Killercon

by William Ollie

  Graham looked in the mirror. For everything he had been through, the stress, the strain, all the worrying, he looked pretty darn good. His eyes were clear and his color had returned. He lifted a hand and held it in front of him. It was steady as a rock.

  He left Chimley Park in his rearview mirror, took a right off Parrish Avenue, and then a left. A couple of blocks later he pulled into his driveway. Graham drove past Susan’s Camry and parked near the back of the house, killed the engine and got out of the Jeep. He opened the rear door to gather the groceries, and spied the apple on the front floorboard. A moment later he leaned between the seats and gathered it up.

  He got out of the car, smiling, and then took a bite out of the apple.

  It was the best damned apple he’d ever tasted.

  Chapter Twelve

  Danny Wilbanks strolled down the white antiseptic corridor of University Memorial Hospital. He had just gotten home when his mom called to tell him his cousin had been in the pile up on I-77. Wouldn’t surprise Danny a bit if Clyde had caused the damn thing, the way he and his pals hauled ass around town in that souped-up car of theirs.

  Somebody had called Danny’s aunt, and she called his mom to relay the message that Clyde was asking for Danny to come to the hospital. No telling what the crazy son of a bitch wanted.

  Couldn’t be anything good.

  Danny tucked a loose tail of green-and-white checkered flannel into the back of his faded Levi’s. Long brown hair draped his collar from beneath the Carolina Panthers ball cap sitting backwards on his head as he made his way down the hallway. Salt and pepper stubble covered his cheeks and a brown leather belt looped the waist of the faded jeans he wore. His old high school ring decorated his left hand, the pinky finger of which was missing. A little gift from some psychotic asshole who had caught Danny palming face cards in a poker game. Before he knew it, two burley giants had his hand pinned to the table. Carl Trayton pulled out a knife and held its blade against Danny’s finger. Danny screamed and cried, begged Trayton, told him he could have his money back, could have all of Danny’s money, too, just let him keep his finger. The prick took his money and his finger, and then dropped it into an envelope and mailed the bloody digit to Danny.

  Danny stopped in front of room 321 and took a deep breath, pushed the door open and saw his cousin lying in the hospital bed, left arm crooked at the elbow, forearm straight up, suspended by nylon straps fastened to an aluminum frame that was attached to the head of the bed. The frame, extending over his cousin’s chest, had a mini trapeze dangling from its middle. A thick ball of gauze wrapped the top of his injured arm, held in place by wide strips of white adhesive tape. Plastic tubing taped to the top of his right wrist ran from an IV pole standing by the head of the bed. A pump enclosed in a clear plastic shield sat locked into place on another stand; a second strand of tubing hanging from it connected with the IV line at the base of the his cousin’s wrist. A thin grey cord traveled down from the pump. Clyde’s face looked pale, as if all the blood had drained from it. One side of his face was puffy and swollen. His right hand clutched a round plastic device that was attached to the cord. His left hand was… missing.

  “Damn, Cly—”

  His cousin’s eyes flashed angrily. “Goddamnit, Danny,” he said.

  Danny held his hands up, a gesture of placation. “Sorry, Snake.”

  Snake pumped the plastic device a couple of times and laid it on the bed.

  “Look at this shit,” he said, and then grabbed a handful of hospital gown. Lifting until the bottom was around his neck revealed a stomach strafed with purplish-black bruises and deep red welts, as if his chest had been used for a punching bag, or maybe for batting practice.

  Danny pulled a sheet over his cousin’s exposed crotch, shook his head, and said, “Jesus. The hell happened to you?”

  Snake took a couple of slow breaths, before saying, “That fucked up Bree bitch I was screwin’ around with. She started this shit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were shootin’ pool down at Eddie’s and she kept staring at these two dudes across the room. All of a sudden she says ‘that’s Bryan Kenney’ and hauls ass over to ‘em. Next thing you know she’s pullin’ up her shirt and that cocksucker’s playing with her tits.”

  “No shit.”

  “I went over there and told that motherfucker what time it was, pulled my blade on him. His fucking pal cracked me in the face with his cue stick, and it was on, brother.

  “They thought they could outrun us ‘cause they had a Z-car. Baby was sweet, but she wasn’t no match for the Goat. We chased ‘em up a goddamn exit ramp onto I-77.”

  “Up the exit ramp? The wrong way?”

  “Goddamn right.”

  “Wow,” Danny said, a mental image forming in his mind: the black G.T.O. thundering after a sleek Z28; dodging cars, blowing horns, people screaming and cussing out their windows. Like a goddamn movie.

  “Those fuckers were scared shitless,” Snake said, and then grabbed his medication plunger and pumped it a couple more times. Scowling, he looked at Danny. “I need some goddamn H, Danny Boy.”

  “Pain’s pretty bad, huh?”

  “My hand is gone, bitch! Every time I look up I see the goddamn thing flying through the fucking air!”

  “Goddamn, Snake, the fuck happened?”

  “We wrecked, motherfucker! The fuck you think happened!”

  “Fuck, Dude. Calm down.”

  “Calm down? Look at me, Danny. Look at my hand!”

  Danny looked at the stub and winced.

  “The friggin’ Goat went into the ditch and came flying up the other side into a tractor trailer. I shot out of that son of a bitch like a clown out of a goddamn circus cannon. The Goat, Bear and Billy and his retard of a brother blew up like some kinda bomb.” Snake sighed, shook his head, and said, “Gone, Danny. All gone.”

  Danny didn’t know if he was lamenting his friends or the car.

  Snake grabbed the wooden handle of the trapeze, the serpent tattooed on his forearm seeming to rise as he pulled himself into a sitting position. “That fucker has to die.”

  “Who?”

  “Bryan Kenney.”

  “‘Cause he played with that bitch’s tits? What’d you expect him to do when she shoved ‘em in his face, close his eyes?”

  “He’s gonna wish he had.”

  “What’re you gonna do?”

  Snake narrowed his eyes. “I ain’t doing nothing. You are.”

  “Me? The fuck, Snake. I don’t wanta get mixed up in this shit.”

  “Well, gee. I hate like hell to bust your fuckin’ bubble there, sport, but you’re involved in this shit ‘til I say different. You owe me, Danny Boy. You owe me, big time.”

  Danny sighed, shrugged his shoulders and nodded. Then a light flashed inside his head, a ray of hope that might get him out from under this mess. “How am I supposed to find the guy? I mean, Bryan Kenney. It’s just a name. What if he ain’t in the phone book?”

  “He’s a writer. Those pricks in the rescue wagon were talking about him, laughing like hell ‘cause this good lookin’ bitch riding in the trauma copter was his wife. Their fucking buds examined Bree, and then radioed ahead that one of her tits had ‘Best Wishes, Bryan Kenney’ written on it.”

  “No shit.”

  “He was autographing her fucking breast.”

  Danny smiled. “I want his fuckin’job. But that’s my point: she’s the one you should be after.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll deal with her ass when I get outa here.” Snake paused a moment to click his medication trigger a couple of times. “They kept laughin’ and carrying on about the flight nurse, called her Flightengale. I asked ‘em why, and they said that big black SUV of hers has Flightengale on the license plate. So you just hang around the parking garage ‘til you find that truck, and then follow her ass right on home.”

  An easy way out, Danny thought. ‘I’m sorry,’ he would say. ‘I hung around for a whole week an
d I never did find that truck. What he did say was, “I’ll do my best.”

  “Oh, you’ll do better than that, Danny Boy. You’ll track that fucker down and plant his ass next to Carl Trayton. Or when I get the hell outa here, Trayton’ll have two new roommates.”

  The door opened and a middle-aged black woman entered the room. Dressed in a white uniform, she carried a metal clipboard in her right hand. A stethoscope hung from her neck. Her short, wiry hair was cropped close to her scalp. The name tag pinned to her front said: Betty Collins, RN.

  She stepped up to the side of the bed, smiled and said, “Ah, sitting up now. Feeling a little better?”

  “My arm hurts,” Snake said, almost whimpering. “It hurts real bad.”

  “You’re using the pump?”

  “Yeah, but it only makes it better for a minute or two, then it gets bad, real bad.”

  “I’ll talk to the doctor about upping the dosage.”

  “Can’t you just give me a shot or something?”

  “Not without your doctor’s say so.”

  Danny smiled. His cousin was working his ass off to get more drugs, but the woman wasn’t going for it.

  Betty placed the stethoscope tips in her ears and pressed the flat end against Snake’s chest, listening a minute before hooking the instrument back around her neck. She got a blood pressure cuff that was hanging on the wall, fastened the Velcro strap around Snake’s right bicep and pumped a few times. After returning the blood pressure harness to the wall, she checked his temperature. Then she walked around the bed and took a close look at his bandaged stump.

  “Everything’s looking good.”

  Danny rolled his eyes. He almost laughed but didn’t.

  “Keeps up like this, you’ll be home before you know it.”

  “You gonna talk to my doctor?”

  Betty glanced down at the chart. “Yes, Clyde. I’ll call him soon as I can get to a telephone.”

  “Snake.”

  Betty looked up from the chart. “Excuse me?” she said.

  “People call me Snake.”

  “And why is that?”

  Snake pulled the sheet away from his crotch, smiling as he said, “‘Cause I got a King Cobra between my legs.”

  Betty leaned over the bed and tilted her head sideways, turned to Snake, and said,

  “I think the King has left the building.”

  “Haw!” Danny said, laughing.

  “Aw, just go call my doctor.”

  “Right away, Mr. Snake,” Betty said, and then turned and left the room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Outside, in front of the hospital, Danny looked up at the multi-level parking garage that wound its way up the building’s side, turned and saw another lot across the street, about a block away. He didn’t visit any of them. What would be the point? He might as well be looking for a single four-leaf clover in the rolling green lawn of a city park. He’d just have to put Clyde off, or Snake, or Captain Hook—who knows what the hell he’d be calling himself once he came home from the hospital?

  One thing was certain. Sooner or later he would have to make good on his promise. At the very least, he’d have to help his cousin seek out his revenge. Or there would be two more bodies on the hill behind Snake’s mother’s house.

  Danny made his way to his pickup truck, where he stood for a moment, brushing a fingertip over the smooth patch of skin where his pinky finger had once been. Then he got into the truck, fired up the engine and pulled away from the curb.

  Danny had mixed feelings about this whole affair. When Clyde found out what Trayton had done, he didn’t say anything to Danny. He and his boys caught that big bastard out alone one night, forced him off the road and nobody ever saw him again. Not much of him, anyway. Danny did see a plastic bag full of Carl Trayton’s withered fingers a couple of days later when Clyde dropped by the house, bragging about how he had sliced them off one at a time while Trayton shrieked and pleaded for his life. ‘Just like a little girl,’ Clyde had said, and for a brief moment Danny had wondered how many little girls ever found themselves shrieking in his cousin’s presence.

  Danny hadn’t gone running to Clyde for help. They were family, and even though Clyde was much younger than Danny, he hadn’t let that stop him from doing what needed to be done. And now he expected Danny to do the same for him.

  But Danny had never killed anyone before, and wasn’t sure that he could.

  ‘You’ll track that fucker down and plant his ass next to Carl Trayton.’

  “Jesus.”

  ‘Or when I get the hell outa here, Trayton’ll have two new roommates.’

  “Fuck.”

  Like a sack full of bricks, the stress and strain pressed down upon Danny. Clyde’s threat, the guilt—just seeing the poor bastard lying in his hospital bed with nothing but a stub was more than Danny could bear. He could just imagine the throbbing pain, like when his finger had been taken, but a hundred times worse. His head hurt, his stomach felt weak. He was nervous; in over his head and he knew it. Danny saw a drug store in the distance. He needed to get something for his aching head, so he slowed and bumped his turn signal arm, and then moved into the right-hand lane. He pulled into the parking lot, angled himself into a row of spaces near the front of a Walgreens and got out of his truck. On his way to the store a black SUV with a University Memorial parking sticker in the lower right corner of the rear window pulled past him.

  And a personalized license plate that spelled out FLYTNGALE.

  Danny slowed as the truck pulled in a few spaces down from where he stood, waiting as a tall and slender woman stepped onto the asphalt. Fit and trim, like a long distance runner, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, she wore white sneakers, and a white t-shirt tucked into the elastic waistband of her pale blue hospital scrubs. The snug t-shirt accentuated her breasts, which were firm and round. Danny could just imagine them pressing against his hairy chest. She wore just a touch of makeup, but her full red lips looked freshly glossed. She was beautiful, the spitting image of every fantasy ever to have graced Danny’s dreams. When she shook her hair loose from the nylon braid holding it in place, butterfly wings fluttered in Danny’s chest.

  Danny squatted down and untied one of his Nikes, tying the laces back as she walked toward the drug store. He stood up, turned and walked back to the truck. Back in the driver’s seat, he thought about Clyde lying up in that hospital bed, and that horrible looking stump.

  Bryan Kenney.

  That prick had taken his cousin’s hand from him; might as well have hacked it off himself. Clyde was family, and one good turn deserved another. Now it was up to Danny to set things right.

  First he’d take care of the writer.

  Then he’d take very special care of his wife.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Al Bundy droned incessantly in the background, something about wishing he wasn’t ‘married with children’ so he and Jefferson could head on down to the nudie bar. Laughter sounded on the television, but Bryan barely heard any of it. He lay on the couch with his eyes closed, dreading what was going to happen when Carrie came through the door…

  It seemed to Bryan they had been stuck in that twisted hunk of wreckage forever, and when they finally did get out, Larry started complaining about his back. A few rescue guys insisted on examining them—all of them. First Larry, then Bryan. When they got to Bree, she unbuttoned her shirt, drew it open and her breasts popped out. All three paramedics lurched toward her—like The Three Stooges cramming themselves into an open doorway, Bryan thought, or a bunch of wild-eyed George Romero zombies blindly reaching forward.

  Larry said, “Easy, guys. She’s not the president” and one of the paramedics—an older guy with curly gray hair, who never once looked away from her chest, said, ‘Thank God for that.’

  Then it was:

  “What the fuck?”

  “Who the hell’s Bryan Kenney?”

  “And why is his name on your ti, er, breast?”

 
; Bree, who had been standing next to Bryan, draped an arm over his shoulder. “He is,” she said. “And he’s one hell of a writer.”

  “I can see that,” the youngest-looking quipped. Short and well-muscled, his brown hair trimmed into a military haircut, he wore a gold loop in his right earlobe and a navy-blue t-shirt that looked a size too small. And he kept smiling at Bree. Bryan half expected him to rip his shirt off Hulk-Hogan-style and ask her for her telephone number.

  The looks on the other two seemed to be saying ‘The fuck has that little twerp got?’ Bryan could tell they were envious, that either of them would probably have given their left nut to be Bryan for a couple of hours.

  Yeah, that’s me, Bryan Kenney, he thought as he stood in front of them, beaming. Eat yer fucking heart out!

  That’s when the old guy said, “No wonder Flightengale’s so pissed”, and Bryan’s balls shriveled up to the size of chickpeas, the paramedics snickering, laughing and cracking jokes as they turned and walked away. Bryan wanted to run after them like a little kid hosting a sleepover, begging his friends to ‘keep it down before you get me in trouble!’ But he just leaned against the Z-car, sighing as Bree buttoned her shirt.

  A state trooper walked up, then the motorcycle cop who had looked in on them earlier. They wanted to know what the hell was going on, why the G.T.O. had chased them the wrong way up the exit ramp. People were dead; cars lay wrecked along the highway. Horns were blowing and the traffic—which was backed up for miles—had the surrounding interchanges gridlocked.

  Larry gave it to them short and sweet. They didn’t know who they were, had never seen them before. They were riding along minding their own business when the Goat cut them off. Larry flipped them the bird and they went nuts. They tried to run Larry off the road; one of them busted a beer bottle off the Z-car’s rear window. The Goat sideswiped them and Larry panicked. He hauled ass up the exit ramp because he was afraid. The next thing he knew he was tumbling sideways through the air. He was sorry it happened, but he didn’t know what else he could have done. Every once in a while Bryan would nod his agreement. Bree, turning, looked out at the traffic and gave out a long, low whistle.