It’s going to be a late night, and I’ve got a full day of meetings tomorrow. Who fills up a Friday with meetings? In the summer, no less. Usually on Fridays during the summer, people leave work early. Heading off to the beach or the mountains for the weekend.
A quick nap after work then I shower and dress in my “work” clothes. A ball cap with my hair in a bun at the base of my neck helps alter my appearance. Another canister of wet wipes for the car and I’m ready. The plastic covers the front and back, and the pink gun is loaded. Waiting. The voice urges me to hurry.
Am I ready? I try to tell myself I’m not taking a useful life. Rather ridding the earth of someone who does nothing more than consume its resources without giving anything back. By removing this man, I may save other horses. Other animals. How do murderers and serial killers do what they do? Is it easier because they are flawed? Or, like a person trained to kill, can you become desensitized enough to do your job without agonizing about it the rest of your days? But it’s not like I can talk to anyone. I will deal with the emotional upheaval by myself. Like I do everything.
In the car, I find a station on satellite radio that plays what I call “pump-you-up music.” The kind you hear in an action movie. When you leave the theater, you want to get in your car and floor it, driving down the roads with reckless abandon, the windows down, hair streaming out behind you. The kind athletes listen to before a big game or performance.
The music keeps me from dwelling on the taking of another human life. Soldiers kill for their country and the greater good. I save animals from the same fate as those who have been abused or murdered. People go on my list of good doings. Because those who start out cruel to animals go on to commit other acts, including murder, I tell myself I’m saving people.
I drive past the man’s house, taking the next left—the dirt driveway I spied when I turned around yesterday. There’s a break in the trees and I see it. If I wasn’t looking for it I would’ve driven right past it. More like a path than a driveway. The headlights click off, the car stopping as I let my eyes adjust. There’s enough ambient light from the street and other houses to see my way. Slowly the vehicle inches forward, making as little noise as possible. It’s close to midnight, so the houses I pass are dark. Most people already asleep in preparation for the workday.
Halfway in, I come to a stop. Up ahead I see the house but don’t want to bring the car any closer in case he looks out and recognizes my Jeep. The keys stay in the ignition, ready and waiting. The muggy air presses in on me as I listen to the sounds of the night. Cars passing by on the road, frogs by the edge of a small pond croaking, and sounds of a ballgame emanating from the open windows. Otherwise, the night is still, as if nature holds its breath, knowing I am coming. Welcoming me into the blackness.
Coming up on the side of the house, I peer into the window through a crack in the curtains. Walt’s kicked back in a recliner, drinking Mountain Dew from a two-liter bottle. He turns his head, making me freeze. My breath whooshes out when I figure out he isn’t looking at me. Is there someone else in the house? Did I mishear him on the phone? I assumed it was his wife. The minutes tick by, the clock in my ribcage telling me time is passing. And the longer I take, the more risk someone sees or hears me. There are no other voices, no one else I can see.
Everything sounds loud—the sound of the grass under my shoes, my breath and heartbeat—as I creep around the house to the back door. The three cars I saw in the driveway yesterday are still there. They look like they’ve been sitting a long time. The windshield’s covered with dirt, leaves, twigs, and other debris.
Why couldn’t he be asleep? Make things easier. Having to look him in the eye sends a pang through my chest. I take no pleasure in murder. Only do what must be done.
Reaching out to the screen door, my hand hovers in midair. Someone is coming.
CHAPTER 23
THE SQUEAK OF MY SHOE on the step has me holding my breath. As fast as I can, I press myself against the siding, breathing slowly through my nose. The refrigerator door opens. The sound of a bottle opening and the rip of a bag are so close that the smell of sour cream and onion reaches my nose. I can hear the crunching. Smell the yeasty beer.
If he opens the door and looks out, he’ll see me. Black clothing or not. Finally the sounds grow fainter, the smell dissipates, and it’s quiet again. Light spills out of the screen door. Inside me, the clock ticks, yet I wait. Then I inch back to the steps and peek in the door. Kitchen’s empty. The crack of a bat on TV makes me flinch. Not now. Please, not now.
The gun is heavy in my hand, my intention seeming to weigh it down. Whatever they put on the inside of the gloves to make them easier to slip on feels gritty as my hands sweat. How do medical folks deal? Then again, it’s air conditioned inside the hospitals. Not as if they’re out in the field doing surgery.
The voice is insistent. Hold on, I tell it. Tilting my head back to look at the stars, I whisper, “For the life I am about to take, I accept the price.”
For someone who no longer prays, it’s as close as I can come. Forgiveness isn’t an option. I’m not asking, simply acknowledging what I’m about to do.
The screen door squeaks as I pull it open. Snatching my hand back, I look toward the hallway. Black spots appear in front of me. My mouth is dry and I wait.
Faint vibrations travel from my toes to my head. I feel like the string on a violin. The way it quivers after the bow is drawn across the strings.
Thank the stars for people who like their television loud. As I reach for the handle, I notice the edge of the screen is loose. When I push my hand forward, it goes right through. A smile breaks out across my face. People make it easy. Leave doors and windows unlocked. Car doors unlocked and even running with the keys inside as they dart in for milk or bread. Since this started, I’ve been obsessive about locking my doors. When I was home puttering around, I never used to lock the door. Hell, I’d even run out to the grocery and leave the door unlocked. You can be damn sure I lock everything up tight now. The worst part? Since I don’t like air conditioning, I used to always leave the windows open. No more. Now, I’ve started turning the air on. Goodbye fresh air. Doesn’t matter I’m on the third floor. I know all too well what can happen.
All three of these men haven’t maintained their homes, leave doors unlocked, and are unaware of what’s going on around them. It’s shocking. You’d think those committing such heinous acts would be more in tune with their environments. It’s possible these three are stupid. That I’ve been incredibly lucky and the next one won’t be so easy. As I’m halfway through the door, one leg in the kitchen, the other still on the step, it hits me. I’m already thinking of next time.
Aware of every sound, I stand in the kitchen, waiting and listening. Does he have any idea what’s coming for him? The kitchen is in direct contrast with the exterior of the house. It’s been remodeled with black appliances and what looks like granite. But it’s warm, not cool, to the touch when I run a gloved finger over the surface. A good imitation. The walls are painted a cheery yellow and the flooring looks like wood but is some kind of vinyl. Someone cares about this home. The wife I heard on the phone?
He may be coming back for another beer anytime. The timer is ticking, risk increasing with every minute. The hallway leads to a family room. I hug the paneling, craning my neck to peek in. This room hasn’t been updated. The walls are white and dingy, the carpet a dusky pink, worn in spots. But there’s a new-looking leather sofa. When he shifts, it makes noise. I could never take a nap on one of those.
The gun comes up. I step forward and the man sits up. Time stretches out, seconds turning to days. The sense of being outside my body, looking down, makes the entire scene feel like I’ve stepped into a movie.
He belches. His eyes meet mine and widen.
“What the—”
A shriek leaves my mouth. Walt moves fast, digging under the cushion, coming up with a gun. I spin and run through the hallway, skidding across the fake wood,
the screen door slamming behind me.
Footsteps sound. “You little bitch. I knew you was up to no good.”
A crack fills the air and a puff of dirt explodes by my feet. Adrenaline floods my system as I dive behind the dirty cars. There’s no time. I drop to flat to my stomach, look under the car, and see feet.
“Come on out now. Is this about the weed? I’ve got plenty; no need to steal.”
My hand’s shaking so badly I can’t aim. Breathe, dummy. It’s you or him. The voice repeats a mantra I recognize from my meditation class as I fight to calm myself.
He takes another step as I exhale. The gun stops bobbing up and down.
The shot hits him in the foot. He falls. Bolting to my feet, I shoot again, hitting him in the stomach. He staggers back then charges. The next shot is so close I feel the air move next to my head.
I lean against the car and aim. The shot hits him in the chest. He’s still coming, with one hand outstretched as if to stop me. Make it count, the voice demands. When my bullet tears through his face, he’s only five feet away. There’s a puff of red mist as he falls. Blood and other things I’d rather not think about pool around him.
One more shot to make sure. There’s blood spatter on the windshield of his useless car, like paint spattered across a canvas.
As I drive away, I’m grateful I turned the SUV around when I parked. Once I hit the road, I turn the lights on. The house to the right is lit up. I’m grateful the Jeep is as black as the night around me. Taking the next turn away from the house, I see flashing lights a long ways down the road.
The car hits the curb and I pull my gaze back to the road in front of me. No one is behind me. Did the people in the house see me?
Once I make my way to a shopping center, I park away from the lights and change. Everything goes in the trash, including the five spent shells. What would have happened if I had to take another shot and was out of bullets? Thoughts bounce around in my head. Did I plan poorly? What could I have done differently?
The gloves land in the trash and I stand there a moment feeling the night envelop me. I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, my flip-flops smacking the pavement as I walk back to the vehicle.
Hell, there’s a car pulling into the parking lot. Sitting in the front seat, I hold the phone up to my ear, gesturing madly as the headlights sweep across me.
The car continues on, using the road as a cut-through. The night has taken its toll. Slumping in the seat, I’m exhausted. Worn out.
Soothing music fills the car when I switch stations. It flows over me, calming my heart and breathing. When the next song comes on, I sit up and look at myself in the mirror. There’s a spot of red below my ear. The center console holds another container of wipes. Driving to the end of the strip mall, I pull up next to the curb and toss the wipe in a different trash can.
Walt Cunningham will never harm another living creature. But now I wonder, will his death mean my downfall?
CHAPTER 24
JITTERY AND NERVOUS, I PULL into the parking spot. As the key turns in the lock, light spills out of my door. What is he doing here? I swear under my breath.
Jackson greets me with a kiss, though he’s rigid. Anger rolls off him. “I’ve been here all night. Where on earth have you been?”
“Don’t you remember? I had art class tonight.”
“Really? Until three o’clock in the damn morning?” He looks at his phone for effect. The guy puts every single appointment, mine and his, in there. Normally I’m happy he’s so organized. Not tonight. I hold my breath, waiting for him to catch me in the lie.
“Unless I missed something. Today is Thursday, not Tuesday.” He makes a point of looking at his watch. “Though technically, now it’s Friday and I have to be in court at ten.”
“Are you done bitching?” The messenger bag is like a flashing road sign in my hands. It goes in the hall closet. “I signed up for a few extra sessions to finish my still life and the abstract for your bedroom. And I’m aware of the time. Whoever is the last to leave locks up. There was another woman still working when I left.” I stomp into the kitchen, fix a glass of ice water, and guzzle it. “Are you happy now?”
He’s followed me. Standing so close that when I turn, he’s only inches away. He reaches out and touches my hair.
“What?”
“You have red paint in your hair. Must have been some session. Were you channeling Jackson Pollock and flinging it across the canvas?” He bursts out laughing.
But it isn’t funny. I’m icy cold. A car horn sounds. I jerk my attention to the balcony. The door is open, the breeze blowing in through the screen.
“Why is the door open?” I turn in a circle. “The curtains are wide open. People could see in. Jackson, why did you open all the windows?”
“Calm down. What is wrong with you tonight?” He narrows his eyes at me.
“Anyone could get in here. It isn’t safe.”
“You’re on the third floor. No one will get in. Anyway, I’m here.” He reaches out, his hand hovering an inch from my cheek. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” His voice goes deeper and lower. “Someone else?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Work sends me all over creation and I spend time with you. When would I have time to cheat?” One step closer and his hand touches my skin. I look up at him.
“I’ve been working on a still life of apples. Thought I’d give it to your mom for her birthday.”
His face softens. “I’m sorry I doubted you. Don’t make me worry, okay? Next time shoot me a text.”
The word shoot mocks me. “You know, I was thinking about how Eve tempted Adam.” I run my fingers under his shirt, across the ridge of muscles, counting out his six-pack. “All he had to do was say no and the world might be very different.”
He grins at me. “Is that an invitation to sin with you?”
The air thickens between us as his pupils dilate. “It depends. Thought you had to be in court by ten?”
He pretends to be conflicted as he pulls me close and kisses me. The stubble from where he shaved this morning brushes against my cheek like sandpaper. His lips are soft, and a sigh escapes as I sink into him, letting the world fall away. But I pull back a bit too quickly. What if he smells blood or gunpowder on me?
“Forget sleep. I can argue the hell out of this case.” He picks me up. Please don’t smell anything. “Will you dress up in the Halloween costume I like?”
“The flapper girl?”
He nods.
“You got it. But I need a shower. I’m all sweaty and disgusting.” I lean back. “Put me down so I can hurry. Don’t want to keep my man waiting.”
In the bathroom, I stuff the clothes in the hamper and lock the door. Catching my reflection, I cringe. There’s a spot of blood on the back of my upper arm and another in the hair above my eyebrow.
Somehow I manage to keep it together until I see pink water sliding over my breast and down my belly before it swirls down the drain. The tile is cool against my back as I slide down the wall, rocking back and forth, soft sobs mixing with the water. So Jackson won’t hear, I press my forearm hard against my mouth. Finally I pull myself together. Am I crying for what I’ve done or because I’m afraid this time I’m going to get caught? I don’t know the answer. If only water could wash away my sins. Just because I’m doing what needs to be done doesn’t mean I won’t be punished too.
Wrapped in a towel, I rummage through the drawer looking for eye drops so the red doesn’t give me away. Will I face hell, sitting next to those I’ve killed? As I slip down into a pool of dark thoughts, the voice takes shape. Pulls me up.
Don’t worry, it says. You do not require forgiveness. You are justice. Charged by the ones who cannot speak out to punish. Take their lives so that they will never harm another. Do not let sorrow or despair fill you. Banish them. There is nothing to be sorry for.
Time stalls. My body is in the here and now with Jackson but my mind is elsewhere. When I come back
to myself, I’m lying in his arms. If he finds out what I’m doing, he’ll turn me in, girlfriend or not.
CHAPTER 25
ON MONDAY MORNING, I BYPASS the elevators. Before, I’d always take them. It gave me time to answer an email or check my schedule. Anything to up my productivity. Now? The stairs, always. The thought of anyone enclosed in such a small space with me makes me tingle all over. The feeling of being trapped sends me sprinting up the seven flights.
The first few weeks I could barely breathe by the time I made it to my floor. There I’d stand, doubled over, gasping for breath, sweaty and red-faced. After a month and a half I bounce to my desk, swap my sneaks for cute platform heels, and go about my day. The day I went back to work after Wilmington, I stood in the elevator with four other people and suffered through a panic attack. Thank goodness the bathroom was right off the elevators. I barely made it to a stall before I was heaving up breakfast.
That was the day I made the decision. No more small spaces. One of those four people had something wrong about them. I didn’t know who it was then, but I know now.
When you embrace the darkness you become more attuned to wrongness within others. At least, that’s what I have come to believe. The whole “it takes one to know one.” The water company I work for covers the state, with headquarters located in downtown Raleigh. There are small satellite offices all over the state that require me to travel a few times a month. It’s a job I mostly enjoy. It’s a place I can put down roots. Odd in this day and age how I crave stability.
“Hey, I’ve looked for you but you’ve been like a ghost lately. Whatcha working on?”
Great. It’s Lewis from the meeting in Wilmington. “You know. Busy busy. Are you here for a meeting?”
There Was a Little Girl Page 10