The Killing Kind

by Bryan Smith

  Rob hit the brake pedal as the Neon abruptly slowed down and swerved again. He slapped the palm of his uncuffed hand against the steering wheel. “Fucker!”

  “Calm down.”

  Rob looked at her and laughed. Once again, he just couldn’t help it. “You’re telling me to calm down? That’s rich. The crazy chick who impulsively decides to follow some rich kids several hundred miles for no apparent reason thinks I need to calm down.” He shook his head and laughed again. “That is awesome. That is fucking awesome.”

  Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “There’s a reason.”

  “Great. I’d like to hear it.”

  Her voice remained almost inaudible as she said, “They were mean to me.”

  Rob looked at her.

  Her eyes were narrow slits and her lips were pooched out. The childlike pout was a forceful reminder of how very young she was. She couldn’t be any older than twenty. He felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy for her. “Look…whatever they did, and I don’t doubt they were assholes to you, but…it can’t be worth the trouble you’re going to here.”

  A corner of her mouth twitched. Her hands curled into fists. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe not.” He saw the way her clenched fists were shaking and almost kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to piss her off. But he thought he had a chance of reaching her. She was a tough chick, no question, but maybe there was a softness behind the hard-core exterior. “Seriously. Please think this through. Nothing really bad has happened yet. I know you’re mad. You’re right to be mad. But maybe there’s some better way to vent that anger. Right here and now, you’re still okay. It’s not too late to head off some possibly life-ruining choices.”

  That corner of her mouth twitched again. “You really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “So help me understand.” He snapped the fingers of his free hand. “Oh! And what about your family and friends? Won’t they worry once they realize you’re missing?”

  She laughed and didn’t say anything.

  He shook his head. “What’s funny?”

  “You are. This whole understanding-big-brother bullshit. If you knew anything about me, you’d know how stupid you’re being.”

  “So tell me about yourself. Help me understand. Maybe start by telling me your name.”

  “It’s Roxie. That’s r-o-x-i-e.”

  “Huh. Sounds like a stripper’s name.”

  “Yeah. That’s why it’s cool.”

  Rob nodded. “So…Roxie…why is my attempt to reason with you stupid?”

  She reached between her legs and pulled the tote bag into her lap, then talked as she rummaged through it. “Everything you think you know about me, all of your fucking little guesses, are all wrong as shit. I don’t live locally. There’s no one here to miss me. There’s no one anywhere to miss me. Not anymore.” Her hands came out of the tote bag with a pack of American Spirit cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. She lit up a cig and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I’m not a regular girl under the surface, like you think. And I know that’s what you think. When someone hurts me, I don’t run home and write a fucking blog about it. I’m a bad bitch. A really, really bad bitch. There’s no hidden heart of gold here.” She blew out another stream of smoke, this one right at Rob. “As the stoners in that shitty Neon are about to find out.”

  “Say what?”

  Rob coughed and waved away smoke. He’d ignored the Neon while listening to Roxie talk, but now he focused on it again and saw that its driver’s impairment appeared to be worsening. The little car swerved yet again as Rob stared at the profusion of faded stickers advertising the owner’s politics and taste in music. Left-leaning and into punk. Though there were also Grateful Dead and Phish stickers, which seemed kind of strange. In Rob’s experience, punks and stoners rarely intermingled.

  “Ugh.” Roxie made a sound of disgust. “Check that shit out. A fucking ‘Coexist’ sticker. That shit makes me wanna puke.”

  Rob nodded. “Yeah. I actually agree with you on something. It’s a fucking miracle.”

  Roxie grunted. “Get in the left lane. Pull up beside these fuckers.”

  Rob put the blinker on and glanced at her. “What are you—?”

  “Just shut up and do what I say, you fuck.”

  Her face was hard again, the blue eyes projecting enough malice to stop a suicide bomber in his tracks. The transformation was alarming. For a few moments there, while she was talking about herself, she’d seemed almost like a normal person. Like a person he could even like, despite the extreme circumstances of their meeting. But the psycho part of her personality had reasserted itself. By now he knew better than to defy her when she was like this.

  He pulled into the left lane and drew up alongside the Neon.

  Roxie leaned out the Galaxie’s open passenger-side window and made a cranking motion with her hand. Rob craned his head to look past her and saw that there were four people in the car. All youngish, maybe midtwenties. The driver had long blond hair and a bushy beard. The girl in the passenger seat looked like a young punk. Skinny. Tattoos. The two in the back—another guy and gal—were harder to peg. They almost looked sort of straitlaced. But as Rob watched them, he saw that a fat bomber joint was being passed among the car’s passengers.

  The Neon’s driver grinned goofily and cranked his window down. He stuck his head out the window and tried to say something, but the words were lost in the rushing of the wind.

  Roxie leaned farther out her own window and gestured frantically at the back of the Neon. Then she cupped her hands around her mouth and put the full force of her lungs into her next words: “you need to pull over!”

  The Neon’s driver frowned and glanced at the punk girl in the passenger seat. The girl shrugged. The driver nodded and looked at Roxie again, giving her a thumbs-up gesture even as he began to guide the Neon across multiple lanes of traffic, toward the road’s shoulder on the right.

  Roxie looked at Rob. The hard mask was gone. She was smiling. “Pull up behind them.”

  Rob put the blinker on again and did as instructed, easing the Galaxie to a slow, crawling stop behind the Neon. He stared at the back of the other car for a moment. Then he shot a confused look at Roxie. “Is there really something wrong with their car?”

  Roxie reached across him and turned the key backward in the ignition. The Galaxie’s engine ground to a rumbling halt as she pulled the key from the ignition slot. “So you don’t go anywhere. Hang tight while I take care of these fucks.”

  She opened the passenger-side door and began to get out.

  Rob’s heart began to beat faster.

  The gun was in her hand again.

  She was out of the car now and walking toward the parked Neon. The Neon’s passengers were oblivious to the danger approaching them. And why wouldn’t they be? A glance in their mirrors would show a very pretty girl approaching them. And who would ever consider that a thing to fear? Of course, things might be different if any of them were sober. They might notice the gun pressed flat against her right thigh. She was almost to the car now, and Rob was close to hyperventilating. He felt he should warn them somehow. Maybe lean on the horn and jerk them out of their dope stupor for a few lifesaving moments. It might work. They might even get away.

  But he’d still be stuck right here.

  With a very pissed off Roxie to face—Roxie and her gun.

  He placed the palm of his left hand flat against the horn pad.

  It was the right thing to do.

  He knew that.

  And yet…there was the fear of that gun pointed at him instead.

  So he hesitated.

  Roxie was standing next to the Neon now. The gun was still pressed to her thigh. She leaned down and rapped the knuckles of her left hand against the passenger-side window. The punk girl turned toward her and rolled the window down. Rob opened his mouth to scream a warning, but it was already too late. Roxie’s gun hand was like a striking
cobra. One moment it was still against her leg, the next nanosecond the barrel of the gun was pressed against the punk girl’s forehead. Rob heard the report of the gun and knew for sure Roxie had actually shot the poor girl in the face. There were screams from the Neon now. Then another shot. The driver slumped over. Roxie pushed the punk girl’s corpse aside and leaned farther into the car, twisting her body so that she could point the gun into the backseat. Rob heard more screams, only barely distinguishable from his own cries. The rear door on the driver’s side started to open as one of the backseat occupants tried to escape. Another bullet ended the attempt. Roxie’s body twisted again and she aimed her gun at the Neon’s last living passenger. There was a brief hesitation, almost as if she was savoring these last moments before the final kill.

  There was one more scream. Another bullet cut it off. Rob saw an explosion of red against the Neon’s back window and felt bile rise into his throat. His gut churned. He was shaking and hot tears were spilling down his face. Any illusions he might have harbored about Roxie’s supposed vulnerability had been vanquished forever within the space of a few moments of extreme violence. She’d been right.

  She wasn’t a regular girl.

  She was pure fury.

  And now, finally, he understood just how much trouble he was really in.

  Roxie extracted herself from the Neon and strolled calmly back to the Galaxie. Rob stared at her. He couldn’t believe how cool and unconcerned she seemed. She was still holding the gun by her side but was making no real attempt to hide it. Cars were zipping by on the interstate. Lots of them. There were still several hours of broad daylight left. How could she be so fucking nonchalant?

  Back inside the Galaxie, she reached across Rob and slid the key back into the ignition. She turned the key and the engine came to life.

  Then she pressed the gun’s hot barrel against his crotch and said, “Drive.”

  Just the one word.

  It was enough.

  Rob put the car in gear and eased back into the traffic.

  Picking up speed, he glanced at the rearview mirror for one last look at the Neon. From this perspective and distance, it looked like just another stalled car. No big deal.

  Roxie was laughing. “Now what was that you were saying about it not being too late or some shit? Something about choices?”

  More insane laughter.

  Rob’s hands tightened around the steering wheel again.

  He was holding on for dear life.

  Whatever little was left of it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  March 16

  She was still asleep when he came naked out of the bathroom. She was lying on her side in the bed with her mouth hanging open. A thin stream of drool leaked from a corner of her mouth to dampen the pillow beneath her head. Loose tufts of frizzy blonde hair obscured some of her face. Tucked away there beneath the covers, she could almost be any anonymous woman. Some truck-stop floozy or roadside whore. A last-call bar pickup. Or better yet, that hot little jailbait babysitter from down the street, the one with the platinum Paris Hilton hair. Sixteen going on ninety-nine-to-life, as his buddy Franklin had said once, adding that he’d almost be willing to do a stint in jail for one night of fun with the hot little tease.

  John was inclined to agree. Screw morality.

  He pictured Julie Cosgrove, the babysitter, asleep there in his bed. Imagined her throwing back the covers to reveal her lovely, nude body. He could almost see her big tits, how ripe they would look. How inviting. And there would be a dazzling smile on her face as she held her arms out to him. He would go to her. Hell, yes. There would be no pause to consider the right or wrong of the situation, nor even the slightest impulse to resist temptation. Fuck, he’d embrace the wrongness of it. Revel in it. Just dive into that silky soft mound of succulent, tender girl flesh and put a fucking on her that would make her head spin for days. Thinking of it made his cock stir. God, what he’d give to have sweet little Julie for real.

  But no such luck.

  This was no mystery woman, no stranger to his bed. This was his wife of twenty years. A woman he’d once lusted after intensely. But now he could hardly stand to look at her. It’d been ten years since he’d fucked another woman and he’d almost forgotten what it was like to caress unfamiliar flesh. For a while that had been okay. It was the way of things. You get older and settle down, leave the tomcatting around to the younger guys. John had accepted this as his lot for some time, but lately, ever since his recent fortieth birthday, he’d begun to feel restless. He couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that he was wasting what was left of his…well, not youth, obviously, more like that last dwindling slice of time when he might still possess some virility or fading attractiveness to the opposite sex. No, not youth, more like the last fading echoes of youth, and he didn’t—

  Christ.

  He reflected on his last thoughts and felt disgust. He was a man. And real men didn’t wallow in self-pity. He was self-aware enough to know he was on the verge of a stereotypical midlife crisis. Most men in his position would seek the help of a therapist, or perhaps slake that renewed thirst for strange flesh by blowing a wad in some cheap hooker’s mouth. But he needed something better than that.

  A dramatic change.

  A forever change.

  And the time for that change had arrived at last. He stepped closer to the bed, curling his fingers tighter around the blade of the carving knife as he searched Karen’s face for any signs of impending wakefulness. He’d stashed the knife in the bathroom closet several hours earlier, while Karen had been so immersed in that night’s episode of Survivor that she’d been oblivious to anything he was doing. Which included the twenty-plus minutes he’d spent locked in the bathroom, slowly masturbating to pictures of Julie stored on his cell phone. Mostly these were pictures taken on the sly, when she wasn’t looking or didn’t know he was around. But the one that got to him the most was the one she did know about. A candid shot snapped at his daughter’s tenth birthday party last week. He’d made some lame joke and she’d laughed and stuck her tongue out at him. He stared at that picture for minutes, at that wedge of glistening tongue protruding between glossy, pink-painted lips. That was the image that got him over the edge, making him come harder than he ever did with Karen these days.

  He circled the bed and then stood staring down at his wife, knife held at shoulder level, hand shaking, his soul burning with the need to bury the blade in the sleeping woman’s body. A latex glove was on his right hand. When she was dead—and after he’d inflicted a few superficial wounds on his own body—the glove would go down the toilet. Then he’d call the cops with his practiced sob story about a masked assailant. He was sure he would be convincing enough in his fake grief to make them buy the story.

  But he wondered about his daughter. Nancy was asleep in her own room at the far end of the hall. She should be asleep. It was well past her strict bedtime. Still, it bore thinking about. The cops would question her, maybe ask her if she’d heard anything. John debated the idea of killing his daughter before dealing with Karen. On the upside, dead girls tell no tales. Downside, he’d leave telltale signs of blood and possibly other evidence, traipsing back and forth between her room and here. No, he’d just have to take his chances. Odds were she was stone asleep, and if not, he’d figure a way to deal with it.

  Meanwhile, it was time to stop fucking around and do this thing. His lips curled into a sneer as he raised the knife higher and psyched himself up to bring it down. He imagined how it would feel to slam the heavy blade into living flesh and felt his cock twitch. The sneer became a smile. It would be a fucking rush, that’s what it would be. He pictured himself pulling the blade out and ramming it in over and over, butchering her the way a genuine random psycho would. It was too bad he couldn’t rape her, too. But that would leave DNA evidence and…well, what if he wore a condom?

  Scratch that.

  No condoms in the house.

  Just do it, an inner voice berated him.


  John sucked in a big breath and raised the knife still higher. Then, in that last moment before he would have brought the knife down…he heard something.

  A rustling out in the hallway.

  John turned away from the bed to stare at the closed bedroom door. He held his breath and waited, counting off seconds. Ten. Twenty. Half a minute. He began to let his breath out, sure now that he’d heard nothing. Or maybe just rodents scurrying through the walls. He’d been meaning to set out mousetraps for weeks. Yeah, that could be it.

  Then he heard it again.

  That rustling, closer now.

  He moved a step closer to the door. The sound came again. Quieter, this time. A shuffling rather than a rustling. An attempt at stealth, feet gliding softly over hallway carpet. John clenched his teeth and swallowed hard as genuine fear leaped into his heart. In his mind, he saw himself as he must look and almost laughed. A naked man, intent on murder and possible sexual assault only moments earlier but now paralyzed with fear. Predator turned prey? No. Ridiculous.

  Someone was in the hallway, no doubt.

  But the interloper’s identity was obvious.

  Nancy.

  She was restless, was maybe trying to sneak downstairs for a cookie or some other late-night snack. John grinned. Sudden impulse hurried him to the door. This was too perfect an opportunity to miss. He would take her in the hallway, do it so fast she’d never know what was happening, then return quickly to the bedroom to do Karen. The cops would see that the intruder had stumbled upon Nancy en route to his primary prey. The little snot wouldn’t be around to raise suspicions or cramp his style as he swaggered into a glorious new phase of his life.

  He yanked the door open and charged into the hallway—and collided with a big man in a fringe jacket. The man had long, scraggly gray hair and eyes that conveyed insanity even in the gloom of the hallway. His grin was wide and displayed yellow, crooked teeth. And holy Jesus, but he fucking stank, a stench like something from a backed-up sewer drain. It made John’s eyes water. A blinding terror gripped him before he remembered the knife in his hand.