Deviation

by Scott M. Williams

  “I'm sorry, Frank,” she whispered. “God, I'm so sorry.”

  The siren was getting louder very quickly. She found her things and rushed into the living room before realizing she didn't know where the keys to the Honda were. If Frank had them, she was going to be in big trouble. She set her purse down on the coffee table and dug through it, growing more frantic with each passing second. Even if she found the keys now, she wasn't sure she'd be able to get out in time; the sirens sounded like they were only a block or two away.

  There! She had them all along. She pulled them from her purse and stuffed them into her front pocket. Then she grabbed the gun and her duffel bag and was moving toward the front door when the volume of the siren grew impossibly loud.

  Through the front window, she saw a cop car pull up right in front of the house.

  “Not now!” she yelled. “I'm so close!”

  The siren cut off abruptly, drowning the house in silence. She stood and watched as two uniformed cops climbed out of the car and slowly made their way toward the front door. One of them was talking into a radio, and they were both unholstering their pistols.

  “Fuck! This can't be happening!”

  She considered running to the back door. The problem was, there were probably neighbors watching the house. Someone had called the police, after all. She stood there, shaking, feeling sick in every imaginable sense. She was frozen. It was all over.

  One of the cops reached the front porch and pounded loudly on the door.

  One chance. Her mind was spinning out of control. She reached out blindly and grabbed at something.

  An idea.

  Leaving everything on the table except for her gun, Dianne took off down the hall, returning to Donnie's bedroom and the three corpses that were waiting there.

  * * *

  The three bodies were slumped alongside one another and still bound to the iron bed frame. The expressions of sheer terror frozen on their waxen faces and the crusted, bloody wounds on their necks and bodies left little question that they were dead. Dianne pulled the bedspread from the bed and draped it partially over Kim, sitting down beside her and snuggling up close. She pulled the bedspread over herself, as well, trying to make it appear that she was part of the family.

  She sat very still, listening intently and trying not to breathe through her nose. The stench in the room was beyond disgusting. It caused her eyes to water and left a sickening taste in the back of her throat. As the seconds ticked by, she began to wonder if she'd made a mistake by coming in here.

  From the living room, she heard one of the cops announcing that they were coming in. This was followed by a loud crash as the front door was thrown open and then she could hear them scurrying around, muttering to each other.

  She sat and waited, knowing it wouldn't take long.

  Within 30 seconds of them entering the house, she heard one of the cops directly outside the bedroom door. They were announcing themselves, loudly, not wanting violence but ready for it if it presented itself. She sat there, completely still, feeling more frightened than she'd ever been before and running all her options through her mind. As far as she could tell, she really only had two.

  She could surrender. They'd take her away, to some police station, and she'd have the chance to tell her side of the story. She could pretend that she was nothing but a victim, that she'd been forced at gunpoint by Frank to come along with him and partake in his bizarre adventure. She could explain that all the killings were the work of Douglas McKenzie and that she was fully innocent of any and all wrongdoing. It would be mostly believable, too, based on her history. The problem was, there would almost certainly be physical evidence proving otherwise. She'd murdered Cliff, of course, as well as the owner of the Honda. She'd killed McKenzie, too, although she doubted she'd get into any serious trouble over that. But those first two would likely be more than enough to send her away to prison. Even if she was found innocent, there would have to be a trial and that meant spending months or even years behind bars while it played out.

  She couldn't do it.

  She wouldn't do it.

  She saw through their games now and there was no way she was going to allow anyone to put another pair of handcuffs on her and lock her away.

  That left the other option.

  She crouched lower, keeping her eyes on the doorway as one of the cops entered the room.

  He stepped in slowly, his gun held out before him. “Anybody in here? Jesus Christ!” He pressed his sleeve over his nose, covering his mouth as his gun swept back and forth across the room. “Mike! I've got four bodies in here!”

  He took another step into the room, studying the faces of the corpses. When his eyes came to rest on Dianne, they grew wider as he realized she was looking back.

  “One of them is alive!” he shouted. He trained his gun on her. “Put your hands where I can see them!”

  Dianne tried to make her expression as pained as possible. It was extremely easy to do. “I can't! They're tied behind my back!”

  The cop pulled his arm away from his face, grimacing. He was in his mid-40's, probably with thoughts of retirement in the back of his mind. “What the hell happened in here? Where's the person who did this?”

  “I don't know,” she whined. “Oh, god, I don't know!”

  He glanced around rapidly. He appeared almost as scared as Dianne felt. “Mike!” He lowered his gun, looking back to Dianne. “Tell me exactly what happened. Quick.”

  “Could you untie me?” she pleaded.

  He seemed to consider it. “Not yet. We've got to get the place secured first.” He slid his gun back into its holster and pulled out his radio.

  Dianne didn't hesitate. As soon as he began speaking into it, she raised her right hand from beneath the blanket; she was holding Lester's 9mm pistol. When the cop saw what was happening, he dropped the radio and immediately went for his gun.

  “Freeze!” he shouted. “Don't --”

  Dianne shot him in the face. The blast was tremendously loud in the small room. Her ears rang painfully as she watched the stunned officer fall back, a spray of blood and hair painting the wall behind him.

  His partner stepped into the room just as he was collapsing to the floor. This cop was younger and appeared even more terrified. He looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else than here, in this room, where god only knew what was going on. His eyes swept over the lineup of corpses as his mind fought to put together what was happening. He was clutching a pistol, but had no idea where to aim it. By the time he met Dianne's eyes, it was already too late.

  Her second shot took the younger cop right in the chin, most of his jaw exploding in a shower of gore. He screamed, but it lacked the characteristics of a normal scream. With the lower half of his face mostly gone, it was more of a wild braying. He had just enough time to fire one shot before Dianne's next round slammed through his forehead, toppling him backwards where he crumbled in a heap against the closet doors.

  Dianne tore the blanket off herself and stood up. Her face was peppered lightly with fragments of Kim's brain; the cop's bullet had tore open the top of Kim's head and a misting of brain matter had found her cheek and nose. She wiped it off with the bed sheet, too high on adrenaline to be disgusted. She needed to get out fast, before anyone else showed up.

  On the floor, the police radio was broadcasting the dispatcher's frantic questions. She ignored it as she bent over, taking the pistol out of the dead cop's hand. She crossed the room and helped herself to the other one, too, and then fled down the hall, somehow hanging on to all three of them with one hand.

  In the living room, she dumped them onto the couch and quickly unzipped her duffel bag. Then she stuffed the two police-issue guns inside. She thought about going back for ammo, but decided against it; she was quite certain she could buy shells at any gun shop without a permit. She re-zipped the bag and threw it over her shoulder.

  Good enough.

  It was t
ime to leave.

  She grabbed her purse and tucked it under her left arm. With the pistol in her right hand, she slammed out through the screen door and hurried down the steps.

  29. Farewell

  It was warm and sunny outside, a stark contradiction to the chilling horror she'd just endured inside the house. There were numerous people standing around in neighboring yards, some of them congregated into little groups, all of them with their full attention on Dianne. They'd been expecting the police to come out, probably with someone in custody. Instead they got her, a 26 year old woman with a duffel bag and a pistol in one hand. They stared, murmuring, some of them moving cautiously toward her as she made her way down to the street and toward the corner.

  She did her best to ignore them. The Honda was still parked three blocks away; her and Frank had never bothered to move it. As she continued to put distance between herself and the house, she noticed one small cluster of neighbors intent upon following her. They were trying to be subtle about it, but it was obvious they were keeping track of her whereabouts. They didn't like the idea of her getting away with whatever it was she was trying to get away with.

  The sight of them scurrying after her, hiding behind trees and bushes, infuriated her.

  “Shit beetles,” she hissed. They would do whatever they could to further ruin her life, she knew. She couldn't take the chance of allowing them to see her getting into the Honda. As she turned the corner, she looked back at them; it appeared their leader was a fat young man with a crew cut and a Colorado Avalanche jersey. She raised the pistol as he crouched behind a row of hedges, and, pausing for just a second, fired two rounds at him.

  There were several screams as the pistol shots shattered the afternoon. As she watched, the fat man fell onto his back on the lawn, rolling around and holding his hands over his stomach. Both hands were bright red.

  Dianne felt only the slightest tinge of guilt. Deep down, she felt none at all. God, she knew, in all his infinite wisdom, didn't care.

  She continued on, breaking into a run. It was unlikely anyone would follow her now. She made it to the end of the next block without incident and picked up even more speed, jogging down the sidewalk with the pistol still gripped in her hand. By the time she made it to the car, she was almost out of breath.

  There was a menu for a Chinese restaurant tucked under the windshield wiper. She left it where it was, quickly setting her gun on the roof and pulling out her keys. There didn't appear to be anyone watching as she unlocked the door and hurriedly threw the gun and her bag on the floor of the passenger side. She thought if she could only get out of the area, her chances of getting away were very good. No one really knew who she was, or where she'd come from. She wasn't even sure herself anymore. She had become a rogue, and a dangerous one at that. When had this happened? And how? It was almost a blur in her mind.

  She climbed into the car and shut the door. She experienced a moment of panic when it seemed that the car wouldn't start, but on her second attempt the engine came to life and she sat back, checking her mirrors. She was about to back out of the parking spot when something occurred to her. Twisting in her seat, she glanced around behind her, in the back seat area. Her and Frank had left some of their booze stashed back there. There was a paper bag on the floor which contained two bottles of wine, one of gin and her Jim Beam. She grabbed the Jim Beam and pulled it into her lap. The pain in her shattered hand was once again threatening to overwhelm her. It felt as though there were an army of vicious mice chewing up her hand and arm from the inside out. With the bottle wedged between her legs, she twisted off the cap and tossed it aside. Then she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a mouthful of bourbon, swallowing it slowly and fighting to keep it down.

  As she slipped the bottle between her legs again, she glanced at the empty passenger seat. Frank should have been there. Everything felt wrong without Frank. A staggering flood of remorse burned through her like acid, almost crippling her. She couldn't afford to think about Frank now. She had to move. She took a deep breath and backed out of her spot.

  “Goodbye, Frank,” she whispered.

  She put the car in drive. As soon as she was rolling, the war cry of another police siren erupted in the distance.

  They were coming.

  It was time to run again.

  As she made her way through the city streets, she promised herself that she wouldn't be deterred. Nothing Frank had taught her would be in vain.

  Up ahead was a sign for the freeway entrance. She took another gulp of bourbon and stepped down on the gas, putting more distance between herself and everything that had once seemed so promising.

  - end -