on thei
r doorstep and declaring that four men are out to get me is unlikely to make them see me as a victim. I only just got released from prison for a murder I very much committed, after all.
So with the cops out, all I have is myself to rely on, and whatever instincts my dad passed down to me. Finishing off the bagel, I head towards the back of the mausoleum, a pit of nervousness in my stomach.
His name is carved on a little plaque drilled into one of the doors that holds his coffin. Next to it is a plaque with mom's name, absent a year of death—this is where she'll be buried, Herb or no Herb. I still have to arrange the funeral, once I'm out of this current pickle and the cops release the body to me.
Maybe I'll have a ceremony for her, body or no body. That might make it feel real.
Licking my lips, I stare at my father's name. I wonder if he's listening. I wonder if he'd understand.
"Hi Dad." What a weird word that is to say aloud. I've never called anyone Dad, at least not since I was ten or so. Once Mom married Herb, she only talked about Vincent Arizona when it was just the two of us, and even then it was rare. "So. I'm back here. After years away. And I gotta say... what the fuck did you pass down to me? Cause seriously. I'm seeing things. I killed a man. I wanted... I wanted to hurt someone. In self-defense, but still. There's something wrong with me. And Mom was perfect. So there must've been something wrong with you."
Tracing my fingers over his name, I consider what secrets he might hold. It's too bad I'll never get to talk to him. I could use a little advice right about now.
Walking around the inside of the mausoleum, I find a good spot to settle down—on top of a stone coffin that I hope very much isn't haunted by malevolent spirits, or so I tell myself—and let my eyes drift close, snoozing lightly. One thing my mom always said about me: I can fall asleep anywhere, anytime, as long as there's a spot to put my ass.
I miss my mom.
Maybe it makes me childish, but I thought she would be around for a few more decades. I'm not ready to be alone. The man who killed her needs to pay for what he did—if he's more than just a cloud of fog that can't be stabbed to death.