by Shane Kuhn
The door swings open and I stride inside, the man of the house.
“Honey, I’m home!” I pronounce in my best 1950s TV Land voice.
No answer. Probably in the bathroom doing lady things. I crack the wine and pour two glasses. As the first mouthful of wine warms my throat, I feel oddly at home. I start thinking about the whole eloping thing again. Alice said she wanted to get the fuck out of here. The wine begins to speak to me with its oaky vapors, convincing me to take Alice away with me tonight and put HR and Bob in my rearview. By the time the glass is finished, I’m anxious to give her the good news.
I walk through the living room and stop short when I see something coming out from under her bedroom door. The apartment is fairly dark, so at first I think it might be just a shadow. Then I switch on the hall light, illuminating the fact that it is a pool of blood. I pull my gun and listen for the presence of anyone moving on the other side of that door. My heart sinks when I hear nothing.
I take a step, forcing the issue. Then another. Then I am at her door, my shoe thoroughly drenched. I still hear nothing. I put on gloves and wrap my hand around her bedroom doorknob. It’s broken and loose and slips right out of the door, landing with a sickening wet thud on the blood-soaked carpet. I stand there, looking at the door, and tell myself I know what the fuck is in there and I do not have to see it. I can leave all of this to the bottle flies and the men in rubber suits. My hand reaches for the doorknob.
“Why am I opening this fucking door?”
Hearing my own voice like that, in a situation that requires absolute silence, is terrifying. My hand is shaking for the first time ever. Every last drop of saliva has vacated my mouth and my head is pounding to the point that I think my eyeballs might burst out of the sockets. I walk into the room. It’s pitch-black, but the light from the living room cuts into the room like a razor.
Then I see Alice.
I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood so I can to keep from screaming. Her body is facedown on the carpet in a thick pool of blood. I move closer, despite my instinct to run. Her hands are full of defensive wounds—deep cuts and purple bruises from the fight she put up. Her hair is matted around her skull, soaked in the dark blood that came from the multiple blunt force trauma wounds. Her legs are wildly askew from being broken several times over. Her naked back is covered in stab wounds that look like hundreds of screaming red mouths. Holding back vomit with guttural rasping breaths, I gently move her head with my foot. Her face stares back at me, beaten so badly it is no longer recognizable. It is the purple, swollen mask of merciless bludgeoning with black eight-ball hemorrhage eyes staring through red slits. I have killed many people, but I have never damaged someone this horrifically or put them through this much agony. Whoever did this is a monster and wanted the whole world to know it.
“Why did you let them in?” I ask.
My voice is thin and childlike.
“I thought it was you,” I answer for her in a condemned whisper.
“I was going to ask you to go away with me,” I say.
The words drip down into the carpet and soak into the blood. I stand there for a long time, staring at the ring on her finger, thinking that Alice was the closest I ever came to being real. The pain of seeing her like this has nowhere to go. It is so foreign to me that it feels like a ghost passing through my heart, stopping it momentarily. I react violently at first, a wave of blinding rage surging into my hands and face. I feel the edge of madness, a black hole pulling me into its center with a force of emotional gravity that I know will crush me. Then, like a safety switch, the numbness sets in and I am immersed in its dark water. I pull the engagement ring from her stiff, swollen finger. My body goes cold and I allow my feelings for Alice to bleed out onto the floor. Our emptiness is now the only thing we share.
I leave her room, my reptilian gaze zeroing in on getting what I came for and erasing all evidence of my presence.
United States Department of Justice
Federal Bureau of Investigation
* * *
Washington, D.C. 20535
ALL INFORMATION HEREIN IS CLASSIFIED
SURVEILLANCE TRANSCRIPT: AUDIO RECORDING
Location: Wireless phone call intercept—IMSI catcher/Roving bug
Subjects: John Lago and Marcus (censored).
Marcus:
John.
Lago:
Did I wake you?
Marcus:
It’s okay. What’s up?
Lago:
I’m in a . . . something terrible. I feel sick.
Marcus:
John, have you been drinking.
Lago:
Sorry.
Marcus:
It’s okay. I just want to know where your head is at—
Lago:
She’s dead.
Marcus:
Oh my God. What happened?
Lago:
So sweet. They . . .
LAGO IS CRYING.
Lago:
Her face. I’ll never . . . What they did.
Marcus:
Tell me.
Lago:
Beat her. Her hands . . .
Marcus:
What about her hands?
Lago:
She fought them. They were like animals. No mercy.
Marcus:
Who are they?
Lago:
I don’t know. Could be anyone. The phone book.
Marcus:
You have no idea who they are?
Lago:
No. I want to find them. I have something . . . for them.
SCREAMING, UNINTELLIGIBLE RANTING.
Marcus:
John. Wait. John? Try to calm down.
SOUND OF BREAKING GLASS AND WOOD.
Marcus:
John. Stop! Someone will call the police! Stop!
Lago:
The police?
Marcus:
People. They’ll hear you and call them. You don’t want that.
Lago:
I’ll kill them.
Marcus:
John. You’re not going to kill anyone. Do you understand?
LONG PAUSE.
Lago:
Yes.
Marcus:
Tell me about her.
Lago:
We were . . . going to get married . . . I see her when I close my eyes. I see what they did. It wasn’t her anymore. Wasn’t her.
Marcus:
I’m so sorry.
Lago:
I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.
SOUND OF LAGO RETCHING.
Marcus:
John? Are you okay?
Lago:
Y . . . yes. I’m sick. So fucking sick.
Marcus:
I know. I’ve been there. It’s good to get it out of you. Do you feel a little better?
Lago:
Better. Need to sleep.
Marcus:
No. Don’t sleep yet. Stay on the phone. Get some water. Do you have any coffee?
Lago:
Make the best coffee.
Marcus:
Actually. Forget the coffee. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.
Lago:
Best coffee.
Marcus:
Water, John. Drink some. Okay?
Lago:
Yes.
WATER RUNNING. LAGO IS DRINKING AND SPUTTERING.
Lago:
Oh God.
Marcus:
Good. Now sit and focus on my voice.
Lago:
Marcus. Thank you.
Marcus:
It’s all right. Just listen. I have some important questions.
Lago:
I’ll try to answer.
Marcus:
The people that did this, do they know about you?
Lago:
I don’t know.
Marcus:
Would they know where to find you? Where you live?
Lago:
Impossible.
Marcus:
Are you sure?
Lago:
Off the grid. It’s . . . impossible.
Marcus:
What do you mean “off the grid”?
Lago:
Can’t talk about that.
Marcus:
What about work? Do they know where you work?
Lago:
That is . . . possible. That . . . is yes.
Marcus:
Don’t go back. Just don’t go back.
Lago:
No.
Marcus:
That’s right. You can’t. They’ll wait for you there.
Lago:
They’ll wait. That’s where I’ll find them. I’ll wait.
Marcus:
No, John. That is a bad idea. Do not go back.
Lago:
I want to . . . I want to show them something.
Marcus:
You can’t risk that. I understand what you want to do.
Lago:
I want to . . . Lots of guns.
Marcus:
John. Don’t say things like that. You have to focus for me. Please.
Lago:
Focus . . . on . . . you.
Marcus:
John, have you taken anything other than alcohol tonight?
Lago:
Oxys.
Marcus:
When?
Lago:
Don’t know. Hour or so.
Marcus:
You probably threw it up. Don’t take anything else, okay?
Lago:
Marcus?
Marcus:
Yes, John.
Lago:
Help me.
Marcus:
I’m trying. I’m sorry I’m not there.
Lago:
You left.
Marcus:
I’m sorry.
Lago:
It’s okay. I am . . . a predator. I survive.
Marcus:
I know. And we’re going to keep it that way, right?
Lago:
Yes.
Marcus:
I want you to come here, John. Where I live.
Lago:
Your house?
Marcus:
Yes. Will you come?
Lago:
I will.
Marcus:
Good.
Lago:
How will I get there?
Marcus:
I’ll tell you. Will you remember?
Lago:
I don’t know.
Marcus:
Can I call you tomorrow? When you’re feeling better?
Lago:
Yes.
Marcus:
How? I need a number.
Lago:
I’ll call you.
Marcus:
Is it a landline?
Lago:
Yes. Need to sleep.
Marcus:
We’ll talk tomorrow and I’ll tell you how to get to me.
Lago:
Okay. Marcus?
Marcus:
Yes?
Lago:
Thank you.
Marcus:
No problem. I’ll talk to you . . .
THE LINE GOES DEAD.
—END TRANSCRIPT—
32
* * *
ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?
Remember when I was telling you about Intermittent Explosive Disorder—the blinding, uncontrollable rage that turns you into a violent, sometimes homicidal, maniac? It’s important to mention, because if you don’t learn to control it, you will find that it’s quite capable of controlling you. Right now, it’s controlling me. I may sound lucid but I can assure you I’m not. It’s 5:00 A.M. and I’m walking down the street barefoot. I have blood and broken glass in my hair. The throbbing in my skull is the result of either my raging hangover or head trauma from whatever train wreck I just crawled out of. I am downtown and heading somewhere with a purpose. As I round the corner and see the familiar buildings, I know exactly where I am: two blocks from HR, Inc. I have my Glock 18 in one jacket pocket and a fistful of mags in the other.
I try to think why I’m going to the office, especially in this state. Then I remember. Silly me, I’m going to kill Bob.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
That’s the question you’re asking me right now. The answer is yes. I am out of my fucking mind. And yes, it’s because of Alice. I’ve seen some extremely fucked-up shit in my time, but none of it holds a candle to what happened to her. I’m sure that Bob was well aware of my feelings for her, the very same feelings that are now compelling me to kill him. Since he was aware of how I felt about her, he wasted no time wasting her as soon as she stopped being of use to us. And now I’m pretty goddamned sure he knows she was FBI. Of course, in typical Bob fashion, he attempted to create an execution scenario for Alice that could be assigned to the mob and their love of baseball bats (only equaled by their hatred of the feds). This smacks of his method, and now I’m going to show him my method.
“Put the gun down.” He attempts to emotionally disarm me with a tone that’s supposed to force me to see the futility of my actions.
“Fuck you.”
We’re standing in his office. It’s too early for any of you to be there. Too bad, because you’re going to miss a good show. I point the gun at his face. This makes him very angry.
“Why?”
“Why what, John?” His teeth are set with fury.
“You know what the fuck I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t. Put down the gun.”
“Or what?”
I smile at him.
“Or I won’t ask again.”
“You won’t have to.”
“You’re smarter than this, John.”
“Am I?”
“Look at yourself.”
“Unfortunately, I am looking at myself, Bob. I’m a forty-something psychopath who thinks he has the right to delete anyone he sees fit. I’m a master manipulator with a rabid jackal for a soul. I’m you if I don’t delete you right now.”
“Are you finished?”
“No.”
“Yes you are.”
I am too bleary eyed and emotional (a kiss of death on both cheeks) to see the flash grenade he has placed on top of his files like a paperweight. He artfully hits the floor as it detonates. The concussion blows me off my feet and into the back wall. The flash knocks me out long enough for two of Bob’s goons to scoop me up and drag me out of his office. When I come to, I’m in the HR medical unit. Goons are holding me down while Dr. Hatchet and his merry band of ex-stripper nurses prepare needles.
As soon as I can feel my hands again, I plunge one of the needles into the neck of Goon #1. Goon #2 tries to apply a chokehold, which, ironically, exposes his own throat. My elbow cracks his trachea. While he tries desperately to breathe, I plunge the second syringe into his leg. Nighty night, fuck face. Dr. Hatchet runs, leaving his screaming, cowering litter of nurses to fend for themselves.
I take a quick assessment. I am in a building full of killers. I’m half blind and barely able to limp at a geriatric pace. Gun. I search Goon #1 and find my Glock in his jacket pocket. No mags. Fuck. I have seventeen rounds. Not bad, but like I said, I’m in a building full of killers—with much bigger guns. The nice thing is that survival is not my objective. I just need to put a bullet in Bob and then take my medicine like a man. Am I willing to die for Alice? No. I want Bob to die for Alice. As Bob himself would say, my death would only be collateral damage.
I look at the clock. 6:30 A.M. By now all of you are in the training arena and Bob is strutting around like a gamecock, extolling the virtues of his superior fighting skills. I make my way there in an attempt to ambush him before Dr. Hatchet spreads the news of my escape. When I arrive at our training dojo, the place is very dimly lit. In the middle of the room, Bob is with some of you, teaching you bl
ind combat techniques. Everyone is wearing blackout blindfolds and removes them when they hear me come in. Bob leaves his on.
“John.”
“Bob.”
“Up for a little sparring?”
Two goons walk in with shooters, and I toss my Glock on the ground. I walk over to Bob and his dark circle of death.
“Just to prove to you that you’re wrong about this, I’m going to let you have a go at me. Put the guns down!”
The goons silently obey.
“You can take off the blindfold, Bob.”