"I don't care! You're a bum! A bum is somebody who doesn't—" Judge Judy said to some loser. But Chris changed the channel. Oprah. He changed it again. Jerry Springer. Again. This time, an update on the local news about The Blake County Killer. A news reporter with wavy hair held a microphone up to his own mouth. He was standing on the bank of the Ohio River.
"We've just been informed that another body was discovered at this local dam an hour ago," the man said.
"Shit," Chris said.
***
Adam signed online. "You've got mail!"—the voice screamed through his speakers. Adam turned it down and opened his email box. Three new messages!
One was an ad for Wal-mart.
The second was for a pre-approved credit card.
The last one was from Roseybabe1234.
His heart almost stopped.
***
Chris paced around his bedroom, phone in hand, wondering what to do. He knew he could not let this go any further. Adam had to be stopped, even if Chris did understand him. But summoning the courage to dial 911 was easier said than done. He didn't want to picture the police breaking his door down, cuffing a kid with severe problems, and throwing him into a sea of sharks. Or worse: them breaking the door down and putting a bunch of holes in his body.
I don't know if I can do this.
"Chris!" his mother called. "Food is ready!"
***
Adam clicked onto her email and read it:
"Adam, hi, how are you? I should not even be writing this email, because my mom and dad no longer want me to talk to you. I just wanted to say how sorry I am for hurting you so bad. I do apologize. I heard about your father on the news … missing and all, and just wanted to say how sorry I am for you. That's gotta be rough. I know things between us will never be the same and that I will never probably be able to talk to you again. I just want to say I'm sorry, and that I won't ever, ever forget you. Have a good life and keep writing."
Adam clicked off the email and went back to work on Damaged.
***
Chris devoured three Sloppy Joe sandwiches in less than three minutes. His mother and father, who were also sitting at the kitchen table, watched him as he ate mechanically and hurriedly. He moved on to his steak fries, not even dipping them in kitchen like he usually did. He wasn't really in the kitchen. Maybe not in the world.
A moment later, he got up and ran out of the room. He hadn't spoken a word.
***
Adam wrote faster than he had ever written before. Words poured onto the white void quickly, consistently. His fingers flew at the keys. His eyes had not looked this serious during any of his last four murders. He could not stop. He had to finish making a noise to the world, to explain in every minute detail how bad society was distorted.
In every way possible.
***
Again, Chris paced, phone still in hand. The food in his stomach wanted to come back up.
What will life be like without Adam?
He's my only friend who doesn't do drugs or drink.
He's my only friend who's more than honest but won't hurt me with honesty.
He's so one of a kind.
I remember the time when—
Chris stopped. He knew he'd be as crazy as Adam if he didn't make the call. So he did. He dialed 9-1-1, gave them Adam’s address, told them he was the killer, and hung up. Afterward, he fell onto the floor and cried.
***
Deputy Rivers, the same young, thin officer who had paid Adam a visit only days ago, was sitting in his patrol car outside a convenience store on Larick’s Street, trying to enjoy a coffee and doughnut when the call came in.
"Information on the teenage killer case! Check out the McNicols’ residence. 1199 Main St. Possible suspect.”
Startled by Becky Hiant’s loud voice and the abrupt idea that Adam (the kid looked nothing like a killer) may have done this, Rivers spilled some coffee on himself.
He took off down the road, sirens blazing. Other officers were informed soon afterward.
***
Adam sat on the living room couch and turned on the TV. A news reporter for Channel 9 filled the plasma screen. "If you're just tuning in, authorities have found another body in the Ohio River. A female about age 19, named Emma Lostone, has been discovered. However, she doesn't appear to be a victim in the recent lash of homicides. Apparently, her body has been in the water for some time. Local Officer Steve Hogens believes that it was a double suicide, as Ronald Lostone's body was also found only days ago. Now to—"
Adam gasped and shut off the television. He thought he could feel the police driving to his house even before they were anywhere close.
I hate you, Chris.
I die. Today.
***
Chris darted down Baskot Street as quickly as he could without losing his balance. Tears almost froze to his cheeks. Cars passed him, passed him, passed him. The Catholic church bell over and over again. He was headed straight toward Adam's house, hoping to get there before the cops arrived. He needed to be with Adam one last time. He didn't really care or think of being hurt in the process; he was going on instinct.
***
Ring, ring, ring.
"Come on, Chris, answer your fucking phone!" Adam said, with the phone to his ear.
Click!
"Hello?" Chris' dad answered.
“Chris? Is Chris there?" Adam grunted.
"Uh, no. I don't know where he went. He just stormed out of here like something was wrong."
"Did he say anything?"
"Did he say…?"
"Do you know if he's coming here?"
“I don't know. Adam, is everything all right?"
"No!" Adam hung up. He smashed the phone against the wall, breaking it into fragments. Now he could hear the sirens.
***
"Coming up on the reported house," Rivers said into his CB as he rounded the corner of 15th street, almost crashing into a fire hydrant. A young boy in dark clothes followed the police car on his bike, peddling feverishly to try and keep up. He knew they'd found him—the murderer. He wanted to see who the hell it was.
Crazy Charlie? Drunken Bill?… Who?
Soon, other curious citizens stepped outside onto their porches or walkways, wondering what all the commotion was about.
“You're okay. You're okay. You're okay," Adam comforted himself. He was sitting in an old chair in his basement, the pipe bomb resting in his lap, accompanied by only one feeling: forthcoming demise.
"I am so fucked," he cried. He could hear the sirens, faintly but inevitably.
"Adam!!" Chris shouted as he let himself into Adam’s house and slammed the door behind him.
"I'm down here," Adam called.
Chris marched through the hallway and down the basement steps.
The last thing he expected to see was Adam with such a formidable-looking device resting on his lap. But he did not know what it was. "Adam?"
"Chris," Adam said, rocking forward and back, his eyes glassy and lifeless. "I can't believe you did it. You called the cops on me when you said you fucking wouldn't."
"Adam, they found another body. I said that—"
"It wasn't a murdered body!"
"What?"
"Some fucking whore jumped off a bridge or something. I didn't kill anybody since you told me not to. It was a suicide. You sure didn't waste your time, did you?"
"Oh, God. I didn't know, man, I swear." Chris looked at the metal contraption, the lighter… slowly it all came together.
He's got a fucking bomb.
"Adam, what are you going to do with that? Adam?"
Adam didn’t say a word. The sirens were very close. He thought he even heard a door slam.
"Is that what I think it is?" Chris asked. "Adam!"
“What! I'm thinking. I have to find a way out of this. I just have to. And if I don't—"
“If you don't—"
"BOOM! I'll kill all you motherfuckers."
&n
bsp; "I'm not—Adam, I'm here because you're my friend."
"Yeah. Some friend."
"I said I was sorry."
***
Two patrol cars rounded opposite corners simultaneously. They both parked in the middle of the side street. Rivers exited, his face greasy with sweat. The other officer, a gray-haired man with bad acne scars, stepped out of his cruiser and approached his fellow policeman.
"Who the hell lives here?" the less-experienced officer asked.
"A boy named Adam McNicols. Kid ain't even 18."
"He's the—?"
"So somebody said. I guess we'll see in a minute."
***
“Adam, why in the hell did you make an explosive?"
"’Cause, think about it. I came into this world quiet; now I'm going out with a bang. Come on, you should know me better than that. It makes perfect sense. Not only do I die, but I take out the hero and his henchmen, too."
"Hero? You think I'm a hero? I fucking hate myself for calling 9-1-1."
"But you did!"
"Build me a time machine and I'll do different. Like I said, I did not know."
Adam sighed. "You just assumed, didn't you? Everybody assumes, don't they? If nobody assumed anything, then everybody would know a hell of a lot more."
Chris grew quiet, Adam restless, when there was an earsplitting knock on the door upstairs. The boys looked at one another. Chris in question and Adam in contempt.
Theyyyyy're heeeeere!
Adam put his thumb on the trigger.
"No, don't!" Chris said. "We'll get through this."
"Why? You just don't want to be blown up. You don't give a shit about me."
"Yes. I do. Otherwise I wouldn't be here—"
Adam interrupted: "No you don't! Nobody gives a shit about me."
"Are you that blind? So many morons have torn you down your entire life, and you refuse to believe, because of them, that nobody can like you? That nobody cares? Well fuck you. I care. Believe whatever you want. Your mother cared about you. And your father, too, before you—I think you don't want anybody to love you. You're afraid."
"You're afraid of being blown up."
"The hell with that bomb. You think I'm afraid to die? Do you honestly know what I do when I don't hang out with you, Adam? You know I party and drink and smoke pot. But that's nothing. I've tried heroin three times. I snorted coke. I slept with the wrong girl before I began dating Amy. Now I have genital warts—"
Another knock on the door, much harder…
Adam held up his hand. "I don't want to hear this."
"Why not? Because you can't accept it. If somebody isn't exactly like you, or you, you shut them out. You kill people, and I accept you still. I make a few minor mistakes, and you scold me for it. Well, nobody in this world is perfect. Jesus, Erica wasn't even anywhere near perfect."
“Why are you here?"
The officers knocked on the door so hard, Adam and Chris thought they were going to knock it down. Adam never took his finger off the button.
"I am here because I'm with you through thick and thin. You don't remember, do you?"
"Remember what?" Adam said, irritated.
"The pact we made back in fourth grade. We swore that we would remain friends in this life till we both die. We even buried stuff at the park. You put a comic book in a can and I put in that Yankees cap I loved so much."
Adam tried to remember. Couldn't.
"Or do you remember the time when—"
Adam stopped him: "Remember, remember, remember. Remember the time, Chris? Neither of us are those little kids anymore. Every time we talk, we talk about all the fun we used to have together. About this time, about that time. Well, I don't want to be remembered of something that just doesn't exist anymore. What about now? Today? Tomorrow? Where did all the fun times go? Huh?"
Chris became quiet.
The door upstairs, however, was anything but. It soon opened, and Officer Rivers peeked his head in. "Adam, you in here? I need to ask you a few questions. Adam?"
Chris looked at Adam, who nodded and said, "Go tell him what's going on. That I have a bomb, and that if they open fire, we'll all be turned into goop."
"What if they want to talk to you?" Chris queried.
"They can open the basement door and yell down. I don't want to see anybody come down here. At least not yet."
Chris turned and took a step.
"Chris?"
Chris stopped and turned back.
"Except you. I want you back here as soon as possible."
Chris smiled. He ran back upstairs and into the hallway, where Officer Rivers was standing with his hand dangling over his gun.
"Hold it right there!"
Chris stopped and held up his hands. "Whoa. It's just me."
"Are you the one who called this in? Where is Adam?"
"Yeah, I called. He's in the basement."
The officer took a step toward the basement door.
Chris said, "Don't go down there. He's got a pipe bomb. There's a trigger on it and everything. All he has to do is push a button."
"All right. Please come outside with me. I need to ask you a few questions."
They walked out the front door.
***
Police cars, officers, and citizens jam-packed the streets. Some people were dressed against the weather, and others were still wearing their pajamas. Nobody looked happy, but everybody looked curious. Chris could not believe the turn out. Everybody in town was waiting to see the mastermind behind the tragic murders. Throw them a few lit torches, a pitchfork or two, and you'd have the great American witch-hunt underway.
Chris, in some strange way, was proud of Adam. He'd finally stood up to his enemies and avenged them in some extremely creative styles. His actions were talked about all over the news, on every national channel, on Larry King Live… Jay Leno even commented about it on his show. Adam had made the big time and had proved, once and for all, the ultimate outcome of severe bullying.
Chris, himself, almost wanted to whack some of the people who gazed at him as he followed Officer Rivers down the porch steps. They stared at him like they wanted him dead. Some whispered into each others' ears, others pointed at him, and others even wanted to approach him, but were stopped by police.
Now I see why Adam hates people so much. They hated him first.
"How much do you know about Adam and the crimes?" Rivers asked Chris as they stepped over to a tree, away from the mob.
"I read a document he wrote on his computer that described what happened in every detail and how he felt about it. Everything. I also found a jar of Chloroform that I believe he stole from school. His dad was missing. I just put it all together. Plus, his mother died and his first girlfriend left him a day or two before the first murder."
The officer rubbed the back of his neck with a stiff hand. "You haven't actually seen a body?"
"No, I didn't. I know it's him, though. For sure. He talks about how much he hated the three victims all the time."
"Do you think he intends to use the bomb?"
"I don't know. He's been so unstable lately, I just don't know. Officer, what is going to happen to him if he does get out of there alive?"
The officer looked at him suspiciously. "Prison without parole at worst, death sentence at best. I sure as hell hope the latter."
Chris thought about yanking the gun out of his holster and blowing his head off.
"Why?" Chris demanded.
"Excuse me?" he said.
"Why do you hope he dies?"
"Kid, this friend of yours killed three innocent teenagers in cold blood. He hacked them up. He didn't care about them or their friends or family. As far as I'm concerned, he can burn in hell for the rest of eternity. Stupid question. Now I need to know—that bomb—is it real? Do you know what it's constructed of?"
Chris thought about it for a second. Something came out of his mouth, but it wasn't exactly the truth: "It's a dirty bomb. I know he used some ki
nd of chemical from a nearby lab. This thing blows, everybody in this street is going to choke to death from the acid gas."
The officer suddenly looked tenfold tenser.
***
In the basement, Adam fiddled with his metal baby. He nervously removed the trigger, and with a few nearby tools, reconstructed it so that it would explode… on impact.
***
“Are you kidding?" Chris asked the officer. "I have to go back in there. I'm the only person he'll listen to."
"Kid, you're not going back in there.
“Come on, Carey, clear the streets! Let's go!"
Most of the people were gone now. Left remaining—a dozen or more officers and a few paramedics waiting for the worst.
"What's going to happen if you, or someone else Adam doesn't know, goes down there and negotiates with him? He won't even talk to you," Chris said.
"And what good’s it going to do when I have to send your parents your body parts in a bag?" the officer replied. "Now I can definitely use your help, but you sure as hell ain't going back down there. End of story!"
The hell I'm not!
"Heeeey!" Officer Rivers screamed at Chris as the boy ran back up the porch steps, into the house, through the hallway, and down the basement steps.
"Who's there?!" Adam shouted.
"It's me. Don't worry." Chris stepped into some light and sat in a chair across from Adam.
"Did you talk to the pigs?"
"Yeah." Chris gazed downward.
Adam knew that that was not a good sign. "They want me dead, don't they?"
A moment passed without Chris speaking or moving. Then he nodded. "It doesn't look good, Adam. Are you going to give up? Or are you going to—" He pointed to the bomb.
"I'll tell you this—you are definitely not going to die today. I will. They might. Either way, I'm done. You know what the shittiest part about all this is?" Adam said.
"What?"
"I didn't solve anything by killing anybody. I just made the hole in my own heart a lot bigger. For the time being, I felt relieved, that I did the right thing, but now… I just realize I lowered myself to their level."
"Don't think about it. It's not your fault."
"Yes, it is."
"No, it isn't. You just been dealt a bad hand. It's not your fault the way they treated you."
Damaged Page 20