by David Beers
John knocked.
Thirty seconds passed and he knocked again but heard only silence from inside.
“She’s not here,” John said, his voice low, still not moving from his position next to the door.
“Only one way to find out for sure,” Harry said. “We gotta get inside.”
John knew he was right. If they left now, and little Ms. Starbucks was inside, she’d call the cops the minute John left, destroying his chance.
Why are you after her to begin with? Does she know your face? Is that it? John couldn’t remember the why, what this girl had done.
“It doesn’t matter, John,” Harry spoke from his side. “We’re not here to remember, are we?”
“No,” John answered. He reached forward and clasped the doorknob. He twisted, expecting to feel resistance, but met none. The knob simply moved under his pressure and the door opened up.
“The hell?” John said aloud. “She didn’t lock her door?”
“Must have been in a hurry.” Harry smiled and pushed by John, entering the apartment. “Cozy place! LOVE the way she decorates!”
John went in after, ignoring the jokes. Harry stood in the living room, inspecting a purple lampshade. John didn’t care about what was in her house, only if she was in it. He moved through the small apartment quickly, his gun out now. Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, closet.
“She’s not here,” he called from the back.
“What about her work? Think she’s there?”
John shook his head, anger rising in him. “I can’t believe this fucking shit. She was supposed to be here. You said she’d fucking be here.”
Harry stood at the bedroom’s doorway. “I said this is where she lives, John. Calm down. We’ll find her.”
John wanted to point the gun at Harry’s forehead and pull the trigger, watching as his skull exploded in a beautiful tapestry of red meat, blue skin, gray brain, and white bone. The girl was supposed to be here. John drove hours on top of hours, listening to Harry’s prattle, all so that he could come here and kill her. Now she wasn’t here. Now she was gone and Jesus fucking Christ how was he supposed to do this if she wasn’t here?!
“You might be losing your mind,” Harry said. He wore a crooked smile, the thought of John’s possible insanity clearly amusing him. “You can stand here getting mad or you can go to her work and see if she’s there.”
John glared at Harry as if he were a slug that somehow climbed atop John’s ice-cream cone. The rage simmered, threatening to turn into a full boil if he didn’t get control of it.
“I don’t think letting your gun go off without reason will help your long term chances.”
John looked to the floor, his breath heavy. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Alan watched Kaitlin walk out the front door. She kept her head down like she had in the living room, but her feet kept moving, heading straight to his car. He hadn’t spoken to her since he left the house hours ago. His entire body felt like he had been lugging a piano across the desert for two weeks, and his mind—somehow—felt even worse.
Yet, he hadn’t fallen asleep. He sat in the car with the radio on, waiting on a call from Susan.
Alan rolled the window down as she crossed the street.
“What’s up?”
“I made some breakfast. Well, in name only. It’s actually sandwiches, chips, and milk. You want to come in and eat with me?”
He hadn’t thought about food since Susan called last night, but at the very mention of it, his stomach rumbled. When did he eat last? Twenty-four hours ago? Forty-eight? The last time he was home, whenever that had been.
“You’re sure?”
“Everyone has to eat,” she said.
“Okay; I guess that’s true enough.” Alan rolled the window up, then opened the car door and got out. The girl was already walking back toward the house, which was fine. She had done more than enough by simply making him a sandwich.
She left the door open when she entered the house and he followed, closing it behind him.
“In here,” she called.
He went to the kitchen, a quaint thing with an older stove and refrigerator. The dining room was attached, separated only by a small breakfast bar. Rickiment sat at the small dining room table, though it did have four chairs around it. Two plates were already set with a glass of milk next to them. The milk jug sat in the middle.
She saw him notice it and said, “I get thirsty and hate getting up every time I want more. Come on, I’m hungry.”
Alan smiled and took his place across from her. He waited just a second for her to take a bite out of her sandwich before he started; he didn’t want to look like a pig, though he was ravenous.
It tasted delicious.
“This is uhmaazing,” he said with a full mouth, not caring in the slightest. He took another large bite and glanced up. For the first time, he saw a smile across the girl’s face. He chewed quickly and swallowed. “Sorry. I don’t remember the last time I ate and this is good.”
“That’s fine,” she said, smirking at him. She took a bite of her own. Alan looked back down at his plate and dug in again. Neither of them spoke until the food was gone and each had drank three glasses of milk.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Alan said.
“Why not? You seemed hungry enough.”
He flicked his eyes up at her and gave a stern, but goofy, look, before letting it fall away. “Because I’m going to be asleep in thirty minutes from all that food. I can’t sleep right now, not until Susan gets back. Sorry, Detective Merchent.”
“Why not?”
“Sleeping isn’t the best way to protect you.”
“Well, not if you’re sleeping out in that car. You sleep on the couch in here and you’ll be able to protect me fine, unless you sleep like the dead. Then I might be in trouble.”
Alan looked at his watch. Eleven in the morning. He couldn’t tell the girl he needed a nap, but realistically, he couldn’t keep going much longer without at least a few winks.
“What if I just lay down on the couch for an hour? Would that bother you?”
“You have your gun on you, right? You didn’t leave it in the car?”
Alan shook his head. “Sorry, I have to carry it if I’m on duty.”
“Oh, no. Don’t be sorry. I was going to say if you didn’t have it, I’ll need you to go get it before you lay down.”
“You sure you don’t mind?”
“Go ahead,” she said, standing up. She reached for his dish and took it before he could say anything. She put it on top of hers and went to the sink where she started washing.
Alan stood up, a bit stunned for a second, and then walked into the living room. He took his shoes off, grabbed a pillow at one end and put it on the other side. He lay down on his side, with the pillow under his neck.
He listened to her wash the dishes and finally she turned off the water. He watched her walk to the living room and sit on the love seat, grabbing a book from the end-table.
“When do you work next?” Alan said.
She opened the book to a dogeared page. “I’m supposed to go in at three.”
“You going to?”
“Yeah. They don’t take intuition as an excuse.”
“Even if a cop says you can’t work?” Alan asked.
Kaitlin glanced up from her book. “It’ll be fine. There’s too many people at the store for anything to happen.”
Alan was actually happy about this. He needed to go home for just a bit, shower, clean up, and try to make things right with Marie. He closed his eyes and lay silent for a few minutes. Alan felt himself starting to doze when an errant thought flashed through his mind, bringing him all the way to wakefulness.
“Are you not scared right now?” he said, keeping his eyes closed.
She looked up from the page. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t feel anything. I don’t feel like I’m in danger right now. I can’t explain i
t any better than that.”
“Why do you get these feelings? I mean, couldn’t it just be anxiety or something?” Alan said.
“I suppose that’s possible. I don’t believe it, though. I grew up with my mom; my dad cut out when I was young. She swore up and down that the only reason she was able to keep us afloat in the early years was because she trusted her gut. She said it led to jobs, and eventually to my step-dad. I guess I started feeling things when I was a teenager—I call it intuition, she called it her gut. Most of the time, and by a large margin, it’s more right than not.”
“So what do you think is going to happen?” John said.
She stared him straight in the face as she said it. “I’m going to die. Probably by that guy who killed Mr. Stinson.”
* * *
Everything seemed okay. Kaitlin hadn’t felt anything, not a single inkling of danger since she woke up from her dream. She actually started questioning whether this shit was real or just her mind overreacting to stress.
She would feel like such a fool if the guy she had the police draw wasn’t who they wanted. If he was innocent, Kaitlin wouldn’t be able to explain why she acted like this. Why she had a cop watching over her, and apparently, coming back tonight.
They’re watching you because they think you’re right, too. It has nothing to do with your intuition; they think you’re a target.
She told herself that as she walked into Starbucks.
Everything went normally until two hours into her shift.
And then the thoughts started generating. Or rather, a singular feeling.
Fear.
She didn’t know why it came on; nothing had changed. She was making drinks for people, cleaning—doing everything she usually did—yet the certainty of death struck her like a baseball bat to the skull.
Hands shaking, she put down the drink she was fixing.
Breathe. She paused and then thought again, Breathe.
It’s okay. Nothing has changed. Look around you, there are too many people here.
She actually did turn and glance at the coffee shop. Five in the evening and the place was overrun with people. Who could possibly hurt her here? Her eyes searched though, looking through the crowd of people and trying to identify someone that could’ve spurred this massive panic attack.
You’re going to die, she thought, unable to keep it at bay.
She saw no one, just the usual mass of faces that all looked the same. None of them noticed her, not a single glance spared.
You’re going to DIE.
“Terry,” she said to her manager at the cash register. He didn’t turn around but continued ringing up the person in front of him. Kaitlin counted her breaths, hoping that he had heard her, that he would turn around.
Her breath was picking up speed, and Kaitlin knew she’d pass out if she stood here any longer.
“TERRY,” she said.
Her manager turned around, a shocked look across his face. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry. I need … I need to step outside for a second. Can I, please? I know my break isn’t for an hour, but I’ve got to get out for just a minute.”
Terry looked out at the line of customers progressing almost to the door and then back to her. “You have to?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Okay, take ten.” Terry turned back around and Kaitlin heard him apologize to the customer. Kaitlin didn’t bother taking her apron off, she just walked to the back and out the employee door.
The cruel heat met her but she barely felt it. She looked down at her hands, still shaking like a meth addict’s.
The feeling wasn’t leaving. In fact, the fear was growing.
“No, no, no,” she said aloud to herself.
Words couldn’t stop the thoughts though.
You’re going to die.
You’re going to die.
You’re going to die.
The suffocation feeling took over her lungs. The inability to find enough air. The knowledge that her own blood drowned her, somehow filling up her lungs to the point of bursting, where it would then fill her chest cavity.
As blackness came, Kaitlin thought only one thing.
You’re going to die.
* * *
John picked at his skin. He had never done it before, but sitting in the air conditioning of his car, he picked at his left arm. At first he only created ashy skin, flaking off in very small amounts. He didn’t stop, though, and as his finger kept scratching, the skin turned a bright red.
“What the hell are you doing?” Harry said.
“Waiting.”
“To your arm, man. What are you doing to your arm?”
John looked at his finger and then to the spot just below his nail. He hadn’t seen it before despite staring at it for the past ten minutes.
“I don’t know,” John said.
He thought that he should probably stop but — Why?
John pressed his finger down again and started the repetition. Not a huge amount of pressure, though a bit of pain radiated from the small wound. When would blood come? Still a ways off yet, but if he kept going he would most definitely see some.
“Let’s go back to the Starbucks,” Harry said.
“Why?” John’s pupils were dilated as he focused on his skin.
“Because it’s been a few hours. She might be there now.”
“Want me to walk through twice? Think that won’t be noticed? What if the cops are looking at it, Harry?”
“We don’t have to go in; I think we can get a good glimpse of who’s behind the counter from the car.”
“Probably won’t even be arrested, huh?” John said.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
“Just loving your plans so far, that’s all.” John quit picking at his flesh and put the car into gear. “We’ll go see what’s happening at the Starbucks. Maybe they have a local musician playing. We can pull up a chair and have a coffee while we wait for our girl to show up. Sound good?”
Harry said nothing and John pulled out of the parking space. They parked a half mile down the road from the Starbucks, so the return drive wouldn’t be long. They had sat there in dead silence for the past few hours. John didn’t really know the time because he paid attention to very little anymore. His thoughts mainly focused on the pain his fingernail caused, though sometimes solid ideas came through, too—all of them angry, disgusting things like two headed snakes. He found himself becoming more and more furious with Harry, furious with all the people in his life—even his father. Also angry that he couldn’t tell his father how upset he was.
Because this was all their fault. Every single thing happening right now could be laid at their feet—his whole fucking family. Right down to his sons.
“Hey, right here,” Harry said from the passenger seat.
John’s eyes refocused on the road and saw he needed to make an immediate right. He slammed on the brakes, not worrying about the blinker, and whipped the car through the shopping strip’s entry. Horns blared behind him, but he didn’t so much as glance at his rearview.
“Where are you?” Harry said. “Where the fuck’s your head? You’re not here. You’re not ready for this.”
“Shut the fuck up, Harry. You’re getting what you want, aren’t you?”
“Getting what I want doesn’t include dying in a car accident.”
“Not dead yet, are you?” John said with a wicked smile.
“You missed the goddamn right turn. You should have turned at the one before this.”
“It’ll be okay, dear. Why are you always worrying, Harry? Haven’t you told me to calm down my whole life?” The smile rested on John’s face like a mask. “Watch and learn. I’ll show you how parking lots work.”
John looked to his right and decided he wasn’t going to fight the traffic coming from that way. He kept the car rolling forward, and took the right behind the row of buildings containing the Starbucks.
“What the fuuuuuucckk?” Harry sai
d. “She’s right fucking there.”
John stopped the car.
“That’s her. Right there lying on the goddamn ground.”
John leaned over the middle console and —
“Holy hell,” John said. His car door flashed open and he looked both left and right. No one was back here, not even employee cars because there weren’t parking spots.
“Go!” Harry shouted from inside the car.
John went. He leaned in quickly, popped the trunk, and within thirty seconds had the girl locked in the trunk. He moved back to the front seat and the car took off down the back alley.
“You lucky son-of-a-bitch!” Harry shouted. He hollered and slapped the roof with his palm. “What are we going to do with her?”
A memory that John didn’t know he possessed rose to the forefront of his mind. He knew it came from Mexico because he saw no plant life, just the dead dirt extreme heat produces. A woman lay in front of him, her body naked and bruised horrifically. John was naked too, his cock hard with a string of ejaculate hanging from it. He held a knife in his hand; he leaned down and stabbed the woman once—she shrieked out, though John hadn’t stabbed anything vital. He brought the knife down again and again into the meaty parts of her legs, going deep enough to cause intense pain, but pulling out before he cut major arteries. He went up and down her extremities, stabbing as quickly as an expert chef chops onions. And when John saw no more non-essential areas he could cut, he went into her gut, mixing and mashing her intestines.
“Why didn’t I remember that?” he said as the car raced down the highway.
“I don’t know,” Harry answered.
“I want to do something like that again. I want to remember it this time.” John didn’t even bother looking at Harry as he spoke. He kept his eyes on the road and wondered if Harry was even necessary anymore.
18
A Portrait of a Young Man
Cindy stopped the car about thirty feet down the dirt road. “Think this is far enough?”
John peered into the woods around him, the moon’s light revealing very little.
“What do you think is at the end of the road?” Cindy said.