by Rusk, Day
This was one of those defining moments in life; action was required, or inaction needed to be accepted; you’re either a hero or a coward. Leslie reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his gun; once again he heard Gail scream out. He quickly checked to make sure the safety was off, moved to the front door, steeled himself and with one kick broke the lock, sending the front door swinging inward. He raced through it, not knowing what to expect.
Leslie quickly scanned the scene, trying to take in where everyone was and what exactly was going on. He knew he didn’t have much time to do so, but needed to get his bearings if he planned to be in any way effective. Off to the side, Corrigan had Gail by the throat and pressed up against a wall, slowly choking the life out of her. Harry was on the couch, but was definitely not going to be any trouble. Leslie couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Harry’s body had been cut into pieces and strewn about the couch, which had previously been an ugly green, but now was also stained red with his blood. On the floor beside the couch lay Gail’s duffel bag and beside that a small bloodied chainsaw. It was almost too much to take in, and as such he spent too long looking at the corpse on the couch – too long for his own good.
Standing in the kitchen doorway was the other hoodlum, Lou. While Leslie seemed surprised by Harry’s remains, Lou seemed surprised that anyone had burst through the front door. He recovered quickly and charged at Leslie. Leslie didn’t even have time to properly react, before he saw Lou rushing towards him. Startled, he didn’t take aim, but just fired the gun twice, hoping it was pointed in the right direction. It was. Both bullets caught Lou square in the chest, sending him falling backwards, knocked off his feet, to the carpet, dead. Later on Leslie would consider this, and realize he was lucky; lucky that Lou hadn’t given him enough time to think about what he needed to do and aim; if he had, he’d probably still be alive, the bullets having missed him.
Lou’s death did not go unnoticed. Distracted by the two shots, Corrigan looked over to the front door, at the same time releasing his grip from around Gail’s neck. She crumpled to the ground as Corrigan turned to face Leslie.
Jesus, he’s big, thought Leslie.
Corrigan started for him. Leslie raised the gun and fired twice, both bullets hitting Corrigan, one in the shoulder and the other to the side of his stomach; unlike Lou, however, Corrigan didn’t hit the floor, but just keep on coming. Leslie, panicked, tried to fire again, but didn’t have time, as Corrigan was on him. Leslie took a swing at him, and connected on the side of Corrigan’s face, but it really didn’t seem to do anything but hurt his fist. Corrigan was a big bull of a man, who didn’t seem to feel any pain.
Corrigan head butted Leslie, which immediately made Leslie’s knees weak. He didn’t go down because he didn’t have a chance to as Corrigan picked him up in a classic wrestling move, turned around and proceeded to throw him down on the coffee table, which broke apart with the weight of his body. Leslie crashed through it feeling a few pieces of wood – big ass splinters – cutting into him. He knew he had to worry about Corrigan, but right now he was in pain, glorious, mind-consuming pain – it wanted his attention and it had it.
Corrigan was pissed. He got that way often, and when he did, look out. He knew he’d been shot twice, but that didn’t matter. When he got really mad and adrenaline was coursing through his body, he just didn’t feel pain; and today, right now at this moment, he was mad. Two of his friends were dead and someone had to pay. He started for Leslie, wondering where he was going to throw him next, when the bitch he’d been choking jumped on his back, her hands around his face, her perfectly manicured nails looking for his eyes to poke at. He screamed and started twirling around, trying to shake her off. She had a good grip.
Leslie regained his senses; while pain wanted his attention, he needed to pull himself together and get back into the fight, or there’d probably be a lot more pain followed by a lot of nothing...or the Pearly Gates. With whatever strength he could muster, Leslie pulled himself to his feet and surveyed the scene.
God his head hurt.
Corrigan was in the middle of the room, trying to shake Gail off his back. The scene almost looked like something out of a bad comedy, especially when Corrigan finally got his way and managed to send Gail flying to the carpet. She almost landed on top of Lou. Leslie knew if he was going to do something, he had to do it now, while Corrigan was still a little discombobulated from Gail’s attack. Unfortunately, he hadn’t seen where his gun had gone flying when Corrigan introduced him to the coffee table, so what he had to do would have to be more organic and personal. Leslie rushed Corrigan, hitting him square in the gut, as if the two of them were football players. Leslie wasn’t exactly a small guy, so normally this move should have served to send them both falling to the ground, maybe even knock the wind out of Corrigan, especially considering he was sporting two bullet wounds, but instead Leslie felt like he’d hit a brick wall. Corrigan didn’t move, just stopped Leslie dead in his tracks.
Fuck me, Leslie thought, just before Corrigan grabbed him, pulling him face to face with him, and wrapping one bear-like hand around Leslie’s neck, the other taking the opportunity of its freedom to punch Leslie hard in the side of the head. Once again, Leslie’s knees felt like pudding. This wasn’t good; he’d shot the man twice and hit him hard in the mid-drift and he was still on his feet ready to fight. Leslie knew he was definitely in trouble; Corrigan was going to kill him. Maybe as he took the time to kill Leslie, Gail would take the opportunity to escape - he hoped so.
The hand around his throat was pressing hard, choking the life out of him; it wouldn’t be long now. Leslie could feel his mind moving closer and closer to unconsciousness. At that moment he kind of welcomed it. Then the silence of the night was disrupted – a loud noise, although in his mind’s cloudy state, he couldn’t make out from what.
Gail approached Corrigan from behind and brought the chainsaw down into his back, following the highway of his spine. Corrigan let out a scream, as his body tensed, arching backward. If she hadn’t been concentrating on trying to kill this brute, she would have noticed that when he arched backwards, he actually lifted Leslie off the floor, holding him only by his throat. Gail, blood splashing back on her, held firm, cutting into Corrigan’s back. She was afraid if she let go or stopped, somehow he’d just turn around and throttle her. She watched as he released his hold on Leslie’s throat and Leslie fell to the ground like a rag doll. She watched as Corrigan, taking more punishment than a man should be able to take, slowly sunk to his knees, the fight slowly leaving him. Once on his knees, she pulled the chainsaw out of his back.
Corrigan wasn’t quite ready to die yet. There wasn’t a lot he could do, but he wasn’t dead. Gail stood there for a second, listening to the gurgling and moaning of the big man, not quite sure if he was going to get up and turn around and kill her, or fall to the ground dead. The problem with most horror films she had seen growing up is, when the good guys get the opportunity to kill the monster or bad guy, they never make sure he or it is really dead. They might shoot him once or twice and look at him on the ground, but they never make sure, like emptying the rest of their gun into the killer’s head until it’s mulch and there’s no mistaking him or it is dead. They never make sure and always pay the price for that. Gail wasn’t going to make that same mistake. With one quick movement she dug the chainsaw into the side of Corrigan’s neck; his body jerked as she did so and even more blood covered the living room floor, but she kept going until his head rolled off the body and hit the ground, rolling away. She turned off the chainsaw, knowing that unlike her cinematic counterparts, she had made sure the monster was dead.
Leslie, regaining his thoughts, watched as Gail sliced the chainsaw through Corrigan’s neck, only hesitating a bit where the spine attached to the skull or something like that, and then proceeding on as if his neck were butter. He watched as it lobbed off and fell to the ground, followed shortly after by his body, falling backwards, not quite hitting the ground, but proppe
d up a bit by his legs. His mind wanted to snap shut; he’d seen too much tonight and wasn’t sure he could handle it; especially looking at Gail, who was looking down at him; she was covered in blood.
Leslie struggled to his feet as Gail moved to her duffel bag and put the chainsaw back into it. Once she had zipped it shut, she turned to Leslie.
“My hero,” she said with a smile.
This was all too surreal; Leslie couldn’t help wondering if he was actually at home with Gail and she had slipped him another LSD tablet?
“You bring your car?” she asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Leslie shook his head, Yes.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” she said to him. “Just give me a minute in here.”
Leslie just looked at her, stunned.
“I’ll meet you at the car,” she said firmly.
Leslie just nodded and like one of the living dead, stumbled out of Harry’s house.
Each step seemed to bring about fresh moments of agony; the pain seemingly finding every nook and cranny in his body to invade and stimulate. He didn’t know who that last guy was, but he certainly hadn’t been human. He hadn’t been nearly as wounded as that guy had been and he wasn’t so sure he could make it to his car without passing out - but he did. Leslie got behind the wheel and thanked his lucky stars he was now sitting down; it provided a bit of relief, but not much.
Leslie watched the house. It took about fifteen minutes, but finally Gail appeared at the front door. She had her duffel bag with her. Even though he was really the only car sitting on the street, Leslie flashed his headlights. She immediately headed over to the car and got in the passenger seat.
“What about your car?” asked Leslie.
“It’s stolen,” she said. “Let’s go.”
That was good enough for him. Leslie turned the key in the ignition, turned on the headlights and started down the street. He suddenly had a strong desire to put as much distance between this place and himself as he could.
Carlos Diaz was restless. From time to time he suffered from bouts of insomnia; it drove him crazy yet he was helpless. The more he thought about it the more it got to him. He had learned, after many long, uncomfortable sleepless nights that the only way to deal with it was to get out of bed and find something to do. If he stayed in bed, he’d just torture himself watching the clock and counting the minutes until his alarm would go off and he knew he had a full day’s work ahead of him. Getting up and doing something, still made him aware he was losing sleep, and another full day of work still lay ahead, but at least he was occupying himself with something. It wasn’t perfect but it helped.
It was the motorcycles roaring up the street at this time of night that first caught his attention. It wasn’t exactly new, he knew who lived across the street and knew the rumors that he was one of Morgan Neil’s old friends and long time member of his crew. He and the other neighbors knew that and didn’t really care. It wasn’t like they were living in the safest neighborhood the city had to offer and Harry’s presence on the street probably made it safer than it should have been. The street that John Gotti had lived on in New York was also probably the safest in that city. Sure you were living next door to a killer, but that killer would make sure nothing untoward happened on a street in which he and his family lived. Harry wasn’t married, but Carlos figured he didn’t want any trouble close to home either. Really, all he and the rest of the neighbors had to deal with were some unsavory looking fellas showing up from time to time and sometimes very late at night. He figured he probably wasn’t the only one who heard the motorcycles; others probably had as well, but why get up and look, they knew where they were heading and knew it was none of their business; just roll over and go back to sleep. They didn’t suffer from insomnia.
Carlos watched as the two bikers went into Harry’s house. He’d seen them before. What really caught his attention was the man sitting in his car, obviously watching Harry’s place. Shortly after the bikers had disappeared into the house, the man had gotten out of his car and headed towards Harry’s. Carlos hoped it was a cop, because if it was some other fool, he was sneaking up on the wrong fella’s home. Curious, he kept watching as the man eventually kicked the front door in and entered. That action was quickly followed by what sounded like gunshots; not that Carlos knew what gunshots sounded like, just that he didn’t suspect they were in there playing with firecrackers, and gunshots seemed like the most logical explanation; now for any normal concerned citizen that would be the time to rush to the phone and dial 911; not in this case and in this neighborhood. Something was going down at Harry’s place, and he didn’t want any part of it. Whatever was happening, it’d have to let itself play out without his interference.
What sounded like two more gunshots rang out and then silence. Carlo’s kept watching; it was either that or suffer through some more of those late-night infomercials. He watched as the man, who might or might not be a cop, stumbled out of the house and made his way back to his car. He then watched as a woman exited the house, carrying a duffel bag. She was quite the looker; Carlos couldn’t take his eyes off of her and didn’t until the car carrying her and the other guy, a cop or not, pulled away and drove off into the night. Carlos sighed, went to his recliner, picked up the TV remote and resigned himself to a couple of hours of infomercials; he knew what Hell was like.
chapter FIFTEEN
“what THE hell just happened?” asked Leslie, sneaking a glance at Gail in the passenger seat while he also tried to concentrate on keeping his car on the road. He hurt like hell; every little movement seemed to bring on new pain. His mind was also trying to process what he’d just been through and having one hell of a job doing so.
“You were there,” said Gail.
He looked over at her briefly and then back at the road. She almost seemed nonchalant in her demeanor, as if nothing had happened, as if twenty minutes ago or so she hadn’t lopped off some guy’s head with a chainsaw.
“What were you doing at Harry’s house?” he asked.
“You know his name?”
Leslie just looked at her, then back to the road. An uncomfortable silence filled the car.
“I was doing you a favor,” Gail finally said.
“Doing me a favor?” he repeated.
Gail reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. She unfolded it and showed it to Leslie. He immediately recognized the picture flow chart of Morgan Neil’s criminal organization that he had on his laptop; he immediately recognized the four men whom he had circled.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked.
“Snooping, remember?” she said. “You want these four men dead, don’t you? You want them dead but you’ve never been able to do anything about it. Right?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Revenge, Leslie, revenge. It’s in your heart and your soul. I’ve seen it. You just can’t find a way to tap into it. You were there that night. You did witness your family’s murder, and you’ve been kicking yourself ever since because you didn’t do anything to save them. You couldn’t. Not then. But you can avenge their deaths. You want to avenge their deaths, but fear is holding you back.”
“You’re insane.”
“Were you following me?” she asked after a bit of silence.
“What?”
“Were you following me?”
“Why would I be doing that?”
“Exactly,” she said. “You were following Harry, the man you circled in the picture, right? You were following him and trying to work up the courage to take him on and make him pay for what he did to your family. I assume the four men circled are the killers who came to your parent’s home that night.”
“You’re still insane.”
“What? For killing him? That’s what you wanted to do. You were following him and trying to work up the courage to do it; I just beat you to the punch, thank you very much.”
Leslie shook his head but said nothing
. The problem was she was right; he had been staking out Harry and trying to work up the courage to do what she did to him. She had pulled off what he never knew if he could. It was infuriating.
“You shot a man tonight,” said Gail breaking the silence once again. “You took a man’s life. You finally pulled the trigger. It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Are you out of your mind? Feel good? Oh, man.”
“You shot and killed a dirt bag, Leslie. Is that really going to mentally torment you? Get over it. Suck it up Princess.”
Suck it up, Princess, he thought, before chuckling a little. Did she really just say that?
“You were sloppy, though,” said Gail. She pulled his gun from out of her coat pocket and showed it to him. “Would have left this behind. You weren’t thinking. You have to be smart about these things.”
“You can keep it,” he said.
Gail laughed.
“What’s so damned funny?” he asked.
“Keep it,” she said, “Hell Leslie, you’re going to need it, we still have three circles to deal with.”
Leslie didn’t know what to think. He was definitely in over his head.
You never know what the morning holds and on this particular morning Harry Madwin’s neighbors were in for a beehive of activity as police cruisers, marked and unmarked, investigation vehicles and police hearse vans filled their quiet little street. Police tape had completely cordoned off Harry’s home, with uniformed police officers standing guard to hold back the crowd of onlookers.
Inside the house, Detectives Ray Michaels and Bryan Stork approached Police Detective Eunice Carroll, a middle-age veteran of the Lakeview Police Department. They were mingling amongst a crime scene photographer and various forensic personnel who were documenting the crime scene.