by Aric Davis
A part of him wished the man would just go away, get blown away on the winds of whatever had driven him to madness. Better, finally kill himself over guilt, or crash his car, or get in a bar fight and wind up in jail for a few years. As much as he wanted to catch the man, the sad truth was that for that to happen, either they would need extraordinary luck or the man would need to kill again. The luck could happen at a traffic stop or in any other odd interaction with a cop; Van Endel didn’t think there were a whole lot of civilians out there who could make the man feel as if he were in danger and get away without a hole in their head.
“Cat got your tongue?” Nelson asked, breaking the silence, which had been populated solely by chirps from the radio. “You look like you’re in Disneyland right now, Dick. You come up with something you want to share? I mean, I know I debunk most of your ideas pretty quickly, but that’s no knock against them. Anything can help with this process.”
“We’re deadlocked,” said Van Endel. “We’ve got three crime scenes, a pile of bodies, and no witnesses. I mean, at this point, it will be a lucky break if this guy does it again so we can catch him.”
“He will,” said Nelson. “That’s how guys like this are. They come to doing what they do from a place of desperation or need, and once they get comfortable, they find out that they like it, they like the power. This guy is no different, and, as we’ve seen today, people are a hell of a lot more attentive than they were when this started. Remember, when the McDonald’s shooting happened, there was no one expecting it. When the hardware store got shot up, it was dark out, and the McDonald’s shooting was a tragedy, not a Thing That Was Still Happening. After the hardware store he changed it up again. That attack was late, especially for this part of town on a weeknight, and he intentionally targeted a store at closing. He’s a fucking psychopath, a piece of shit I can’t wait to put a collar on, but he’s smart.”
“Yeah,” Van Endel admitted grudgingly. “I think that might be the hardest part for me, realizing that he’s the one making all the rules. We need to think like him, right?” Nelson nodded, and Van Endel continued, “Well, I think that means more than trying to analyze why he might be doing this on an individual-crime level. What is the end goal?”
“Money,” said Nelson. “You know where I stand on that part.”
“All right,” said Van Endel. “Well, if it is money — and the last crime scene certainly made it seem as though money and even sexual violence could be a big part of it — then where does he go next? I mean, the easy answer is more money, right? Well, banks are closed at night, so that means no banks and no armored cars. I suppose he could hit a jewelry store.”
“Good luck trying to fence anything stolen with that shit all over the news,” said Nelson. “He’d get turned in faster than you can say ‘family heirlooms’ So I guess he hits another grocery store at close, or a bar just after close, or anywhere else with a high volume of late cash sales.”
“All right,” said Van Endel, “I’ll play along. I say no way on the grocery store. He already did that, and our boy doesn’t repeat targets. Wait. No on the bars too. He already would have done that.”
“You think he would be worried about a bunch of drunks?” Nelson asked. “I don’t feel that at all. Our guy’s a monster, and he is not afraid of a bunch of sopped alcoholics. You know why I don’t think he does stuff at night? I think he works mornings. The only one that doesn’t fit with that is the McDonald’s, but—”
“He could have done that one at lunch,” said Van Endel. “Or even on a day off, if he’s not a nine-to-fiver. So who has a low body count and a full cash drawer at ten o’clock at night? I mean, that’s sort of the golden question. If we do stick with no repetition, then grocery stores are out, and that would be my number-one priority. I suppose he could hit a liquor store, but they’re usually getting busier at night. God, I hate feeling like I’m overthinking this.”
“You’re not, kid,” said Nelson. “You’re trying to figure out something impossible, and even if you guessed right, there’s no way we could possibly know what exact spot he was going to hit next. Not to mention, for all we know, he takes the weekend off. It is Friday, after all. Could be he’ll take a siesta and get back to his fucked-up mission first thing Monday morning.”
“Not Monday morning,” said Van Endel. “He already got lucky once by hitting somewhere while it was light out. The next place he hits will be like the last two — nighttime. If he keeps evolving, how are we supposed to get ahead?”
“You don’t,” said Nelson. “You just wait for him to fuck up.”
Ken had stopped himself from getting into the car when his hand touched the handle. The lie had worked, but it wouldn’t hold up if he drove to McDonald’s in the car, like an idiot. Not that it mattered, not really. All he had to do was get them all in the restaurant and then start unloading. He ran his hands over the lumps from the gun and the bullets, knowing that if Mr. Everett were there, he’d die too — they all would. It would be a good way to bow out: one last rush of knowing that he’d pulled their tabs before some cop gunned him down. Ken wasn’t totally sure, but he had a pretty good idea that most cops would prefer to shoot him than to cuff him, and he figured he could make a cop kill him pretty easily.
Thoughts of the money, of the three successful jobs, and of the lesson he’d learned from the woman less than a day earlier slowed him. If you rush, things will go wrong. It was a good lesson, and one that he was disregarding. Fuck the lesson. Paula, Robert, Tim, Lisa, and Mr. Everett were all going to be in the same place in about fifteen minutes. Ken would be there too, with bullets for all of them. He ran his hands over his pockets, and then again over the magic bullet. It felt warm, almost as if it were humming in his back pocket. The restaurant was three blocks away, and Ken began to walk.
He realized when he was a block from the apartment that he had forgotten the hat that he wore on his missions. It didn’t matter. The closer he got to the building, the more he accepted that this was fate, and that he was not going to be walking away. He could see the parking lot clearly now; it was easily half full of cars, possibly even fuller. That would mean a long line of witnesses in the drive-thru, and a legion of hungry people clogging up the restaurant. The one thing he’d always accomplished was killing everyone on the premises; that wouldn’t be possible here with anything less than a machine gun. The thought bottomed out into a lead brick in his stomach. This was unwinnable, but it didn’t matter. He needed to kill five people, and then himself. He had six bullets, six solutions.
Ken was a block and a half away from his McDonald’s when he realized that his fingers would wear holes through the denim of his pants if he couldn’t stop rubbing the lumps in his pockets. They were too comforting for him to stop, though, and the second his mind wandered off on some tangent, his hands returned to the unconscious rubbing. His walking pace was like a stutter, slower and then faster, as his mind fought against whether it wanted him to be there or if he would be better served by running back home. He reached the edge of the property, the Golden Arches looking like a funeral marker. He stopped, stared at the building, and then walked past it.
Ken stopped again at the easternmost edge of the parking lot, the part where customers left. Sitting here would allow him to see when the kids and his bitch ex-wife pulled in, asshole second husband in tow. Ken’s hands went to his pockets again at the thought of that motherfucker. Robert, the white knight who had been the death rattle of their relationship, the smiling friend from church who was going to help Tim with man stuff while Ken was locked up. That fucking piece of shit, that lying bitch, those fucking traitors. Ken watched cars pull in and cars pull out, stuffed faces and scarfing mouths; the only difference was if they ate in the restaurant or got the food to go. He hated them all, he hated everything, and he made a vow to kill as many as possible in this last rampage.
Their car, a blue and oh-so-safe Volvo, pulled into the parking lot. Ken watched Robert get out of the passenger side, and the
n Paula exited from the driver’s side. The kids came next, from the backseat of the wagon. Ken stood, hands rubbing his hips like a man with swimmer’s itch, and then settled. This is happening. You are about to die. Ken watched them through the glass of the building, Robert checking his watch, Paula scanning the restaurant for him. The look on her face was one of a woman who had just bong-hit a hot fart.
Ken eyeballed the kids, watched Paula say something to Robert as they sat down at a table. It was the same one he’d seen a teenager vomit an orange stream onto two weeks prior, then announce to the world, “Fuck screwdrivers.” Ken smiled at the painful memory. He had been the one called upon to unfuck said screwdrivers from the Formica table and tile floor. Rubbing his pockets uncontrollably now, Ken crossed the parking lot, beelining to their table.
Ken took a deep breath when he was five feet from the door. It was time. He walked the last few feet, grabbed the metal handle, and let the all-too-familiar smell wash over him like a wave of meat. Ken saw Mr. Everett working behind the crowded counter, and considered shooting him first as he took orders. Ken knew he’d never make it to his family, though; the restaurant was going to turn to chaos the second he started firing. Mr. Everett was going to need to be a secondary target. Ken stuck his hand in his pocket, his fingers wrapped around the gun, and cut through the line. As he went to draw the revolver, two uniformed police officers walked into the restaurant from the door opposite the one that he’d entered, and they weren’t here for Big Macs. Both cops had their hands at their waists like they were ready for a gunfight, and Ken began to pull the revolver free from his pocket. Time slowed, and there was a scuffle at the counter as one of the cops began to speak.
EPISODE 4
Van Endel sat at the dining room table across from Lex.She had made beef Wellington with a veal demi-glace, along with a pile of still-steaming rosemary mashed potatoes. Van Endel felt like he was out to eat. Lex had insisted he keep his suit on while they ate, and she had managed to cram herself into a dress that accentuated all of her curves well, especially the baby bump. Vaselike wineglasses sat in front of them. Van Endel’s was filled with beer, and hers with Diet Coke, but it kept the theme. The only thing Lex had wanted for the night that she hadn’t gotten was to be allowed to unplug the phone. Van Endel cut open his Wellington while Lex watched.
The meat was the beautiful red of medium rare that Van Endel preferred, and he said, “Perfect.” He took a bite of the meat and brioche and said, “Scratch that — better than perfect. I’ll call the dictionary people and let them know that they’re going to need to come up with a new word for this food. ‘Perfect’ doesn’t cover it.”
“You’re just saying that,” said Lex, as she sawed at her own Wellington, dipping a piece of it into the demi-glace and then sliding it into her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, and smiled. “Maybe you aren’t just saying that. Holy crap, is that good.” Van Endel stifled a laugh, and she waved a fist. “I can say it,” she said, “even if I am the chef. That is just ridiculous.” She popped another bite into her mouth. Van Endel was working at his meat as well. He frowned as he chewed; it was disappearing at a disturbing rate.
“I’ve been saying for years I was going to use that old Julia Child cookbook your mother gave me, but if this is how it all is, we have seriously been missing out.” Lex forked another bite of meat and dipped it into the potatoes. “These are divine too, seriously. The rosemary was even my idea! I think I might be finally understanding cooking. I mean, I can cook, but, like, real cooking. Maybe I should get a book on Chinese food.”
“You should,” said Van Endel, “though I worry for my waistline. If you could make crispy beef as good as Yen Ching, then I’m not even going to attempt to stay thin.” He waved a fork at her. “I’m serious. You do that at your own peril — I could eat that morning, noon, and night.” He paused, shoveled beef and potatoes into his mouth, and continued. “That said, I could probably eat this three meals a day for a while, and we’d get the same result: you rolling me around the house.”
“At least you’d be forced to get a new suit,” said Lex, smiling. “That thing had seen better days before you started wearing it every day, and it’s certainly past its expiration date. We need to take you shopping.”
“That’s what I keep hearing,” said Van Endel. “Whether I’m at work or here, people can’t seem to help telling me that I look ridiculous.”
“At least you won’t get overconfident about your looks,” countered Lex. “I mean, a lot of men do. They think comb-overs and hair clubs work, but they look a lot worse than just going bald. At least balding still has dignity. Trust me, on the female side of things it’s even more terrible, and I’ve got the rest of my life to watch myself fall apart.”
“I think you look beautiful,” said Van Endel. “Pregnant or otherwise, still beautiful, Lex. I’m a lucky man. Seriously, just look at this plate. I’m not sure how exactly I talked you into shacking up with me, much less getting a ring on you, but I’m a damn lucky guy.”
“I’m a pretty lucky gal,” said Lex. “It’s been tough with all of your new hours, but we have a lot to be thankful for, and this whole thing will be over soon.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry I get so moody, Dick. It’s all the stupid hormones. Plus, I can’t sleep, you’re gone all the time, we don’t even sleep in the same bed. I feel awful about it.”
“Lex, it’s fine,” said Van Endel. “We’ve got the rest of our lives to make up for any missteps happening in our relationship. I’m not worried about tomorrow, I’m glad you’re with me today.” She smiled at him with damp eyes, and the ringing of the telephone shattered the moment. Van Endel stood, but Lex beat him to the phone; she’d gone from glowing mother to harpy at a moment’s notice.
“Hello,” she said, the fury unmasked in her voice, and then she started laughing. “I need a glass of wine,” she said as she hung up the phone. “Just a telemarketer. What the hell is wrong with me?”
Ken’s world felt as if it were bursting apart at the seams. The revolver was stuck in his pants; the constant rubbing had made the hammer and cylinder all but show through the denim. He was still trying to yank it free as Mr. Everett hopped the counter and made for the door Ken had just walked in through. Unlike when he’d politely moved through it, the line did not bend for Mr. Everett. Mr. Everett knocked down an older woman walking from the counter with a tray full of food, and fries went everywhere. Ken could hear the cops telling Mr. Everett to get on the ground. They had guns in their hands, and the first of them grabbed Mr. Everett from where he was being restrained by a fat man who looked as though in a past life he might have played football. When the cop touched Mr. Everett’s shoulder, it was like when the Nazis opened the ark at the end of that Indiana Jones movie: the man dropped to the floor like he was melting. Ken let go of the revolver. He was slick with sweat.
“Let me go!” shrieked Mr. Everett. “Let me go!” The cop holstered his gun and cuffed him, and then dragged the blubbering manager outside. “We’re going to need you folks to clear out,” said the other cop. Ken and the rest of the people inside the restaurant could see a furious Mr. Everett bent over the hood of a police car as the cop searched his pockets. First the red eyes earlier, now this? The sight of Mr. Everett in such a position was startling and wonderful. Ken watched as the cop checked Mr. Everett for weapons or other contraband, then finally broke his trance to follow Paula, Robert, and the kids outside. The rest of the crowd slowly made their way from the building in a leak, and his shattered family followed suit. Mr. Everett was in the back of the police car now, sobbing and shaking, and Ken thought it might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He caught up to Paula and the rest of them by the Volvo, and said, “Howdy.” Paula glared at him, the cop car, and then the restaurant, as though somehow the building was to blame for what had happened inside.
“It’s about time,” said Paula. “What the hell is going on in there? Is he some pervert or something?
He looks like a pervert. Sick if he is, being around kids like that.”
“Relax, Paula,” said Robert. “Dr. Simmons said to avoid stress, you know that.” He rubbed her back with the palm of his hand. “Just calm down, pumpkin. I’m sure Ken can explain.” Four faces locked eyes with Ken, and finally Robert said, “Well? What did he do?”
“I have no idea,” said Ken. “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.” Ken frowned; the gun in his pants was a forgotten thing. “If we’re open, that is. I have no idea what’s going on in there.” Cars were flitting out of the parking lot, and Ken could hear more than a couple of kids crying at the deprivation of their Happy Meals.
“All right,” said Ken, “Paula told me you guys had to run, so why don’t the kids and I get moving? Tim, Lisa, you guys ready?”
The children — even though they were teens, Ken couldn’t think of them any other way — wore backpacks and sneers. “I don’t know,” said Paula, speaking loudly enough for the group but talking only to Robert. “What if he’s involved with whatever happened in there? That’s the last thing we need, to be racing home from Canada because he got arrested and the kids have nowhere else to go.”