Fuzzy Navel

by J. A. Konrath

  Hot-wiring a vehicle is beyond Phin’s criminal ability. All that remains is sitting here, trying to spot Alex, and keeping an eye on the front of the house.

  He’s tired, and in pain, and worst of all, sober. This gives him an unfettered chance to dwell on a future he isn’t going to have, which hurts more than his cancer and his elbow combined.

  Living without hope is a shitty way to live.

  He considers the grass in his pocket again. That would help take the edge off reality. But he needs to stay sharp. For Jack.

  On the other hand, Jack is his friend, and she wants him to be happy. He’s not happy sitting in a truck in the middle of the night, shirtless and shivering, with a broken elbow and a cancerous pancreas, throwing a major pity party for himself.

  He sticks his hand into his jeans, touches the bag.

  Leaves it there.

  Phin isn’t sure why Jack inspires this loyalty in him. Is it a crush? Or maybe something more?

  Phin kills the thought. He has no future. He has no hope. There’s no room for love in his life.

  For his own protection, he needs to prove that he doesn’t care. The easiest way to prove it is to get high right now.

  But he still doesn’t pull out the bag.

  Rather than dwelling on what that means, Phin turns the headlights on so Alex can’t approach from the front. His rifle is loaded, and so is a shotgun he found in back. He uses the night scope to check the rear again, and the woods to the side. Then he shifts in his seat to watch Jack’s house.

  There’s a light, on the roof. It’s waving around, and then he hears Jack cry out, “Phin!”

  A warning cry.

  Phin jerks around to the front, spotting Alex on the hood. He fires the shotgun through the hole in the windshield, hitting nothing but sky, and she rolls to the side.

  The gun bucks in his hands, and he can’t rack it again with a broken elbow. He wedges the butt between his legs, the barrel touching the ceiling of the truck, and moves to pump it with his right hand. Before he has a chance to, Alex pours into the cab.

  She doesn’t go for the gun. She goes for Phin’s injured arm, grabbing and twisting until all he can see is a big red ball of blinding pain. He yells, hits her in the head with the stock, but there’s no force to the blow.

  Phin pulls away, raises up his foot, but there’s no room in the front seat to kick her. Alex lets go of his arm, but then she’s wrestling with the shotgun, her two hands versus his one.

  She’s winning, and he can’t hold on much longer. Rather than release his grip, Phin pushes forward, forcing her through the front window, climbing on top and pinning her back to the hood.

  Phin lets her have the shotgun — she can’t use it on him while they’re grappling. His knee digs into her solar plexus, and his good hand locks onto her throat. He squeezes to kill.

  Alex rakes her fingernails across Phin’s eyes, but he shuts them tight, concentrating on crushing her windpipe.

  Then she finds his elbow again, and yanks on it so hard that something else snaps.

  Phin cries out, rolling off of Alex, landing face-first on the cool grass. The shotgun skids across the hood and falls in front of the truck, between the headlights.

  Alex is closer. She scrambles for it, reaching down.

  BAM!

  The shot doesn’t come from Alex. It comes from behind them.

  Jack.

  The cop is only twenty yards away, jogging over with a huge handgun pointing in their direction.

  Alex does a diving roll, then tears off into the woods, leaving the shotgun behind.

  Phin crawls to the shotgun, pumps it with the butt on the ground, and fires it into the darkness after Alex. Jack staggers up behind him. She’s panting.

  “She’s unarmed,” he tells her. “You can go after her.”

  “No ammo,” Jack says.

  “Take the shotgun.”

  Jack reaches for it, goes wiggly, and collapses right onto Phin’s lap.

  12:08 A.M.

  MUNCHEL

  “YOU LITTLE YELLOW-EYED BASTARD. The first bullet is going in your skull.”

  Munchel slowly extends his hand, reaching for the revolver for the ninth time.

  The damned cat hisses and lashes out its claw, tunneling three more deep scratches along Munchel’s wrist.

  He jerks his hand back again and swears. Munchel’s arm is bleeding in so many places it looks like he stuck it in a blender. The pain almost rivals the pain in his gut. Over twenty scratch marks and three bites; one he’s sure went all the way down to the bone.

  The revolver is only a few feet away, just within reach. But it’s right next to the litter box, which the cat is standing in. Every time Munchel reaches for it, the cat draws more blood.

  Worst of all, the horrible feline seems to actually be enjoying itself. As if this is some sick game. Munchel tried waiting for it to use the litter box and leave, but it just sits there, yellow eyes sparkling, daring him to make another move.

  Gunshots, outside. Munchel isn’t concerned with that. His entire world has become his arm, the gun, and the cat.

  Munchel tried yelling. Tried slapping his hand on the floor. Tried talking sweet. Tried begging. He even tried nudging the litter box, but that’s the move that provoked the biting, and he isn’t going to attempt it again.

  Munchel’s lower lip trembles, and the tears come. His stomach is getting even worse. It’s not even about escaping anymore. Even if he shot off the handcuffs, he wouldn’t have the strength to get to the truck.

  Munchel wants the gun for another reason. His final request. He wants to shoot that split-tail and that one-armed guy who did this to him. And the cat. He really wants to shoot the cat.

  Then he’ll use the gun on himself and end this terrible pain.

  Just do it, he thinks. It’s just a cat. If it scratches you, no big deal. You’re going to die anyway. Be a soldier and do it!

  Munchel extends his hand toward the revolver for the tenth time. He shows no fear, and doesn’t hesitate. The cat watches him, unblinking, as he gets within ten inches of the gun.

  Eight inches.

  Six inches.

  Four inches.

  Two inches.

  Munchel grabs it! He lifts the gun up, his index finger seeking the trigger, and then there’s a blur of yellow fur and the cat has all four claws and its teeth locked onto Munchel’s hand. Munchel can’t help it — the cat hits a tendon or something that makes his hand pop open, causing him to release the gun. He screams, reining his arm in, lifting it up to beat the cat against the underside of the workbench. But before he can, the cat releases him, hopping back into the litter box.

  The pain doesn’t abate. It feels like the cat is still clawing, still biting. Munchel looks for the gun, and sees it’s even farther away now.

  And the cat, the damned cat, is licking Munchel’s blood from its paw.

  There’s some noise, from the opposite side of the garage. Munchel swivels his neck around, and through a gap in the boxes he spies someone climbing in through the window.

  It’s the woman. The badass woman who was trying to kill the split-tail cop. She navigates the boxes and walks over to Munchel, staring down at him.

  The woman has a killer body, but her face is Phantom of the Opera. Still, she’s trying to kill Jackie. She could be a possible ally.

  “We both want the cop dead,” Munchel says.

  The woman lifts her foot up, lightly touches her toe to Munchel’s stomach. He howls, all thoughts of a possible alliance being wiped from his mind. Everything gets bright, then dark.

  “It’s your stomach acid,” she says. “It’s leaking through the bullet hole, and dissolving all of your other organs. Bad way to die. Takes hours.”

  She moves her foot up higher, nudges his shoulder. Munchel wonders if maybe he blacked out for a few seconds.

  “What happened to your hand?” she asks.

  Her eyes track from Munchel’s arm to the litter box, then to th
e revolver. The woman’s face twitches.

  “Kitty won’t let you have the gun? That’s pretty damn funny.”

  The woman bends down, looks at the cat, and says, “Scram.”

  The cat hisses, then bounds out of the garage, back into the house. The woman picks up the revolver.

  “Is this what you wanted? So close, but so far. That must have been awful for you.”

  Munchel knows what he has to say, but can’t bring himself to say it.

  “Let me take a wild guess.” The woman crouches next to him, wipes away one of Munchel’s tears with her thumb. “You want me to shoot you. Right?”

  Munchel nods, and manages to add, “Please.”

  “Normally, I’m a merciful chick. But you and your boys — well, you really fucked up my plans for the evening. So I think the best thing for both of us is for you to die in horrible agony.”

  She’s not going to help him. But maybe he can force her to.

  “I’ll… I’ll scream,” he says. “I’ll scream that you’re here.”

  The woman straightens up and places her foot on Munchel’s stomach again, taking his breath away.

  “No you won’t. Because I can make it worse.”

  She reaches over his head, onto the workbench, and grabs two items: a funnel, and a bottle of liquid drain cleaner. She drops them next to Munchel.

  “You make a sound,” she tells him, “even the tiniest sound, and I’ll fill you up with something that hurts a lot worse than stomach acid. Got it?”

  Munchel nods, pissing his pants once more.

  “Who has the keys to that truck outside?”

  “Pess… Pessolano.”

  “He the guy in the living room?”

  Munchel nods again, wishing he would die.

  “Inside. Are they armed?”

  “… the guy, Harry… he’s got a Desert Eagle… only one bullet.”

  “Anything else?”

  “…no… please…”

  She finally takes her foot off his stomach. Then she swings out the cylinder on the revolver, slaps it back in, and cocks it, heading for the doorway to the house. Before she goes through she looks at Munchel.

  “Remember,” she says, putting a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

  Munchel closes his eyes and focuses all of his energy on being very, very quiet.

  12:09 A.M.

  JACK

  I WAKE UP WITH MY HEAD in Phin’s lap. He appears concerned, an emotion I’ve never seen from him before. It softens his features, making him look like a different person.

  “What happened?” I ask. The lawn is cool beneath my legs, and my various aches and pains are a little less acute.

  “You passed out. After you jumped off the roof to save me.”

  “I landed on an azalea bush. And I landed funny.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Not that kind of funny. I think the plant got to third base.”

  “Frisky, those azaleas. Did it buy you dinner first?”

  “No. Not even a glass of wine. Where’s Alex?”

  “She ran into the woods.”

  I try to sit up. Phin helps. I’m groggy, but I can function.

  “She might head back to the house,” I say. “We have to get there.”

  “She’s unarmed.”

  “That doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous.”

  Phin nods. “Good point. I think we can handle her, though. Let me show you.”

  He hands me the shotgun, then sticks his head in the passenger door of the truck and presses something on the dashboard. Then he walks around to the rear door and opens it up. Inside are two sniper rifles, half a dozen handguns, and box after box of ammo.

  “I couldn’t bring it back to the house all by myself, but if we both load up, we can manage. Unless Alex is driving a tank, she won’t be able to get to us.”

  “Let’s hurry.”

  There’s a metal suitcase lined with foam, with cut-out impressions for the two Desert Eagles. I tear out the foam and fill the suitcase with bullets. Phin finds a duffel bag, and we pile in the guns and more bullets. We barely cram everything in.

  I reload the Desert Eagle, Phin adds a few shells to the shotgun, and then I help him strap on the duffel bag, which weighs a ton. The suitcase and both rifles are mine to carry.

  Satisfied we haven’t left a scrap of ammo behind, we head back toward the house.

  My load is cumbersome, unwieldy, and after a few steps I have to rest. Phin urges me on. You never realize how big your lawn is until you’re hauling a hundred pounds of ordnance across it. I really hope Mom doesn’t change her mind about moving back to the city.

  “I still have to find the cell phone jammer,” I tell Phin between labored breaths. “If you cover the front, and Harry covers the back—”

  My words are cut off by the sound of gunfire, coming from the house.

  12:11 A.M.

  KORK

  THE REVOLVER IS A .38. There are five bullets in the cylinder. That’s more than enough.

  I creep into the house, silent and powerful. After a little hiccup in the plan, I’m back in control. Harry and his single-shot Desert Eagle don’t concern me. Even if he manages to get a shot off, he’ll most certainly miss.

  I slip into the living room and grin when I see the cast-iron pot with the wire attached. Idiots. Then I kneel down next to Pessolano. His pants are a bloody, sticky mess, but I manage to fish out the keys to the Bronco. I shove them in my pocket, then concentrate on the hallway.

  I hear whispering. Coming from the bathroom, behind the refrigerator.

  I pause. Shall I shoot to kill? Or is there time for a little fun first?

  I decide to play it by ear.

  I bend down low, measuring each footstep, careful I don’t make a sound. I feel most alive during moments like this. I’m in control, a hunter stalking her prey. It’s what I was born to do.

  “She’s in the house! She has a gun!”

  Dammit. That sniper idiot. I thought I paralyzed him with fear, but he must have been made of stronger stuff than I assumed. I meld into the shadows, pressing my back up against the wall.

  “Is that you, Alex?” Harry asks.

  I wonder whether or not to answer, decide there’s no harm now.

  “It’s me,” I say.

  “Found yourself a gun, huh?”

  “Yep. And I have more than one bullet, Harry. Where should I shoot you first? I’ll let you decide.”

  “Come a little closer and I’ll tell you.”

  I laugh, then take a step forward.

  “You think you can hit me left-handed, Harry?”

  “I don’t have to. Mom has that particular honor.”

  Another step. “That old lady with the crippled hands? She can’t even hold a gun.”

  “She’s not holding it. I am. She’s aiming for me.”

  I stop in my tracks.

  “Mom’s an expert markswoman. She taught Jack how to shoot. Isn’t that right, Mom?”

  “Stick your head out, Alex,” Jack’s mother says. Her voice is strong and sure. “I’ll teach you how to make some mincemeat pie.”

  I back up. Maybe they won’t hit me, but maybe they will, and a .50 bullet in capable hands is not something to take lightly. I’ll sneak back outside, come in a different way.

  I head for the front door, and see Jack and Phin heading toward the house, their arms filled with weapons.

  Shit. I buzz through a few quick scenarios in my head. I shoot at them, kill one, and the other rushes the house with superior firepower. Or I get lucky, kill them both, and Harry pops up behind me and puts one into the back of my head.

  Maybe I could win with a better gun and more ammo, but a smart girl knows when to fight and when to run. It’s running time.

  Still, I can spare one bullet.

  I get down on a knee, support my wrist with my free hand, and draw a bead on Jack’s head. Then I wait for her to get within range. If she’s too far away, I’ll miss. If she’s too
close, that will give Phin a chance to catch me.

  Fifty feet seems to be a good distance.

  I’m a little disappointed that it will end this way, but I can come back for Harry and the others later. Let them mourn Jack for a few weeks. Settle back into everyday life. Then I can surprise them with a return visit, after I’ve finished with the other thing I’ve got planned.

  Jack reaches the fifty-foot mark. I line up the sights.

  “Bye-bye, Lieutenant.”

  I squeeze the trigger.

  Jack remains standing.

  I missed.

  It’s the gun. The gun’s aim is off.

  Damn, that is one lucky lady.

  Phin stops, pointing the shotgun at the house. It’s time for me to go. I hurry back into the garage, hearing the shotgun thunder behind me. The sniper is on the floor where I left him. His eyes get comically wide when he sees me.

  “I thought we agreed to be quiet.”

  “I’m… I’m a soldier…” he stammers. “Soldiers don’t make deals with the enemy.”

  “Soldiers also die badly,” I say.

  I don’t have time to savor it, but I make good on my promise and manage to jam the funnel in, along with half the bottle of drain cleaner.

  His screams follow me through the maze of boxes, over to the side window. And that’s when I see Jack rush into the garage.

  Maybe her luck has finally run out.

  12:15 A.M.

  JACK

  A SHOT BURIES ITSELF into the lawn a yard ahead of me.

  “She found my gun,” Phin says. “Go, I’ll cover you.”

  I don’t argue with him. All around us is open land. The only cover is near the house. Phin aims the shotgun and fires, and I move as fast as I can, beelining for my front door. I feel like I’m running in slow motion, my feet in quicksand, each step harder than the last. But the thought of Alex in the house with the people I love makes me discover reserves I didn’t know I had left.

  I make it to my porch without being shot, wheezing and dripping sweat. I drop the gear, pull the Desert Eagle, and go in low, keeping a two-handed grip on the weapon.