Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller

by Brandon McNulty

  “They don’t land when you’re sober either.” The officer rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “What made the noise?”

  Ken blinked.

  “Answer me, Fujima.”

  “It was a shelf.”

  “A shelf?”

  “Yeah. A metal rack. It toppled and made a loud bang.”

  “Hmph.” Isaacs peered past Ken’s shoulder. “Can I see this shelf?”

  Ken shook his head.

  “Why not? Running a business in there? One you don’t want me knowing about?”

  “I don’t want you waking my father. Besides, I have to get ready for my shift at Walmart.”

  “Before you do,” Isaacs said, patting the door, “you should know that I looked up local gun registrations.”

  It took all of Ken’s resolve to not flinch.

  “Your father doesn’t have a gun registered. Neither do you. If the noises were gunshots, your father’s gonna have himself a whopper of a problem. And you—if you’re covering for him—will get nailed for hindering my investigation.”

  “There’s an investigation?”

  “Not officially.” Isaacs leaned closer. “But I’ll be paying attention.”

  “Are you th-threatening me?”

  “Not at all.” Isaacs smiled. “In fact, here’s your chance to come clean. Be smart. Take it.”

  Sweat glided down Ken’s back. He could only imagine how red his face was. The longer he stood here, the more suspicious he’d look.

  “Well, Fujima?”

  “It was a metal rack.” Ken forced confidence into his voice. “That’s all.”

  “I see. Next noise complaint will be your last. I won’t tolerate that shit. Not six houses down from where my daughter sleeps. You hear me?”

  Ken nodded and shut the door, listening to Isaacs’s fading footsteps.

  It was over. By some miracle Ken’s lame excuses and nervous conviction had prevailed. But he knew Isaacs would be back. The man had always been suspicious of Dad because of his yakuza tattoos, which had been on full display years ago when a fire alarm sent Dad running out of the shower and onto the front lawn wearing only a towel. Isaacs was first on the scene, and he inquired more about the tattoos than the cause of the alarm. Ever since, Isaacs had had it out for them.

  For now, however, Ken couldn’t worry about that. He needed to lay low and figure out his next move.

  On shaky legs, he hurried toward the closed basement door.

  When he opened it, he found himself staring at the barrel of his father’s 9mm.

  Chapter 20

  The pistol stretched to within an inch of his nose. It hovered there, the muzzle wobbling back and forth between his eyes. Though Ken wanted to run away screaming, he remained frozen in position. He hadn’t moved since opening the door and couldn’t bring himself to do anything but breathe. He should’ve known that even someone as sore and exhausted as Hannah would seize an opportunity to escape. Now all he knew was the gun—not the one in his hand, but the one in his face.

  “Either of us shoots,” she said, “and the neighbors will hear.”

  Fresh sweat leaked along his spine. She was right about the neighbors, but he couldn’t let her control the situation. His gunhand rested at his side, pointed at the floor. All he needed to do was bend his wrist and pull the trigger. Though if he made a sudden move, she might shoot. He needed a better way to end this stalemate.

  “Here’s the deal,” he said. “First, you need to head downstairs.”

  “No thanks,” she said. “Now step aside. Let’s talk.”

  “Talk? About what?”

  “I’ll explain once I’m out of this basement.”

  “I can’t let you up here.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  For starters, she could kill him. She probably didn’t intend to shoot—too noisy—but if she grabbed a knife, she could quietly cut his throat and run. Even if she didn’t plan to murder him, she might run. While he wouldn’t mourn the loss of her company, he couldn’t afford to lose the only person who understood this cursed weapon.

  “Please go back downstairs.”

  “‘Please’ won’t work on me today. I’m extra cranky because I slept with my arms in the air.” Frowning, she added, “Look, I’m not trying to kill you, okay?”

  “Funny. Last I checked, there was a gun pointed at my head.”

  She set the pistol on the floor. “Happy? Now let’s help each other.”

  “Each other?” Ken stomped the abandoned pistol. “Where the hell do you get off? After everything you put me through, you expect my help?”

  “I’ve got a plan that’ll help us both,” she said. “Trust me or don’t, but you’ll need me if you want to get away with shooting people.”

  “I’m not shooting anyone,” he protested.

  “You already did,” she replied bitterly.

  “That was self-defense.”

  “That was my sister.”

  They stared each other down. This pissing contest was going nowhere. If Hannah expected his help, she might want to rethink that. Despite his hesitation last night, he still considered her his top target. Only if he had to kill, of course, but if anyone had to die, let it be his father’s co-murderer.

  The stare-down concluded when she shook her head. Sighing, she said, “Okay, we’re both grieving and on edge right now. Let’s try this again. First off, you’re right. I should’ve stopped Michelle. We’d both be happier if I had. But what’s done is done, and now you’re stuck with the revolver. There’s a way out, but we’ll need to work together.”

  “A way out?” Ken glanced at his gun. “So there is another way to drop it.”

  “I didn’t say that. In fact, I’ve got more bad news.”

  “What now?”

  “I’ll explain when you let me out of this basement.”

  That was the last thing he wanted to do. Unfortunately, nobody else could help. He couldn’t Google “How to lose an undroppable gun” and expect worthwhile results. Much as it pained him to admit it, he needed her insight. If it could save lives, it was a risk worth taking.

  “No sudden movements,” he said and stepped aside.

  At the kitchen table they sat in opposite chairs. Hannah kept both hands on the table while he poured her a bowl of corn flakes. She ate voraciously, her hair spilling into the bowl. He stayed alert, worried she might try to catch him napping.

  “What bad news did you want to tell me?” he said.

  “Yeah, about that.” Her flakes crunched as she stirred. “See, Michelle picked up the gun on Tuesday. She’d killed four people by late Wednesday night. Then Thursday night I was driving through Texas when she started spazzing in the passenger seat. I thought she was having a nightmare, but she was wide awake. When I asked what was wrong, she aimed at my head and fired.”

  “She tried to kill you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that revolver has an appetite.”

  He glanced at his gunhand. “An appetite?”

  “Yep. Doesn’t like to wait more than a day between meals.” She gobbled another spoonful. “Did you notice Michelle’s wrists were tied behind her back? After we reached Pennsylvania, she asked me to restrain her. Said she…didn’t want to risk hurting me.” Hannah sank back into her chair. She looked ready to cry. “Chelle claimed the gun filled her head with angry thoughts, urges to kill anyone in sight. I imagine the same thing’ll happen to you.”

  “We don’t know that.” But he nonetheless checked the stove clock. It was almost ten o’clock. He’d left Angela’s sometime after midnight. If he’d killed Michelle around 12:30 or so, the gun would grow hungry in about fourteen hours. “Was it exactly twenty-four hours before your sister went nuts?”

  “No. Nothing was exact. It came on gradually. She became feverish, then nasty thoughts crept in, then she tried to kill me.”

  “Great.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to believe her, but the im
age of Michelle’s secured wrists stuck in his mind. “So, basically, I have to kill five people within five days?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well,” he said, glaring at her, “if I can’t find a peaceful way to drop this thing, I have at least one target in mind.”

  Hannah flinched. “Wait. Remember—I was dragged along by Michelle. I didn’t want to hurt anybody. Hell, I could’ve shot you last night, but I didn’t. You gotta give me a pass here. Otherwise, how are we supposed to help each other?”

  “You’re not getting my help.”

  “Hey, I’m not thrilled to work with you either, buddy. But you have the gun, and I need it back.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because.” She shifted uncomfortably. “In LA there’s a buyer who wants it.”

  “What?” He slammed the gun against the tabletop. “You’re gonna sell this thing? That’s your plan? Strike it rich? If you think I want money, think again.”

  “We can get more than money. If we survive this mess, we’ll need new names, new IDs, plenty of other shit. The buyer can make it happen.”

  “What do I need a new ID for?”

  “Think,” she said. “Do you honestly expect to resume your daily life after what happened last night?”

  Ken shut his eyes. He tried picturing a scenario where he could return to teaching. Nothing came to mind. Even if he found a nonviolent way to drop the gun, he would still need to account for the two bodies in the basement. He could hide them, he supposed, but if anyone confronted him about his father’s disappearance, he’d crack.

  “Can this buyer be trusted?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Michelle and I met with him. He could’ve killed us and taken the gun, but he didn’t. He seemed spooked by it.”

  “Can’t imagine why.” He studied the revolver. With his free hand he picked at the grooves in the cylinder, considering the five bullets inside. He hated the thought of taking a life—or, rather, another life—but if the hype surrounding this gun was real, his choices boiled down to suicide and murder. Suicide sounded noble compared to quintuple-homicide, but he needed to stay alive. Not for his own sake, but for his brother’s. Robby needed Ken, and Ken knew that his suicide would put his brother in a dark, inescapable place.

  And he couldn’t let that happen.

  “Hopefully I’ll find a nonviolent way to drop this gun.” He slid his chair out, his body thrumming with nervous energy. “If not, I’ll do what needs to be done.”

  “Great. Got five lucky winners in mind?”

  Ken hesitated as he rose to his feet. He couldn’t name a single person. All he could think about was staying alive for Robby’s sake. He refused to lose his brother—his only remaining family—to an overdose. The Fujimas had suffered enough these past couple of years.

  “Let’s go see my brother,” he said, glancing at a sun-faded photo on the fridge. In the photo Robby looked angry. He was always angry at somebody. “I’m sure he can help me brainstorm.”

  Chapter 21

  Before heading out, Ken grabbed his father’s leather jacket. Though bulky, its large pockets offered the ideal hiding place for his gunhand. The jacket was an obvious choice, but not an easy one. The moment he slid his arms through the sleeves, he caught the scent of his father’s soap. It clung to the lining and followed him out the door.

  He and Hannah crossed the front yard to his Camry. Even with his gunhand hidden, he felt exposed, as though the sun were a spotlight targeting him. He ducked into the driver’s seat and reached around the steering wheel with his left hand to plug the key into the ignition. When he started the car, the dash clock blinked to life: 10:15. On any other Saturday morning, he’d be heading to Walmart, but today he wouldn’t be going in. Another part-timer would have to enlighten customers about 4K TVs and iPhone accessories.

  Backing out of the driveway left-handed proved awkward; same with reaching across his body to put the car in drive. Once he hit the road, he expected things to get easier. They didn’t. His jacket kept reminding him of his father. Dad had received it from Mom as a birthday gift years ago, and when he’d opened up the package, he’d smiled and said, “Good taste, Ellen. Good taste.” After she died, Dad wore the jacket whenever he left the house, regardless of the weather.

  In the passenger seat, Hannah rubbed her arms. “It’s nice not being tied up.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Start what?”

  “Anything. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  He stopped at a red light and stared at the passing traffic. Behind every wheel sat a human being with hopes, dreams, problems, and secrets. Unless he somehow found a peaceful alternative, he would have to remove five people from this world. The thought tangled his gut. He slumped in his seat, foot jammed against the brake, even as the light turned green.

  Horns honked behind him. Cars drove around.

  “Where I’m from, green means go,” Hannah said.

  “I can’t do this,” he said. “Hell, I couldn’t even kill you.”

  “Probably because you’re a good judge of character,” she said, massaging a wrist. More horns honked as cars swerved around. “Bet if you found some real scumbags, this would be easier. Ever seen that old movie Death Wish? The one with Burt Reynolds?”

  “It’s Charles Bronson, not Reynolds.”

  “Well, whatever. The guy runs around Chicago at night shooting criminals. Maybe you can follow suit. Grow a mustache, kill some dirtbags, drop your gun. Think about it—there’s gotta be scum around here.”

  Ken lifted his foot off the brake. He recalled Thursday’s lunch, when he and Angela had watched a hooded figure deal drugs to their student. It hadn’t been the first time Ken witnessed such a scenario. His brother had been a repeat customer for nearly a decade, and as the image of a loaded syringe crossed his mind, Ken knew exactly who he wanted to eliminate from this world.

  He planted his foot on the gas pedal, turned onto North Main, and passed Vesuvio’s Pizza, Senunas’ Bar, and a stretch of crammed-together houses before making two right turns. Halfway down Wallace Street stood a double-block house that his brother called home.

  The front door was unlocked, so Ken and Hannah let themselves in. The hallway swallowed them with unnatural daytime darkness. Only the square outline of a boarded-up window provided any light.

  “Fancy place,” she said, powering on her phone’s flashlight.

  The downstairs stank of sweat and dried urine. Scrappy old movie posters adorned the walls, Pineapple Express a popular favorite. Soiled mattresses lay scattered, some occupied by passed-out junkies. Whenever Ken took his eyes off the floor, his next step landed with a crunch, usually on a discarded syringe or crumpled fast-food wrappers.

  It dawned on him that the previous time he’d entered this den, he’d been ready to wet himself like a frightened boy in a haunted house. Today, however, he felt no apprehension. Sure, someone could leap out and mug him, but he had nothing to lose. Besides, if anyone assaulted him, he could respond with a .38 caliber answer. And it wasn’t like they could pry the gun off him.

  After searching the ground floor, he ventured upstairs. The wooden steps moaned under his weight. At the top he considered removing the cardboard blocking a window but decided otherwise. He tiptoed down the darkened hall to the first bedroom door. The knob screeched when he turned it, and someone—or something—rustled inside. He slowly pushed the door open. Solid darkness hung within. Hannah shined her light ahead, and a calico cat scurried under a dresser.

  “That poor creature,” she said.

  “Got a soft spot for cats?”

  “For most animals. Part of the reason I didn’t shoot you last night was because I was afraid to hurt your dog.”

  “Shooting human beings is fine, though?”

  “Well, you’re a Fujima,” she said, as if that were a valid excuse. “C’mon, let’s find this brother of yours.”

  He turned when something caught his eye.

  Hanging fr
om a wall hook was a button-down shirt and a pair of black slacks. Same ones Robby had shown him yesterday. A piece of paper poked from the shirt pocket—a receipt for a total of $49.98. On a nearby dresser were two pennies.

  Ken stared ahead, conflicted. On one hand, he felt like dogshit for assuming Robby spent the money on heroin. On the other, he resented his brother for not showing up last night. Had Robby been home, Dad might be alive and Ken never would’ve picked up this godforsaken revolver.

  Exiting the room, Ken heard a distressed voice, a female one, coming from down the hall. It sounded like sobbing. Pained sobbing.

  He paused, thinking back to what Hannah said about Death Wish. What if this poor woman was being raped? If he walked in on something so horrific, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. Then he’d have one less bullet and a fresh twenty-four hours to work with.

  He hurried down the hall. The weeping faded before it resumed as an agonized, rhythmic moan.

  He burst through the door. A moldy stench assaulted his nostrils. Darkness engulfed him; he fumbled for the light switch. As the lights flickered, he spotted a man’s arched, sweaty back. Across his shoulders the word HOGWILD was tattooed in gothic script. The guy’s spine straightened out before his hips launched toward the woman beneath him with a hungry thrust. She yelped again. Ken noticed pink blotches along her thighs.

  “Stop!” Ken raised his weapon. “Get off her!”

  Hogwild thrust twice more before making a gurgling noise and collapsing beside her. Neither seemed concerned about Ken’s yelling. The woman teasingly picked at the man’s clumpy, oily hair. The sex, gross as it was, appeared consensual.

  “Hot times,” Hannah said. “Remind me later to scrape out my corneas.”

  Ken pocketed his gun. He backed away but stopped when he recognized the shark tattoo above the woman’s ankle.

  “You—you’re Robby’s girlfriend,” he said. There was no mistaking her bleached hair and beak nose. Even though she was high as the sky, her eyes gleamed with greed—the same take-take-take attitude that had drained Robby empty. “The hell you doing with this guy?”