by Jeff Strand
It should have been. I hadn't known Abigail that long. We hadn't even made love. Neither of us had said "I love you" to the other. Continuing to murder drug dealers one by one would eventually work out badly for me. Would I even feel better after they were all dead?
I might. I might not. I needed to find out for sure.
I walked for a couple of hours, which was probably further than necessary to distance myself from wherever Wulfe's men might be searching, and then reluctantly decided to try hitchhiking. I stuck out my thumb at each car that drove past. Wisely, none of them stopped.
Finally, about an hour later, one did. The driver leaned over and opened the passenger door for me. As I climbed into the car, I hoped he wouldn't say "Gas, grass, or ass—nobody rides for free!" because all I had to offer was ass.
"You okay, dude?" the driver asked. He looked at least five decades too old to be saying "dude."
"Yeah," I said, leaning forward to make sure my bloody shirt didn't touch his seat.
"Want me to take you to the hospital?"
I shook my head. "Just to my apartment, if you're headed that way."
"You sure? That's a nasty cut."
"I don't have insurance."
"All right."
I think the driver understood that I wasn't in a chatty mood, and he didn't even try to make small talk beyond asking me for directions. I'm sure he was going out of his way, but he drove me all the way to the apartment complex that I said was mine, which was actually a few blocks away from mine. At some point, he'd probably see me on the news and regale his friends with the story of how he had a psycho killer in his car and lived to tell the tale.
As I got close to home, I saw several police cars in the parking lot.
It was possible that somebody else in my apartment complex did something naughty. But using moderate deductive skills I could make a wild and crazy guess that the authorities were parked out front of where I lived because somebody had alerted them to the two corpses in my bathtub. Was it Marc? Was it insufficient air freshener? It didn't matter right now. I couldn't go home, and I had to assume that I was being hunted by the Atlanta Police Department and not just a few scumbags.
I wanted to cry.
I'd have to get closer to see if my car was still there, but it would most likely be towed away to wherever they kept the automobiles of murderers, so even if I wanted to ditch my plan of bloody vengeance and flee town, I didn't have transportation.
I walked away. I did have a Plan B, though it sucked.
It took me an hour to find a pay phone. It took me another hour to find a pay phone that had a phone book. (The phone itself had been ripped from the cord.) I looked up the address for Neal Miller. There were lots of Neal Millers, of course, but I picked the one closest to the bar where I'd watched him have a miserable, guilt-ridden drink after hitting Abigail.
God, I wished I had my cell phone or my wallet. I was going to have to rely on the kindness of my fellow human beings again, and hope that none of them were watching the news.
This time I lucked out, getting a ride in less than ten minutes. Granted, this guy was even scarier than I was. He was on whatever combination of drugs makes you constantly lick your lips and ignore stoplights. But he did get me to Neal's place and wished me luck in rescuing him from the suicide cult.
It was a small but nice house in a decent area. Neal was doing all right for himself.
I didn't have a mirror to check out my appearance. Unless I stole somebody's clean shirt and had a complete makeover, I was going to be an unwelcome sight at his front door after dark. I'd just have to use my powers of charm and persuasion.
I rang the doorbell.
Nobody answered.
I knocked.
Still no answer.
If I'd gone through all of this and he wasn't home, I was literally going to plop down on his front porch and weep.
Finally, the door opened. Neal stood there in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, hair sticking up, a bit of dried drool on the side of his mouth; I'd obviously woken him up.
"Can I help you?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. I couldn't tell if he recognized me from the bar or not.
"I'm a friend of Abigail's."
Now he seemed to actually see me. When you've struck a woman, and a large man shows up at night covered in blood saying he's a friend of hers, it's not unreasonable to assume that your personal safety is at risk. I held up my hands and took a step back to show that I wasn't trying to be menacing.
"She's in trouble," I told him. "We need your help."
"Where is she?"
"May I come in?"
"No."
"Please. I just need to talk to you."
"We can talk here."
Now I had to be a dick. "I can press charges against you, but I'd rather not do that. I'd rather just come in and talk to you. I swear to God I'm not going to hurt you. This is your chance to make it up to her."
Neal sighed. "What happened to your shoulder?"
"I got shot."
"And that's related to Abigail's trouble?"
"Yes."
Neal sighed again and stepped out of the way. "All right. Come on in."
I walked into his house. It was more tastefully decorated than I would've expected from somebody who slapped women around.
"Can I get you a drink?" Neal asked.
"I'd love some water."
Neal nodded and went into the kitchen. I checked to make sure I wasn't dripping any blood on his carpet. He returned a moment later and handed me a warm bottle of water. I twisted off the cap and downed the entire thing. Neal didn't offer me another one.
"What kind of trouble has Abigail gotten herself into?" he asked.
I hesitated, trying to figure out how to cushion the blow. Then I decided that I didn't need to cushion the blow to the stalker who gave her a black eye. "She was murdered."
"What?"
"Because of me, she got mixed up with some terrible people and they killed her. I'm going to make them pay. All I want from you is to use your shower and sleep on your couch. And to use your computer. And to borrow maybe twenty bucks."
"Is this a joke?"
"You knew her a lot longer than I did," I said. "Does that sound like her sense of humor?"
Neal walked over and collapsed onto his couch. "Holy Christ."
"You owe me absolutely nothing. But you owe her. I think that a houseguest and twenty bucks—let's say thirty to be safe—isn't that big of a price for what you did."
"I didn't lay a hand on her," he said.
"Please don't lie to me."
Neal dabbed at his eyes. "Okay. Okay. Shit. Will I get in trouble for helping you?"
"Not if the police think you helped me because you were scared I'd hurt you."
"Should I be scared?"
"No. But we can pretend."
Neal stood up. "All right. All right. You can take a shower, at least. I don't have any clothes that would fit you, but I've got a washer and dryer, so I'll wash what you're wearing. We'll discuss having you crash here after that. Is that reasonable?"
"Yes. Thank you. I can't stop you from calling the cops on me, but if you do, you'll continue to be one of the villains in Abigail's story."
"I'm not a..." Neal trailed off. "C'mon, the bathroom is down the hall."
Many, many things had gone wrong today, but the shower was amazing. I hadn't realized just how shitty the shower in my apartment was until I had this one for comparison. The water pressure was exquisite. I'm a bar soap kind of guy, not fruity/flowery scented gels that you squeeze from a dispenser, but I thoroughly enjoyed his selection and I stayed in the shower until all of the hot water was gone.
When I got out of the shower, a robe was hanging on the back of the door as were some bandages, gauze, and tape. I dressed my wound, awkwardly, and then put on the robe. It wasn't a great fit, but it was perfectly adequate. I walked into the living room. Neal was seated on the couch, next to a pillow and a folded blanket. His eyes were r
ed and he had a wadded up tissue in his hand.
"Good shower?" he asked.
"Yes. Very good."
Neal sniffed. "It haunts me, what I did. I will never forgive myself. I don't know, I just, I was so mad in that moment that I stepped outside of myself for a second. But I know now that I'm capable of that kind of thing—I understand this about myself. I can make sure it never happens again. Not that it changes anything, and not that I expect you to care."
He was right. I didn't care.
"Who killed her?" he asked.
"Drug dealers."
"She didn't use drugs."
"I know."
"Are you a drug dealer?"
"No. But I helped one of them. It was a huge mistake."
"So you got her killed?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "One hundred percent."
"We're both pretty shitty friends."
"I guess so."
"Do you think you'll need stitches?"
I shrugged. "Probably."
"Do you want me to do it?"
"Have you stitched somebody up before?"
"Nope. And I'll probably get lightheaded while I'm doing it. Still better than doing it yourself."
"I'll be fine," I said.
"It's already soaking through the gauze."
"Shit."
"I'll just get some more sheets so you don't stain the sofa."
A few minutes later, I lay on the couch.
"In the morning, I'll make you breakfast and give you some money," said Neal. "Then, if it's okay, I'd like to not see you again."
"That should be okay."
"Good night." Neal shut off the light and went to his bedroom.
I lay there for a while, so exhausted that I could barely keep awake but not willing to lose consciousness until I was confident that Neal hadn't called the police. After about fifteen minutes, I assumed I was safe. I drifted off to sleep, thinking about the people I still needed to kill.
seventeen
Neal's blueberry waffles weren't all that great, though of course I didn't tell him that. We didn't talk much during breakfast. I took another extremely long shower and then inspected my bullet wound. Oh, yeah, I was going to have a nasty scar. One step closer to looking like Frankenstein. However, I hadn't gotten all that much blood on Neal's sheets and none soaked through to his couch, so I was confident that I wouldn't bleed to death.
I bandaged and gauzed it up, put on yesterday's clothes (still torn, obviously, but all of the gore had come out in the wash), and left the bathroom to see my face on the television screen.
We didn't watch very long. Neal could see that I was getting twitchy. There was nothing about the trailer park massacre, but they had indeed discovered the bodies in my bathtub, thanks to my landlord responding to an aroma complaint from the lady next door.
The newscasters were currently talking about my father.
Fine. Whatever. At least they weren't talking about the other two guys I'd brutally murdered.
They weren't talking about Abigail, either. I suddenly felt deeply sad, thinking that she probably had not yet been reported as a missing person. Nobody walked along the sidewalk and said, "Oh, the flower lady hasn't set up her shop today. She must be in trouble!" Did anybody miss her but me?
Her cat. Queenie missed her. Was she out of food and water? Did her kitty litter need changed?
Neal looked very uncomfortable after he turned off the television. I suppose that what we briefly saw on the news didn't really match up to what I'd shared with him, even though I told the truth.
"It's time for you to leave," he said.
"I agree."
"I'm going to give you a hundred dollars. After this, I don't expect to see you again. Ever. For any reason. If I see you anywhere, if we happen to be shopping at the same grocery store, I'm calling the cops. Or worse. Consider this a restraining order. Do you understand?"
"Yes, but I ask two more favors?"
"You can ask."
"Will you give me a ride?"
"No." He was silent for a moment. "I'll give you a bicycle. It's in the garage—I never use it."
"Thanks."
"What's the other favor?"
"Abigail had a cat."
"Queenie?"
"Yes. Could you go over there and make sure the cat's okay? Abigail isn't coming back, so I guess what I mean is could you find a good home for it? You don't have to adopt it yourself. Just don't take it to the pound."
"Yeah, I can do that. Do you have her key?"
I shook my head. "We weren't anywhere close to that point in our relationship."
Neal seemed pleased by this. "It's all right. Somebody will let me in to save the cat. I'll bring her here until I find somebody to take her."
"I appreciate it."
"Now let's get you the bike so you can go."
* * *
He also had a bicycle helmet, which was great because though it didn't cover my face it made me slightly less recognizable to somebody who might've seen me on TV. Maybe this fell into the category of Clark Kent's glasses making him unidentifiable as Superman, but I wasn't going to worry about it too much—I'd keep my head down and keep moving.
My plan was not pure brilliance. It wasn't even a little bit brilliant.
Here was my plan: I would ride to the trailer park, and if the trailer wasn't surrounded by cops, I'd wait inside for one of Wulfe's men to show up. One of them would eventually, right?
Nobody recognized me during my bike ride (or at least they didn't point and let out a shriek like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers). The most dangerous part was when I stopped at a convenience store and bought a $5 phone card, but the clerk barely even looked up.
When I got to the trailer park, Jamie's corpse was not still lying outside, though some shards of the garden gnome remained on the ground. I wondered who took it. The trailer was locked. I'd figured this could be the case, but though I'd never picked a lock, I couldn't imagine that a run-down trailer like this would pose too much of a problem. And I was right—wiggling the plastic phone card down the gap between the door and doorframe popped the lock.
I went inside. The mess remained but Moles' body was gone.
Time to wait.
I honestly have no idea if you're still on Team Frank. I've written about doing some weird, weird things. And this is another part where you'll know that I'm not making up this story, because if I was, I would've explained how I hung out in the trailer for a few hours before somebody came along. Maybe overnight. A reasonable amount of time that a sane person might wait in a disgusting trailer.
That's not what happened. I stayed in the trailer for three days.
I didn't have a cell phone, there were no books, and I'd broken the TV, so there wasn't much available to keep myself occupied. I spent some time cleaning up the place. Tried to work out fancy meals using the extremely non-gourmet ingredients in the cupboard. (The refrigerator contained a twelve-pack of beer with one can left and three half-full bottles of ketchup.)
Mostly I just sat there and thought about stuff.
It wasn't all awful stuff, but most of it was. Again, the inside of my head was not a cheery place to be. I wasn't hallucinating, at least not as far as I could tell, but the waking nightmares came fast and furious. I didn't believe I was actually seeing wet tentacled creatures dangling from the ceiling, but I couldn't stop thinking about them.
No claws were scraping against the windows.
The floor was not moving.
I did not legitimately see shadows darting away every time I turned my head.
A possible visit by the police, which should have been a major concern, occupied very little of my headspace. Similarly, when I went to sleep on the bed where Abigail had been hacked up, I didn't worry that I'd open my eyes and see angry drug dealers pointing guns at me.
The time did not pass quickly.
I'm pleased to report that I was still able to identify that it was the third day (t
echnically night—it was dark out) before something happened. I opened my eyes as I heard somebody unlock the trailer door. I was on the bed with the curtain closed. I decided to stay there for now. No matter who the intruder was, and no matter how paranoid they were, I very seriously doubted that they'd expect to see somebody lying there when they pulled the curtain aside. I had a steak knife under the pillow.
It sounded like only one person came inside. I tried to figure out who it was based on the sounds of footsteps, but all I could ascertain was that it was not a petite ballerina nor a clumsy giant. I'm no Sherlock Holmes.
The person walked around for a moment. Then he spoke: "Hey."
He wasn't talking to me. He was probably on his cell phone.
"Somebody's been in here. They cleaned it up. No, I mean like they literally tidied the place up. How the hell should I know who it was? If you want me to, yeah. All right. I said, all right. Jeez."
I hadn't actually heard the teenager speak while I was squeezing his throat, but I assumed he was the one inside the trailer. That was good. He seemed the least likely to have a gun or to put up much of a fight.
I quietly lifted my feet into the air. I figured he'd pull the curtain at some point, and when he did, if he was in the right spot, I'd bash my feet into his chest. Then I'd get some information out of him. Later, I'd kill him.
I decided that his name was Mike. A smart kid but, as his teachers said at every parent/teacher conference, "he didn't apply himself." Straight C's. It bugged him to get a C+ because it meant that he squandered some effort on school stuff that he could've used elsewhere. Not that he put effort into anything else. He had no hobbies, no aspirations, no dreams.
His dad, Robert, had never planned to bring him into a life of crime, even to provide Mike with something to do and some spending money. Mike found out purely by accident, on a day that Robert didn't know his son had skipped school and was upstairs in his bedroom, able to hear what was supposed to be an extremely private phone conversation.
Buying Mike's silence (his mom didn't know about her husband's side career) was expensive. But the kid was useful, doing some low-risk odd jobs. Robert planned to break away from that lunatic Wulfe at some point, so he liked the idea of having somebody he could trust working with him.