We're All Broken

by O. L. Gregory

  Ticking time-bombs needed to be diffused, or exploded away from others, so nobody would be hurt.

  Roger pulled one of his father’s handguns from underneath the driver’s seat, that he’d kept for protection. He added on a silencer that was in the case along with the gun, then he hit the button to lower the passenger side window. In his mind, this guy had already knowingly broken the law by driving drunk, was only going to go in that house and physically assault somebody, further breaking the law, and would one day kill someone either by abuse, or by driving head-on into them.

  And where was the law? He saw no flashing lights, heard no sirens. There were no police officers en route. The drunk guy yanked the box out of the car, slammed the door, and started walking up the path to his front door while cursing about how he had to do everything himself.

  Roger flipped off the safety, took aim, and fired.

  The box crashed to the ground a fraction of a second before the guy dropped. Roger looked on for another second, seeing that the guy hadn’t moved, rolled up his window, and drove off down the street.

  By the time Roger pulled into his own driveway, and entered the empty house, he was filled with such a calm peace, it bordered on euphoria. Those kids weren’t going to be hurt tonight. That wife would add no new bruises. And no one on the roads would ever die because of that guy.

  The abuse for that family would end. And no other family would suffer from the consequences of that man’s existence.

  The peace with which Roger slept that night was only matched by the peace he’d felt the first night he’d slept after killing his father.

  “Police, this morning, are looking for the person responsible for apparently shooting a man in his own driveway, overnight,” the reporter said, after Roger had gotten up and turned on the news. “The man’s wife reported that he’d never made it to bed last night. And when she got up to see if he’d fallen asleep on the couch, she couldn’t find him. Finally looking out into the driveway and spotting his car parked as usual, she saw something laying in the shadows. Upon investigation, she discovered it to be her husband collapsed on the ground. She immediately called nine-one-one. Police say the scene looks almost to be a drive-by shooting, but that the neighborhood has never seen a crime like this before. Neighbors are concerned, but report no witnesses to the act. The crime is estimated to have happened between the hours of eleven o’clock and midnight. Anyone having any further information regarding this shooting is encouraged to call and notify the authorities.”

  “Yeah,” Roger muttered to himself, “let me get right on that.”

  He lifted the remote and turned off the television.

  Chapter Eight

  Now This is Working for Me

  Roger had a sense of purpose filling his days. Spending hours in the solitude of his home office, working on updates for his app, marketing it, building up a customer-base, and making calls seemed to be a breeze for him now. The income was growing. He began filming YouTube tutorials on how to gain the most gold, and the most efficient way to level up. Players were asking him questions that spurred on more ideas. He made it a point to spend at least three hours a day coding new content.

  “Well, look at you.” His psychologist beamed as he walked through her door for his appointment. “You look like a new man.”

  Roger nodded as he took a seat.

  “To what do I out the pleasure of your smile?”

  Roger’s grin deepened as he mentally gave his old man credit for teaching him to always have a plausible explanation available. “The app is doing well.”

  The psychologist shook her head. “A little money wouldn’t have you feeling so fine. Now, tell me, what really has you going?”

  Roger nodded, acknowledging the truth of her statement. “It’s not a little money. It’s making me a paycheck right now. And with more ideas coming in, and the more comfortable I get with coding it, the more I’m starting to feel like a human again. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I think I do. You’re finding your own way of being able to provide for your family. Which is an important step in getting your children back, in and of, itself. While money isn't everything, the court does tend to view money as stability. And, I imagine, you feel like you’re contributing something to society.”

  Roger shook his head. “I don’t think a game app contributes much to society.”

  “Maybe not. But the taxes you’ll pay on the revenue will.”

  He smirked. “You might have me there.”

  “And the better you do, the more marketable you make yourself to employers, once they’re satisfied with your mental stability.”

  He shook his head. “I think, working in my home office, on my own timetable, setting my own goals, that’s probably a better setup for me… Provided the app continues to perform well. And, if I can come up with more ideas for additional apps.”

  “I’d worry about you isolating yourself so much.”

  Roger considered that. “Well, as it is, I talk with a few people, swapping services. And I respond to customer feedback. So, It’s not just me, myself, and I, at all times. But, if things continue the way I think they may, I might have to hire another coder, or a business manager.” He looked at her. “I’m trying to decide which part I like better, so I know which part I’d like to pawn off.”

  She smiled at him. “Just so long as you keep feeling this good about yourself, you do whatever it is that you need to.”

  He went to all his therapy appointments, and psychologists and psychiatrists alike remarked on how well he seemed to be doing. They were all pleased with the lightness in his expression and in the way he carried himself. He no longer seemed to be a ticking time-bomb, but a man who was finding his way through the mire of grief.

  They all viewed him as having turned a corner. And while the judge was still not in line to bring any child home, just yet, he did agree to double the length of Roger’s visitations.

  And once a week, after his Thursday night therapy session, he ate dinner, then found a liquor store within an hour’s drive, and went fishing.

  Some nights, he took no issue with any of the patrons. But on the nights he saw an obviously inebriated individual get behind the wheel, he’d follow them to their destination. If the person in question drove perfectly, no harm no foul. But if said person weaved his or her way from one side of the road to the other, swerved for no reason, ran a stop sign, anything to indicate erratic behavior behind the wheel, Roger would line himself up with a clear shot, and pull the trigger from the confines of his car.

  There’d been one apartment parking lot he’d almost stupidly followed a person onto, but caught himself at the last second, pulled up just past the entrance, and took his shot right as the drunkard reached out to open the door to the main lobby. Roger had to shake his head at himself over that one. No way was he going to be stupid enough to get himself caught on a parking lot camera.

  “To date, there have been a total of five murders committed across an area as wide as thirty miles. Police now believe that they are onto the motivation behind the murders, but are unwilling to share the possible motivator with the public. Police have said they believe the killer to be taking some sort of vigilante justice into his or her own hands.

  Unconfirmed reports from family and friends say that at least two of the victims were suspected of abusing their spouse and/or children. Police refuse to comment on whether domestic violence is a suspected motivator…”

  Roger lifted the remote and turned off the television with a smile. He knew it wouldn’t take the police departments much time to talk to one another, compare reports, and realize all the victims had blood alcohol levels well above legal limits, and each of them had been on their way back from buying alcohol. Why they wouldn’t want to tell people that, he didn’t know.

  The center of that thirty-mile diameter was miles north of where he lived. That was just the way it had worked out. But now that he thought about it, maybe he would stop driving sou
th altogether, and keep the center of his encounters well away from his home.

  A vigilante… Yeah, that about described him. He was a one-man show, and he was certainly seeking justice. Hell, he was seeking to save lives. And to find out at least one other had been abusive? Oh, yeah, he gave himself a little pat on the back over that one.

  “Have you heard about the killings?” the psychologist asked.

  Roger nodded his head. “Yeah. I heard they might be thinking the shooter is targeting abusers.”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  Roger lifted his head. “Then what’s the truth?”

  The psychologist leaned back in her chair. “I’m not sure. But, in my experience, when the cops feel as though they know the motivating factor, and refuse to share it, because they don’t want the public to feel sympathy for the criminal at large, at least until after he’s caught.”

  “Sympathy?”

  She shrugged. “I heard the word ‘vigilante’ associated with the case, and to find out two victims were abusers… It just makes me think that the people might get behind what the killer is doing, if he or she is only taking out people we all might be better off not having around.”

  “I wonder if I would have been better off if someone would have shot my Dad early on.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I would have become a ward of the state. And I truly don’t know if that would have been better or worse.”

  “There have been some horror stories. But there have been good ones, too. Honestly, it would probably have been a craps shoot.”

  “At least with my father, I had my own room and knew I’d never go hungry, because he’d throw money at me to go grocery shopping. I may not have had the healthiest stuff around, but it was more than a lot of other abuse victims got.”

  “How did you get to the grocery store?”

  “There was one three blocks over. I’d buy enough to fill just enough bags that I could carry. He didn’t care, so long as he didn’t have to do it.”

  “Did you learn to cook?”

  “No. I learned to microwave.”

  “Speaking of which, what kind of food have you been eating lately?”

  “I’ve got a couple favorite brands of TV dinners. And there are two restaurants that will package up to-go orders, that I buy from once a week.”

  “What about vegetation?”

  “I get salads with my restaurant meals, on top of whatever vegetable comes with the entrée. And I buy those pre-cut platters of fruit, or sometimes they have some on a salad bar. Either way, plant-life works its way into my diet.”

  “How are you feeling about your apps?”

  His whole face brightened. “So good. I’m finally paying all my bills with just the app money. Give me another month, at my current rate of growth, and I think I could be in the black every month, with all five kids home.”

  The psychologist’s smile reached her eyes. “That’s exciting news. Let me know the minute that happens. And then bring to me a printout of your profit history for the last several months. Ammo like that to turn over to the judge is exactly what you need to prove you’re ready for your children to come back.

  Roger was fishing about an hour and a half northeast of home. He had himself juxtaposed between a bar and a beer distributor, while sitting in the parking lot of the ice cream parlor.

  The thought of it made him want to abandon his hunt and go get a root beer float.

  He was a bit of a vigilante, sitting behind the wheel, seat reclined back, watching the happenings around him from under the lowered brim of his baseball cap. He was looking out for the safety of this small town tonight.

  People should be thanking him.

  After nearly two hours, he found his mark. A middle-aged man, quiet but sullen, came stumbling out of the bar. Roger watched as the guy fumbled with his keys.

  The sudden sound of a slap had his head whipping around to the car sitting two empty parking spaces away. It looked like a mother had slapped the face of her son, probably eight or nine years old.

  Roger did his best to keep his eyes on both of the situations.

  Had the kid been mouthing off? Had he made a huge spectacle in the ice cream parlor? Roger didn’t know.

  He heard the mother yell at a little girl in the backseat. Then he saw the mother raise her fist at the rearview mirror and shake it, like she was threatening the little girl in lower tones.

  The drunk guy was now in his car, behind the wheel, and starting the engine.

  Roger didn’t know what to do. The guy about to get on the road was putting the other people on it in more mortal danger than the mother slapping around and threatening her kids. But if he followed the mother, he could not only end the source of the abuse for the kids, but could also feed into the media theory of killing abusers. It’d be enough of an anomaly to make the police second-guess their theory, finding a victim with zero alcohol in them.

  Roger only had seconds to debate with himself, and in the end, the drunk driver won. He put the car in gear and followed the guy. There just was no way he was going to kill that mother right in front of her kids. Besides, those kids, the very ones he’d save, would become witnesses. And witnesses were something he just didn’t need.

  Roger rolled the windows down and queued up an Oldies playlist as he followed the drunk guy.

  Roger was driving along, full of blissful peace, watching this guy drift from one side of the lane to the other, feeling in his element. He swore he felt so fulfilled, gearing himself up for this hit, it was as though this was what he was meant to do with his life.

  The guy drifted far enough off the back road to get his car whacked with a tree branch large enough that there’d surely be scratches and dents as a result.

  Roger began to toy with the idea of volunteering for the police department, broaden his horizons a bit, especially after feeling torn between the abuser and the drinker.

  The guy hit a mailbox with the same front quarter panel, and just kept driving.

  Roger could just picture the boring-ass report some police officer would have to file in the morning for that one.

  The guy over shot a stop sign, stopping in the middle of the empty intersection.

  Roger raised an eyebrow and considered shooting him right then and there. And if there was any chance that the man had put the car into park, he might have. As it was, he didn’t want to shoot him, have his foot slide off the brake, and then have the car move forward and end up running into someone’s house.

  The drunk accelerated his car again, rounded a corner while gaining speed, and hit something white and furry, without a thought in the world of braking.

  Roger came to a stop with the animal bathed in the light from his car and looked at it. A cat. Definitely dead. Some poor family was now going to suffer because of that drunken asshole.

  Shades of fury played in front of Roger’s gaze as he pressed his foot on the accelerator and swerved around the carcass. He caught back up with the drunk driver, followed him the last two and a half miles home, and picked him off before the guy had even fully gotten out of his car.

  Usually, Roger strived for clean kills. One shot, instant, no suffering, but no chance of survival either.

  This one though, he shot this one so he’d suffer a bit. The man collapsed, twisting unnaturally with one foot on the ground and the other still in the car.

  Roger fought the urge to linger and watch. Fought the urge to get out and let the guy see him. He had to maintain a low profile. But damn, did he feel justified as he drove off and headed for home.

  He didn’t care that it was just a cat. That man had taken a life, people were going to grieve because of it. The man had destroyed someone else’s property, that the victim would have to pay for. And who knows if the driver would have told a whopper of a lie to his insurance company, in order for the damage to his own car to get fixed.

  “The latest victim of the Driveway Shooter was discovered this morning,”
the too cheery for early morning television newscaster reported.

  Roger lifted his eyebrow. “Driveway Shooter? Really?”

  “Police say that unlike previous victims, there was damage to this victim’s car. Police originally thought there might have been some sort of road rage incident precluding the murder. But a nearby resident of the sleepy little town has used Facebook to make it publicly known that he heard a car plow through his mailbox last night. This individual reportedly lives only a couple miles away from the shooting victim. Police are now investigating whether the damage done to the victim’s car is congruent with the damage done to the mailbox.

  This begs the question as to whether or not the victim was being chased by his would-be shooter and hit the mailbox while trying to escape his tail. Or, was this really the height of coincidence?”

  Roger rolled his eyes as he turned off the television. “Or, had the driver behind the guy watched what happened, realized he was drunk off his ass, and decided to punish him?”

  Roger grumbled his way through a shower. Honestly, he was pissed he hadn’t taken the shot at the intersection, before the senseless murder of the cat. At least the murders he committed weren’t senseless. He was saving lives, damn it all.

  He reigned in his emotions, telling himself that the reality was that guy hadn’t killed an innocent human, and now, because of Roger, that guy never would. He had his head on straight by the end of the shower. Happy and content to have prevented an even greater tragedy.

  Chapter Nine

  Good Things Come to Those Who Jump Through Hoops

  “So, how are you now with the whole ‘I want to see my wife’s killer dead’ thing?” the therapist asked with a mild smile, attempting to bring some levity into the mix.

  Roger took a breath. “Well, I’ll tell ya, I think I finally have it through my thick skull that it won’t do me any good to get in a room with the guy and choke him to death.”

  “And why is that?”