Lottery

by Kimberly Shursen

  When Caleb came to a busy gas station, he ducked into the private bathroom and came back out disguised in a dark curly wig, a tweed tam, moustache, and wire-rimmed glasses.

  After he secured a cheap hotel room, he walked up the stairs, the steps creaking beneath his every step. Carefully, he set the duffle on top of a wobbly dresser, dropped the sacks from Target on the bed, and locked the door. He barely noticed that the furniture had a thick coat of dust or that the room reeked of cheap perfume. Caleb was on a mission. Ling was his motivation; the only reason he listened to Weber. Wondering what Ling was doing or who she was meeting drove him crazy.

  He took the bottles of gin out of the brown paper sack, set them on the dresser, and then carried the duffel into the bathroom. It turned his stomach when he noticed dark hairs in the sink and the garbage overflowing in the small wastebasket. But cleanliness was the least of his priorities. The hotel room was now his office; a solitary space where he could work on perfecting the murder that would keep his marriage safe.

  Carefully, he took off the disguise. His hands were trembling when he laid the wig and moustache on a towel, put the glasses inside the tam and placed them beside the wig.

  His hands shaky, Caleb opened one of the bottles of gin and took a long swig. He glanced at the packages on the bed. There was a lot to do before he met up with Price.

  After he dumped the four, seventeen-inch square pillows he’d bought at Target on the bed, Caleb took out the red magic marker in the bottom of a sack. Next, he took the knife out of his pocket. The three-and-a-half-inch blade with a razor-sharp surrogated edge was intimidating; just holding the weapon made Caleb uneasy.

  The deer knife reminded Caleb of the day his father had taken him deer hunting. He remembered that the tip of the sun was barely visible on the horizon when they crept through the woods in South Dakota, their ankle-high boots wet with dew. Caleb had prayed they wouldn’t cross paths with the graceful, sturdy animal he’d only seen in pictures or movies. But his prayers went unanswered when his father had cradled the shotgun in Caleb’s arms and told him to aim for the Buck’s head. Thinking about it, Caleb could almost feel the perspiration dripping into his eyes … his muscles tensing … the tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

  “Shoot the God damned thing,” his father spat angrily. Caleb dropped the gun, turned and ran. The fear of what his father would do to him if he caught him made him run so hard and so fast, the forest around him became a swirl of green and brown. Hoping he would find somewhere to hide—someplace where his father would never find him again. Feeling as if he was suffocating, when he’d tripped, he knew he would never be able to escape his father’s wrath. Staring up into the devil’s eyes, tears blinding Caleb, his father had used the butt of the gun to teach him a lesson as he reminded Caleb what a gutless, spineless sissy he was.

  Caleb took another swig of gin as he stared at the pillows. He needed to focus. He’d read that an average man’s chest was seventeen inches across—the same width as the pillows. Two-thirds of the heart was located on the right side of the sternum. The aortic valve was located on the top, left hand side of the heart. If the aorta was severed, Price would bleed out in a matter of seconds. Caleb not only had to be swift, but accurate.

  He pulled the diagram he’d printed out of his pocket and studied it. The heart was supposedly the size of an average man’s fist. He put the diagram down on the bed, and used the marker to draw an “X” on each of the pillows to depict the placement of the vital artery.

  He blew out a breath and tilted his head back. In just a few hours, he would slice into a man’s chest and rip the life out of him.

  “You don’t have a choice,” Weber told him authoritatively.

  “Don’t I?” Caleb started to pace.

  “Well, you do.” Weber suddenly appeared in front of the only window in the dingy room. “You could go to jail.”

  Caleb shook his head. “But I didn’t kill you.”

  Weber casually sashayed to the chair that was pushed into a corner of the room and sat down. “Facts are you stole the lottery ticket and then killed McKenzie Price. I don’t think the courts would find you an innocent man.” Weber paused. “Do you?”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Caleb mumbled, and leaned back against the dresser.

  “There you go.” Weber smacked his hand on his knee. “And you don’t have a choice now. Price has to go.”

  Knowing Weber was right, Caleb practiced over and over thrusting the blade into the top left hand side of the “X.” He twisted the knife quickly to the right … then left, and pulled it out quickly. The spongy material inside the pillows sprayed out over the bed with each vicious slice. Taking swallows of gin every few minutes, Caleb needed to practice like he had when he was a pitcher in little league, until the motion was natural and fluid.

  “You’re doing great, O’Toole,” Weber spurred him on, giving him tips on how to hold the leather handle, and reminding Caleb he had to run like hell when it was over.

  Exhausted, Caleb’s arm and hand aching, he plopped down on the edge of the bed. Catching his image in the mirror above the dresser, he couldn’t believe what he saw. Standing up slowly, he walked closer to his reflection. God, how could he let himself go like this?

  He anchored his hands on either side of the wobbly dresser and leaned closer to the mirror. His eyes were puffy and swollen, his hair was matted and unkempt, and he hadn’t shaved in days.

  Not being able to stomach what he saw, he turned away. “I can’t do this,” he mumbled. “I’m not a fucking killer.”

  “Yes, you are.” Caleb looked up and saw Weber standing behind him in the mirror. “Everyone is capable of murder. Especially if someone threatens to destroy your life.”

  “No,” he shook his head. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Pussy,” Weber said angrily. “Grab your fucking balls for once and be a man.”

  “Stop!” Caleb shouted, ramming a fist straight through the mirror, the glass shattering into miniscule pieces. The pain ripped through his knuckles, and he saw his fingers were cut and bloodied. Jesus God, he hated himself. When he looked back up, Weber was gone.

  “I have to do this.” Caleb rambled and paced, holding onto the gin bottle. “I have to.” The more he drank, the more confident he became. For hours, he repeated the process of knifing the pillows until there was nothing left but bits and pieces of fluffy sponge.

  Running a hand over his hair that was soaked in perspiration he glanced at his watch. It was almost eight—an hour and a half before he was supposed to meet Price.

  After he shoved as much of the remnants of the insides of the pillows as he could into a sack, he opened the door and went down the back stairs. Checking to see first to see if anyone was around, he disposed of the bag in the dumpster in the alley behind the hotel.

  Back in his room, he put on the disguise, making sure the moustache was secure. He wiped off the blade, closed it and pushed it into his pocket. On the way out the door, he took a long swallow of the second bottle of gin, as he’d already polished off the first one.

  On the street, Caleb pulled the tam down on his head and put on his sunglasses. Before he hopped on the trolley, he grabbed a large cup of coffee at Starbucks. Getting off at Grant Street, he walked the rest of the way to the park across the street from the cathedral.

  Even though Caleb had had a lot to drink, he didn’t feel drunk. His mind was sharp—focused on what needed to be done. Maybe it was the combination of strong coffee and adrenalin that counteracted the liquor.

  From the sound of Price’s deep, baritone voice, Price was probably hefty, which meant he might be able to overpower Caleb. Price had told Caleb he’d be wearing a 49ers cap, so the bill would be either black or red. Caleb had no idea where he was going to kill him, but Weber was right, it had to be done.

  Standing beside a towering oak, Caleb kept a watchful eye on the steps that led up to the door. A continual trickle of Bible thumpers entered and exite
d the front door; a pile of kids rushed out a side door. Catechism must have just let out.

  His stomach tightened when, thirty minutes later, he saw a man wearing a red and black cap walking down the sidewalk and up the steps. His physique wasn’t anything like Caleb had envisioned. He was slight, and from what Caleb could see from here, Price couldn’t be more than five-seven or eight.

  “Don’t let what he looks like fool you,” Weber said. “Probably has a black belt in karate. Catch him off guard and do it fast.”

  Caleb fumbled to light a cigarette. When he felt the buzz of the pre-paid phone, he took it out and noticed the number on the screen was Ron fucking Price’s. Caleb pushed it back into his pocket. Price was probably madder than hell that Caleb hadn’t shown.

  It seemed an eternity before he saw Price march out the door and down the steps. Caleb’s stomach curdled; his breathing quickened. Shit. Maybe he should just go home. Take his chances the guy wouldn’t call the police.

  “Get tough, cry baby,” Weber chastised.

  He didn’t know whether Weber was his friend or his enemy, but he was right in that sooner or later, Price would either ask for more money, or go to the cops. And Caleb’s life as he knew it would end. He would go to prison for the rest of his life, and Ling would eventually find someone else. He envisioned Ling naked, with some other man making love to her. The image made him seethe with rage; the thought of her with someone else was unbearable. She was Caleb’s, and no other man would ever touch her.

  Staying a half-block behind, he followed Price west on California Street. Caleb kept his head down, his hands in his pockets, seeing only the shoes and sandals of those who passed.

  He let out an anxious breath when Price stopped on Powell and California. Patience. He’d thought Price would resemble McKenzie; pale, worn down, tired. But this guy looked like an average Joe. But he wasn’t average, for Christ’s sakes, as he was trying to take Ling away from him and ruin Caleb’s life. Screw this fucker.

  Caleb almost fell backward when he hoisted himself up on the trolley, leaving a few people in between him and Price. Concentrate … concentrate.

  “You can do this, brotha,” Weber encouraged.

  As usual, the benches next to the windows were filled. People were squeezed together so tight that Caleb could smell the thick perfume of the woman standing in front of him, and the rancid odor of sweat from the man behind. He wrapped a hand around the metal bar above him, tasting the salty perspiration on his upper lip.

  North on Powell; left to Hyde—the trolley jolted each time it came to a stop. Caleb forced himself not to turn around. The last thing he needed was another corpse’s eyes staring at him in his nightmares. His heartbeat escalated with every stop. Jackson … Pacific. When the hell was Price going to get off? The thoughts about what could happen if he didn’t get rid of him spurred Caleb on.

  As the trolley neared Broadway, Caleb pushed his hand into his pocket and felt the knife. He had to hit his mark the first time. In his mind, he practiced thrusting the knife into the exact right location over and over again—plunge in … twist right … left, and out … in … twist right … left … out.

  Moving past Caleb, Price made his way to the door. This was it. Caleb kept his head down and followed.

  Stalking Price down the street, past Nick’s Fish Tacos, the smell of fish made Caleb nauseous. South a few blocks, the commercial area turned neighborly. Condos, townhomes, and apartment buildings were so close together, there was barely any space between them.

  He watched Price turn into a driveway.

  “Now, God damn it,” Weber ordered.

  Caleb quickened his step. Heart in his throat, he glanced around as he hurried toward Price. It was after eleven and the blare of television sets reflected through second and third-story windows. The condo Price had turned into had to be worth two, maybe three million. Why the hell did this guy need money?

  “Hey,” Caleb called out before Price reached the end of the driveway. “Wondering if you can help me.” Caleb took a quick look up and down the street again. No one around. For some reason, he felt calm.

  Price turned around, took hold of the bill on the baseball cap, and pushed it back on his head. “Sure, what can I help you with?” he asked, walking toward Caleb.

  A new Cadillac was in the driveway—the steps leading up to the front door were to the left of the garage. Caleb moved to the right side of the car. “I can’t seem to find the place I’m supposed to meet my friend.” Caleb’s hand gripped the handle of the knife. Slowly, methodically he inched it out of his pocket and wedged it against his thigh.

  Standing next to Caleb now, Price asked, “What are you looking for?”

  Caleb pressed the button on the weapon and felt it click. Heart starting to race, he said, “Nick’s Tacos, I can’t seem to—” He threw a heavy arm across Price’s throat and rammed him back into the car, hard. Envisioning the pillows, he quickly plunged the knife into Price’s chest, twisted it to the right, then left, hearing the crackle of bone before he pulled the knife out. A gush of blood spurted onto Caleb’s jacket … his face … his hands.

  “Ohhh, God,” the gurgling words escaped from Price’s lips as he slumped slowly to the concrete.

  Caleb froze, watching the blood trickle out the side of Price’s mouth, the red liquid pouring out of his chest. “Help me,” Price whispered in a dying breath.

  “Go!” Weber shouted.

  Caleb turned and took off in a dead run, the knife clasped in his hand. Between a row of stucco townhomes … through backyards … down a dark street, a few blocks away he ducked into an alley.

  Breathless, he pressed his back against the bricks. “Oh, God,” he rasped. Staring down at his hand covered in blood, Caleb opened his palm, letting the knife fall to the cracked pavement. Every emotion exploded inside of him at once; rage, remorse, guilt, and sorrow. He slid his back down the course brick, swallowing back tears.

  “Good job,” Weber told him.

  Caleb shook his head, tears erupting down his face. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “You’ll get over it,” Weber said. “It’s a good day.”

  Caleb stayed still for a few seconds. Price had begged for help. Jesus Christ … he’d begged.

  He stood and took off his blood-splattered jacket. Turning it inside out so the blood wouldn’t show, he sandwiched it underneath his armpit. Robotically, he bent over and picked up the knife. Staring at it for a couple of seconds, he closed it and stuffed it into his pocket. He had to pull himself together. He needed to get the blood off his hands and face.

  Finding a garbage can at the end of the alley, he rummaged through it until he found a plastic cup from McDonald’s with a few ounces of soda inside. Trembling, he pulled the top off the cup and poured the sticky liquid over his hands and then splashed it over his face. Walking brusquely back to Broadway, he took the next cable car back to Powell and California, hoping all of the blood was gone.

  The look in Price’s eyes when Caleb stabbed him … the blood streaming out of his chest like a faucet … fuck.

  When Caleb reached his hotel, he took the flights of stairs two steps at a time. The God damned place was so full of junkies, no one even noticed him.

  He pushed back the curtain and looking out his window and saw the container he’d tossed the sack into was now filled beyond capacity. No one would look for, or find, what was left of the pillows.

  He’d paid cash when he’d checked in. Cash meant no names, no telephone number, and no address. He’d leave a couple of hundred on the dresser for the mirror he’d busted.

  After he chugged the last bottle of gin, he took the knife out of his pocket and switched it open. The blood had now dried to a dark black paste. In the bathroom, he turned on the spigot and waited for the water to become steaming hot. Mesmerized, he held the knife under the water and watched the blood disappear from the blade and handle.

  In the shower, he scrubbed so hard, his skin started to sting. Making sure th
e blood underneath his nails was gone; he let the hot water pulsate over his face, his hair, his arms, and legs. Had someone found Price yet? Was the neighborhood all out on the streets? Police cars and ambulances? Price hadn’t stood a chance, as Caleb had taken him by surprise.

  Caleb took out shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt from the duffel and dressed. After he stuffed the hat, sunglasses, jeans, and jacket into his duffle bag, Caleb took another look around the room for anything he’d missed.

  Before he closed the door, he wrapped the knife in toilet paper and put it into his pocket so if any remnants of if Price’s blood was left, it wouldn’t show up on his clothing. Walking to the exit sign in the low-lit hallway, he hurried down the stairs and out the back door.

  Out on the street, he turned into the first alley he came to. Seeing a couple of street people asleep, he found an empty bed made of holey, frayed blankets.

  He set the duffel down on top of the blankets, and then took out the lighter fluid from the bag. After he doused the duffle and blankets, he tossed the container on top, reached into his pocket, and brought out a book of matches. It felt like someone else was lighting the match, placing the match book on top of the bag, and tossing the lit match on top of the pile. As he walked down the street, he glanced back over his shoulder when he heard an explosion and saw the dark smoke filtering out of the alley.

  As he headed down O’Farell Street, it was almost one in the morning. He pulled out the prepaid phone. The voicemails from Price were still on the cell.

  Thank God for Weber, as he’d walked him through every single move tonight. Caleb couldn’t have pulled this off without his help.

  Left on Natoma, right on Fourth to Howard Street, he walked steadily toward the bay. Waiting on the side of the Embarcadero Highway until there was an opening in the traffic, he jogged across to the other side. As he made his way to the bay, except for a trickling of traffic that crossed the San Francisco Oakland Bridge, no one was around. He took out the knife, brought his arm back over his head, and slung the weapon out into the bay.