Bad Thoughts

by Dave Zeltserman

  “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take a good look. See what happens when you anger the gods.” Shannon had his eyes squeezed shut, but the killer kept whispering to the boy, modulating the pressure on his bent fingers, using them the way a puppeteer controls a marionette by its strings. When Shannon couldn’t stand the pain anymore he opened his eyes and looked into his mother’s dead face.

  “Now breath deeply,” the killer ordered, “smell that beautiful smell of death.” And Shannon did what he was forced to do.

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it, boy?” the killer asked softly. Then he jerked Shannon away from the table and applied pressure on his bent fingers until Shannon was kneeling on the floor.

  “I was fifteen before I had my first chance to smell that beautiful smell,” he whispered. “How old are you, boy?” A little twist made Shannon answer. “Aren’t you lucky,” he whispered, his breath obscenely hot. “Starting off so young. But this will be your only chance, boy. ’Cause you know what I’m going to do to you after this?” He described it in great detail, his breath flicking in and out of Shannon’s ear, tickling it like a snake’s tongue.

  At times Shannon would black out from the pain. When he’d fade back in the killer would be whispering to him about how little time Shannon had left.

  “Time to get up and kiss mommy good-bye,” the killer breathed lightly as he escalated the pain. He forced Shannon to his feet and back to the table. The killer pushed harder on his fingers, trying to force him forward. The pain screamed through Shannon’s head like a siren, exploding into a fiery burst. Then it went black. With the next twist, the pain reached a new level, a level beyond any conscious awareness.

  The pain was no longer a part of him. It had gone beyond that. It was as if Shannon was outside of himself, observing the scene from a distance.

  Something distracted the killer. Without being aware of it, Shannon swung his free elbow and caught the killer in the groin. There was a dull moan as he released his grip of the boy’s broken fingers. Shannon scrambled forward and pulled the knife from his mother’s mouth. Then he turned on the man.

  The rest was only a dizzying whirl of images, with him slashing and stabbing at the killer, knocking the killer to the ground, then pulling at his dirty ponytail and yanking his head back and . . . and trying to sever that malformed ugly head from his body. Hacking away, again and again.

  Someone pulled him off and twisted the knife from his hand. Shannon stared blankly at the man until he recognized him as his next-door neighbor.

  “I heard you screaming,” the man said, his face white as a sheet. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered as his face grew even whiter, his eyes scanning the room, “let’s get you the hell out of here.”

  * * * * *

  The police came. They put Shannon in a cruiser and took him to the hospital where he underwent surgery to save his badly mangled fingers. The doctor performing the surgery was more shocked than anyone that he was able to. Afterwards, Shannon was put on pain killers and sedatives, and put in a private room. Both the police and the reporters wanted to get to him, but only the police did and that was after a week of fighting with the hospital staff. Shannon stared into space as they questioned him, telling them only his mother was already dead when he got home. He wouldn’t tell them anything else, not what the killer later did to him or any of it.

  His mother . . .

  The autopsy report showed bruises along her neck, but only the one wound inside her mouth. The knife had shredded her tongue and severed both her larynx and windpipe, and had cut through to the back of her neck. She actually had died of asphyxiation, unable to breath in air after the damage to her larynx. The police reasoned that she had been strangled until reflex forced her to open her mouth and then was stabbed. Most likely, the killer took a great deal of pleasure in letting her know what was going to happen as soon as she gasped for air. They were somewhat concerned about the lack of marks along the killer’s wrists and arms. They were also bothered by the fact the only fingerprints on the knife were the boy’s, but they were willing to accept that the killer must’ve wiped his off after the murder.

  The killer . . .

  He was identified as one Herbert Winters. His family was from Mornsville, North Carolina. Upper middle-class, his father a doctor, his mother a high school English teacher. They had no idea what he was doing in Sacramento. They further claimed they’d had no contact with him since he’d left home three years earlier. The police sent his picture and prints to the FBI hoping to tie other murders to him. Herbert Winters’s death was ruled justifiable.

  Bill Shannon ended up hospitalized for five months, most of it in the psychiatric ward for severe depression. His father visited him only a few times during those five months, and when he did, neither of them talked much or made eye contact. When he drove his son home from the hospital it was in silence.

  Shannon’s father was only thirty-four when his wife was killed. Before the murder he looked enough like Robert Conrad to have people stop him in the street. He and his wife used to joke about whether he should try and get a stand-in job for the Wild Wild West. Five months after the murder no one bothered to stop him. He no longer looked like Robert Conrad. He had aged, become an old man almost overnight. His hair more gray than black, the flesh around his face loose and sagging, his jowls hanging from his jawbone. It was his eyes, though, that had changed the most. They had become hollow and bitter.

  Days would pass without Shannon or his father saying a word to each other. Sometimes Shannon would catch his father looking at him a certain way, the way you’d look at something you detested. Shannon would stare back and his father would end up averting his eyes.

  One day Shannon felt his father staring at him. When he turned to face him, his father didn’t look away. Instead, he kept staring at the boy, his lips twisting into something hateful. Then into something insane.

  “Was your mom alive when you got home?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, was she alive?”

  Shannon stood with his mouth hung open, too confused at first to answer, and then it hit him what was really being asked. A cold fury took him over. As he turned away, his father grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him until his teeth rattled.

  “I asked you a question, was she alive?”

  Shannon struck out, catching his father along the cheek. Then he watched as his father’s eyes went blind. The older Shannon threw his son against the wall and then stepped forward, punching him in the ear and knocking him to the floor.

  “Answer me, goddamn you!” he screamed, his face twisted like a wounded animal’s. “You were there for over an hour. Was she dead when you got there? And what the hell were you doing to her?”

  For awhile it was like it was with Herbert Winters, near the end anyway, with Shannon seeming to observe the scene from a safe distance, detached, only vaguely interested in what was happening. As if he were floating in a corner of the room, watching as his father slapped and punched at him. It seemed to last a long time. Then it was as if he were sucked back into his body. At that instant he could feel a mix of hot tears and humiliation and pain surge within him. As it took him over he told his father every hurtful thing he could think of.

  The words hit his father hard, his body wincing with each one. He stood up, backing slowly away from Shannon, his body shaking like a drug addict’s. Shannon didn’t let up as the words poured out of him, as the words chased the older man out of the room and finally out of the house.

  That was the last time they spoke to each other or even looked at each other. At seventeen, Shannon left both the house and California.

  * * * * *

  Shannon jerked his eyes open, a cold sweat breaking out along his upper lip. He sat up and reached over towards Susie, his hand finding her small hip. Still asleep, she pushed his hand off her. He stared slowly at her before squinting at the alarm clock. It was only three-thirty.

  He got out of bed and went to the kitche
n and found a pack of cigarettes. He sat and lit one after the other, inhaling the smoke deeply into his lungs. A half hour later the pack was nothing but ashes and burnt-out stubs. Shannon sat for a little longer and then went back to bed.

  * * * * *

  Come on, close those eyes. Let the Sandman come and put dust in those black holes of yours. I got a lot to tell you and I’m getting sick of waiting. More sick than you could ever imagine. And I don’t know how much longer I can stay out. It’s four-thirty already. The night’s fading away.

  Of course, waiting’s not easy. It’s damn hard. Everything moving at such an accelerated pace. It’s a bitch to stay anchored in any one spot for too long. So close them, pal, there’s so much I need to tell you and I need to tell you tonight. All about Phyllis Roberson, about how much fun I had with her. I don’t know how much longer I got and the last thing I want to do is watch you lying there, too scared shitless to sleep. Well, that’s not quite true. It’s rewarding in a way, but it’s not what I’m here for.

  Goddamn it . . . losing my anchor . . . don’t worry, pal, I’ll be back . . . you can’t keep a good man down for long. Bet on it.

  * * * * *

  It’s always kind of weird when you lose your anchor. It’s what happens, though, when you wait too long in any one spot. Oh, man, what a wasted night.

  Early on I tried to find Phyllis, see if I could put the fear of God in her, so to speak. A lot of times if you catch them early enough, before they get a chance to get acclimated, you can really have a lot of fun. Get to them before they have their sense of bearing. Well, I didn’t quite make it. She had a crowd around her, guiding her, explaining the ropes and all the rest. Oh well, you get your kicks when you can.

  And now this. You’re ruining my plans for the night, man. It’s not good, but I guess it really doesn’t matter. I’ll be back. We’ll talk. Only a matter of time . . .

  See ya, Billy Boy.

  Chapter 12

  When the alarm went off Susie stirred slowly, eventually pushing herself out of bed and stumbling to the clock to shut it off. After killing the noise she stood for a moment rubbing her face before turning back towards the bed. Shannon was lying on his back, his eyes wide open, his face drawn in an grim expressionless stare.

  “Sleep okay?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer, his eyes glazed and motionless, his body as still as a corpse’s.

  Susie began to lose patience. “What’s so interesting up there?”

  No answer. No movement, nothing. Was he even breathing? A quick panic overtook her as she ran to him and put her ear against his chest. The skin felt warm. She held her breath and could hear his heart beating. As she pulled away from him she could see his eyes focusing on her.

  “Damn you,” she swore at him as she choked back a rush of tears. “Damn you! I thought you were supposed to be getting better!”

  He looked at her blankly before rolling his eyes back towards the ceiling.

  She stood frozen, staring down at him. An angry, painful sob convulsed through her body. “Weren’t you supposed to be all cured? Isn’t that what your therapist has been telling you?” she asked, her face turning a hard white. When Shannon remained mute in response, she exploded, “Answer me! Are you even in there?”

  “Where else would I be?” he said after a while.

  She opened her mouth, closed it, and fled to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. She stood frozen in front of the mirror and then started to sob uncontrollably. When she saw him lying like that, all she could think of was that he was dead. At least at first. After she realized he had just sunk deeper into his sickness, a hot anger had overwhelmed her, and if she were completely honest with herself she’d admit it wasn’t just anger. When she first heard his heart beating there was something else. Something close to disappointment.

  She stayed in the bathroom a long time. First, moving under the shower and turning the hot water on full until it was steaming. Standing there was therapeutic; the hot water calming her, dulling her senses, quieting her mind. After ending the shower, she slowly, methodically dried herself and then stood in front of the mirror and even more methodically applied makeup. By the time she was done it was almost impossible to detect the redness around her eyes.

  “Still breathing?” she asked as she left the bathroom. Shannon didn’t answer, but his head tilted towards her.

  She dressed quickly, quietly. When she was done she asked if he wanted any breakfast. Shannon shook his head.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’ll be okay,” he murmured. “I just need some time.”

  “Well, you’ll get that, won’t you?”

  No answer.

  “What’s going on? Can you tell me that?”

  “I really don’t know.” He tried to smile at her.

  “Can you at least guess?”

  He shrugged, moving his shoulders up and down as much as an inch.

  “So it’s going to be like all those other years all over again,” Susie said after a long pause, an angry harshness edging into her voice.

  Shannon let his eyes close and placed a hand over them. “It’s not going to be like that. This year’s going to be different. I’ve already gone further than I ever have before.”

  As soon as Shannon said it, he felt the little strength he had left ebb away from him. Susie had become very quiet, very still, as she stared at him. After a long while she asked him what he meant by going further than in the past.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Of course you do,” she said, shrewdly, her voice as brittle as sandstone. “I want you to tell me what’s behind all this.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying,” she stated softly. “And I’m sick of it.” Her bottom lip started to quiver. She bit down on it, turned and left the room. A minute later, Shannon could hear the door to their apartment open and close. Then he could hear the lock turn.

  * * * * *

  Around ten in the morning Joe DiGrazia called, leaving a message on the machine that he was just checking up on his asshole partner. Eleven o’clock DiGrazia called again and left another message.

  A half hour later Shannon could hear a key turning in the front door, and then DiGrazia’s low, guttural voice calling out. Then, his partner’s heavy footsteps along the hallway floor.

  There was a hard rap on the bedroom door and DiGrazia peered in, his granite-block face a bit exasperated.

  “This is breaking and entering,” Shannon said.

  “Not really,” DiGrazia explained as he walked into the room and pulled a chair up to the bed. “Susie called earlier and invited me over. She said you weren’t doing too well. She’s afraid you’re about to slip over the edge.”

  “Especially with her pushing.”

  “That’s a pretty shitty thing to say,” DiGrazia said. “You’re a lucky man to have a wife like that. Not only is she a sweetheart but she’s as beautiful as all hell. Why the fuck she cares about you, God only knows.” He gave Shannon a hard look. “Pal, you are more than lucky. I’ll tell you, it would be a real shame if you lost something that good.”

  Shannon looked up but couldn’t read anything in his partner’s expression. “Am I about to lose something?”

  “It could happen. Everyone’s got their limit, buddy boy. I know I’ve already reached mine.” DiGrazia let a sympathetic smile crack his face. “You really do look like hell,” he said. “It’s getting close to lunchtime. Why don’t you get up and take a shower and shave. We’ll go get something to eat.”

  Shannon declined, shaking his head slightly. He hadn’t eaten anything yet that day or the day before, but he didn’t want any food. What he wanted was a drink. Several of them. The impulse had been gnawing away at him all morning, working its way into his bones and into his blood. He wanted a bottle, bad. All he could think about was getting one, which was why he knew he had to stay in bed.

  “That’s what I get for trying to be a nice
guy,” DiGrazia said. “Fuck you anyways. I’m too busy to spend my time babysitting an ungrateful asshole like you. As you know, I’m kind of shorthanded at work with my partner flaking out. And our little mamma’s boy hasn’t confessed yet.”

  “You haven’t beaten it out of him?”

  “I wish I could. Youth Services has got our little mamma’s boy wrapped up tight. They got a real asshole lawyer for him. The blood drops we found on the pillow weren’t from the victim. This sonofabitch lawyer is fighting us every step of the way. The State Attorney has to go to court Monday so we can get blood samples from the kid. You sure you don’t want to get something to eat?”

  “Rather not.”

  DiGrazia pushed himself out of his chair and shook his head slowly. “Just trying to do Susie a favor,” he said as he strolled out of the room.

  A half hour later he returned sheepishly with a couple of subs. “I have to eat anyway,” he explained as he wolfed down a sausage sub. He had laid out a meatball sub heavy with onions next to Shannon.

  “You going to at least try it?” he asked.

  Shannon didn’t bother to answer him.

  “You going to have to either eat it or get out of bed or lie there all day with it next to you,” DiGrazia threatened, showing a bare-fanged smile and looking more like a bulldog than usual.

  “Or toss it against the wall,” Shannon observed.

  DiGrazia wiped his hands on the paper bag the sandwiches came in and stood up. “I tried,” he said. “You can’t tell me I didn’t. Have fun lying there and rotting.”

  Shannon closed his eyes. He didn’t bother watching his partner leave. When he opened them the room was empty, just him and his meatball sub. He groaned as he looked at it. Smelling it made him nauseous. Since he didn’t have any choice and really didn’t want to look at it all day hanging from the wall, he twisted himself over the edge of the bed and stood up, his legs wobbly. He picked up the sandwich and moved slowly out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. There, he tossed it into the trash. On the way back, he stopped in the living room and collapsed into his imitation-leather easy chair. It was amazing how bad he felt. Like he was hungover, his head pounding, a hard, tight pressure pushing against his eyes, his mouth feeling like he had gargled with sawdust. He leaned forward and held his head with both hands. It was over a year, forgetting about the double shot of bourbon he had a month earlier and the half a beer he had the night before, since he had any alcohol and it was like he was now suffering from the DTs. A year of being mostly sober and now this. Just like all the other years. Thinking about it made him laugh. The laughing hurt, though, especially in his stomach. He leaned further forward, rubbing his head slowly, trying not to think about how badly he wanted a drink. After a while he stopped thinking altogether.