Fuzzy Navel

by J. A. Konrath

  “Sorry, Jackie!” he yells.

  I get to my knees, vision squiggly, head pounding.

  “Mom! Take the gun away from Harry!”

  Then Alex is on me again. I endure a kick to the shoulder that makes my whole arm go numb, then I duck another that would have broken my neck. Adrenaline and reflex have been controlling my actions, both of them fueled by fear. To survive, I need to think rather than just react. Alex is bigger, faster, stronger, and a better fighter. I can’t win going toe-to-toe with her. I need a weapon.

  Asking Harry to throw me the gun isn’t a wise idea. He’ll miss. Plus, he still needs it for defense.

  The kitchen has knives, pans, a rolling pin, but nothing that will give me a distinct advantage.

  But the garage — I have power tools in the garage.

  I crawl around Alex, use the wall to stand up, and then sprint for the doorway.

  I make it to the door, see some potential weapons on the workbench, and then fly past it when Alex prods me from behind. I bump into some stacked boxes, bounce off, and turn to face her.

  She’s on the balls of her feet, dancing back and forth, hands up in a sparring position. Her head rolls on her neck, like Muhammad Ali loosening up before a title bout.

  “Afraid?” she says. “You should be.”

  I am afraid. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to quit.

  I adopt a fighting stance, my feet apart, my fists in front of me.

  Alex moves in. She works the jab, hitting my upraised arms, pain stacking upon pain stacking upon pain. When I try to circle toward the workbench, or the shovel sitting in the corner of the garage, Alex cuts me off. When I return blows, she easily sidesteps them. We both know I’m outclassed, but I’m going to go down swinging.

  “I’m going to take you apart, Jack. Piece by piece. It all comes down to conditioning.”

  “You should be more concerned with moisturizing,” I say.

  Alex snarls, then unloads on me. I bunch my shoulders, take the hits, wait for her to tire.

  She doesn’t tire. And my arms are getting so sore that soon I won’t be able to punch back.

  I back away, feel the boxes behind me, reach around and throw one at her.

  She dodges it.

  I tear into the box beneath it, hoping for a weapon, coming out with a crooked branch to an artificial Christmas tree. Why couldn’t I be Jewish? Menorahs are solid, heavy, perfect to bash someone’s head in.

  Alex slaps the branch from my hand, throws a right at my cheek. I duck it, then swing a big haymaker that catches her, full force, on the chin.

  She wobbles backward, dropping her hands. I follow up with a kick, but I’m disoriented and only strike air. I try again, connecting with her side, but there’s no power behind it, and Alex shrugs the blow off.

  I cast my eyes on the workbench. Lunge for it.

  Alex’s leg shoots out like a piston, catching me in the cheek. I sprawl backward, onto my ass, not able to tell up from down.

  Then she’s on me.

  Her first punch lays me out, and while I’m on my back she stomps on my stomach, so hard I can feel organs shift. I roll to the side, blind instinct guiding my actions, and receive a few more kicks to the body. When I reach the automatic garage door I feel like I’ve spent an hour in a cement mixer.

  I cover my face, Alex kicks me in the body. I protect my body, she goes after my head. I curl up fetal, unable to defend myself, unable to fight back.

  I’m being beaten to death. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  10:52 P.M.

  PESSOLANO

  PESSOLANO STARES DOWN at Swanson’s lifeless body. For some reason he thinks of his mother, lying in her casket. He bends down and crosses Swanson’s hands over his chest, and then gently closes Swanson’s eyes. Pessolano wishes he had a lily, or a Bible, or a rosary, to place in Swanson’s hand. He fishes around in his vest and comes out with a granola bar. He presses that into Swanson’s fist.

  “We’ll avenge him,” Munchel says. “We’ll kill every last one of those assholes.”

  Pessolano stands. He hopes Munchel doesn’t see the tears on his cheeks. He turns away and discreetly wipes them off.

  “We can’t leave him here,” Pessolano says into the woods. “Soldiers don’t leave their dead behind.”

  “We won’t. But we’re in a combat situation right now. We’ll give him a hero’s funeral. I promise. But after the war is over. We have to finish this first.”

  Pessolano nods.

  “I think we should rush the house,” Munchel says. “Break in, flush them out of hiding, and blow their goddamn heads off. You’ve got those Desert Eagles in the truck, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Pessolano has two Magnum Research Mark XIX Desert Eagle .50 AE handguns. They’re massive weapons, weighing over four pounds each, capable of stopping a charging bull with one shot.

  “Let’s do it, man. For Swanson.”

  Munchel claps his hand on Pessolano’s shoulder.

  “For Swanson,” he agrees. He wipes away another tear and clears his throat.

  “Look,” Munchel says. “I know this is a tragedy, but Swanson would want us to soldier on. Right?”

  Pessolano nods. He’s choking up a little bit.

  “One of us should stay here, keep an eye on the house, and the other should go get the truck, bring it back.”

  “Shouldn’t we, you know, say a few words first?” Pessolano gestures at the body.

  “Yeah, sure. I suck at this kind of shit.”

  “Please.” Pessolano sniffles. “For Swanson.”

  “Shit. Okay. Yeah, sure. Uh, oh Lord, our friend Greg Swanson was a good man who wanted to rid the world of perverts. He was a hero, and he’ll be missed. But me and Paul are going to fuck up those fucking motherfuckers responsible, and make them choke on their own fucking blood.”

  “Amen,” Pessolano says. “I’ll go get the truck.”

  10:54 P.M.

  JACK

  ALEX GRABS MY SHIRT, jerks me to my feet. I try to lift my hands, try to push her away, but I don’t have the strength. Physical or mental. I’m broken, bleeding, beaten, finished. It’s over. I’m done.

  “That’s all you’ve got?” Alex asks. She’s not even breathing heavy.

  My eyes dart around the garage, but I have no idea what I’m looking for. Nothing can help me. I’m past pain. Past exhaustion. Deep down, I know I need to keep fighting, know I’m dead if I don’t. But there’s nothing left in the tank. I can’t even stand up, and my knees wobble and give out.

  Alex picks me up again.

  “You’re pathetic, Jack.”

  I hear gunfire, coming from the house. Harry, shooting at codeine apparitions. Dummy. He needs to save the bullets.

  “You know, I built you up in my head as this supercop. I considered you a worthy opponent. No one had ever beaten me before.”

  She squeezes my cheeks together, like I’m a child.

  “You got lucky, Jack. That’s how you beat me. Luck.”

  Consciousness is slipping away. A slap brings me around again.

  “Say it, Jack. Say you got lucky.”

  I close my eyes. Alex slams me into the garage door.

  “Tell me you got lucky!”

  “I… got lucky.”

  Half of Alex’s face breaks into a smile. I start to cry. Not for me. For Mom. For Latham. For Herb. And even — I hate to say it — for Harry. None of them deserve this. This night of horrors was supposed to end with the good guys winning.

  Alex is right. Human beings are just animals, and all animals are selfish. And I selfishly want the people that I love to be okay, and I weep because I’m not going to get my way.

  “Perfect,” Alex whispers. Her horrible face gets close to mine, and it looks like she’s going to kiss me. But she doesn’t.

  Instead, she sticks out her tongue and licks away a tear.

  “Hey! Frankenbitch!”
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  We both turn.

  Harry McGlade is standing in the garage. The Kimber is in his left hand, pointing at us. His right hand is still attached to the refrigerator door, which is resting at his feet, the hinges shot off.

  “Let my little sister go!”

  Alex snakes her forearm around my neck, putting me between her and the gun.

  It’s a mistake. I’m a physical wreck, and a mental disaster, but you don’t need muscles or brains to execute a judo flip. All you need is leverage.

  I jerk my head back, snapping it into her nose, then immediately lean forward and to the right, throw her over my hip.

  Alex tumbles ass over head, releasing me, flipping onto her back. I take three steps toward Harry and fall at his feet.

  “Shoot her,” I mumble.

  He drops the gun, grabs my arm.

  “Out of bullets.”

  Harry drags me and the refrigerator door back into the house.

  “Hold on…”

  I stop, spin around, and pull the door leading to the garage closed, turning the dead bolt, locking Alex in.

  A shot pings through the living room window, whizzing past my face. We kneel side by side, propping up the stainless steel door like a shield. It’s not tall enough to cover us completely, leaving the humps of our backs exposed as we crouch behind it.

  “Thanks, Harry,” I manage.

  “Mom made me. I think she loves you more.”

  Everything starts to spin. I rest my forehead on Harry’s shoulder. He looks at me.

  “Jesus, Jackie. You got your ass kicked.”

  I run a hand over my face, which is a mass of swelling and pain.

  “You don’t need more blood, do you?” he asks.

  “I think I’ll be okay.”

  Then everything gets really blurry and the darkness takes me in its arms.

  11:00 P.M.

  PHIN

  THE CAB SPITS PHINEAS TROUTT out in front of a house that isn’t Jack’s. According to the taxi driver and his electronic address finder, hers is the next one down the road. Phin prefers to walk the rest of the way. On the phone, Jack sounded scattered. If something is going down, Phin prefers to sneak up on it rather than announce his presence by getting out of a car at her doorstep.

  It’s cool, dark, quiet. Jack lives in a woodsy area, practically a forest preserve. Phin walks alongside the winding road, not thinking about why Jack called him. There’s no point in speculation. Especially since he’ll know the reason soon enough.

  A pop! pierces the calm of the night.

  Gunfire. Far away.

  Phin reaches behind him, retrieving the revolver he has shoved into the back of his belt. The gun is a .38, a scratch-and-dent that has probably been involved in crimes dating back to the 1960s. It was all Phin could get on such short notice. He picked it up an hour ago, off a gangbanger selling Thai stick to Wrigleyville yuppies in an alley off of Addison. Phin relieved the dealer of his gun, his stash, and eight to ten teeth.

  He squints at the revolver in the moonlight, swings out the cylinder, counts six rounds. The gun is old but looks clean, cared for. Phin hopes it can fire. He breaks into a jog, holding the weapon at his side, finger off the trigger.

  Another gunshot. Closer than before, but still a good distance away. Then another. Phin stops, scans the trees around him. Sees nothing. He moves to the tree line, alert, cautious.

  Jack has privacy out here, that’s for sure. He walks another hundred yards before he sees her house in the distance. A few interior lights are on. Four cars are parked in the driveway. As he gets closer, he sees that two of the cars have been shot up; windows broken, wheels popped.

  Now Phin does lapse into speculation. Jack’s a cop. Phin is not. If she has people shooting at her, why didn’t she call other cops?

  Phin can think of two reasons.

  One, because the people shooting at her are cops.

  Two, because someone Jack is with wants Phin specifically.

  Phin hasn’t been a criminal for very long, but he’s managed to pack a lot of crime into just a few years. He’s made enemies. It isn’t inconceivable that one of them is using Jack to get to him. Though they don’t see much of each other, Phin considers Jack a friend. It’s a strange friendship, centering around occasional games of pool, but there’s mutual respect. And strangely, considering their opposing vocations, there’s also a sense of trust. Someone may have picked up on that. Someone bad.

  Another shot. Phin sees a muzzle flash, maybe two hundred yards away, in the woods across the street from Jack’s house. He heads for it.

  A vehicle, coming up the road behind him. Phin hears it before the headlights come around the bend. He ducks into the trees, watches it pass. A truck, a Bronco or a Blazer. Single driver, tearing ass toward Jack’s house. It stops in the street. Phin can’t see what’s happening — he’s still too far away.

  He cocks the .38 and creeps closer, moving slow and silent.

  11:03 P.M.

  KORK

  I’M RIGHT ABOUT JACK being lucky. She might very well be the luckiest bitch on the planet.

  I yawn. It’s not from boredom. I can’t remember many days in my life that have been more exciting than this one. But fatigue is setting in. I’m tired. Sore. Part of me is tempted to get the hell out of here, find a nice bed-and-breakfast someplace quiet, murder the owners and spend a few days just relaxing.

  But I’m not going to leave without killing Jack and Company. Plus there’s still the matter of the gun nuts surrounding the house who can’t aim for shit but still have managed to complicate things. I counted three. They’re using bolt action rifles with suppressors, and a variety of ammunition and scopes. Not pros. Anyone with military experience could have wiped out everyone in the house a long time ago. Hunters, maybe. Or wannabe soldiers.

  Whoever they are, they seem angry at Jack, and I don’t expect they’ll give up any time soon. I’ll have to deal with them eventually, but first things first.

  I pick up the gun Harry dropped and I’m not surprised to find it empty. I toss it onto the workbench.

  Then I check the door to the house. Locked. It’s one of those security doors, a solid wood center sandwiched between metal plates, steel or aluminum. The jamb and frame are heavy-duty as well. I can’t kick it in, because the hinges are on this side.

  I spy the automatic garage door opener next to the door. I could open it, run outside, and find another way into the house. But then I’d be opening myself up for target practice.

  I glance at the door to the house again. Maybe there’s a key for the dead bolt in the garage somewhere. I check the workbench and see something even better than a key.

  I walk over to it, feeling a warmth well up inside me, the same warmth I always feel when I have a chance to kill someone in an exciting new way.

  It’s not gas powered, unfortunately. It’s electric. But Jack has thoughtfully provided me with a fifty-foot extension cord, easily long enough to reach the hallway bathroom where everyone is hiding.

  I pick it up. It feels natural in my hands, like something I was born to hold. I smile.

  Then I search around for an outlet, so I can plug in my new chain saw.

  11:07 P.M.

  JACK

  A BEE IS IN THE CAR with me. A giant bee, the size of an egg. It buzzes around my head, and I try to get out of the car but the doors are broken. I’m terrified of bees, because I’m allergic to them. So when it lands on my shoulder I can’t swat it because I don’t want to get stung, and it stares at me with malevolent eyes, knowing I’m helpless, knowing it can kill me whenever it wants to.

  The car crashes into a tree and begins to roll down the side of a hill. I open my eyes, panicked and dizzy and hurting all over.

  I’m not in a car. I’m on the floor, and Harry is shaking me.

  But I can still hear the bee buzzing.

  “Wake up, Jackie! We’re in some shit.”

  I look over my shoulder, see a chain saw sticking through t
he door to the garage. The buzzing blade is gradually cutting away the door-knob and dead bolt.

  I try to stand up, and Harry drags me back down. There’s a ping and the refrigerator door in front of us vibrates from a bullet impact.

  “We’re pinned down,” Harry says. “Can you move?”

  I nod, and that simple movement causes everything to go black again. More shaking from Harry.

  “Dammit, Jackie! Stay awake!”

  “Breaker,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “Circuit… breaker.”

  “Mom!” Harry screams. “Cut off the electricity!”

  I glance back at the door. The chain saw is really throwing off some sparks. It’s almost pretty, like fireworks.

  I close my eyes and think about the Fourth of July.

  11:09 P.M.

  MARY

  MARY STRENG HEARS the chain saw in the garage. She sticks her head out of the bathroom, around the refrigerator, and sees it cutting through the door.

  She knows the chain saw is electric. Knows they need to trip the circuit breaker.

  Mary also knows that the circuit breaker is behind a small childproof door. When you have rheumatoid arthritis, childproof is synonymous with adultproof.

  She looks at Herb, sprawled out on the bathroom floor, clutching his leg in a codeine/pain fever dream.

  Then she looks at Latham, who doesn’t appear much better. His eyelids are halfway closed, and he’s white as milk.

  Neither one of them can make it to the fuse box.

  A woman screams, “Mom! Cut off the electricity!”

  But the woman isn’t Jacqueline. Mary looks in the hall again.

  “Mom!”

  It’s Harry. Apparently his voice goes up a few octaves when he’s terrified.

  Mary tries to think of an answer, comes up blank, and hurries down the hallway, into the laundry room. She hooks a finger into the cruel metal ring on the circuit breaker door. That simple act alone brings agony. Even with the codeine, and the vodka, Mary’s hands have never hurt so badly.