This Case Is Gonna Kill Me

by Phillipa Bornikova

  “Did you bring my money?” he rasped.

  “So, the notation did mean two million dollars,” I said.

  “Yeah, and it’s taken so damn long for you people to respond I just may raise the price.”

  “And what exactly are we paying for?” I hedged. “Remember, Mr. Westin died before he could bring me up to speed on all his cases.”

  “The will.”

  It felt like something had exploded behind my eyes. “Will?” I managed weakly. “And which will might this be?”

  “Abercrombie’s, leaving everything to Chastity. I drafted it.”

  “Ms. Jenkins has a lawyer. Why didn’t you contact him? Why contact Mr. Westin?”

  “Because you’re fucking Ishmael, McGillary and Gold, and the firm is loaded. I checked out Finkelstein. He’s a pisher. An ambulance chaser. He wouldn’t pay me what I want. Oh, he might claim they’d give it to me after they got control of Securitech, but I know how that game is played. I’d never see a dime, ’cause once they had control of the company they’d say it was my duty to reveal the will. But you guys—you’d pay to keep your case alive and making billable hours, and wait for Securitech to finally offer enough money that even that bitch of an ex-wife would take it.”

  “We’d have an obligation to reveal the other will,” I said weakly.

  “Yeah, right. When this much money’s at stake, nobody plays by the rules.”

  “I don’t think there is another will. If there was, you’d have made this offer to Securitech,” I challenged.

  “What? You think I’m stupid? They’re a mercenary company, and there have been rumors about how Deegan handles competitors and whistleblowers. No, the bloodsuckers were the safer bet.”

  “Why are you doing this now?”

  “Because I’m old, and I’m sick, and my wife is dead, and I want out of this rattrap house. I want to live out the rest of my days in comfort in an assisted-living joint, with hot and cold running nurses”—he attempted a leer—“clean sheets on the bed, and meals I don’t have to cook. I got one all picked out. Down in Florida.” He shuffled over to the desk, picked up a brochure, and thrust it into my hands. “See.”

  I looked down at the glossy flyer, at the picture of the fit, tanned, silver-haired couple holding tennis rackets, and I felt enormous pity for the old man. He wasn’t going to be swinging a racket or attending the Saturday night luau. He was going to be in his room rejoicing in his clean sheets and flirting with his nurses. Was this the result when we no longer had extended families? Warehouses for the old.

  Gillford pulled me back. “Now, do we have a deal or not?”

  “Where is the will?” I asked.

  “Uh-uh, not until I have my money. You think I’d give up my leverage? Not a chance.”

  I stood up. “I’ll have to talk to the senior partners, but I don’t think they’ll agree.”

  “Then I’m going to give the will to Finkelstein and blow up your case—”

  I interrupted. “You won’t get your money if you do that.”

  He gave me a rictus smile. “And I’ll tell the court how Westin was working against his own clients, and how you were preparing to pay me in exchange for a kickback. It’ll sure as hell get you censured if not disbarred.”

  Suddenly I didn’t feel so sorry for him. He was a vile, evil, horrible old man, and it was going to be his word against mine, and the evidence against me was the fact I had rented a damn car and drove to New Jersey to meet with him. And I knew what would happen at the firm. The senior partners would rally around me until the State Bar had taken action, and then they would fire me.

  I was trying to decide whether to cry or throttle him when I heard the sound from downstairs of chains pulling out of the wood with a rending shriek and the front door crashing open.

  14

  In that moment, all animus was forgotten and Gillford and I were allies. I didn’t know who was downstairs, but it was pretty clear they weren’t magazine salesmen or proselytizing Mormons. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911. Nothing happened. Then I noticed the icon in the upper left corner. No service. Which was crazy. I’d had service thirty minutes ago.

  There was an old-model Princess Phone on the bedside table. I ran over and snatched it up. There was no dial tone. I stood there with a phone in each hand and wondered what kind of burglar cut the phone lines. Not a burglar.

  I dropped the landline phone and stuck the cell phone in my skirt pocket for easy access. I then slung my handbag so the strap hung across my chest, leaving my hands free.

  “Is there another way out other than the stairs?” I asked. Gillford shook his head. I ran over and heaved him to his feet. “Come on. We can’t get trapped in here.”

  He moved, but very slowly. I could hear crashes and bangs from downstairs as the home invaders searched the downstairs rooms. We reached the head of the stairs. My mind was screaming at me that it was stupid to go down to meet them, but I also knew we couldn’t just cower and hide. They would find us. We had to get outside and scream for help or hope like hell my phone started working again.

  We’d managed only a few steps when a man peered up through the bannister and spotted us. He had brown hair in a crew cut and a neck as wide as his head. “Got ’em!” he yelled, and he brought up a pistol.

  The barrel seemed overly long, but I’d seen enough movies to realize the extra length was a silencer. My yammering brain wondered why he’d bothered with a silencer after breaking down the door. If that hadn’t roused the neighbors, I doubted a gunshot would.

  I pushed Gillford hard in the chest. He fell backward, but I was too late. I heard the gun give an odd coughing sound, and blood blossomed on Gillford’s chest. He hit the floor. The mechanical larnyx fell from his suddenly slack hand and went bounding and rolling down the steps. I tried to retreat, but the gun made another coughing sound and something slammed into my chest. The force sent me careening into the wall beneath the display shelf. My chest felt like I’d been kicked, but somehow, miraculously, I was still alive. I glanced down at my purse. The big metal medallion that covered the clasp was dented and deformed.

  The wall shook, dust fell like brown snow onto my head, and the big jar of marbles teetered and then fell. I managed to catch it before it brained me, but the weight of it bent me over, which meant the intruder’s second shot flew through the space where my head would have been. My fingers were locked around the jar, and I couldn’t loosen them. I lifted my head and saw the shooter starting to run up the stairs toward me. I was weirdly fascinated with how each steel-toed boot landed on each stair tread.

  I was going to die. This time he was making sure of his shot. I was both terrified and angry. The swirling colors in the jar caught my attention, and my rigid fingers moved, twisting off the lid of the jar. I jammed my hand into the jar and pulled out a big handful of marbles. I forced myself to look at approaching death, timing his steps. He was six steps below me. As his foot came up to stop on the next tread, I threw the marbles beneath his boot.

  * * *

  The shooter had no time to react. The ball of his foot hit the marbles and flew out from under him. With his arms windmilling wildly, he looked like a drunk from a silent movie as he tried to keep his balance. As he fell, his hand convulsed, sending another bullet into the ceiling.

  Fur sprouted from his face and hands, his nose and mouth began to elongate into a snout, and claws replaced his fingernails. In his wolf form, his agility would have been increased, but the transformation didn’t happen fast enough to save him. He struggled to keep his footing and careened against the wall. Miniature tea sets, antique dolls, and a curtain of dust cascaded to the floor, and the weapons on the wall bounced on their hangers. He careened back in the other direction and hit the bannister. The wood gave way with an ear-splitting crack, and a long splinter drove into his side. He fell to the ground floor. I peered over the broken bannister. As the intruder’s body had begun to morph, his clothes had ripped, giving me a view of his half-t
ransformed body. It was almost as disturbing as his neck, which was bent in a most unnatural position, and the bloodstained splinter protruding from his side.

  I kicked off my high-heeled shoes and started down the stairs. I wanted to run down as fast as I could, but instead I picked my way carefully through the scattered marbles and shattered china, not wanting to end up like the shooter. A werewolf in full wolf form appeared at the foot of the stairs and stared up at me. Bunny-like, I froze on a step. Belly low, lips drawn back to expose his fangs, he crept up the stairs toward me. The growl erased rational thought and brought back only primal memories. I began backing up the stairs. He was closing on me. When he was three steps below, he launched himself at me. It was pathetic, but I used the only weapon to hand. Locking my fingers around the edge, I swung the marble jar and caught the hound on the side of the head. The heavy glass shattered with a boom, and marbles flew in all directions.

  Like a baseball player going for a high ball, I had timed my swing to hit when the werewolf was at the apex of his leap. The blow affected his trajectory just enough that he missed landing right on top of me. I dodged, stepping on a glass shard. It dug painfully into the sole of my foot. I yelped and hopped, feeling the wet flow of blood.

  The elongated snout wrinkled, the lips drawing back even more, and saliva dripped from the fangs. The rank scent of werewolf filled my nose. I cringed back, preparing to die. In my peripheral vision, I caught a glimpse of something falling. It was more instinct then conscious thought—I threw out my hand, hoping to ward it off, and ended up catching it.

  The werewolf, jaws snapping, leaped at me. I threw one arm across my face and thrust out my hand as if I could fend him off. It didn’t work. The creature landed on me, but almost immediately went limp. Sticky, warm wetness flowed over my hand and arm, and a new smell joined the rank animal scent. It was cloying, coppery, and almost sweet. The werewolf lay on top of me. Gagging, I pushed him aside. A dagger protruded from his chest. That was what I’d caught. I would never have had the strength to drive home the dull replica weapon. The werewolf had done it himself with inertia and his own weight. I stared down at the blood coating my hand and arm.

  I killed somebody! I killed somebody! I killed somebody! Oh, holy fuck, I killed somebody!

  I went hobbling down the stairs, wincing when I landed on marbles and broken china, and blinded by tears. The werewolf at the office was an accident. Not my fault. He killed himself when he attacked me. Not my fault. But this time … I laid a hand over my bloodied arm, covering the palm of my once-clean hand with blood.

  Then I was down the stairs, in the living room and among the paper towers. Some had been knocked over in the frenzied search for Gillford and me, but most were still upright. I began wending my way toward the front door. I tried to step lightly, to keep the papers from crackling underfoot. I glanced back and saw a bloody footprint. Even if I was quiet, they would find me, track me. How many were there? Were there still more in the house? Panic was a vise around my chest. I fought the urge to just run screaming for the front door. To combat the terror, I advanced in short sprints and then froze, listening hard. Truthfully, all I was hearing was the blood rushing in my ears, the hammering of my heart, and my short, shallow breaths. Then a blood-freezing howl went up. It ended with an almost questioning warble. There was another one, and he was between me and the door, and this one was obviously wondering where his friends were.

  I reversed course and headed toward the kitchen. There would be a back door. There had to be a back door. There was the crackle of paper: the hound was moving. I tried to hold my breath and step softly. Then I realized how stupid that was. The werewolf could smell me, his hearing was acute in his wolf form, he knew by now something had happened to his buddies. The time for subtlety was over!

  I broke into a run and heard a paper wall fall to the floor as the hound leaped over it. I risked a brief glance over my shoulder. His back legs were tangled in the falling wall, and his front paws found little purchase on the slick covers of the magazines. He actually tumbled onto his side. I had a small head start.

  I felt a wash of heat as I ran past a wall heater proving old people must get cold to have this on in the summer or else it was broken. The grill was bent, and I had a brief glimpse of the pilot light burning brightly.

  Into the dining room, running like a maniac. Only one small area wasn’t covered with junk: the place where Gillford had eaten his solitary meals. At the far end of the room was a lovely built-in cabinet filled with china. All of the sets where colorful, and the patterns tended to be floral. On one wall was a collection of large bronze disks etched with Mayan figures. The chandelier over the table, made of deer antlers and hanging unevenly from the ceiling, was clearly a replacement for an older fixture. The base didn’t fully cover the hole in the ceiling. I saw it all in a flash, and then I was in the kitchen.

  The walls had once been a cheerful yellow, but now they were so coated with grease and smoke and dirt that they had turned a dull brown. I ran past a scarred and stained chopping block with an upright cleaver driven point-first into the wood. On the stove was a large iron skillet filled with congealing Crisco. The grease was darkened and flecked with bits of breading. A single chicken leg lay like an ice-bound ship in the solidified grease.

  I spotted the back door and put on a final burst of speed, only to be tripped up by the frayed and trailing extension cord stretching from the old refrigerator to a wall plug on the far side of the kitchen. I fell down and felt liquid soaking into my skirt and blouse. Water had leaked from beneath the fridge and was forming a puddle on the warped linoleum. The frayed electrical cord rested in the water. I tensed, waiting to be electrocuted, and looked toward the back door. It was lined with locks and chains too. My heart sank. I’d never get it open in time.

  Then I realized there was a doggie door cut into the wood. Not small. Not large. Sort of medium sized. Since I was already on the floor, I just started crawling toward that possible escape. Lifting up the flap, I tried to shove my way through the doggie door, and I felt my blouse and skirt rip on the top edge. My purse, still flung around my neck, was stuck underneath me, impeding my progress. I pulled back into the kitchen, ripped it off, and thrust it through the door. Then I dove through. It was much easier without the bulky purse. I was almost out when I felt a clawed hand tearing at my ankle. I kicked back hard, feeling something wet and cold on the sole of my foot. Nose. The hound yelped. Noses are sensitive. Good to know, I thought in a burst of irrational analysis, but the kick had caused the werewolf’s grip to loosen, and I was able to get outside.

  I heard the howl of frustration from the other side of the door as the hound fumbled with the chains and locks. Unless he changed back to human, he wasn’t going to open the door. My knees were trembling, but I managed to get to my feet. The door shook as the werewolf flung himself against the wood. Then rational thought seemed to once again take control of the creature, and I saw the shaggy head thrusting through the dog door. Snatching up my purse, I took off running around the side of the house and bashed into a set of wind chimes on a freestanding hook, setting them to ringing wildly. I raced on toward the street and my car. The bells seemed to keep ringing. I shook my head and fumbled frantically through my purse, searching for the car keys.

  Naturally they had fallen to the very bottom of the bag. Sobbing with exhaustion and frustration, I upended the purse. Out fell hairbrush, makeup kit, lipstick, lip pencil, pen flashlight, dental floss, breath mints, house keys, wallet, pens, pad, cell phone, package of Kleenex, my card case—the metal was dented—and finally the car keys. I bent to pick them up.

  I got an excellent, if upside down, view of the werewolf rounding the building and closing on me with massive, ground-covering leaps. The leaps seemed to be in time to the calliope music. I straightened and blindly ran into the street. The hound was right behind me.

  A rush of air fluttered my hair. Calliope music filled my ears. My peripheral vision caught a glimpse of whit
e and garish colors. There was the blare of a car horn. A loud thump. A shrill yelp. Followed by screeching as a handbrake was pulled.

  I half-turned to see what had happened, but my legs gave way and I collapsed in a heap in the street. My nose was filled with the scent of hot asphalt, gasoline, and blood.

  “Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus.” It was a young male voice shaking with anxiety. I forced my eyes open. And found myself staring at a clown. Or rather, the painted visage of a clown grinning at me from the side of a white-paneled ice cream truck. The calliope music was still tinkling away.

  A young man in a white suit and a silly little hat came around the truck. He was shaking, and his eyes were rimmed with white.

  “Are you okay, miss?”

  I opened my mouth to give the obligatory response, but then I shut my mouth and shook my head. “No.”

  “Are you hurt? Did I hurt you too?”

  “No. Not exactly.” I pulled the foot that had been grabbed by the werewolf into my lap and looked at my abraded, bloody, dirty sole, the long claw marks on the ankle, and my shredded panty hose. “Would you call the police? Please.”

  “Oh, right. Police. I was gonna call my boss. I think I killed your dog,” he added.

  “Oh God, I hope so.”

  15

  This interview wasn’t conducted in the lush comfort of an Ishmael, McGillary and Gold conference room. The police station in downtown Bayonne was rundown and stank of burned coffee, unwashed bodies, and old vomit. The driver of the ice cream truck was seated at one scarred and battered desk, giving his statement while I sat at another. I had given my statement, and now Sergeant Balfour, at whose desk I was seated, was in the lieutenant’s office with the door closed, a phone to his ear, and my wallet in his hand.

  When the cops had arrived, I had gasped out “Bodies, house,” and pointed. The two patrolmen exchanged alarmed glances, went through the open front door, and came back out in a really big hurry. One had gotten on the radio while the other checked the crumpled pile of fur. The ice cream man had indeed killed the hound.