Mourn the Living

by Henry Perez

Chapa decided to try the technique on Vinsky.

  “A few bits of scum, sure, but there’s a lot more work to do here, Greg. Don’t you think?”

  Vinsky tilted his head just slightly to one side, like a dog does when he’s trying to process what he sees.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you came here, dealt with some of the scum, eliminated a few stickmen, but there’s a lot more work to do.” Out of the corner of his eye Chapa saw Forsythe slowly, painfully inching toward the gun, gradually willing his entire body closer to the discarded weapon. He decided to give the wounded man some encouragement. “A man, a real man finishes what he starts.”

  “You mean here, in this place?”

  “Of course.”

  “I didn’t come to save this place. This town can rot in its own perfect hell.”

  No more than thirty inches separated Forsythe’s fingers from the gun. Chapa hoped to God the man was right handed.

  “Any more questions, Alex? I didn’t want you to die before you had the whole story. You’re a quality newsman, and you deserve to get the whole story.”

  Chapa still had a great many questions, even more now that Vinsky had put it that way. But Forsythe wasn’t moving toward the gun anymore, and Vinsky would glance back in that direction soon enough, anyhow. Chapa decided to go on the offensive.

  “What do you mean before I die?”

  “No, Alex. My exact words were, I didn’t want you to die before—”

  “I just assumed you wanted to tell me your story before the police get here?”

  “Police?”

  “Yes, police. I called them earlier, on my way to this house. By the way, do you live here?”

  “Live here, this house, no. This is my workplace. My former assistants lived here. When did you call the police, how long ago?”

  Vinsky’s mind was starting to wander.

  “And what about Tim Haas? Did you force him to call me?”

  “Tim Haas, ambitious young man, too much so. Yes, he was forced to call you. How long ago did you call the police, Alex?”

  Forsythe was inching toward the gun again, but he was still much too far away to reach it.

  “Tim must have learned something about you. About who you were. Maybe tried to hold it against you.”

  Vinsky was looking down, his head jerking a bit from side to side, like he was having a small-scale seizure.

  “Yes, Tim Haas let his ambition get the best of him. Learned who I was, tried to hold it against me.”

  Then, just when Chapa was starting to get a sense of control over the situation, beginning to see a possible out, all the hatred and violence in Vinsky seemed to coalesce, then surge to the surface.

  “When did you call the police!” he screamed, and lunged at Chapa in one coordinated instant, thrusting the blade straight at his chest.

  Chapa managed to slide to the left, away from the knife, like a matador who momentarily lost sight of how much damage an angry bull can do. He swung the wooden slat at Vinsky’s hand. Missed. Then Chapa retreated another defensive step and decided to answer him before he attacked again.

  “Twenty minutes ago, maybe a few more.”

  Vinsky withdrew, straightened his shoulders, and put on his cloak of calm again.

  “That’s a long time.”

  You’re telling me, Chapa thought.

  “That means one of two things, doesn’t it, Alex?”

  Chapa did not answer, opting instead to remain coiled and ready to defend against the next attack.

  “It means that they will either be here soon, or not at all.”

  “They’ll be here. Maybe they’re outside now.”

  Vinsky shook his head, said, “Maybe they’re done believing you,” and smiled.

  He had a point, one that Chapa had fought to avoid thinking about until right now. Jackson should’ve been there ten minutes ago. To make matters worse, Vinsky knew he had a point. That’s why he was so calm again—Vinsky was back in control.

  Chapa knew he had to do something to change that.

  “I told them who would be here. I gave them your name.”

  Vinsky’s face became like a blank canvas, revealing nothing because there was nothing there. Chapa decided to continue down this road.

  “Maybe they’re at your house right now. They might’ve stopped there first to confirm my story.”

  Damn, that almost made sense. Chapa knew it wasn’t the case, but he could sell this.

  “I’m thinking that whatever they find there, Greg, will probably result in more cops being sent here.”

  Vinsky seemed to be processing. Chapa searched for an opening, any opportunity to use the slat to knock the knife out of Vinsky’s hand or slam it into the side of his head and make a move to the gun Forsythe was still creeping toward, much too slowly.

  “Yes, you would have called the police. You came here looking for Tim Haas, heard Gilley or George and rushed up here.” Vinsky sounded as calm as someone analyzing a casual game of chess. “The fact that you brought a weapon, such as it is, suggests you knew there was danger here.”

  His face at peace, Vinsky nodded at Chapa, who was still looking for that opportunity to strike and was beginning to realize it wasn’t coming.

  “Only a madman would come here without calling the police,” Vinsky added, then took a step back toward Stoop, but not far enough from the door for Chapa to make his move.

  Vinsky looked at Stoop, whose brow was covered in blood, fresh over dried, and overflowing like a gutter, and said, “Well then, let’s wrap this up.”

  With a single, decisive step and thrust Vinsky drove his knife into Stoop’s neck until its red-tinged tip emerged on the other side. He then yanked it straight forward, slicing through the front of his neck, sending a bloody spray across the room.

  Chapa tried to twist away from it, but saw some of Stoop’s blood land on his coat, felt tiny warm drops splash on his cheek and forehead. In the moment Chapa spent wiping the blood off his face and onto the right sleeve of his coat, Vinsky shifted his attention.

  “Now, George, we both know how this ends,” Chapa heard Vinsky say, then turned to look.

  Vinsky was standing in place, not advancing toward his next intended victim. Then Chapa saw why. Forsythe had managed to get his right hand on the weapon and was now pointing it, though with little certainty, at Vinsky’s chest.

  “Why, George, why would you want to do that?” Vinsky said, sounding like a man who was a seeing a done deal going bad. “Wasn’t it you, George, you, who told me too many people had died already? You’re responsible for at least one of those deaths. Let me do what I have to, and no one will ever know what you did.”

  Chapa saw an opening. He gripped the piece of wood with both hands, and cocked it back in a way that would’ve made Billy Williams proud, then moved in, determined to crush the back of Vinsky’s head with one swing.

  But he never got the chance.

  Chapter 93

  Chapa never saw the shot being fired, its sound bouncing off the walls, echoing down the stairway

  He did see how Forsythe’s entire body strained as he summoned whatever strength he had left just to pull the trigger. And Chapa also witnessed the results.

  The bullet blew a hole through Vinsky’s right shoulder and came out the backside, before slamming into a wall and biting off a dusty chunk of plaster.

  It spun Vinsky around and left him facing Chapa, the knife still clutched in his hand. It happened in an instant. Then time slowed.

  But this was not over. A through-and-through wasn’t going to stop Vinsky, and it would likely take Forsythe a while to work up to another shot.

  Chapa lunged, and swung the splintered and narrow slab of wood, catching Vinsky flush across the side of the face. The impact sent a jolt through Chapa’s body, and pain ripped across his back and shoulders.

  But instead of falling down or to the side, Vinsky stumbled toward Chapa, thrusting his knife at him, catching
him in the ribs.

  Chapa heard the blade cut through his suede jacket, then his shirt, an instant before he felt it slice into his flesh. He recoiled from the slash of pain, then his mind kicked into overdrive.

  With a single, force-filled swing Chapa knocked the knife out of Vinsky’s hand, sending it flying out of the room, into the dark hallway, and through the railing. He heard it tumble down the stairs.

  Chapa felt a sticky warmth against his wounded side, but he didn’t let himself dwell on it. No time to bleed.

  He struck again, hard, anger replacing fear, driven by a bolt of rage for his daughter, and Jim Chakowski and Warren, and Martin Clarkson and his wife, and all the other families with empty chairs at the table. The fencing snapped in half from the impact of Chapa’s next blow against Vinsky’s skull.

  Vinsky tumbled toward the doorway, then through it. Chapa followed, like they were tethered to one another, catching him in the hallway and jamming the broken end of the board into Vinsky’s neck, pushing until he felt it pierce skin.

  Chapa had never killed a man, but he was prepared to keep pushing until wood splinters emerged through the other side. But Vinsky grabbed the board, and pulled it away from his neck as blood colored his shirt around the hole in his shoulder.

  Seeing a better option, Chapa let go of the board and slammed his fist into Vinsky’s wounded shoulder, sending him into the railing.

  He saw Vinsky wince, heard him groan with agony, then another sound, a different sound. Chapa heard the sharp snap, an instant before the railing gave way and Vinsky fell backwards, beyond Chapa’s reach.

  There was a loud crack as Vinsky crashed into the steps. Chapa rushed to the edge and watched the man tumble. He seemed to bounce a little, slam into another step, then roll and slide the rest of the way, until his fall was finally stopped by the dead body at the bottom of the stairs.

  Vinsky lay motionless. His body contorted, limbs appearing to go in different directions at once. A bundle of fury and hatred reduced to a bloody heap of nothing.

  But Chapa wasn’t feeling at all secure, let alone safe. He needed to make sure Vinsky was as dead as he appeared.

  Looking down, Chapa scanned the steps for the knife, but couldn’t see it. Maybe it had fallen all the way to the first floor. In which case, it was down there somewhere in the darkness.

  Chapa needed a better option. He needed Forsythe’s gun.

  Taking one last look at Vinsky’s body, studying it for movement and seeing none, not even a twitch, Chapa turned and rushed back toward the room. Getting the gun from Forsythe would not take much effort. Chapa was sure of that, having witnessed how the man had strained to reach the weapon and the energy he’d expended just to squeeze off a single shot.

  He was wrong. The moment he walked in the room Chapa knew this was going to be anything but easy.

  Forsythe was still sprawled on the floor, his life gurgling out through the wounds on his chest and face. But he’d gathered enough strength to hold the gun in both hands, and steady the weapon.

  And he was aiming it at Chapa.

  Chapter 94

  The way Chapa figured it, George Forsythe had been pointing the gun at the doorway when he walked in, ready to shoot whomever entered the room. Set to defend himself against the man he knew as Greg Vinsky.

  “It’s okay, George,” Chapa said, raising his palms just as he had earlier in the driveway. “Vinsky is lying at the bottom of the stairs. He’s not moving, I don’t suspect he ever will again.”

  But Forsythe did not lower the weapon.

  “Let me have the gun and I’ll go downstairs, make sure he’s dead, and then call the police again. I’m pretty sure they’ll come this time.”

  Chapa smiled, hoping that would ease the wounded man’s nerves. But his smile vanished when he saw Forsythe tighten his grip and narrow one eye to a squint just before he pulled the trigger.

  The bullet took out another piece of plaster wall as Chapa dove to floor, rolled, and looked back to the door, expecting to see Vinsky standing there, the target of Forsythe’s shot.

  But the doorway was empty.

  And then Chapa understood. There were to be no survivors. No one who could tell the story of what Vinsky had made Forsythe and the others do. Nothing that could force a grieving family member to alter their impressions of the dead.

  George Forsythe was in no way an ally. The next shot took a few specks of dust off the left shoulder of Chapa’s jacket.

  He wasn’t going to let Forsythe get off another. Scrambling to his feet, Chapa arced around the room, and rushed the man as he struggled to change the angle of his arm.

  Chapa dove and grabbed the weapon with both hands. Pulling it away took much less effort than he’d expected. And the moment the gun was out of Forsythe’s hands his body retreated and he closed his eyes, as though the weapon had been the only thing sustaining him.

  Wasting no time, Chapa got to his feet and hurried out the door, into the hallway, and around the fractured railing. He made it down two steps before stopping cold.

  Chapa stared down at the bottom of the stairs and into the darkness beyond, and saw only one corpse. Vinsky was gone.

  Chapter 95

  When the cops later asked him how he could’ve been so sure, Chapa would only be able to tell them that he just was. He was certain Vinsky wasn’t in the house anymore.

  Doing his best to ignore the throbbing in his side, paying little attention to the cut along his ribs that screamed at him with each step he took down the stairs, Chapa made it to the first floor. He started for the windows across the front of the house, hoping he might see which direction Vinsky had gone, but stopped when he noticed the blood trail across the wood floor.

  The small red drops shone in the darkness, leading him down the hall, toward the kitchen. That’s where he lost the trail, but Chapa knew where it led.

  He looked around the corner, toward the dark hallway and into the kitchen beyond. The back door was open—had he left it that way? Chapa thought he caught of glimpse of movement in the backyard.

  He was about to head in that direction, arms outstretched, his hand clutching the gun, index finger on the trigger, when something crashed into the front door. Chapa froze. And then it happened again, as loud as a canon shot, forcing the door open and nearly knocking off its hinges.

  An instant later a half-dozen cops poured into the house.

  “Drop the gun!”

  “Drop it!”

  Chapa did as told. Then, as two officers rushed him, he heard a familiar voice.

  “It’s okay,” Tom Jackson said. “It’s Chapa, he’s okay.”

  For a moment, Chapa felt a sense of relief as he watched a uniformed policewoman pick the gun up off the floor. Jackson was silhouetted in the doorway by the light from a nearby streetlamp. It was the most light Chapa had seen in this part of the house, and looking around he could now see that the first floor was empty except for the body at the foot of the stairs.

  “Tom, he’s out there, Greg Vinsky.”

  “Greg Vinsky? What about him?”

  “It’s him—he’s responsible for the stickman killings. He ran out the back just a couple of minutes ago.” The other cops had stopped what they were doing. “He’s wounded.”

  Jackson ordered three heavily armed officers to go out back and start canvassing the area on foot. Then he told the other two to get back out to their cruiser, radio in for assistance, and begin scanning an eight-block radius.

  “We have to get you looked at, Alex,” Jackson said, then told one of the other uniformed officers to radio for an ambulance as he searched for the light switch by the battered door. “Let’s get some light in here, first.”

  In an instant of absolute clarity, Chapa saw the future.

  “No! Tom! No!”

  Chapa rushed the doorway as Jackson flipped the switch. He buried his shoulder into the confused detective’s gut as the walls began to emit a sizzling noise.

  Driving his body throug
h the doorway, he carried Jackson with him like a linebacker tackling an opponent. They were outside, tumbling down the front steps, and into the yard.

  A cop emerged from his cruiser, weapon drawn. Chapa tried to wave him back.

  And then the world around them exploded.

  Chapter 96

  The noise from the blast blocked out all other sounds. It was followed by a too brief silence which was replaced by cries for help, car alarms, and confusion.

  Shattered glass, pieces of wood, and broken plaster showered across the front lawn, and covered much of Chapa’s body. A section of flooring slammed into his back, and he instinctively rolled to one side an instant before a shard of window glass stabbed the grass he’d been lying on.

  It only lasted a few seconds, but the rain of debris seemed to go on much longer.

  The air was thick with the smell of fresh smoke and old dust. Chapa stumbled to his feet and saw the cop who had gotten out of his cruiser just before the blast sprawled out on the lawn. There was blood on his face and uniform, but at least he was moving.

  Tom Jackson was lying fifteen feet away from Chapa, under a ten-foot section of wall. He was not moving.

  Chapa ran over to him. He needed all the strength left in his body to lift one side of the slab. An officer rushed over and grabbed the other end, and together they tossed it aside.

  “I think the damn thing broke my arm,” Jackson said, grimacing.

  Jackson kept his left elbow tucked against his side as he sat up, and he had a few scratches on his face. But otherwise, he seemed okay.

  Chapa and the uniformed officer helped Jackson get to his feet.

  “Let’s get some help in here,” Jackson said, back in charge.

  Over by a cruiser, a badly shaken officer was already radioing for help. Chapa staggered in that direction, wanting to put some distance between himself and the house.

  When he reached the curb, Chapa turned and looked back toward the house, expecting to see a replay of what he’d seen at Jim Chakowski’s. This was worse.