Miss Massacre's Guide to Murder and Vengeance

by Michael Paul Gonzalez

  I nod my head and he pushes the button. I want to kill myself for bending to him. It doesn’t stop hurting, but the feeling changes. Diminishes. I pull further away.

  Doctor Robert produces a syringe from his pocket and gives me an injection. “That’s the good medicine,” he says. “I’m not a complete fiend.”

  When Clearwater hits my veins, my legs turn cool blue and the room becomes a refrigerator. At that moment, even with the man who tried to kill me sitting on my bed where my legs used to be, even in a hospital where I didn’t know what would happen next, where my daughter was, knew nothing of the list or the killing that was about to start, everything was okay.

  This is the moment tactical explosions went off in my head. This was the start of everything disappearing. The ashes scattering.

  “You’re famous now. The papers know you’re here, thanks to Orderly Johnson. You remember, the squeamish fellow I had to chase away? He was concerned my treatment of you was less than ethical. He talks when he drinks. Shame. Pity he’s no longer around to meet the press. I spoke to them instead. You’re a Jane Doe, rescued from the scene of a horrible attempted murder. The reporter wanted a name, something catchy for his story. I decided on Mrs. Robinson. After all, to survive trauma like yours, someone on high must be looking out for you. Jesus loves you more than you will know. I’m the lead doctor in a fight to save your life, a hero to the city. You’ve turned me into a humanitarian, Mrs. Robinson, and I can’t thank you enough.”

  * * *

  I wake up. The Doctor has moved me to a recovery room and my head is throbbing. Visions dance through my head of the dark time at the hospital. What could have been weeks, months. The Doctor nursing me back to health. Teaching me how to walk on false legs. Pumping me full of drugs and parading me in front of the media, smiling, taking it all in.

  I push it back. The past is gone. Nothing else matters but now.

  Now I won’t be Mrs. Robinson. Now I won’t have a saving grace. The Doctor is going to kill me, and I can accept it. I just need to find a way to take him with me.

  I could sit here and convalesce, draw connections, see how the list was just my mind’s way of walking me through a series of events. Nobody had to die, really. I just wanted them dead. Wanted them to suffer for what happened to me and my daughter. All of this is Doctor Robert pulling the strings. Without even trying, he got me to wipe out most of his competition.

  There are two shapes at the end of my bed, two men in uniform, talking. I see their mouths moving but I can’t hear anything. Two orderlies. Street thugs, one in white, the other in black. Their pale skin shines green under the fluorescent light. I can tell by the bulge at the white one’s hip, he’s concealing a gun. The other I’m not so sure about. I’m watching a changing of the guard. Looks like I’ll be stuck with the friend of the NRA.

  The man in black turns to the other one, asks him a question. It must be a joke of some kind at my expense, because the white guy grabs his crotch, shakes it at me as they both burst into laughter.

  The door closes, and we’re alone. He starts towards my bed, and comes up short when he sees my eyes are open. I see him mouth the question: Awake?

  I blink. He takes this as the cue to remove his pants. He’s skinny, his body has the lean look of a long-term user. Around his right thigh is a leather belt, three hypodermics tied to his leg.

  The door’s locked, his mouth says. We’re all alone. The Doctor told me I could take a break with you. The sound is far away, muffled, like he’s talking to me through a pillow. He said this would help you remember the last time…

  There’s an IV leading into my arm, the last remnants of the pickup tube empty. The orderly takes a needle off of his thigh strap and flicks it a couple of times, then puts the whole dose into his quad. He pulls another needle off and injects the rest of it into my IV.

  These are the rules the Doctor gave me, I lip read. Told me I could do anything I wanted, long as we were both on. You on, honey? You on?

  He climbs onto the bed, pulls the blanket back and his hands are all over my thighs. The good part of this is that Clearwater makes you numb at first. Maybe I won’t feel him on top of me. I’ll still have to see him groaning and grunting, still smell his sweat. He’s having a hard time getting the flagpole to rise. That’ll buy me a little time. Even if he gets it up, I won’t feel a thing.

  Whatever he put in my IV isn’t just Clearwater. It has to be a mix. I feel everything. Each individual thread in his tattered sweater as it chafes against my stomach. Each hair on his leg stabbing into my thigh, his hands like sandpaper on my breasts, my face, my neck.

  He pulls back and asks me if I’m having fun. Keeps fumbling with his junk.

  I blink. Squeeze my fists, surprised by the strength I feel there. I get a jolt of strength, some focus. Riding the rapids. My favorite part of any high. This has only been a few minutes, but I feel like I could lift a car.

  Aside from the IV in my arm, nothing tethers me to the bed. I’ll probably only get one shot at this. He wants a ride, I’ll give him one.

  I slowly loop my arms underneath his, rubbing his back. I don’t want him to notice until it’s too late. He’s bouncing around up there like a rabbit on crack, trying to get it up and get it in, every nerve in my body is on fire and screaming.

  But I focus. I exhale. I spot my target.

  Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you.

  He notices my neck has gone stiff, my body is rigid as a plank.

  You coming? I see him ask.

  His face is inches from mine, and I take my moment.

  Sight-acquire-fire.

  Or in this case, headbutt. I drive my head forward as hard as I can into the bridge of his nose. Then I loop my arms over his shoulders, clasping my hands at his neck, a reverse full-nelson choke. My thumb and forefinger pinch together on his windpipe while I use my hands to push back. Whatever I’ve got in my IV, I want more of it.

  He stands up from the bed, taking me with him, the drug giving him the same rush of strength that I have. But I don’t let go. My advantage is, I can still breathe. His heart is thundering like mine, but I get oxygen. Now he’s hard, I can feel his manhood poking at my thigh as I hang off his neck. His windpipe is crushed and I’m not letting go.

  I feel his body shudder, feel him explode on me, pulsing, emptying. His knees go weak and he slumps forward. He died happy. I guess every indignity buys me a few more minutes of life.

  After he twitches a couple more times, I feel safe enough to release my chokehold. But not safe enough to be alone with him. I pull myself to the foot of the bed where he left his clothes. His belt. Walkie-talkie. Wallet.

  Gun.

  A beautiful little Glock-9, smooth action, fully loaded. I can’t waste a shot on him. But I can sure as hell cave his skull in.

  I slide back over to him on the floor. He’s dead. Not even twitching. Crumpled on the floor with a wilted boner. Not good enough for me.

  I pop the clip out of the gun. Wouldn’t want to risk an accidental shot. Then I flip the gun in my hand and bring it down hard on the side of his head, hard enough to shatter his cheek. And the back of his head. And his jaw. And his ribs. And his nose. And his face. Several times.

  I’m covered in his blood. I can’t hear anything. One of my eyes is blind. I have no legs. I feel like I’m on my way to drug-induced heart failure.

  But I have a gun now.

  Paging Doctor Fortescu.

  Doctor Fortescu to recovery, stat.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Setting an ambush will be close to impossible. No war wagon, no sniper stand, no getaway van. Thank God I don’t have legs. I’m not level with any mirrors. Seeing myself now would probably be too much.

  I pull myself over to what’s left of the orderly. He still has one needle strapped to his thigh. Right now, I feel like all of my organs are boiling in oil, my heart is collapsing, and it’s only going to get worse. I take it with me. One jumpstart to help me make it. I need to fin
d the Doctor.

  Belly crawling the whole way, and I can’t put the gun away. I have to be ready to fire. The fact that nobody has charged into the room has me nervous. The first two strides I make feel slippery. I leave smudges on the floor, dark red speckled with black. I really should wash off what’s left of the orderly.

  I’m right back where I started. Legless, crawling and hanging on for dear life. This happened before. The Doctor had me propped up in a room the first time, using me as a pincushion, lending me to his faithful soldiers. And I broke away into the rain somehow. I found a van that was handicapable, somehow. Somehow is beginning to seem like the work of the Doctor. Like I have been led along this path the whole time.

  But now, the list is done. It’s just me and ten rounds. I crack the door open and close my eyes. A hunter can’t rely on sight alone. What does it sound like out there? Cold. Quiet. An overwhelming silence, the kind you only hear in empty places.

  I open my eyes. I’ve been moved to a different building. This isn’t medical storage. This is a hospital. Active, abandoned, I can’t tell.

  I inch through the door, checking both sides of the hallway carefully. No motion. There are doors at either end with small rectangular windows. If I keep to the corners, nobody should notice me in here. The hall looks to be lined with rooms just like mine, and I can’t help but wonder who else is in here. What did they do? Are they still saying sorry to the Doctor?

  Another couple of slithers and I’m in the corner at the other end of the hallway. The window here shows more light than the other side. I lean back, my heart hiccupping in my chest. I take a deep breath and mutter a prayer that everything holds together until I meet Doctor Robert again. He has to be here. He wouldn’t send an orderly in to do an experiment if he wasn’t here to see the results. And nobody punishes a patient without the Doctor’s permission. His workers know better than to go rogue.

  I reach up to open the door, moving slowly, keeping my gun ready. I crack the door and look through, seeing another hallway, this one carpeted. There are doors stretching out on the one side I can see. I’ll assume the rest of the hall looks the same way.

  I rock forward on my hands and push back hard, exploding through the door, landing on my back, sweeping the area and rolling as I go. When I’m satisfied it’s empty I stop to catch my breath. If Doctor Robert is more than two hundred feet from here, getting to him will probably kill me.

  Breathe. Slow down and listen. Try to read the signs on the doors. Hard to do with one eye. Where would he be? It’s late, there’s a test running. He wants to know the results. He always wants to know. He probably expected one of us to live or die. Any good scientist would want to know the results.

  He has to come back to the room. All of that crawling for nothing. Let him come to me.

  The entire left side of my body goes numb, refuses to move. I flop to the floor, cracking my head on the wall on the way down. I can’t tell if I’m holding my breath or if I just can’t breathe. I should feel my heart pounding, see the blood moving, but there’s nothing.

  The engine has seized.

  My right arm feels weak, too, but it’s searching for that needle. My last hope. The whole room swims in purple, and the trail of blood I’ve left behind me begins to glow. Every time I blink, the floor changes from carpet to alley road and back. Voices ring in my head, screaming, shouting, calling for blood.

  I blink, and in the alley before me I see a knife. I grab it.

  I blink, and on the carpet at my left thigh is the syringe. I grab it.

  I can barely push hard enough to break the skin of my leg. I lean on the plunger with everything I’ve got. Watch the pea under my skin turn into a marble, into a rock. Try to massage it. Tell myself that the drug doesn’t need my blood to travel.

  I try to pull myself up, scrabbling on furniture, doorknobs, anything. Somewhere along the way, I catch a handle, and the alarms start.

  I blink, and I’m in the alley. It’s raining.

  I blink, and I’m in the hallway, hanging onto the fire alarm, and it’s raining.

  I flop forward.

  * * *

  She’s a speck now, at the end of the alley. From here, she could be just another woman on her way home, just another hooker on the street looking for work. She’s fading into the haze of the rain, and I don’t recognize her shape anymore. She shimmers, turns and disappears, and I let the high wash over me.

  I pull myself to my feet. Stagger around in the rain. Dance like no one is watching. Clearwater is amazing. I could do anything. Be anything. So could she. I have to find her. Three blocks later, I do.

  I see her in an alley, feel the heat of anger in my cheeks. I told her not to do this. I warned her. She’s there, leaning against the wall, dancing with someone.

  I push forward in the shadows, drawing my gun. Something clatters to the ground. I crouch low. She takes a minute to look around, decides it was probably a rat, goes back to her conversation. I get up slowly, wrapping my fingers around the knife handle. I sheathe it.

  I’m free of the Doctor now, probably have to spend the rest of my life running. She’s coming with me. Whether she likes it or not.

  He moves around the corner next to her, forty-something, balding, laughing his pudgy laugh. I don’t recognize him. But I recognize what’s in his hand. Surgical tubing, a vial between his ring and middle finger. He shakes it at her and smiles.

  And she kisses him.

  Her delicate little face, not even a woman yet, she presses her lips to his greasy, jowly face and keeps it there. She wants what he’s got.

  She takes the needle from him, starts tying the tube around her arm. My face still burns from the bottle cut, my tongue is still swollen. When I see the needle, I forget her for a second, wanting to take what she has.

  But she’s my daughter. She’s more important than erasing my pain. She has the needle at the crook of her elbow, and it’s enough for me. I see the rest of her life, a series of these men and these alleys, doing anything she can to get what she wants. She could have had more. She should have had more. This man will be the first in a long line of misery for her.

  Unless I do something.

  I can do something.

  I start running forward, gun leveled, his fat face in line with the barrel. I’m too excited to do it right. I don’t squeeze, I pull.

  The shot misses. Or maybe it goes right where I wanted it to.

  She spins around, a neat little pirouette, slumps to the alley floor clutching what’s left of her arm. He doesn’t even turn to see where the shot came from, just starts running. I breathe, focus, squeeze, still running.

  The back of his thigh ripples, a dark stain spreads on his khaki pants. He collapses, and I’m on top of him, demanding his name.

  Charles, he says. Baldacci. She brought me here, he says, are you a cop?

  There’s a wailing behind me, bouncing off the walls. Not sirens. It’s her. Crying.

  She’s crying, and he has to suffer.

  I don’t know her I swear, got nothing to do with her, he says. You got a beef with her, go ahead and take care of it. I just came here on referral.

  His lower lip is trembling. He raises his arms up to show he means no harm, and his sleeve rolls back. He’s wearing a black armband, one lonely stripe showing him to be little more than cannon fodder for Hooded Jack.

  Everyone knows she’s the best, he says. If you want ’em young, he says.

  What are you, he asks, her mother?

  I jam the gun barrel into his mouth hard enough to shatter his teeth. And I pull. Two quick shots. He twitches once and he’s gone. But it’s not enough for me. I hammer him again and again, erasing his face, showing the world how ugly he is.

  Stop, she screams behind me, and I do.

  I slump over, my fingers tracing over the gun, my eyes glazed and wandering.

  Why would you do this? Why would you hurt yourself?

  She’s not listening to me. Or maybe she just can’t understa
nd. I push the needle under her nose.

  This will kill you, I say. You want a whole life of fucking men in back alleys to score a cheap hit? You know where this will get you?

  She gasps and squeezes what’s left of her arm. Her elbow is ripped open like a piñata, little more than gristle and tendons holding it together.

  I see the needle in my hand, know it’s all that can stop her crying. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted, just to stop her crying, keep her happy.

  I inject into her neck, trying to find the quickest way to make her feel good again, and it works. Her crying stops, becomes a brief whimper, and then she’s almost sleeping.

  I see myself, see the needle dangling from her neck.

  I put it there.

  And this is what she has in store for the rest of her life.

  Me.

  She deserves better.

  She deserves no pain. She deserves no suffering. A quick, simple, clean…

  Shot.

  She’s laying sprawled across the ground, a dark black hole in her forehead, her eyes somewhere else. She’s gone. She’s free from pain. She’ll never suffer again.

  It’s easy to do what you think you can’t. You just close your eyes and think of other things.

  I’ll take it all on for her. I’ll suffer three times for every pain she’s ever felt. I’ll work to make this up to her, to make it right. I’ll find a way to bring order.

  And now there are sirens echoing off the walls. Ambulances pull up, and I fall to the ground, cover my head as the rain puddles build around me, filling with the blood of Charles Baldacci, my daughter, my tears.

  You think you know yourself, and you turn out to be full of surprises. You see an event from far enough away to finally see everything, and you realize maybe, just maybe you were wrong. Maybe there is no list, no conspiracy, no crazy hitwoman. Maybe there was just a drug addict who didn’t want her daughter going down the same road, so she did the only thing she could. To try to make a difference. To stop her life from being pointless.

  And I realize that everything I’ve ever done is pointless.