Grave Mistakes_A Deadly Vigilante Crime Thriller

by Brian Spangler

“Michael?” I asked, realizing Steve wanted us all there. “Is he going too?”

  Steve gave a half-nod, sensing my concern and said, “Might be, but still uncertain. I know you aren’t talking, but he’ll come around soon.”

  “No, no, it’s not that. It’d be if he was there.” I thought of the Wilts men. Would they do anything with Michael and his family on the move? But it didn’t matter, our plan for Steve’s death would already be under way. I raised my phone, adding, “Need to do something about a dress for tonight. Short notice and all.”

  Steve shook his head, understanding. I kept the phone beneath the table and texted Brian, telling him to call Steve’s number, talk to him, keep him occupied, distract him. I told him to bring up Snacks, give me the opportunity needed to dose his coffee. My hands shook terribly as I plugged the letter on the transparent keyboard, misspelling the words, re-correcting the wrong auto-corrections. I cursed under my breath, catching Steve’s attention. “Issue with finding a dress?”

  “Maybe not. I think it’ll work out,” I said as Brian responded, telling me he was on it. Steve’s phone let out a chirp, the kind of indiscrete ringtone I’d expect he’d use.

  “Hm. You’re old partner,” Steve exclaimed. “He only calls to talk about Snacks. Maybe he’s seen her.” Steve put the phone up, turning his body away from me and cupped his other ear.

  I pinched the poison between two fingers, my hands damp and shaking. I followed the steam coming from Steve’s cup, holding a spoon with my other hand, and then took a breath, keeping it inside as though I were diffusing a bomb. Now was the moment. I gave the Diner another scan, making sure there were no eyes on me, no eyes on Steve, making sure I was free to poison my husband.

  “Do it,” I mumbled to myself like a crazy person, hurrying my fingers into motion, lifting the small baggy over the lip of the booth’s table toward his cup. A jarring strike hit me from the booth behind, the two boys horsing around again. They shoved the seat forward, jolting me, striking my back and elbow, causing me to fumble the baggy. The baggy slipped from my fingers, toppling open onto the table and spilling the insides into a powdery mound. My chest tightened, and I sipped at the air. I heard the boy’s mother yell at the boys and offer another apology to me. I darted a glance up to Steve, finding his shoulder still turned as Brian kept him in conversation, kept him occupied.

  I put the end of the spoon beneath the small mound like a shovel, carefully scooping the powder just as the bell above the door rang out. The sound struck my heart like the ticking clock on our cell block. I braced and tried to cover the powder as a storm of teens wearing school uniforms rushed into the Diner, bringing with them a whipping wind that stole my chances to save my family in a single, gusty breath. I could only stare at the Diner’s table as the fine powder blew away, fading like a cloud on the tailwinds of a massive storm. I tried to save some of it, my hands grasping dusty particles, one of the teens watching as I seemed to be clutching absently at the air.

  “She’s good,” Steve said, turning back. I shoved my hands beneath the table, stuffing the empty baggy back into my pocket. “Amy?”

  “Snacks is okay?” I asked, my voice sticking in my throat.

  “Babe, you’re as white as a sheet.”

  I thought I was going to pass out—my heart raced and beat hard enough to crack open like an egg. I could have died, fell over, dropped like a bag of bricks, let the world go black. But I made up another lie, telling him, “Just low blood sugar. I think I need to eat.”

  “Well that’s good timing then,” he said as Pigtails brought our order to the table.

  “Oh I’m sorry,” she said, perching the dishes on one arm as she wiped the table’s surface clean. “Thought I’d wiped it already.”

  I texted Brian one word: Disaster.

  Brian texted back, I’ll get started on another idea I had.

  I felt wasted inside and pressed into the seat behind me, shoving the small of my back into the vinyl until I felt the gun. I wasn’t sure what his idea was and wasn’t sure I could wait.

  I brought the gun. I texted him.

  Just wait, he texted back.

  I did nothing. Every part of my being seemed to be paralyzed. Eat, I thought. Act normal. Steve eyed me with concern. I took a French-fry and dipped it into the milkshake. A smile came to his face as he turned to his own food. His phone let out another chirp.

  “Gotta grab this,” Steve said, his eyes wandering back and forth while he read a text message. I saw surprise and then his brow furrow deeply, but then fade and disappear as he texted a short reply.

  “What is it?” I asked, wanting to know, learning to make small talk.

  He was lost in the text message, answering shortly, “Nothing important. Just work.” He was lying now. I could tell, but wasn’t bothered by it.

  My thoughts went back to the gun, the only option I could see. I slid my fingers along the barrel and considered getting it over with. My body trembled and a flash of cold turned my skin bumpy. For a moment, I thought I’d pass out in front of him—gun in hand. I breathed through my nose and tried to focus. And as if on cue, an image flashed onto my phone’s screen—a new picture of Snacks, her face bloodied and bruised, a message beneath saying, There’s no wasting time. Were they watching? I dared as look over my shoulder at Mr. Keep on Truckin’. He lifted his head from the tablet, glanced at me and then went back to reading. Dread filled me, making me sick to my stomach. I took hold of the gun’s handle and tried to convince myself I could do this. But what if I missed? What if in that single moment when the gun’s hammer struck and ignited the gunpowder, my aim changed? My mind raced uncontrollably, my nerves strung taut like a rubberband stretched beyond the breaking point.

  “And the world would miss him,” I mumbled to myself.

  Steve put his phone down and looked into my eyes. I thought I’d explode. “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking perplexed.

  “I’d miss him?” I muttered under my breath with tears welling in my eyes.

  “Miss what?” he asked.

  I clutched the gun, firming my grip, squeezing it tensely as if trying to make it disappear, make it all disappear. I couldn’t do it. A gasp escaped my mouth. Steve’s his expression filled with confusion. His lips moving, but I could only hear the blood coursing through my head like a fast moving river. There was a crash then, the sound of a thousand dishes shattering onto the floor. I let go of the gun as a woman let out a scream and the boys behind me yipped with giddy laughter. I glanced over to Mr. Keep on Truckin’, finding he was on the move, his tablet cradled in his gnarled fingers and his eyes fixed on me.

  “I gotta go!” I snapped, disgusted by the idea of using the gun. I couldn’t shoot him. I had to do it, but couldn’t. A hole tore into my heart when I saw the hurtful look on Steve’s face. His jaw dropped, silent questions spilling. I got up and took hold of his hand. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I’ll see you tonight. I’ll be there. I promise.”

  “Amy?” he asked. “I have to tell you something.” Steve stood to face me, holding my arms so I couldn’t move.

  “I have to—”

  “Babe, I’ve never stopped loving you.”

  He said the words I’d longed to hear. I wrapped my arms around him then, fitting my body into his body and leaned up onto my toes. I touched his face, holding him gently and put my lips to his, staying there long enough to hear cheers from the teens standing at the door. “I love you,” I exclaimed and then rushed past the adolescence and the formal school uniforms.

  Once outside I let out a huge, panting breath. I’d broken free of the Wilts’ commitment, but it was only a temporary relief and delayed the inevitable. I searched through the Diner’s front window to find Mr. Keep on Truckin’. The old man had reached Steve and took his hand, shaking it vigorously, a smile showing my husband nothing more than admiration. He was one of Steve’s constituents, nothing more.

  Tonight, I thought, dismissing the paranoia. I’d have to shoot Steve tonight.
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  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I DROVE TO THE WHITE BEAR. Against all reason, I took the path of insanity as if knowing where I was headed, and all the while convincing myself that I could change the outcome, that it would be different this time. There had to be something more Tommy Wilts wanted than to see Steve dead and have me live my days back in prison. There just had to be. Everything was negotiable. My plan? Simple. I’d go into the White Bear, gun drawn, and shoot off two rounds, proving to them I wasn’t afraid. And when Tommy raised his hands to show he’d negotiate, I’d offer him my services for Steve’s life and my family’s freedom. I felt sick with the thought of going back to the person I was, but I’d do it again if it meant my family was safe.

  “Fucking prison,” I muttered, cursing the reform that had snuck up on me. There was a time when I wouldn’t have hesitated and would have gladly given in to my murdering ways. Was it the clock on the wall of our cell-block? The guards maybe? The other inmates? I might never know. I thought of my kids, of Steve, of what we’d lost. There wasn’t any one thing responsible, but all of them, every bit taking a part in changing me. Could I step back into the role of a killer though? Being a vigilante was one thing, but Tommy and the Wilts gang would need more, demand more. They’d want an assassin working for them and wouldn’t care who the world would miss. “You can’t do this. You can’t be that person for them.”

  The car turned onto White Bear’s street, my mind concluding, an end that would rip Steve’s heart apart. I would have to kill again. Only it wouldn’t be anyone the world would miss. I had to kill Tommy Wilts and anyone else who dared to get in my way. I sent Brian a text, telling him if he didn’t hear from me in the next half an hour, then tell Steve everything. With Tommy gone, the Wilts gang would need time to recover. That would be our chance, giving Steve just enough to guard our children, protecting them from any retaliation. If I survived today, I’d go to prison again for sure, but it would be worth it.

  I had the gun, six bullets, and more soul than I’d had in twenty years. The car slowed and brushed against the street’s curb, the cracked sidewalk in front of the Wilts’ club coming into view. It was just past noon and my stomach rumbled. I regretted not eating something, but wouldn’t have been able to hold it down, anyway. I expected to find rows and rows of motorcycles, the tatted men and women dressed in leather standing by their hogs, cleaning and mending and prepping for their next ride. But the outside the White Bear was deserted and oddly quiet.

  “They’re like vampires,” I joked nervously. “So maybe I can kill them while they slept.”

  The White Bear doors opened wide like the mouth of a monster, a pimply young man wearing a baseball cap, jeans and a soiled kitchen apron took to the door and propped the bottom lip with an old brick. He gave me a nod as he went back inside and re-emerged with a beer keg that dwarfed his skinny frame. He struggled to get it onto its side, rolling the empty barrel through the door at the beck of someone calling instructions. I slipped past the boy, slipped past the sunlight and entered the White Bear’s largest room, my hand bracing the gun, ready to pull it from my hip.

  “Didn’t expect to see you back here,” the old bartender said. He finished cleaning a glass and then tucked his hands beneath the bar, hiding them from me and taking hold of whatever weapon he’d store there. I knew this because I would’ve done the same.

  “Put your hands on the bar!” I demanded, my voice cracking. Fear erupted like a volcano, the adrenaline putting a shake in my voice. My legs wobbled, but I steadied myself and gripped the gun.

  “You sure you want to do this?” he asked without moving, without blinking. “Did you really think Tommy wouldn’t have considered all of your options? Take a look around sister and tell me what you see.”

  “Options?” I asked, glancing from one dark corner to the next, finding nothing. Even the corner where the bikers had shot darts and played pool was empty. There wasn’t a single sign of life other than the old bartender and the kitchen hand.

  “My young cousin is one crazy boy, but he ain’t stupid. He’d never give you a loaded gun without considering how you’d use it.”

  “What choice do I have?” I yelled, trying to sound firm, but failing.

  He shrugged. “I suppose you have about the same choice as anyone else who gets themselves mixed up with this family.”

  I laughed then. The insanity of crossing paths with the Wilts hitting me like a hammer. “It never ends well does it?”

  The bartender shook his head slowly and answered, “Not that I’ve ever seen.”

  “Uh-huh,” I agreed and dared a step closer, squeezing the gun’s handle, watching the old man’s needly eyes. They were Wilts’ family eyes for sure and I waited for them to shift, focusing on his hands and what was hidden beneath the bar. A shotgun maybe? Maybe a handgun? Given the distance to the front door, he seemed more of the sawed-off shotgun type—short range, a wide scatter. No skill needed. Deadly.

  “You want to bring your hand around to the front where I can see it?” he asked, sounding nervous. His forehead was damp and shined from the overhead light. The sight of his sweating tightened my insides and made me nervous too.

  “I want my daughter,” I told him.

  “Listen, I don’t want to shoot you,” he said, his words sounding like a question. “Like I said, there’s nobody here. Your girl ain’t here either.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I look?” I asked, deciding the man wasn’t a threat. I released the gun and brought my hand forward, showing my palms to him.

  His face paled and seemed to turn a shade of green as he braced the lip of the bar and held himself there. “No trouble from me,” he answered in a jumble of words I could barely make out. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

  When his hands were in view, I grabbed my gun and brought it forward. He jumped and lifted his arms. I kept the gun pointed at the floor and put my finger to my lips, telling him to stay quiet. “No trouble here either. This is just insurance,” I assured him. “I’m just going to look.”

  “Lady, like I said, there’s me, you, the boy, and that is it.”

  I ignore the man and crept to the stairs and to the closet. I put my hand to the face of the door as if checking for a fire on the other side. The door moved, inched forward, the hinge letting out a rusty squeal. My heart filled with dread as the man repeated, “Ain’t nobody here!”

  I had to see it for myself and swung the door open, revealing the empty room beneath the steps. In the corner where I’d been kept, I saw a blood stain—my blood. But it was nothing compared to the other side of the room, the chair still in place, ropes hanging in a grim reminder, my daughter’s blood staining the floor around the chair like spilt paint. In the center of the room, beneath the single bulb and the amber-yellow filament that dared me to step forward like an evil eye, I saw the ghost of Todd Wilts. Racked with emotion, my mind was playing tricks on me, telling me his body was there, curled up, muscles taut and chorded by the throes of a convulsion, the poison I’d injected taking him into its deadly grip and squeezing the life out of his body. His heart exploded soon after that, but twenty-years later, I think he was still in the room and was laughing at me.

  I wanted to cry, but I held it together and put the gun away, and made my way back to the bar. The Wilts bartender had already gone back to cleaning glasses, having decided I wasn’t a threat to him. On top of the bar, he’d arranged his bottle of homemade shine and lined up four shot glasses, filling each of them to the rim.

  “For me?” I said, confused by the gesture.

  “Thought you might need it more than me,” he said. And then quickly added, “Just so you know, we ain’t all bad. And we don’t all get along with the boy’s nutty ideas. That said, he’s the boss and there’s nothing much we can do about that.”

  I considered his words, taking a shot in my hand and throwing the whiskey to the back of my throat. I picked up a second as the first warmed my insides, lifting it to join with his, “We can�
��t all be the boss.”

  As the man drank, a brief thought needled into my brain like a virus—I could kill him, shoot him when he least expected it. I could kill every Wilts member and rid the world of them all. I could do it one at a time.

  “You best be leaving now,” he demanded. His eyes had gone dark, beady and cold. I glanced down to find his hands were tucked beneath the bar again. I didn’t realize it, but in my thoughts of exterminating the Wilts clan, I’d raised the gun. I heard the mechanical sounds of a shotgun being pumped and was certain the end of a short barrel was pointed at my middle. If I was killed, I’d lose any chances of saving my children.

  “Leaving,” I nodded, but took my time to finish my drink.

  “You hearing me girl?” His lower lip hung in a snarl as he spoke. “Best get on with your business—time’s a wasting.”

  I plunked the empty shot glass onto the stretch of oak and backed away from the man. He was paler than before, his brow dripped with nervous sweat. I read the signs, just as I had learned to do in prison. If I wasn’t careful, he’d pull the trigger.

  “Thanks for the whiskey,” I said and took hold of the door, easing past the threshold and into the warm sunlight.

  The boy with the empty keg walked past me, his eyes meeting mine briefly, empty of any interest and clueless of what was going on. When he stepped between me and the bartender, I turned and ran to the car. When I was safely behind the wheel and nearing the bridge over Neshaminy creek, I texted Carlos. A sickening dread consumed every part of me as I considered what I would do—the fund-raiser, makeup, hair, a formal gown, shoes, Steve, and a bullet.

  Time’s a waisting.

  THIRTY-NINE

  I KNEW WHAT I HAD to do. To save my family, I would have to kill Steve. A bullet to the arm, or one to the leg wouldn’t do. With the press, the cameras, the online news feeds, and the coverage of Steve’s campaign, anything less would convince the Wilts’ that I had failed. I couldn’t risk Michael and his family. I couldn’t risk Snacks. Steve would understand—I’d see him soon after, facing the barrel of the gun and sending a bullet into my brain. It had to end this way.