A Will To Murder

by Hilary Thomson

  “You filthy fuck! Is this how he repays you? He lets you watch?” It was Bernie’s angry yell.

  With all his self-control, the reporter slowly turned around. The bales were still hiding him, thank God. He knew it was time to withdraw, but five murders commanded that he remain. He concealed himself behind the bales again.

  Bernie was facing Floyd, who was hopping around wildly to disguise the fact that he was replacing himself inside his pants. “What are you saying?!” the garbageman shrilled. “Can’t I take a leak without you spying on me? Tell Irv to take better care of you,” he sneered, “you must be starved for sex, the way you were looking at me!”

  This was not the thing to say to Bernie.

  “You fucking pig--,” she began.

  “I’ll tell Irv!” Floyd interrupted, “I’ll tell Irv!” He was leaping up and down like a frog. “I’ll say you broke that filthy garbage bag over my head and watched me with my pants down! He’ll dump you when he hears about your--obscene behavior.” The garbageman sounded exactly like some prudish vaudeville actress.

  There came a scrape, and the office door opened. Through the gap in the bales Eric saw Jac emerge, her lipstick smeared and her hair disheveled. For a second Eric was sure she could see him through the gap, but enough was happening in front of her to distract anybody.

  “What the fuck?” a man’s voice bellowed. Since Eric didn’t recognize it, he assumed it was Irv’s. “Bernie! What are you doing here? I told you not to come by because I had some business to take care of, dammit!”

  “I thought it would be The Two Stooges,” said Jac with disdain.

  “I’m breaking up with you, and if your business is with this fucking bitch, you’re welcome to her! She’s only murdered practically her entire family.”

  Three protesting voices broke out, the loudest one Jac’s. “That’s ridiculous,” Jac bit off.

  “Bernie, Bernie,” said Irv in a placating voice, “I know you don’t like Jac, but that’s totally unfounded.” Something about Irv’s tone, though intended to soothe, alarmed Eric.

  “And why do you want to break up, honey?” Irv purred. “What’s wrong? You’re mad at me? Here, have a joint. Honey, you can’t walk out now. In just a few months--” His voice dropped to a whisper, and the reporter missed the next few words.

  “Ooh-hoo,” Floyd sang out lewdly.

  “Shut up, Fuckhead,” Irv snapped.

  “He was watching through the window, Irv,” Jac said with contempt, “I saw him.”

  The garbageman spouted a flurry of denials, which Irv crushed. “Spying on the boss, eh? Well, Floyd Fuckhead, what sort of punishment would be appropriate for you?”

  Bernie suggested cutting off part of Floyd’s body and selling it at the refreshment stand. Irv had his arm around Bernie’s shoulder. The girl, though not totally mollified, endured his hand as she sucked on her lit joint. Floyd gibbered, his arms going in all directions like the elastic-corded joints of a jumping jack. “I was only trying to see if you were here! I have some very important business to discuss with you!”

  “Yeah, what?” replied Irv flatly.

  Floyd gabbled briefly in surprise, then halted with theatrical astonishment. “I can’t tell you here! In front of all these people!?”

  From Irv’s irritated look, and the garbageman’s overacting, Eric knew there was no important business.

  “Get rid of him,” said Jac coldly.

  “Floyd Fuckhead Fowler,” said Irv, emphasizing the ‘F’s’, “No one would ever guess you’re Linzy Fowler’s blood kin. If it weren’t for the fact that the D.A. won’t prosecute any of his little brother’s friends for fear of landing his little brother in jail, I might as well just shoot you and stuff you in the dumpster.”

  Floyd let out a desperate whinny and bounded around like a dog on a leash.

  “Oh Christ, he’s got horseshit on his shoes,” said Jac. “I can smell it every time he takes a step.” She laughed, holding a hand in front of her nose with disgust.

  “Fuckhead,” said Irv in a pained way, “finish cleaning the stadium. Then shovel the horseshit out in the woods.”

  The garbageman let out a string of objections. “Irv,” Jac groaned. “I’m going inside. I can’t stand the stench any longer.” The office door shut behind her.

  “C’mere, Fuckhead.”

  Eric could not see what Irv and Floyd were doing, so he nearly jumped when he heard the voices suddenly coming from just the other side of the bales.

  “Is the plane ready?” Irv asked.

  “Almost,” Floyd replied eagerly.

  “Dammit, I want to fly back tonight! What was that ‘important business’ you were talking about?”

  “Blackmail her,” said Floyd, with the air of sudden inspiration. “She’ll be rich when she gets the money.”

  “I thought of that. But even I’d hesitate about doing that to a woman who’s killed a half-dozen of her nearest and dearest. She might not worry about doing me in, or you either, Fuckhead,” mused Irv. “Besides, I’ll be getting my money back anyway.”

  Eric’s nervousness flared into a roar, and he barely managed to keep still.

  “Now shut up and finish that stadium!”

  “Woo-hoo!” Floyd flapped backwards at Irv’s rudeness, but he obeyed, making babbling protests as he left.

  The reporter gritted his teeth, waiting for the garbageman to discover him, but Floyd’s voice was fading. The garbageman was going around the stadium in the other direction.

  Eric shut his eyes in relief. Now, if he could only sneak off. He opened his eyes again and saw the glowing tip of Bernie’s joint through the gap in the bales. Then he examined his escape route. He waited several minutes, hoping the other two people would leave.

  The office door opened again with a metal squeak. “Is he gone?” Jac asked, returning.

  “No, he’s back again!” Floyd squealed. “Ooooo, it looks like we have two intruders!”

  Maxwell whipped around. The garbageman and Bradley were standing right behind him, the ginger cat in Bradley’s arms. Floyd was holding a gun to Smith’s head.

  “He came up and pointed this gun at me while I was sitting in the car!” Bradley complained, trying to look innocent instead of terrified.

  “Come on out,” Floyd ordered Eric smugly. Heart pounding, the reporter did so. Jac’s eyes widened at the sight of the two men.

  “Irv,” she said in a warning tone. “That’s my cousin and his friend.” She turned her back towards the prisoners, facing Irv. Her next words were too low to hear, but Bernie gave Irv a surprised sideways look, alerting Eric. Irv removed a gun from his jacket and aimed it at Maxwell.

  “This fellow had Booger in his car! He was trying to steal your cat!” Floyd gloated.

  “I was not! I was just trying to be friendly to him!”

  “Stealing my cat, huh?” Irv grinned unpleasantly. “You’ll have to be punished for that.”

  “Here, you hold him,” said Smith, shoving the cat into Eric’s arms. Confused, Eric was about to drop the cat, when a thought of self-preservation came to him and he held it tightly across his chest. Any bullet intended for his heart would have to go through the cat, first.

  Irv fixed his hard little eyes on Floyd. “You two turn around and look at my employee,” he said to the prisoners, motioning with his gun.

  Eric knew he could not, absolutely could not, turn his back to Irv. He sensed Bradley hesitate, begin to turn--

  “Hey! You’re not going to shoot them, are you?” asked Bernie in stoned befuddlement.

  Eric threw the cat right into Irv’s face. The beast yowled and clawed wildly, and fastened to Irv’s head for a long moment before the thug could tear it off. Eric whirled and saw Floyd’s quivering gun aiming right at Bradley. Bradley dove aside for the airstrip, and the reporter tore after him, knowing his friend was making for the woods. This is wrong, Eric thought, we need to try for the car. But it was too late to change their course.

  A shot ca
me from behind them, then a wild yelling and cursing. “Fire again, Fuckhead! Fire! She won’t let go!”

  Eric glanced over his shoulder. Bernie was locked onto Irv’s gun arm, wrestling with him and distracting his aim. Floyd fired again, but the excitable garbageman was bobbing so hard the shot went wild. Jac tried to drag Bernie off by the hair, but Bernie stabbed the lit joint into Jac’s face, something the pothead must have been yearning to do for a long time. Jac let go, ducking and cursing. Then Bernie kicked Irv in the crotch, another bit of revenge she must have been lusting for, and Irv dropped the gun.

  “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Bernie yelled in stoned triumph, holding the gun. Jac lunged for her, and Bernie, sensing danger, made a stumbling run after Eric and Bradley.

  “Shoot them, shoot her!” Jac screamed at Floyd. The garbageman had been firing the whole time, but his frenzied and inept shots only missed.

  Jac began to chase the fleeing pothead, but her high heels slowed her. Jac kicked them off. Bernie, though stoned, was better shod in her boots and already had a good lead. “They’re getting away!” Jac shouted urgently.

  “Aim properly, fuckhead,” Irv gritted from his balled-up clutch. Floyd’s finger made clicking noises. “I’m out of ammunition,” the garbageman announced to Irv.

  Irv groaned, but managed to unroll enough to dig into his pocket and toss over a box of rounds. Somewhat recovered by now, the thug started after the escapees. Floyd caught the box, twitched it open, and spilled the rounds everywhere. The garbageman snatched at the dropped rounds, but his clumsy grabs kept knocking them away from his fingers.

  Up ahead, Bernie had reached the watering tank. She flung the gun into it and stopped to give a satisfied nod at the splash. A scream of fury caught her attention, and Jac was on her. Bernie startled aside and crossed the horse exercise area. Jac stepped on a squishy lump in her nylons and skidded. She fell and landed in the midst of a few more lumps, still warm and sticky.

  “I’ll kill everybody in the world for this!” Jac ranted.

  Irv looked back and saw the garbageman chasing loose rounds. Cursing, the thug made a walloping plunge right into the watering trough, knowing he had to retrieve his gun to make any shots at all. He flailed around for the submerged weapon with not much more success than Floyd with the ammunition.

  Up ahead Bradley was making for the airplane. “No!” Eric cried, seeing this. “They’re right behind us!”

  “It has a radio, idiot! We can call for help on it!” Bradley flung the wheel chock aside as he ran past the plane’s nose and opened the pilot’s door. Eric glanced back and saw Bernie running crazily towards them. Irv was splashing around in the water tank, Jac was shrieking and trying to scrape herself off, and Floyd was scrambling all over the ground. The ginger cat was loping towards the plane. They might have time for a very fast call. The reporter opened the passenger door of the aircraft and climbed in. Smith was reaching under the control panel to get at the wiring. “Hurry! Get on the radio,” Eric gasped.

  Someone pounded on the door. “Let me in!” Bernie called woozily. Eric, who had seen her throw the gun into the water tank, made a decision. He opened the door and jerked her in so hard that she banged her head on the roof.

  “Sorry,” Eric said as she fell into the back seat. Bradley jumped out of the aircraft and ran to the front. “What are you doing?” Eric cried.

  Now Smith reappeared, getting back into the pilot’s seat with the ginger cat. “I was retrieving this little dear.” He dropped the cat into Bernie’s lap.

  “Call! Call!” Eric yelled wildly.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of things.”

  Bradley poked at the loose wiring again. “This is something I learned from one of my step-dads. I’m hot wiring the plane. Let’s see, fuel selector valve on, parking brake off, engine started according to manufacturer’s instructions, throttle setting, mixture control setting, priming, radio and navigation turned on--”

  “What!?” Eric squawked.

  “--look both ways to see if the runway is clear--,” Bradley sang out.

  The plane’s engines started, and Smith set them rolling down the runway. Eric grabbed at his seat. “AAAAAAAAAA! You don’t know how to fly one of these things! Leave us down! Leave us down!”

  “I do too, and it’s too late.” The plane was rolling faster and faster.

  “Brake!” the reporter yelled. “Brake!”

  The plane left the ground in one powerful swoop. Bernie’s mouth was open. “Do you really know how to fly?” she squeaked.

  “--check to see if instruments working,” Bradley continued. “Hey, put your seatbelts on, dummies.”

  “Damn it all,” Eric howled. “You can’t even read one of these dials.” His fingers worked shakily at the seatbelt.

  “I recognize the fuel gauge,” retorted Smith as the plane climbed. “See? It has an E and an F on it.”

  “Is that all?” Eric gurgled.

  “Of course not. There’s the altimeter, Mr. Smart Alec.”

  The reporter turned even whiter. “Oh, my God. I’m in the most extreme fear I’ve ever experienced in my life,” he said, his voice turning mushy. This remark was followed by Eric sliding sideways in his chair. The cat, terrified, stood on its hind legs and began to lick Eric’s arm frantically, trying to revive him.

  A minute or so later, Eric came to. “Have we crashed yet?” he asked feebly.

  “God, you have no confidence. Now that you’ve finished your little nap, why don’t you call for help on the radio?”

  “I don’t know how to do that!”

  “Just open your jaws and talk, dummy. Here’s the microphone. Press the button on the side of it.”

  Eric shaking fingers dropped the microphone.

  “Oh for God’s sake, let me do it. Sheesh. Pan-Pan. Pan-Pan Pan-Pan. This is a Cessna. We’re lost. Any station receiving, acknowledge please.”

  After a moment there came a crackle, and a reply. “This is Glenwood Tower. What’s your I.D., Cessna?”

  “Don’t have one, Tower. It’s a long story.”

  “Affirmative. You’re Cessna 126, then. You say you’re lost?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Cessna 126, what’s the color of your aircraft, your last known position, heading, and altitude?”

  “We took off from an airstrip at the Green Mountain Racetrack near Chichiteaux, Vermont, about five minutes ago. We’re heading--” Bradley scowled at the dials as he read the coordinates and their speed off to the tower. “And we’re sorta off-white.”

  “Oyster cream,” said Bernie in a trance-like voice. “Irv had the plane painted oyster cream a few months ago.”

  “Corrected. We’re oyster cream. Over.”

  “Affirmative, Cessna. What are your intentions?”

  “To get down!” Eric bawled into the microphone. “Give us a place to land, for God’s sake!”

  Bradley elbowed his friend in the stomach. “Excuse us, Tower,” said Smith haughtily, “my companion has no air manners. We need to land, and we don’t have any maps.”

  “No manners noted, Cessna. Can you circle back and land at the Green Mountain Racetrack?”

  “’Fraid not. Bad people were shooting guns at us, and we borrowed this plane to escape from them. The evil creeps need some cops on ‘em. Can you call the police and tell them to head for the racetrack and round up a Jacquelyn Salisbury, an Irv, and a Floyd?”

  “Floyd Fowler,” Eric added.

  “Request acknowledged, Cessna, your nearest airport is here at Glenwood.” The tower added the coordinates. “Please activate your emergency locator transmitter.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “We have you on our radar, Cessna. Let me give you your coordinates.” A moment later the tower came back with the numbers. “Cessna 126, weather to Glenwood Airport clear. Who is this, by the way?”

  “That’s a long story, too. You see, there were these scumbags.”

  Eric snatched the microphon
e away and yelled into it, “Goddammit, this is an emergency! We absolutely have got to land! This pilot doesn’t know how to fly!”

  Bradley leaned over. “I do too!” Smith insisted.

  “He does not! Look, have an ambulance and a plethora of cops ready. Over.”

  “Ambulance, plethora of cops, noted, Cessna. How many on board?”

  “Three!” Eric babbled. “No, three and a half, we have a cat!”

  “Hey, a cat’s not a half! That’s perfectly insulting,” retorted Bradley into the microphone. “We’re four. We’ll radio you if any developments occur.”

  “Affirmative, Cessna. Are you sure you know how to fly?”

  “Positive, Tower,” said Bradley, nettled. “I went through flight school, okay?”

  “Noted. Inform us of any significant landmarks as you pass them, and advise when you have the airport in sight. We’ll radio you if your heading drifts.”

  “Affirmative,” Smith replied.

  Bernie’s eyes were huge, and she gazed at Bradley with worship. Eric felt sorry that he’d thought her such a dim-witted waste of life. “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  “Yeah, I guess so. I joined you guys because I didn’t think that Irv would try to kill you. I knew he wasn’t great, but--” She still sounded stoned, and was petting the howling cat to calm it. The terrified animal was huddled in a corner of the backseat.

  “You didn’t ask if I’m all right.”

  “I can see you are, Mr. Fat and Sassy.”

  “Say,” Smith asked. “What’s that cat’s name?”

  “Booger.”

  “What a stupid name for a cat! That’s exactly what a thug would name a cat.” Bradley reached behind to give Booger a scratch.

  “WILL YOU PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT YOU’RE DOING!?” Eric shrieked.

  “I am. Now stop screaming. You’re scaring the cat.”

  “I hope we have enough gas to make it,” said Eric tightly. Although he wasn’t sure which was the fuel gauge, the needle on one dial was dropping to the bottom. Bradley paid no attention, for he had just seen a runway.