Just Another Maniac Monday

by Jennie Marts

  And maybe she would have more sympathy for the woman if her son wasn’t holding a gun on them. “Donna, it wasn’t Johnny’s fault,” Edna said. “He didn’t shoot Weasel.”

  “His. Name. Was. Warren.” Donna turned her head to stare at Edna, a crazed look in her eyes. “And you weren’t even there. You don’t know what happened that night. I was. I saw it with my own eyes. I saw Johnny take out a gun and shoot him.”

  “Sorry. Warren. Regardless of which name you call him, Johnny didn’t shoot him. He was his friend. He cared about him. We all did.”

  Donna’s voice dripped pure hatred. “You shut your mouth. Don’t you even speak his name. None of this would have even happened if you wouldn’t have flaunted yourself at my boyfriend. It wasn’t enough for you to have Johnny and Frank bending to your every whim. You had to try and take my Warren too. It was probably your idea for Johnny to kill him. So you could take the money for yourselves.”

  Did she really believe what she was saying? Had the years and age muddled her mind so much that she really believed Johnny had been the one to shoot Warren? Had insanity taken the place of reason, and she’d now accepted this as her reality?

  Edna looked to Warren Jr., trying to appeal to his sense of reason. “Look, I’m sorry about your father. He was a good man. But what happened to him was an accident. John did not shoot him. And he only ended up with the money by accident. Turning the money back in was the right thing to do. Do you understand that?”

  An evil sneer crossed Warren Jr.’s face. “What I understand is my life would have been different if it weren’t for the two of you. My mom has spent every day telling me about my dad and how they had money. Plenty of it. And about the life we would have had if it weren’t for John Collins. We would’ve had cars and nice clothes. And Butch freaking Halloran would never have laid a hand on me or my mom. You robbed us of everything.”

  Okay. So the son was as bat-shit crazy as the mother. Great. They needed a Plan B. “Look, you’re a policeman. You took an oath to obey the law. I’m pretty sure there’s a rule in the police handbook about being innocent until proven guilty. I think they frown on cops shooting people, innocent or guilty.”

  “Well, isn’t it convenient that I’m no longer a policeman?” His face was ugly and mean as he jeered at her, nothing like the kind face of his father. “I’ve spent my life being a cop, and I used every resource I had to track down this bastard. To find the man that killed my father so I could finally avenge his death.”

  “Avenge his death? Who do you think you are? A middle-aged overweight superhero? I’d like to see you get that paunchy gut into a leotard.”

  Warren swung the gun toward Edna, pointing it at her face. His hand trembled slightly. She could see spittle at the corner of his lips, his mouth drawn into a tight line. A low growl emitted from his throat.

  This was her one chance. If she could get him angry enough, she might be able to get him off balance. All she needed was a few seconds to distract him and give herself a chance to get the gun away.

  She sank her shoulders, drooping her posture, and injected a frightened tone in her voice. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me. I don’t have much time anyway. My heart is already weak.” She clutched her chest, took a shuddering breath, and fell to the floor.

  Warren stepped into the room, dropping his arms as he leaned over her.

  As she fell, Edna curled her legs under her. Sensing the man’s presence above her, she fluttered her eyes, just enough to gauge his position. She moaned as if in pain, drawing him just a little bit closer.

  One small step. There. Salsa dancing and Zumba lessons had kept her elderly body strong and healthy. She shot out her legs, connecting with the end table and slamming it into Warren’s legs. The table hit him right under the kneecaps. He bent forward, dropping the gun and clutching at his legs.

  Edna scrambled to her feet, grabbing for any weapon she could find. Picking up a scented candle from the coffee table, she flung it at his head. The chunky jar hit him in the face then fell to the carpet with a thud.

  Warren reached for his bruised cheek, grunting in pain. Edna flung a vase full of silk flowers at him, the fragile glass breaking against his forehead and scattering flower petals and colored glass marbles all over the floor.

  There was nothing left on the coffee table. Cursing herself for cleaning up that day, she frantically searched the room for any other weapon.

  Warren was shaking his head, a tiny trail of blood starting down his forehead. He charged at her with the ferocity of an angry bull, a guttural cry in his throat.

  John knocked his crutch to the floor, and Edna grabbed it, forcing it into the chest of the charging man. She held the crutch in front of her, the pointy end pushed against his chest as his arms flailed, trying in vain to grab her.

  It would have looked comical, if not for the spit flying from his lips as he swore filthy accusations at her. “You stupid little bitch. I’m going to kill you. I’m going to rip your stupid little gray-haired head off.”

  Edna’s eyes were wide, looking for a way out of this mess. Taking in everything, she saw Donna laboriously pushing her silver walker toward where the gun lay on the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw John hobbling on one leg to her rescue, his breathing labored as he dragged the heavy white cast. “Forget about me. John, get the gun!”

  Warren’s face changed to one of determination. He turned around, letting the crutch fall to the floor, and headed for the gun.

  In seconds, Edna was on her knees, scrambling across the floor to where the weapon lay on the carpet.

  Anyone looking in the window would have seen a comical race of one semi-old guy competing against three really old people, two crippled and encumbered by their handicaps and one little old lady crawling across the floor.

  The feeling inside the room was anything but comical as Edna and John raced against the insanity of a mother-and-son team intent on killing them.

  Warren was too fast. He reached the gun, grabbed it and turned it back on Edna.

  She froze, lifting her hands in the air in silent surrender. “Okay. No need to do anything hasty.” She changed her tone to her best “mom voice,” the one she used to negotiate with her child, a mixture of gentle persuasion and unconscious coercion. “You don’t really want to kill us. You don’t want the death of two people on your conscience. You’re a policeman.”

  “Ha.” His throaty laugh had a demeaning quality to it. But his next words hung in the air, filling Edna with terror. “You think I care about killing you? Do you think you’re the first ones I’ve killed?”

  “Warren. You quit running your mouth,” Donna said.

  “It doesn’t matter, Ma. They’re gonna be dead in a few minutes anyway.” He stared at John. “You killed my father and that made me the man of the house. I’ve always had to protect my mom. From the time I was old enough to fight, I never let anyone hurt her. It didn’t matter if it was her own father or the bastard Butch Halloran she married. It was my job to keep those filthy son-of-a-bitches from touching us.”

  Us? Edna’s speculation that something else was going on with Donna’s dad seemed dead on. Was she afraid of him because he had been stern, or had his overprotection been carried out in other ways? And what kind of evil had Warren Jr. resorted to in order to “protect” them?

  Donna had moved back home after Johnny’s funeral. Edna had always assumed she wanted to be close to her family to have the baby, but maybe there was more to it. And maybe she had seen Butch as a way to escape her father, but he turned out to be just like him. No matter what had happened, these were some seriously screwed-up people. Twisted with a capital T.

  Warren sneered at Edna. “The only good thing about being a policeman means I know how to not get caught. And it let me have all the resources I needed to track down John Collins, the man that killed my father. Plus, it gave me access to some good explosives.”

  Edna gasped. “You’re the one that blew up Zoey’s car?”<
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  “Yeah, but I thought it was his.” Warren waved a hand at Johnny. “At first, it was fun just to scare you. To send a rock sailing through your window and watch you scramble like little ants. Then I got bored and decided it would be more fun to watch your bodies burst into flames. I set the bomb, but those explosives must have been old, and it went off too early.”

  “So, you had to lure us out of the house in order to cut the brake lines.” If Edna could keep him talking, she might be able to come up with another plan to get them out of this mess. Alive.

  Warren Jr. laughed. “That was simple. One phone call and you scurried up the pass. I followed your car and watched you idiots get out and walk around that waffle joint. It was easy to cut the brake lines of that old Ford while you were looking in the windows. Then I just waited for your car to crash down the mountain and off the cliff’s edge.”

  The gun shook in Warren’s hand as a rage crossed his face. “Except you didn’t die. You keep surviving. So now I need to put a couple of bullets in your heads and watch the life drain out of your eyes so I know that you are really dead. Then I will finally have revenge for my father’s death.”

  Watch the life drain out of their eyes? Who was this guy? Norman Bates’ cousin? Did he dress up in his mother’s clothes to carry out his nefarious acts? Edna needed a new tack. Stern and motherly was obviously not the way to go.

  “Killing Johnny will not avenge your father’s death,” she said. “Because he wasn’t the one who shot him. If you wanted to seek revenge on your father’s killer, you only had to look across the breakfast table. Your mother is the one that shot Weasel.”

  A blank look crossed Junior’s face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Edna pointed at Donna. “She’s been blaming Johnny all these years, but she’s the one that pulled the trigger. I think it was an accident, but she’s the one who killed him. John’s had the gun this whole time, and we turned it over to the police last week. They ran a ballistics test and it was a match to your father’s murder, and her fingerprints were the only ones on it.”

  A low, keening sound had all of them turning toward Donna, who crumpled against her walker, her head bent forward. She clutched her chest as she wept, deep, wailing sounds of anguish. “Warren, I loved you. I didn’t mean to hurt you. We were going to run away together. The gun just went off. It was an accident.”

  She wept against her chest, then drew in a deep, phlegmy breath. Her desperate crying stopped, as if a switch had been turned off.

  Raising her head, she appeared to be a different woman, her tear-filled eyes now full of rage and hatred as she turned toward Johnny. She raised a crooked finger and pointed at his chest. “You’re trying to trick me. To trap an old woman. I loved Warren. I would never hurt him. You shot Warren. You stole our money and our car. It’s your fault, John Collins. You did this.”

  Warren Jr. stared at his mother, confusion clouding his face.

  The front door suddenly opened, and Zoey walked in, Havoc in her hands. “Sunny needed some more napkins.” She froze, her eyes scanning between her grandmother and the man holding a gun on her.

  Time stood still for one agonizingly long second, then all hell broke loose. Edna screamed and dove for the gun. Warren knocked her aside, striking the butt of the gun against her head and knocking her to her knees.

  Stars spun in the air as she clutched the side of the sofa. Struggling to stay conscious, she saw John fall forward, desperately attempting to prevent the madman from reaching their granddaughter.

  Warren lunged at Zoey, grabbing a handful of her hair and yanking her towards him.

  Zoey dropped Havoc, who raced around the room, barking and yipping at Warren.

  “Shut that damn dog up!” Donna commanded her son.

  With one hard kick, Warren’s foot connected with Havoc and sent him sailing across the floor. A yip of pain and a dull thud sounded as the little dog’s body connected with the wall then lay limp and lifeless on the floor.

  Zoey cried out, in pain from her assailant and for the dog she adored. Warren Jr. had her petite body pulled tight against him, his meaty arm wrapped around her throat. She stood on her tiptoes, trying to keep her head above his arm and her airway open.

  Edna turned her gaze to John, a silent look of understanding passing between them that they would do whatever it took to keep their granddaughter safe.

  John lay on the floor, trapped by the heavy, cumbersome cast. Edna knew he would do what he could, but for now, he was basically useless. If anybody was going to save Zoey, it would have to be her. She wasn’t a superhero, but Wonder Woman had nothing on a pissed-off grandma whose baby was in trouble.

  Edna held up her hands in surrender to Warren. “Look, we don’t want anyone to get hurt. Just tell us what you want.”

  “We want you to pay for what you did to my Warren.” Donna spat the words out, venom in each syllable.

  “And we want the money.” Warren glanced at his mother. “Right, Mom? Remember, we want the money?”

  Donna slowly bobbed her head up and down, her eyes glazed. “Yes. And we want the money. The money that you stole from us.”

  “Okay. How much do you want?” Edna slowly reached for her purse. It lay on the sofa next to her bridal bouquet, reminding her that less than an hour ago, she had felt the happiest of her life. “I can write you a check.”

  “What the hell am I going to do with a check? We want the cash.” Warren’s voice rose to a fevered pitch. His desperation was showing in the ragged breaths he took in and the wildness on the edge of his eyes.

  Edna fought a wave of nausea, sure that she had a concussion, but desperate to get them out of this situation. She spoke slowly with a calming voice. “Look, Warren. I don’t have that kind of cash here at the house, but I have fifty thousand dollars in my checking account. I’ll write you a check for all of it, and you can take it to the bank right now and cash it. You can even leave your mom here with a gun on us if you want. I promise the check is good. It’s the only way I can get you the money.”

  She watched him mulling over his options as she slowly reached for her handbag. Pulling it toward her, she gently eased her hand inside.

  Warren yanked on Zoey’s hair. “Does your granny really have fifty grand in the bank?”

  Zoey’s eyes were wide with fear. She nodded. “Yes. I’m sure she does. My grandfather left her a lot of money.”

  Donna cackled, letting loose another phlegm-riddled cough. “I’ll just bet he did. I always knew Frank would do well. That’s who I should have gone after. Not this piece of white trash who would never amount to anything.”

  How dare she call John white trash when her murderous son was holding a gun to a young woman’s head. Edna wanted to rip her oxygen tank off her shoulder and shove it down her wrinkled old neck.

  Deep breath. Focus. She needed to stay calm. She would only have one chance. “What’s it gonna be? I’m not getting any younger. Do you want the check or not?”

  Warren looked at his mother. “Can you keep them here until I get back? I don’t know how else to get the money. And I don’t want to go through all this just to go home empty-handed.”

  Donna sneered at her son. “Of course I can keep them here, but I can’t promise that I won’t shoot Edna before you get back. Especially if she keeps running off her stupid mouth.”

  Warren nodded at Edna. “Write the check.”

  Edna looked at her granddaughter, silently conveying a message with her eyes. “Zoey, do you remember that game that we used to play in the backyard when you were little? We’d get all the neighborhood kids together, and you could play that game for hours.”

  Zoey looked confused, then a light dawned in her eyes. A steely look of determination crossed her face, and she nodded at her grandmother.

  Edna raised her purse, her hand still inside. She stared into the eyes of the man holding her granddaughter, his arm now slack against her throat. “Now!”

  Zoey dropped to her
knees, slipping from Warren’s grasp.

  A loud bang! A flash of light!

  The bottom half of Edna’s handbag exploded with gunfire and a red stain blossomed on Warren’s chest.

  Zoey was on her knees, scrambling toward her grandfather.

  Donna screamed her son’s name then crumpled to the floor—either in a faint, or she’d had a stroke. Edna didn’t care. Let the old bat stroke out.

  Warren clutched his chest, a look of confusion on his face. He raised his arm again, pointing the gun directly at Edna. He squeezed the trigger.

  Bam! Another shot rang out.

  Warren’s arm flung back, the gun dropping from his hand.

  Edna turned, her purse still in her hands, but she hadn’t fired a shot.

  Instead, she’d been saved by their best man. Standing in the kitchen doorway, his gun drawn, and looking handsome as ever, stood Officer McCarthy. He swept into the room, securing his gun and slapping handcuffs on Warren.

  “Well, Mac, it’s about time you got here.” Edna dropped her purse and fell to her knees next to Johnny. He had pulled himself to where Havoc’s body lay and drawn the little dog into his lap. “Is he hurt?”

  The dog opened his eyes and shook his head. His tail gave a few weak wags, and he licked John’s hand. “I don’t think so. It must have just knocked him out when he hit the wall.”

  “I have a friend who’s a vet. We’ll have him come over and check him out.” She tenderly touched John’s cheek. “How about you? Are you okay?”

  John nodded. “My pride’s hurt more than anything else. I was trying to save you and instead, I had to lie on the floor and let you save me.”

  Edna picked up his hand and held it to her lips. “I’ll let you save me the next time a maniac tries to kill us.”

  “It’s a deal.” John turned to his granddaughter, who still knelt by his side. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Zoey said, grinning at Edna. “Thanks to my crazy grandmother who carries a gun in her purse.”

  “What was all that nonsense about playing a game in the backyard?” John asked. “I knew it had to be code for something, but I didn’t get it.”