Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  I’d lost loved ones.

  But I’d never reached these depths of hopeless despair.

  Never felt desperation this intense.

  I didn’t see a way out.

  All I could see was life in a wheelchair, losing my husband, growing estranged from my daughter, waiting around for one of those psychos from my past to put me out of my misery.

  Not a happy ending.

  But an ending.

  That was the only hope I had left.

  “One man with a gun can control a hundred without one.”

  VLADIMIR LENIN

  “When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand.”

  RAYMOND CHANDLER

  GAFF

  I set a wake-up alarm on my desktop app set for seven am, but I didn’t need it. I was up all night.

  Practicing switching out magazines.

  Wiping down my gun bag and contents so there weren’t fingerprints on anything.

  #Thinking.

  #Plotting.

  #Revising.

  This would be the biggest day of my life, and I’d planned hard for it. Approaches and maps and routes, contingencies and potential surprises.

  I was pretty solid.

  But I’d already broken the first two of Gaff’s Eleven Rules.

  When I wasted Marko, I did a small crime b4 the big crime (Rule #1) and I killed someone I know (Rule #2).

  #BadGaff.

  I also broke Rule #8, don’t leave evidence. Those bullets I left in Marko’s body could be traced to my Merican, bcuz of the rifling marks on the slugs. I wanted to kill a whole bunch of people today, and the cops could link those deaths with Marko’s, and I could be a suspect bcuz my driver’s license said I lived in Marko’s building.

  Fail. Shouldn’t have broke my own rules.

  #Paranoid.

  All night, as I trained, I kept waiting for the sirens and the red and blue flashing lights.

  All night, I tried to divvy solutions.

  The smart thing to do was call it off. Wait until the heat died down. Move to a different state. Start over.

  But I didn’t want to start over.

  I was jonesing to kill again.

  Fiending.

  I considered moving Marko’s body. But that was like sexing up a big sack of forensic evidence, while the public snapped me. Too easy to be seen. Too hard to get away with. Even digging the bullets out of his body would cover me with his DNA.

  #LetItGo.

  So @ 6 am I dressed for the biggest day of my life.

  Baggy jeans. Boots. Red shirt. My black hoodie. Rave mask around my neck. Shooting glasses in my pocket. Earplugs in another pocket (my ears were still cashed from yesterday.) My gun bag containing my buffed Merican, all six drum mags, my two extra mags, gloves, my helmet, and an empty garbage bag.

  Then I needed to pack. Chill, bcuz I didn’t have much. Suitcase, bedroll, two garbage bags worth of food and shit. Take maybe three trips to the car to load everything.

  After today, I’d move to a new state. Get a new driver’s license and a passport in case I needed to go to Canada or Mexico. Stay @ a motel until the heat died down and I was sure I wasn’t on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. Then I could rent a new apartment, and do it all again.

  And if I was Most Wanted, I could get me a BitCoin wallet, hop on darknet, and score a fake ID. They were expensive, and no guarantees I wouldn’t be scammed. And even if I landed legit tags, I had no addy to send them to. But it was an option.

  #WorryLater.

  #FocusOnTheNow.

  The first thing I took to my car was my suitcase, my body armor inside. After I locked it in the trunk I saw the black and white parked in front of Marko’s apartment, lights flashing.

  #WorryNow.

  I considered options.

  Climb into the car, take off, go back to the apartment after 5-0 leaves?

  Negative. I had plans for the day. Plans that involved my arsenal.

  My arsenal was still in the apartment. And the countdown to killtime was tick-tick-ticking away fast.

  Ignore the cops, keep loading the car?

  Risky. I didn’t want to get stopped with a weapon when someone in my building was just shot.

  Approach the police, ask what’s going on?

  Misdirection and finesse might work. But it might also draw suspicion.

  Best case scenario, cops don’t see me @ all.

  #Stealthy.

  I waited for the pigs to go inside Marko’s building and figured I had maybe three minutes before back-up arrived.

  I hauled ass.

  Trying not to look sus was harder than I would have guessed, bcuz thinking about being suspicious made me hyper-aware and that hyper-awareness was sus. It was like stepping into a pool of boiling water and trying not to think about being boiled alive.

  I practiced expressions in the mirror a lot. I could fake happy and sad and bored and interested when I was looking @ myself, but I never knew if I could pull them off when I didn’t have a reflection to check on. I tried to read people’s faces like they were mirrors, and match how they stared @ me, but it always felt forced and fake.

  Walking back to my apartment, I tried to appear relaxed, but I was blinking more than I wanted to. I had two garbage bags of stuff, my bed roll, plus my gun bag.

  The gun bag was most important. My clothes, food, bedroll, toiletries—all that shit could be replaced.

  At the same time, if I left stuff in the apartment, it could be traced back to me. My computer had a password, but that was crackable. My prescription meds had my name on them. I shoulda thrown that shit away. My prints weren’t on file, but I’d left them everywhere.

  #BadGaff.

  If I’d just kept a lid on my anger, like everyone had been telling me for years, I wouldn’t be in this bonked scenario.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have quit my meds.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have left Ohio.

  Maybe maybe maybe…

  I got into my apartment without being seen, and went through my options again.

  I could wait it out. If cops knocked, I didn’t have to answer.

  But I’d miss my killtime window.

  I could try to carry everything out @ once. Super sus. It would look like I was fleeing.

  I went to the bathroom, checked the new mirror I’d installed. Put on a bored face. Tried to freeze it like that.

  Then I grabbed my gun bag and left the apartment.

  Back-up had arrived faster than I guessed, breaking my Rule #5; no response times.

  If I kept breaking my own damn rules I’d be in jail b4 breaking any active shooting records.

  I watched the cops out of the corner of my eye as I made my way to my car. One of them noticed me and began to walk over.

  Okurrr. Don’t want him to know my car, so don’t want to head that way. I swerved directions, heading for the sidewalk.

  “Hold on a moment.”

  Here we go.

  The rules for dealing with cops are all about knowing your rights, and knowing what they are legally allowed to do.

  A murder has been committed. They’re looking for suspects and witnesses.

  Being told by the cop to hold on was a tricky area that fell somewhere between a request and an order. Requests could be ignored. But if I didn’t stop to talk to him, that could give him reason to suspect me, and then reason to detain me. And if that was an order, and I didn’t stop, then things could escalate.

  I stood to face him, hands @ my sides, making eye-contact and trying to look curious but not guilty.

  He swaggered up and stood a few feet away, chest puffed out, about five inches taller than me. Standard cop outfit; black shirt and pants and shoes, badge on chest, radio above the badge, various patches, holster with gun, mace, cuff case, spare magazines.

  “Do you live around here?” he asked.

  “I don’t talk to police.”

  He puffed up a little more. “Why is that?”

&nb
sp; “I’m aware of my rights. I don’t have to answer.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  A gun. That I bought legally. But I don’t have to tell you that.

  “I’m aware of my rights, I don’t have to answer.”

  “Let me see your ID.”

  “South Carolina doesn’t have a stop and identify statute. I don’t have to show you ID.”

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  “I don’t have to answer. Am I being detained?”

  “There was a murder in this apartment building. Do you know anything about that?”

  I know everything about it. I did it.

  But the right to remain silent applies, pig.

  “Am I free to go?”

  “You know I can pat you down.”

  “No, you can’t. I don’t consent to a search. You only have the right to search me if you have reasonable suspicion that I’m armed and dangerous. I was walking, minding my own business, and stopped when you asked.”

  #ThanksACLU.

  He hitched up his belt and stuck out his chest. “Why are you being so evasive?”

  “Being aware of my rights doesn’t constitute reasonable suspicion. I don’t have to answer your questions. You have no right to search me or detain me. You certainly don’t have probable cause to arrest me.”

  Even though I’m going to waste a whole shitload of peeps today. If this douche brought me in, it would be the biggest bust of his life.

  But the law was on my side, not his.

  “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  “Officer, am I free to go, or are you detaining me because I have a medical condition?”

  “What medical condition?”

  “Since you haven’t ordered to me to stop, I’m assuming I’m free to go.”

  He stared @ me. I stared back, thinking about the Merican and 1000 rounds of ammo in my gun case.

  “Were you here yesterday? Did you hear any gunshots?”

  “Am I free to go?”

  “I’m just trying to solve a crime here. Don’t you want to help?”

  “I’ll ask again. Are you detaining me?”

  After a few seconds of silence, he said, “Have a good day.”

  I nodded and walked slowly away, turning my back on him, feeling his eyes on me.

  I got lucky. This cop played by the rules. He could have abused my rights, searched me and my bag, and arrested me on some bullshit charge. My gun was legal. The paperweight wasn’t.

  I probably would have gotten off with a good lawyer, and the giggle switch would be inadmissible bcuz of illegal search and seizure. But that would cost money, and take time.

  I was running short on time.

  After walking out of the cop’s sight, I circled back, making my way to my car, careful I wasn’t seen. I put the gun bag in the trunk and considered my next move.

  I still had stuff in the apartment. It wasn’t stuff I absolutely needed, but it could possibly be traced back to me, and I was burning through my savings pretty quick and didn’t want to waste money replacing everything.

  My preferred move was to clear out the rest of it. But that also risked more cops seeing me and wanting to talk to me, and if those cops weren’t as by-the-book as the one who just hit me up, it could lead to trouble.

  Take a minute.

  What the move.

  #Decisions.

  I decided to risk it and grab my shit. Once I cleared out, it was unlikely the cops could trace me back to this apartment. I had Marko’s copy of my lease. Even if they found his hidden panel, there was no two-way mirror in my bathroom.

  I walked back, keeping an eye on the cops. More arrived, six cars total. Small town, probably their entire police force. They’d call for assistance from nearby precincts, or maybe the Staties or FBI.

  I managed to get back into my crib without being seen, grabbed both garbage bags and my bedroll even though everything was heavy and unwieldy, and headed back to my car with the bags slung over my shoulder, like a killer Santa Claus.

  Don’t mind me. Just taking out the garbage.

  Nobody minded me.

  #HideInPlainSight.

  I loaded my car, dropped my apartment key into a nearby sewer grate, and considered my next move.

  The only loose threads were the electric company, and my moms.

  The electric company was easy to deal with. I drove to a nearby drug store, bought a prepaid credit card with cash, and bought a cheap cell phone where I paid by the minute. It took ten minutes to activate the phone, and I called the electric company and stated there had been a mistake. I didn’t rent the apartment after all, and I wanted to cancel my service.

  I was told that I had a balance of six dollars, and I paid using my new card.

  Moms I’d deal with later.

  It was 7 A.M.

  The lines were already forming.

  #TimeToKill.

  “It’s better to have a gun and not need it than to need a gun and not have it.”

  CHRISTIAN SLATER

  “When a strong man, fully armed, guards his house, his possessions are safe.”

  LUKE 11:21

  JACK

  The wind woke me up.

  A howling, screaming wind that banged on the window shutters and pounded on the roof and forced you to accept that this rock we live on is mean and deadly and doesn’t give two shits about life.

  Hurricane Harry had arrived.

  I looked for Phin, saw the empty divot in the bed where he should have been, and then checked the time.

  Bedside clock was off. We’d lost power.

  We had a backup generator that ran on propane, but it only powered some parts of the house.

  I checked my phone, which had managed half a charge before the electricity died. It was a little after seven.

  I tried to listen to the dark house, sense Phin’s presence as he made breakfast or straightened up or acted domestic in some other way.

  All I could hear was the wind.

  Duffy the hound, whose tubular body shape wasn’t conducive to leaping up on the bed, had somehow managed to climb up and was curled at my feet, shaking.

  Mr. Friskers, as antisocial an animal that ever breathed, was lying next to Duffy.

  Bad weather friends.

  “It’s okay, guys. The storm will pass.”

  The words felt counterfeit the moment they left my lips.

  I had a fleeting thought that Phin had gotten up early to bang the whore he’d been wasting our condoms on, then remembered it was launch day for the Gamemaster 2.

  I hoped he didn’t take Sam out in this storm.

  I awkwardly undulated out of bed and into my chair, and rolled into Sam’s room.

  Gone.

  What kind of unfit father takes his child out in a hurricane?

  I checked the Find My iPhone app. They were a few blocks away, coming home.

  Then I made my way to the kitchen, took out a carafe of cold brew, and drank straight from it. Hot coffee was my thing, but patience had become elusive and waiting for java to be made angered me, so Phin kept the fridge stocked with cold coffee, steeping grounds in a fine mesh strainer. I didn’t let on how much I liked it. Because I’m a jerk.

  After sucking in six ounces of caffeine while listening to Harry try to pull my roof off, Duffy ran past and began to bark.

  The door to the garage opened, and Phin came in, our daughter in one arm, a large plastic bag from VideoTown in the other.

  “Mommy! We got City Warriors 2!”

  Sam squirmed out of Phin’s grasp and bounded over to me, enthusiastic and huggy.

  “Awesome,” I smiled, finding the strength to fake excitement. “Is the hurricane scaring you?”

  Sam frowned. “There are a lot of trees in the street. Daddy had to drive around them.”

  “But the Gamemaster 2 is more important than any dumb old hurricane.” I eyed Phin.

  Sam said, “Yeet.”

  Phin shrugged off his dripping trench coat
. “There was a line. We saw a whole flock of sun umbrellas blowing up the road, and the rain is so bad it’s like a waterfall. There was still a line around the block.”

  “But well worth taking our daughter along.”

  “Do you want Sam to face life, even when it’s risky, or hide in the house when things get tough?”

  Ouch. I thought of a few responses I could hurt him with, but not in front of Sam.

  “Can we set it up, Daddy?”

  Phin nodded, and then Sam bounced out of my lap and followed her father to the living room. They unboxed it together, and Phin spent five minutes hooking up cords and cables, and then the Gamemaster 2 logo appeared on our flatscreen and Sam squealed, clapping her chubby little hands with the kind of enthusiasm only a child could generate.

  The Gamemaster 2 audibly thanked us for buying a Gamemaster 2, and then announced it required a 480 gigabyte update that would take 83 minutes to download and install.

  “I can’t even,” Sam said.

  When we moved in together, Phin and I split up household duties. Since I’d gotten shot, I’d been derelict in mine. Breakfast was usually my responsibility, but Phin dutifully got up to make some eggs, and Sam tagged along.

  They didn’t invite me.

  I thought about showering, wondered why I should bother, which led me to wondering why I should bother with anything. Outside, the hurricane assaulted our home, but I couldn’t watch the storm through the closed shutters. There was a whole world out there, loud and angry and trying to get in, and I couldn’t see it.

  My phone rang.

  Power down, but cell service and Internet still active. Category 5’s were obviously overrated.

  The Darling Center. Probably calling to remind me my class and therapy were canceled.

  Turned out I was way off.

  “Jill? It’s Dr. Agmont. Your mother was tested yesterday for TIA.”

  That didn’t sound good. I asked the hot shrink what it meant.

  “Transient ischemic attack. A ministroke that temporarily cut off blood to her brain.”

  Oh, shit.

  I’m such a dumb ass. I thought she’d been drinking.

  “Is she okay? Can I talk to her?

  But I already knew the answer. If she was okay, I wouldn’t have been getting a call. Or Mom would have called me on her own.