by Bryan Smith
Rob felt dizzy. He felt like the whole world was coming undone around him. Roxie wasn’t who she said she was. At least not completely. And if she’d lied to him about her name, what else had she lied about? He laughed. Did it really matter? None of it changed the essential core truth about her.
She was a killer.
She lived for it. Thrived on it.
Julie went on into the house, leaving him alone on the patio for a moment. And this was it. Finally. His very last chance to turn and run. To maybe turn himself in or summon the cops.
But that was another lie.
That chance was gone forever.
He drew in a deep breath and followed the rest of them inside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
March 22
Missy’s breath came in quick, shuddery gasps. Her face felt hot. Sweat was beading on her brow. The thump of her heart seemed as loud as a drum. Her hands were shaking. Anger bloomed within her again as she watched the tremors. It had been so long since anyone had gotten to her like this. So long since anyone had made her feel so small. So stupid and insignificant.
Four years, to be exact.
Daddy used to make her feel like this. He’d call her stupid and ugly all the time. And though she knew she was neither, it felt true when her daddy called her those things. That feeling was worse even than the other things. The beatings. The bad touches. Those things were bad. Horrible. They made her want to kill her daddy. She didn’t because a part of her clung to the need for her daddy’s love and approval. He was a bad man. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that. But she kept loving him anyway, hoping that somehow, just maybe, he would change and become the kind of daddy other girls had. But it never happened. He called her a “mistake,” telling her how one of his biggest regrets was failing to raise the money to have her aborted. And he told her the reason she was so fucked in the head was a result of all the times he’d punched her mother in the stomach in an effort to make her miscarry.
“I scrambled your brains but good, kid,” he liked to say.
She killed him the night she turned sixteen. He came into her room stinking of beer a little before midnight, stumbling around and cursing in the dark. Then he fell into her bed and reached for her, as usual. But this time she was ready for him and gave him a great big surprise.
The big carving knife penetrated his flabby belly with shocking ease.
He opened his mouth to scream and she slashed his throat, a deep gash that severed his vocal cords and brought forth a great geyser of arterial gore. Then she was on him and attacking him with a savagery worthy of the most ferocious and predatory segments of the animal kingdom. He struggled to no avail as she clung to him and slammed the knife into his body over and over. Dozens upon dozens of times. She kept stabbing him after he was dead. His whole torso was a sticky mass of coagulated blood and exposed organs. She would later guess she’d stabbed him as many as a hundred times, perhaps more. But she didn’t stop there. Next she went to the room Daddy shared with Mom. Then she went to her brother’s room. And then to the “guest” bedroom long inhabited by her deadbeat uncle. She killed them all. Brutally. Then she took a shower to wash away all the blood, gathered a few things, and burned that fucking house to the ground. She left her hometown that night feeling powerful for the first time in her life. She emerged from that nightmare a changed girl and since then not one single person had ever made her feel the way her daddy used to make her feel…
Until now.
She stared at her shaking hands and redoubled the mental effort to still the trembling. Her breathing became more regular. The trembling began to slow.
She reached into her bag and her hand dipped to the bottom, finding the grip of the gun by instinct. No. She was smarter than that. She couldn’t walk into a coffee shop in broad daylight and blow a man’s brains out.
She relaxed her grip on the gun’s handle and groped around the bottom of the bag until her fingers closed around a cellophane-wrapped pack of cigarettes. She kept groping until she found a lighter. A cigarette would help her think. They always did. She tapped a Marlboro menthol out of the pack, popped it in her mouth, and lit up. As she exhaled smoke, she began to feel more centered, more like herself. And as she grew calmer, she realized something. She could just let this go. Yeah, the guy had upset her, but she’d lived in a state of near normality for months. It was sort of nice. She rented a room on the other side of town and the city’s bus system took her wherever she needed to go, like this funky little strip mall with its pseudo-bohemian vibe. It wasn’t a glamorous life. Nor was it one she could likely maintain for long. But it was a nice break in the madness of life on the run, and she hoped she could hold on to it a little while longer.
“Hello, Missy.”
She jumped at the voice and whirled around. Her eyes got big and her breath caught in her throat. It was one of them. “Wh-what?”
The girl was roughly her age. She was gorgeous and looked like a model in her chic clothes and expensive haircut. Everything about her screamed money and privilege. She looked the way Missy often wished she could. Regal and poised. Above it all. As she stared at the goddess, Missy’s feelings were a stormy mix of envy, hatred, and desire.
The girl smiled and looked her over. “You know, you’re way cuter than you were at sixteen. You’re a real stunner now, Missy.”
Missy dropped her cigarette and ground it out beneath her heel. “That’s not my name.”
“Of course it is.”
The girl’s expression was very intent. Missy knew she should be afraid. Somehow this person knew who she was. But something in her demeanor set her at ease. It was crazy. She should be running. Should be on her way out of town right now. Recognition meant danger and an increased chance of apprehension by the law. And she didn’t want to go to jail. She’d rather die. But she wasn’t afraid. Not being afraid made no sense at all, but it was the truth.
“How did you know?”
The girl shrugged. “I saw your Cold Case Files episode.”
“Oh. I…sort of forgot about that.”
The girl extended her hand. “Too bad. It’s one of my favorite episodes. I’ve seen it a bunch of times. My name’s Emily, by the way.”
Missy shook her hand. “Um…nice to meet you.”
“What’s it feel like to stab your father a hundred fucking times?”
Missy’s face reddened. “Um…”
Emily laughed. “Never mind. We don’t have time. Any second now my friends will finish their drinks and come outside. I’ve got a proposition for you.”
Missy frowned. “Um…”
“It involves killing the fucking asshole who insulted you.” She reached into her little handbag and pulled out a notepad and a ballpoint pen. She flipped the pad open and began to write. “You’re probably wondering why I’d want you to kill him. I should clarify. It’s not just him. I want you to kill them all.”
Emily tore off the sheet of paper and gave it to her.
Missy frowned at the very neat handwriting. The note included a street address, some basic directions, a phone number, and another series of numbers. “I don’t get it. Why would you want me to kill your friends?”
Emily smiled. “Friends. Well, I guess some of them think of me as a friend. But I don’t have friends, Missy. Just people I spend time with because that’s what people do. I want you to kill them all, preferably as violently as possible. When the story hits the media, it’ll be big. Bigger than big. These are sons and daughters of important people. As the only survivor, I’ll be in demand. I’ll be fucking famous.” Her smile broadened, becoming almost beatific as her eyes twinkled in the sunlight. “And, Missy, fame is what I want more than anything else.”
Missy grunted. “That’s fucking crazy.”
“Maybe. But it’s what I want.”
“So, what…? You recognized me in there and came up with this insane scheme on the spot?”
“Yes.”
“Like I said…fucking crazy.�
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“Will you do it?”
Missy thought about it. Crazy though it was, the scheme did sort of appeal to her. She started to get excited. She hadn’t killed anyone in months and she missed it. What was she doing in this town anyway? The idea that she could live a normal person’s life, at least for a while, had been exposed as a delusion. She was an instigator of chaos, pain, and terror. She’d burned herself out on these things for a time, that’s all.
She shrugged. “Yeah. I’ll do it.”
Emily grinned. “Thank you, Missy. You have no idea how much this means to me. Now get moving before my so-called friends see you talking to me. Take a good look at that big blue and white Chevy van on your way out. That’s our ride.”
Missy heard the coffee shop’s glass door open. She turned away from Emily and set off at a brisk pace across the strip mall’s parking lot. She scanned the lot, looking for something she hadn’t needed in a while—wheels. She noted the Chevrolet Express and kept moving. She saw a few possibilities, but nothing very appealing.
Then she saw the Galaxie parked at a gas pump across the street.
She smiled.
And started moving that way, knowing these were the first steps in a great and wondrous journey.
CHAPTER FORTY
March 27
Joe was surfing gay porn sites on his laptop when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs from the first floor. He heard voices, too. Shushed whispers. Though he couldn’t make out any words, the timbre of one of those voices was unmistakable. He took a hand out of his shorts, clicked away from the current site, cleared his browser history and cache, and flipped the laptop shut.
His heart was pounding when the door to the second-floor room he was sharing with Emily opened and she stumbled inside with tears in her eyes. “Joe…I’m sorry…they…j-jumped me…”
He was on his feet in an instant. “Honey, what’s—?”
Then the others came in behind her.
Two chicks and a guy.
The barrel of a gun was thrust into his face. The bald girl holding it beamed like a prom queen posing for a yearbook photo. “Hi. Get on your fucking knees.”
It was them.
Terror slammed into him and stole his breath.
He dropped to his knees and began to pray.
Annalisa sat cross-legged on the bed with her hands clasped around her iPhone. She smiled as she sent identical status updates to Facebook and Twitter:
Vacay a total wash. Drama drama drama. But I’m in love w/Sean & somehow happier than ever. :)
She heard the voices in the hallway as she finished sending the update. She recognized Emily’s voice right away. No mistaking that sultry tone. It made her think of that afternoon and she felt a reflexive tingle of arousal. She felt bad about that. But she couldn’t dwell on it. She had a great guy and a bright future ahead of her. The thing with Emily she could chalk up as just another of life’s experiences.
She frowned.
The other voices were very soft. She sensed an obvious effort to be quiet. Despite the low volume, she was certain these were the voices of strangers. Her mind flashed instantly to the news reports of the Walgreens massacre.
She sighed.
Ridiculous. You’re just being paranoid.
The door to the bathroom opened, making her gasp and jump. Sean came out wearing only khaki shorts and a grin. “Whoa. Nervous much?”
She laughed. “I—”
The bedroom door flew open and there they were.
Tears sprang to Annalisa’s eyes.
She knew her bright future no longer existed.
Chuck had just gone back to the bar when he heard the footsteps coming up the stairs. There had been no sign of Annalisa and Sean for hours. It wasn’t Zoe. She was down at the beach and always returned via the balcony staircase. The only other possibility was the one he dreaded most. He was still sort of baffled by how badly he’d misjudged Joe over the years. He knew the guy was wild and liked to have a good time. And that was fine. He was the same way. But there was a world of difference between that and being a total fucking sleazebag. Emily was even worse. She was the queen champion slut whore of all time, as well as a total user and manipulator. At this point it didn’t even matter whether she’d corrupted Joe or vice versa. They were both beyond redemption, in his eyes.
Joe appeared at the top of the stairs.
He was weaving again and his face looked red.
Shit. Here we go again.
Chuck didn’t care if the guy was still fucked-up. If he tried to start shit again, he was getting his ass handed to him.
Then he saw the red welt beneath one of his eyes and frowned.
What the hell?
Emily came up right behind him. She was also wobbling a little and there were tears in her eyes. Joe watched them and wanted to puke. So the drama had continued in private. More drama followed by fisticuffs, from the looks of it.
That theory gave way to reality an instant later.
Missy Wallace shoved Emily aside and strode into the living room with the malevolent confidence of an avenging angel. She had a gun in her hand. It was aimed at the floor, but it was rising. Chuck moved without thinking about it, instinct propelling him away from the bar toward the balcony door. She was here to kill him. He had to run, even if it meant a bullet in the back.
The gun boomed.
The big pane of glass in one of the French doors blew out and Chuck skidded to a halt. He stood shaking and breathing hard as he stared at the spray of glass. His mind calculated what the trajectory of the bullet must have been and he almost fell over. He’d just missed having his brains splattered against the door. She was still coming at him. He could feel her bearing down on him. Then he felt the gun against the back of his neck and screwed his eyes shut.
This is it, he thought.
This is how I die.
He had seconds left, probably. His heart raced. His head was filled with a whirlwind of clashing, confused thoughts and feelings. Regret, terror, loss, heartache, and a desperate hope for some kind of continued existence beyond this mortal plane. All the things anyone facing imminent death would feel. It was impossible to grab on to any one thing and focus on it.
Until he thought of Zoe again.
Shit.
She had been down at the beach for some time. More than an hour, easily. She could be on her way back right now. Could be moments away from walking in on this slaughter in the making. The odds were against her, but he figured she was the only one of them with any chance of surviving the night. She might yet live if Missy and her friends got down to business fast.
Chuck opened his eyes.
Several seconds had passed. The gun’s barrel was still pressed to the back of his neck.
“What are you waiting for? Get it over with.”
Missy laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A quick and merciful end.”
Chuck swallowed with tremendous difficulty—it felt like he was trying to force a golf ball down his gullet. “Yes.”
Another laugh, this one tinged with a merciless, taunting quality. “Sucks to be you, I guess.”
The gun came away from his neck as she moved back some.
“Turn around, frat boy.”
Chuck turned around.
They were all here now. All but Zoe. Emily and Joe. Annalisa and Sean. Missy and the other two wanted in connection with the Walgreens killings. The fugitives had all changed their looks. Missy had short and spiky blonde hair. The guy and the younger chick were both bald. They looked like skinheads. The grin on the younger girl’s face disturbed him as much as anything else. She looked like she was having the time of her life. The guy was lean and fit. He wore black jeans and a black button-up shirt with a flame pattern on the front. Chuck might have laughed at the duds under other circumstances. He looked like he shopped exclusively at Hot Topic. He also looked exactly like the sort of dude who’d get mixed up with the likes of Missy Wallace. But there was something off a
bout him. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but he had a feeling the guy wasn’t as into this as Missy and the other chick. He looked nervous. Scared. Like he’d rather be anywhere but here. The insight gave him his first glimmer of hope. It was a small one, but it was better than nothing. He had to work on tweaking this guy’s conscience, somehow nudge him into intervening before it was too late.
“Rob!”
The bald guy flinched when Missy barked his name. “Yeah?”
“Got a job for you.”
Rob grimaced. “What do you want?”
Yeah. Definitely not into this at all. Yet here he is. Weak-willed little bastard.
“I need you to rearrange some furniture.” Missy never looked away from Chuck as she issued her commands. Never stopped smiling. And never stopped aiming the gun right at his face. “Shove that goddamn sofa out of the way, up against the entertainment center. Then drag the chairs from that table and line ’em up in a row.”
Rob set about his work with obvious reluctance. The listless way he moved made him look like a tired old man. He couldn’t be more than a few years older than Chuck, but the haunted, faraway look in his eyes made him look like a combat veteran at the end of a tour of duty. He nonetheless got the job done within a few minutes. The sofa was up against the entertainment center and four metal-framed chairs were lined up in a row, facing the kitchen area.
Missy moved away from Chuck and pointed the gun at Joe. “You sit there.”
She nodded at one of the chairs.
Joe staggered over to it and plopped down, tears leaking from his eyes. “Please. I don’t wanna die. Please…”
“Shut up or I’ll shoot you in the balls.”
Joe stopped pleading, but his tears continued in a steady stream.
Missy ordered Sean and Annalisa into the two middle chairs and installed Chuck in the chair on the far-right end, the one closest to the balcony doors. Chuck glanced at the shattered door and tried to send a telepathic signal to Zoe to stay put. It was ridiculous, but what else could he do? He made himself stop looking at the door. He didn’t want Missy developing any suspicions.