Karma Police: Karma Police Book Two

by Sean Platt

  I fall back against my car door, gasping for air.

  My mind flashes back to when Evan knocked the wind out of Tommy, and how quickly his friends descended.

  Frank grabs me by the neck, squeezing tight as he yells at Stacy. “Get the fuck out, now!”

  She’s crying, looking at me, terrified of what Frank is going to do. “Let him go!”

  I manage to kick Frank between the legs, hard.

  He lets go of me, falling back onto the driveway.

  I launch myself at Frank, drop on top of his waist, straddling him.

  Now it’s me choking him.

  He reaches up, trying to claw at my face.

  “Fuck you,” I yell, fingers squeezing tight as he struggles to push his neck down, trying to lessen my grip on this throat.

  “Stop!” Colleen screams. “You’re going to kill him.”

  Yes, yes I am.

  I stare into Frank’s eyes, bulging as his face turns bright red, spittle flying from his lips.

  This isn’t what I planned, but it’ll do.

  “I’m calling the police!” Colleen yells.

  I look up at her to see her dialing.

  I don’t care.

  I look down at Frank, dozens of shitty things he’s done to Stacy and Tommy flash through my mind, fueling my bloodlust.

  Now I can end it.

  Now I can end him.

  Another scream: “Stop!”

  But it’s not Colleen, it’s Stacy, out of the car, rushing toward me.

  She grabs me from behind by my shoulders. “Stop it; you’re gonna kill him!”

  Yeah, I know. He needs to die.

  But I can’t say that.

  And as I hear Stacy’s cry not to kill Frank, I find that I can’t go through with it.

  I let go, standing up and backing away, gasping as I throttle my rage.

  Frank gasps, holding his throat, sucking deep breaths into his lungs.

  I stare down at my shaking fists, then at Frank, now being cradled by Stacy.

  What the hell?

  I stare, confused. Why is she caring for him? Why did she save him? He’s a monster. How many times has he hit her? He struck her son. He’s probably gonna do it, or worse, again. And yet there she is by his side.

  “Get out of here!” Colleen yells at me.

  I stare at her now, unable to move. I don’t want to leave, not without Stacy.

  “I called the cops,” Colleen says. As angry as she was a moment ago, this almost sounds like a warning, like she doesn’t want to see me in jail.

  “Go!” she yells again.

  Frank glares at me. Stacy helps him stand.

  I go to the trunk, grab Stacy’s bags and drop them on the driveway without a word.

  Then I get in the car and leave.

  **

  It’s seven at night, and this time I’ve parked two blocks away.

  I’ve been hiding for hours, afraid that the police are looking for me, scared they’ll arrest me. But I wasn’t about to skip town. I went and saw two movies instead. Then dinner after that.

  Instead of heading down Baker, I turn in one street over, remembering that the house behind Old Man Wilbur’s is a rental that’s vacant. I climb the fence then knock on Wilbur’s back door, hoping the assassin is still inside him, hoping he didn’t take an afternoon nap and abandon his host.

  After a few minutes, he answers, looking through his back window, shaking his head. He opens the door, lets me in, and says, “Why didn’t you follow through? You had him.”

  “I don’t know. Colleen was calling the cops, then Stacy was crying, begging me not to kill him. She tried pulling me off, and I just couldn’t do it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know if I choked, or if I was afraid Craig would go to jail if I went through with it, or what. I think I was pretty far past self-defense, plus I was on his property. Craig would’ve been screwed.”

  “Pathetic.” The assassin shakes his head.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, mad at both having to apologize and at myself for not being able to follow through, even though I hadn’t intended to kill Frank in the first place.

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  I don’t know. I say nothing.

  “Obviously, you came back for a reason. I assume you’re here to finish the job.”

  I go to the front of the house, look out at Frank’s. “What happened after I left?”

  “They went inside. Heard him yelling for quite a while. Heard her crying. But I don’t know what else happened.”

  “What about Tommy?”

  “He got a ride home from some kids. He seemed okay.”

  “Good.”

  “How are we going to fix this?”

  “What do you want me to do? Go knock on his door and ask him to come outside so I can finish the job?”

  “That would be a start.”

  “Yeah, like he’s gonna open the door for me. If you’re so keen on killing him, why don’t you do it?”

  “Do you have a gun? I’ll do it if you’ve got a gun.”

  Then I remember — the gun in Ruby’s nightstand.

  “I think I can get one.”

  “You get it; I’ll finish the job.”

  **

  I wait outside on Ruby’s porch as the light goes on.

  She peers through the curtains hanging in the window next to her door. Her eyes widen. I’m not sure if she’s scared to see me, or just surprised.

  She opens the door. “Craig! Are you okay?”

  “I need some help, and you’re the only person I can turn to.”

  She lets me in, brings me to the living room where we sit beside one another on her couch. I explain as much as I can, how Stacy and Tommy are in danger. I lie, hoping she hasn’t spoken to Stacy, saying that she told me how Frank is abusing them. I even suggest that Frank may be sexually abusing Tommy. That’s why I was at Frank’s house earlier, because Stacy asked me to take them away. Then Frank came home early, and the whole thing went to shit.

  Though I hate telling such a big lie, the effect is exactly what I was aiming for. She sighs then says, “That poor boy. I knew something was going on.” She wants to help. Asks what I need.

  “I need a gun.” Of course, I can’t tell her that I know she has one. Instead, I ask if she knows where I might be able to get one. I explain that she’s the only person on the block that I trust enough to ask. Everyone else is under Frank’s spell.

  Her lips are pursed as she considers, then asks, “What are you going to do with a gun, Craig? Are you going to shoot Frank?”

  “No, I just want to help them get out.”

  “Why not go to the police? Have Stacy file an order of protection, tell them what Frank is doing to Tommy.”

  “I’m scared, Mrs. Simmons. I’m scared what’ll happen if the police show up to the house. Frank won’t let the cops take them. He’s told Stacy that if she ever leaves, or calls the cops, he’ll kill her and Tommy.”

  Ruby sighs, deeper this time, runs her hands through her hair, then stands from her chair.

  “Hold on a second, dear.”

  She goes to her bedroom.

  I wait, anxiously, leg bouncing uncontrollably. I’m almost there. I can get the gun, give it to the assassin, and he’ll finish the job. He’ll save Stacy and Tommy.

  I have no idea what will happen after that. Will Wilbur get arrested for murder? Will Stacy and Tommy be traumatized? Will Stacy and Craig ever get together, or has that been ruined?

  I’m scared of the possibilities, all the unknown variables, but at least Frank will be out of the picture, Stacy and Tommy will be safe, and Craig will avoid prison.

  “Oh, my God,” I hear Ruby say from the bedroom.

  I get up to see what’s wrong. She has her nightstand drawers both pulled out, along with her dresser drawers.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “It’s gone.”

  “What’s gone?” />
  “My gun.”

  I flash back to Tommy asking Ruby “is it ever okay to do the wrong thing for the right reason?” He’d just left Ruby’s bedroom after he’d showered, changed, and likely found her loaded gun.

  Oh, God.

  **

  I race from Ruby’s without explanation.

  I’ve gotta get to Frank’s.

  My mind flashes back on the dream as I run, being in Tommy’s room, the sound of the door shaking in its frame, Stacy screaming, followed by the gunshot.

  Everything else is a blur — the neighbors outside looking at me, calling out and asking if everything’s okay; Ruby yelling after me; Wilbur sitting on the porch. Nothing matters but getting to Frank’s before Tommy does something that he’ll forever regret.

  I race across the lawn, jump over a broken planter, and run to the front door. I’m about to knock when I hear Stacy scream, “No, don’t!”

  Instead of knocking, I reach for the doorknob, and am surprised to find it unlocked.

  I open the door and hear Tommy screaming from his bedroom.

  “Let her go!”

  I race to the back of the house, see Frank on Tommy’s bed, holding a knife to Stacy’s throat. Tommy’s in the doorway, his gun on Frank.

  Tommy turns back, looks up at me, confused. “Mr. Carson?”

  Frank says, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I ignore him, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Tommy, I’m here to help.”

  His body is shaking, tears streaming from his eyes. “He was hurting her again. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, “Give me the gun.”

  “No, he’s going to kill her.”

  “No he won’t,” I say evaluating the situation. Frank’s on the bed, behind Stacy, using her as a shield, holding a butcher knife to her throat. His eyes are red, and I can smell the alcohol from here.

  “No, he needs to die,” Tommy cries. “I’m tired of him hurting her!”

  “You shoot, I kill the bitch,” Frank threatens from the bed, glaring at Tommy. “Try me, pussy.”

  His hand is shaking, finger tightening around the trigger.

  I can’t let him do this. If he pulls the trigger, his life is over. And there’s a damn good chance he’ll shoot his mother by accident.

  In my calmest voice I say, “Tommy, don’t do this. He’s going to kill her if you shoot. Or worse, you might shoot your mother.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t let him get away with this.”

  “We won’t. We’ll call the police, have him arrested.”

  “The hell you will!” Frank says. “Now put the gun down, or I’m gonna cut.”

  “Shut up!” I shout. “Do you want to die?”

  He glares at me, disgusted.

  “You fuck my woman, then come into my house and threaten me?”

  “I didn’t f— sleep with her!” I yell. “It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

  “Then where were you two going?”

  “I was trying to help. Stacy and Tommy are scared of you, Frank.”

  “Bullshit. Your wife said you two were screwing.”

  “My wife is a crazy bitch,” I say, hoping that if I talk in his language, where all women are bitches, I might be able to reach him. “Please, put down the knife, and Tommy will drop the gun.”

  “Yeah, right,” Frank says. “I’m not putting down shit until Tommy loses the gun.”

  Tommy screams, his voice cracking, “Put it down, Frank!”

  He’s about to blow. If I don’t do something, he’ll shoot, and Frank isn’t doing himself any favors by running his mouth.

  I step in front of Tommy, putting myself between them so Tommy can’t shoot without hitting me.

  “There, Frank, it’s safe to put the knife down.”

  “I wanna see the gun on the floor!”

  I turn to Tommy, risking putting my back to Frank.

  Tommy looks up at me, eyes uncertain, “What do I do?”

  “Put down the gun.”

  He looks down at the gun then back up to me as if to make sure.

  I hear sirens outside. The neighbors called the police. I tell Tommy, “The cops are going to storm in here any second. If they see you with the gun, they’ll shoot you, and they might kill your mom in the crossfire. You don’t want that to happen, do you? You wanted a way out of this for you and your mom, right? This is the best way you have. But if you shoot Frank, then you throw it all away. You don’t want that, do you?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Then please, put the gun down.”

  Tommy slowly lowers the gun and places it on the floor.

  I turn to Frank. “Let her go.”

  He looks at Tommy, then up at me. He moves the blade from Stacy’s throat.

  She leans forward in a rush to get off of the bed and away from him. In my mind, I see him reach up, plunging the blade into her as she’s about to escape, laughing through the end of her life.

  But he doesn’t attack.

  Instead, he smiles, that same cocksure grin he gave me earlier as I had to leave with my tail between my legs while Stacy cradled him. That smile that says, “This ain’t over; I’ll get her back. She’ll never leave me.”

  Stacy is off the bed, hugging Tommy, both of them crying.

  I hear police just outside. They’ll storm the house any second. Then one of two things will happen. They’ll arrest me, they’ll arrest Frank, or they’ll take both of us and sort things out later at the station.

  This fucker can’t walk.

  I won’t allow it.

  I turn to Stacy and Tommy. “Go tell the police we’re in here.”

  Stacy looks at me, eyes wide and hopeful, thankful that I intervened, sparing her son. But I think a part of her also knows that this isn’t over by a long shot.

  She escorts Tommy out.

  Frank looks at me, knife in hand, fueling my rage with his fucking smile.

  He laughs. “She ain’t yours, you know.”

  “I never said she was. But you and she are done.”

  “I don’t think so, partner. You see, me and her got something you can’t understand. The kind of love that lasts forever. And ain’t no faggy teacher gonna take her away.”

  I look down at Tommy’s gun on the ground.

  Frank follows my eyes.

  His nostrils flare, his body tenses, his fist tightens around the blade.

  I drop to the ground and raise the gun.

  He’s off the bed and coming right at me, blade arcing, inches from my gut.

  I fall back, aiming as I do, and blast Frank four times in the chest.

  Frank’s momentum takes him straight into me, knocking me back.

  His body atop me, wild eyes glaring at me, I blast twice more until I’m certain that he’s dead.

  I shove him off of me and get to my feet, gun still on him, half expecting him to make one final lunge.

  Behind me, I hear the boom of a man’s voice.

  “Drop the gun! Hands on your head.”

  I follow the officer’s orders.

  The cop wrestles my hands from my head to behind my back, then cuffs me.

  I don’t resist.

  I stare at Frank, lying on his back, face up, wide-open eyes staring up at the ceiling. I watch the blood pool beneath him. I watch his eyes to make sure they don’t move, to make sure he’s dead.

  To make sure this is over.

  Finally, it is.

  * * * *

  EPILOGUE

  I wake up far from Baker Street.

  Today my name is Bo Jackson, a 21-year-old DJ. It’s eight in the morning, and I’m glad to wake up alone in his apartment.

  I go to his computer and do a news search for any information on Stacy, Tommy, and Craig. So far, there’s not many details. Frank was dead on the scene. Both Stacy and her child, not named in the articles due to his age, were safe. Craig’s situation was still up in the air with “charges pending.”<
br />
  I’m hoping that means he’ll get off, that it’ll be obvious that he shot Frank in self-defense. Of course things will get murky when you factor in that Craig had had a fight with the victim just hours earlier and had gone to Ruby’s house asking for a gun. Also, Tommy’s situation could get dicey if police find out that he took Ruby’s gun.

  But at least they’re all alive, and Frank is dead. Not the happiest of endings, but better than the ones that seemed destined to play out. Hopefully better than whatever the assassin said would happen if Frank didn’t die.

  Bo’s cell phone buzzes.

  I pick it up, look at the screen to see the name Jinx, along with a picture of a blue-haired girl with a small butterfly henna tattoo on her cheek — his girlfriend, and a text:

  Can you pick up some soy milk and organic grapes before you pick me up?

  Bo’s mind fills me in on the details. He is supposed to pick Jinx up and drive her to the garage to get her car, which needed a new transmission.

  Okay, I text back.

  I shower, throw on some blue jeans and a gray T-shirt, and head out the door.

  I drive to the closest grocery store, searching the cooler for a soy milk that I see in Bo’s memories. I find it, then head over to the produce section in the rear of the store, searching for organic grapes. There are several bags of grapes on display, but none that specifically say organic.

  I look around for someone to help me, find a short guy pushing a cart of produce through double doors into the back of the store.

  I try to call out to him, but he doesn’t hear me as he disappears through the double doors.

  I wait for him, or another employee, so I can ask for help. It’s funny how you can never find help in a store when you need it. So many times, in so many different bodies, I’ve been accosted by salespeople, “Can I help you?” the second I walked into a store, before I’ve even had a chance to browse. But the moment I actually need help finding something, the employees vanish like ghosts.

  The double doors open, and the man resurfaces, pushing a cart filled with boxes of bananas.