Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  I wanted to kill someone. Anyone.

  But first, I wanted to see what I looked like, holding the gun.

  I put on my black hoodie, my shooting glasses, and my rave mask. If y’all don’t know, a rave mask is like a face scarf. Made of breathable nylon, it goes over your head and covers your neck and face up to your nose. You look like a bank robber. In my case, a bank robber with a giant mouth full of needle teeth.

  I went into the bathroom, staring @ myself in the full-length wall mirror, and it was like I wasn’t seeing me, but watching some hella ultraviolence movie. Srsly, I could almost hear the background music start to swell up right b4 I said something badass.

  “I’m doing it for the lulz.”

  Then I whipped the gun up into shooting position—

  —and totes cracked the mirror.

  Fail.

  #CyaSecurityDeposit.

  The twinges disappeared, and I felt like I felt when I had to go see the principal or the school counsellor or my therapist.

  The mirror had a big spiderweb crack in the center, about the size of a pizza, with a black triangle hole in the center where a shard of glass had fallen out. I checked the floor.

  No broken glass.

  I raised up my hand to touch the hole, careful I didn’t cut myself, and my finger went inside. All the way in, up to the third knuckle.

  WTF. Where’s the wall?

  I got my tactical flashlight, then went back to the bathroom and shined the light into the hole, trying to see inside.

  It looked hollow, but the hole was too small to see much.

  Eff it. The glass was already broken. I turned off the Powertac and held it butt first, smacking it hard against the mirror while keeping my head turned to the side.

  A big chunk of glass fell into—

  Holy shit. A big empty space behind my mirror.

  I stuck my head through and turned on the flashlight.

  The space was about a meter wide. I looked to the right, and it extended a few meters and then seemed to turn @ a corner.

  When I looked down, I noticed two things.

  First, there were a bunch of wadded up tissues on the plywood floor.

  Second, when I looked @ the inside of the glass, I could see through it.

  Someone had been watching me through a one-way mirror when I went to the bathroom.

  That’s why I heard giggling the other day. It wasn’t in my head.

  Cool as ice, I kicked out the rest of the glass, grabbed my Merican, pulled back the slide to load a round like the instructions said, switched off the safety, made sure the giggle was flipped to SEMI, and stepped into the space between the walls.

  Feeling like back in middle school, roaming the halls, looking for a fight.

  Chill.

  It was dark, and my Powertac was bright AF, so I dimmed it down. The space between the walls wasn’t quite wide enough for me to walk normal, so I had to do a sort of sideways shuffle, making sure I didn’t get my feet caught on the 2x4 wooden framing boards on either side. I approached the corner turn, seeing nothing but plywood walls, occasional nails and screws poking through the plywood, and two more balls of tissue.

  When I turned the corner, it was the same. Plywood, studs every two feet.

  After a few yards I turned another corner and saw something shiny and bright on the wall ahead.

  I turned off the flashlight and crept to it.

  Glass. Staring through it, I saw someone’s bathroom. Same layout as mine, with a clear shower curtain hanging above the bathtub, and a clear view of the toilet.

  I shuffled around and stepped on something. Put on my light.

  More wadded up tissue.

  I continued down the hallway, taking a left and came to a four-way intersection.

  I fished through my pocket, set down a nickel @ my feet, then kept going straight, taking right turns and left turns as the corners changed directions.

  Found five more one-way mirrors, all in bathrooms, and then came up to the same intersection, my nickel still on the ground, but on my right.

  I went straight, found another bathroom, and then after the next corner I found something different.

  A panel in the wall between the studs, screwed on with hinges and springs.

  I held my breath, listening.

  Heard the faint sound of crying.

  When I walked into the walls, I was all adrenaline and twinge and high key fire, so I hadn’t noticed the weight of the Merican in my hand. As I listened, I realized my hand was tired from gripping it, so I changed to my other hand and wiggled my fingers.

  Then, slow and easy, I pushed on the panel.

  It gave a little resistance, but opened quiet. Prolly oiled. I peeked out an inch, saw a hallway with carpet. Well lit, so I killed and pocketed the flashlight and kept listening.

  More crying. Sounded like a little kid. But not IRL. It had a tinny, fake sound, like speakers. A TV or computer.

  I continued to push on the panel until I could slip through, then closed it softly. I was in an apartment hallway, the living room to my right, the bathroom straight ahead through a doorway. The sound came from my left.

  I looked @ the panel I’d come through, saw it was a huge framed poster of a bunch of kids in black and white. On the bottom it said THE LITTLE RASCALS.

  More sounds of a kid sobbing and begging please no stop. And other sounds.

  A man. Grunting.

  Grunting in real life.

  I crept up on him like I’d seen spec ops guys do on YouTube, gun in front of me in a steady two-handed grip, walking in a slow and steady crouch, making sure I kept the Merican completely level.

  I came to a doorway, then went through fast, and saw—

  Marko. My creepy sus landlord.

  He sat @ his desk in a computer chair, his back to me, about three meters away. A box of tissue was propped next to the big screen monitor showing computer porn of a little kid crying while a fat man rawdogged him from behind.

  Marko had one hand in his big tub of sour gummy candy on the floor.

  The other hand was in his lap, working his meat as he stared @ the screen.

  #KillTheFucker.

  I flicked on the laser, a dot of green appearing on the back of Marko’s chair, dead center.

  I put my finger on the trigger.

  My blepharospasm went into overdrive, and I’d never had so many twinges in my life.

  Unreal.

  It all felt unreal.

  It all felt so right.

  But I couldn’t do it like this.

  I needed to look this pedo prick in the eyes.

  “Hey, Marko.”

  Marko spun around in his swivel chair, fully naked, eyes comically wide, his legs kicking over the gummy candy, his fist still clenched on himself under the folds of his fat belly.

  “Jesus! Don’t kill me!”

  I moved the dot up to his head, remembered that I’d never fired a gun b4 and hadn’t followed the instructions to make sure the laser was properly adjusted, and switching my aim to his fat belly, aligning the dot with the fiber optic tritium sights.

  He raised his hands up, palms out, his little dick waving @ me. “I’m sick. I have a disease. I need to get treatment. I never hurt nobody. I never touched nobody. All I do is look. I swear to god.”

  “You’ve been watching me in the bathroom.”

  “What? Who are you?”

  I pulled down my rave mask, let him see my face.

  “Guthrie.”

  “You’ve been jerking off while watching me.”

  “I would never—”

  “Don’t lie, you piece of shit. I know about the two-way mirrors. I saw the tissues.”

  He began to cry. “Please. I’ll do anything. I have money. I’ll do whatever you want. What do you want, Guthrie? Name it.”

  “I want you to be my first,” I said.

  “Your first? Your first what, honey?”

  Honey?

  I held the Merican tight
with both hands and pulled the trigger.

  It kicked like a cat I was trying to strangle.

  The sound was crazy loud, so loud it stabbed my eardrums.

  My aim was off, and instead of hitting his stomach, I hit Marko higher up, in the chest. He opened his mouth and might have yelled, but I couldn’t hear him bcuz my ears were still shook.

  He tried to get up, falling to his knees, his hands reaching out for me.

  That’s right. Come at me, bro.

  I fired two more times.

  The first missed.

  The second hit the top of his head as he leaned forward.

  His brains blurped out of his skull like I’d squeezed a plastic cup of vanilla pudding.

  Sick.

  OnPoint.

  Lit.

  Fire.

  High key.

  Somehow, even with half his head gone, Marko kept breathing for almost a minute.

  #Curious.

  After he stopped breathing, he twitched for a while.

  #Wet.

  After he stopped twitching, the blood continued to soak the carpet under him, stretching out slowly in an expanding oval.

  I watched hard, memorizing every second.

  4laterz.

  4ever.

  I’d remember this moment 4ever.

  Maybe I stood there for five minutes.

  Maybe it was an hour.

  Pure sensory overload.

  Everything I hoped it would be, and so much more.

  Eventually, Logical Gaff nudged Emotional Gaff and told me to stop effing around.

  Three shots fired. Even with the suppressor, they were loud AF. Shoulda worn my earplugs.

  Someone could report it. 5-0 could be on the way.

  I needed to keep calm, figure out what to do.

  Evidence? Did I leave evidence?

  Shell casings. As I fired, the spent shells kicked out the ejector port of my Merican.

  I’d loaded them while wearing gloves, so there wouldn’t be prints. But maybe the cops could figure out where they came from.

  I found two of them on the floor to my right.

  Where was the third?

  I searched around, and saw it had landed on a bookshelf, next to a copy of A Clockwork Orange.

  We read that in high school. Real horrorshow.

  Pocketing the brass, I tried to think of what the police would look for.

  How’d I get in?

  I didn’t want them finding the hidden wall panel, bcuz that would lead to my apartment and my broken mirror. I signed the lease. It could be traced to me.

  The lease had to be somewhere in this apartment.

  I walked into the room, stepping around the widening pool of blood, and came to a file cabinet.

  I found all of Marko’s leases in the second drawer, and it only took me twenty seconds to find mine.

  Into my pocket.

  #Cake.

  What else?

  Only thing I touched was the panel when I came in, and I had on my gloves.

  Shit… the cops would wonder how I got in.

  I went to Marko’s front door and unlocked it.

  What else?

  Footprints on the carpet?

  I squinted @ the floor. It didn’t look like I was leaving footprints, but I didn’t know what sort of gadgets and gizmos 5-0 had to figure out foot size and weight and shoe brand. Plus I probably had incriminating fibers all over my soles.

  I need to 86 the shoes after I jet.

  What else do cops look for?

  Motive.

  The motive was right there, on the screen. I did a quick inspection of Marko’s computer, saw he was running Tor and a VPN, which would mask his browsing history.

  Easy fix. I just paused the child porn video. When 5-0 showed up, they’d see what he was watching, know he was a pedo, and assume one of his victims caught up with him.

  The only thing left for me to do was fix my mirror, and then there would be no evidence leading to me.

  I wondered if I should search the apartment. Might be cash. Or guns. I could make it look like a robbery.

  But then I’d be in deep shit if I got caught with any of Marko’s stuff.

  #BadIdea.

  I GTFO and weaved my way through the wall passage, remembering to stop and pick up my nickel @ the intersection, then made my way back to my apartment.

  #ToDoList.

  Clean up the broken glass.

  Ditch my shoes someplace far away.

  Buy a replacement mirror and hang it up.

  My face felt weird. Tight. I touched my mouth.

  I was smiling.

  I NEVER smiled.

  #GreatestDayOfMyLife.

  Then someone banged on my front door.

  Cops?

  4realz?

  Merican in hand, I crept to the door.

  Can’t let them take me.

  Not now.

  Not this fast, right after I got my first taste.

  I flipped the giggle switch from SEMI to AUTO.

  If they want me, they’ll have to kill me b4 I kill them.

  #BlazeOfGlory.

  Another knock, louder this time.

  I peeked through the peephole.

  No shit.

  Moms.

  “I know you’re in there, Guthrie. I can hear you.”

  Day-am. What do I do?

  Kill her?

  That would lead 5-0 to me.

  Ignore her?

  Maybe she’ll go away.

  “Let me in, Guthrie. Or I’ll go to the police and report my car stolen.”

  Day-am.

  Think fast, Gaff.

  Finesse.

  “Gimme a sec. Gotta get dressed.”

  I hurried to the bathroom, put my Merican on the sink, and shut the door. Then I peeled off my latex gloves and shoved them into my pockets, and went to answer the door.

  #WorstDayEver.

  “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people.”

  LAO TSE

  “If guns don’t kill people, why do we give people guns when they go to war? Why not just send the people?”

  OZZY OSBOURNE

  JACK

  You’ve reached the voicemail of Harry McGlade, Private Eye. If you’d like to hire me for a lot of money, press 1. If you are an attractive person anywhere on the gender spectrum and would like to have sex with me, press 2.”

  I sighed. “I know this isn’t your voicemail, Harry.”

  “If you think this isn’t my voicemail, press 3.”

  I didn’t press 3.

  “Go ahead, Jackie. Press it.”

  “I’m going to hang up if you don’t quit dicking around.”

  “Dicking around is my specialty. What made you finally call back? You broke? Lonely? Feeling guilty because you discarded our friendship just like a used condom after banging some whore with bleeding anal warts?”

  I did not need that image in my head. “I’ve giving you five more seconds to get to the point and then I’m blocking your number.”

  “Testy. Rehab must be going bad.”

  “Rehab’s going fine.”

  “You suck at lying. But enough about you. I’m in LA and need you on a case.”

  Can’t stand up without braces, and hiding in Florida under a fake name, and suddenly I’m in demand. “I’m retired. And in a wheelchair.”

  “I knew you were lying about rehab. But the wheelchair is fine. Hollywood understands disabilities. There are ramps everywhere, wide doorways, and special seating at certain restaurants, accessible to the rear entrance in back so no one has to look at your pathetic crippled ass while you eat. Plus, you get the best parking spots.”

  Tolerance. That’s McGlade. “I’m not chasing killers anymore, Harry.”

  “No killers. Simple skiptrace. I’ve been hired by a bunch of uber rich folks. They want me to find a guy.”

  “Missing person?” I hated myself for asking. Add yet another reason to hate myself.

  “More
like someone who wants to stay hidden.”

  “If it’s simple, why do you need me?”

  “This person has… how should I put it? This person has harmed a group of people and they’d like him found and brought to justice.”

  “So you want me to help you hunt down and kill someone. What is he? A rapist? Embezzler? Blackmailer?”

  “None of the above. And we’re not killing anyone. When we find him, we’ll alert the authorities, and let the criminal justice system have him. The perp calls himself Plastic. Ever heard of him?”

  “No.” And I didn’t want to hear about him. I was supposed to be reconnecting with my squad, not fielding job offers.

  “Been in the news a few times on the West Coast. But hella more cases unreported. There’s a group of fourteen of his victims who hired me, pooling together a shit ton of money. A metric shit ton.”

  The café had cleared out pretty quick. Staff had gone. Only me and two other tables left.

  I didn’t want to know what Plastic did, but at the same time, a small part of me wanted to know. Maybe I was born warped.

  “What did he do to these people?”

  “Various things. I’ll be honest; it ain’t pretty. You know how a plastic surgeon tries to fix flaws, make people look better? Well this Plastic dude is grabbing pretty people, and making them look worse.”

  “Torture,” I said. “No way am I getting involved. I’ve had enough of torture.”

  “It’s not really torture. When he does his, uh, his procedures, his victims are under anesthetic. They just wake up… altered.”

  “What do you mean, altered?”

  “Well, one woman, he switched her hands and feet.”

  I wasn’t sure I heard that correctly. “What?”

  “He cut off her hands and feet, and stitched her feet where her hands went, and vice versa. Her new doctor said it was really one helluva complicated thing to do. He can’t switch them back until she’s fully healed.”

  I unconsciously looked at my hand and imagined my foot there. “That’s horrible.”

  “Horrible, yes. But not as horrible as, say, Tibetan Screaming Sickness. You know, that virus that makes you scream until your throat rips itself out and you drown in your own blood.”

  “You made that up.”

  “It’s a real thing. Really tough to treat, because no one wants to be around someone who screams all the time. In fact, most of the deaths are caused by care providers, who just want a little quiet. But you’re getting off track. This Plastic guy, he’s warped. But really skilled. He’ obviously has advanced medical training. The two of us should be able to track him down, no problem.”