Robby patted the tabletop. “Remember Mom thought we stole this thing from Kirby Park?”
“Even I’m not convinced we built it ourselves.”
“Yeah, but c’mon—she made us feel like criminals.”
“Yeah…” Ken swallowed hard. “Wonder what she’d say about me now.”
“She’d probably say you’re doing your best.” Robby shrugged. “Then, knowing her, she’d turn you in.”
Ken had to laugh. Their mother was notorious for punishing every indiscretion they committed as kids—and as adults. One time in college he called in sick from his busboy job to go shopping with Olivia. When Mom caught him leaving the house without his uniform, she threatened to notify the restaurant. He assumed she was bluffing until twenty minutes later he received a livid voicemail from his manager. At the time Ken had been pissed, but looking back, that incident probably made him a better man. Or at least a more honest one.
If he were being honest with himself now, his wobbling wrist terrified him. He hated to think he was under the same spell as Hannah’s sister, but if that were the case, he needed to do something.
But what? The weapon stuck like a magnet, and he’d already spent all evening trying various adhesive removers and relaxation methods. Nothing worked. His options were dwindling, and his murder deadline was approaching fast.
“Ken,” Robby said, “maybe it’s time to consider using that gun.”
“I’m not killing Hannah.”
“What about Glinski?”
“No. There has to be a way to drop this thing.” He stared at it beneath the moonlight. Its polished grip glimmered under his sweaty fingers.
A wild thought crossed his mind.
Can’t hold a gun without fingers. Why not detach a few?
No. Hacking off fingers was too extreme.
More extreme than shooting people?
He imagined two different futures. In one, he ran around blasting people in the streets, dropping bodies along the sidewalk. In the second vision, he saw himself leaving the hospital with a prosthetic hand. He could live with that. Five fake fingers sure beat five genuine tombstones.
He marched toward the toolshed and opened the door. Moonlight slanted across a waist-high cardboard box. On top were garden shears, their eight-inch blades too filthy to reflect light. Quivering, he ran his thumb along the steel edge. There was no guarantee the shears could cut through bone, so he turned his attention to the orange chainsaw sitting atop a nearby cabinet. He pictured the oily chain whirring through his knuckles until his three bottom fingers hit the floor.
The image left him queasy.
Can’t chicken out now, he thought. Whether it costs me three fingers or the entire hand, it’s worth it.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed the chainsaw’s crummy rubber handle and lugged it over to the picnic table. In a small, nervous voice, he explained his plan to Robby.
“No way,” Robby said. “I’m not into hurting people.”
Ken raised an eyebrow. “Two minutes ago you told me to shoot Hannah.”
“That’s different.”
“Would you rather visit me in prison or the hospital?”
“Neither.”
“Listen,” Ken said, his chest snug, “while I was in the living room, this sensation overtook me. My wrist started moving on its own. It bent toward you, Rob. Hannah said the same thing happened to her sister. I hate to believe it, but this gun is starting to possess me.”
Robby looked ready to faint.
“The chainsaw will be quick,” Ken said. “Once it’s done, call 911 and request an ambulance. The hospital’s not far. They’ll be here in minutes.” He squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Please. You owe me after all the times I helped you.”
“That’s not fair, man.”
“None of this is. Now start the motor.”
After two reluctant pulls on the cord, Robby yanked hard and got the motor chugging. The odor of burning fuel filled the air.
“Wait,” he said, cutting the motor. “You’ll need a tourniquet.”
“Grab my vodka too.”
Ken gulped from the plastic bottle while Robby knotted a t-shirt around his elbow, pulling tight until Ken’s forearm felt ready to pop. After Robby twisted the knot and taped it in place, Ken set the bottle down and waited for his nerves to settle. He remained hypervigilant even as a veil of numbness descended over his mind.
“Let’s get this over with,” Ken said.
Robby started the chainsaw again.
Ken swallowed hard. His stomach rumbled in sync with the chainsaw’s motor. Sweat poured down his back. He set his arm on the table with his palm facing up, three fingers around the grip, one shaking beside the trigger guard. Robby would first attempt to saw through the weapon’s cylinder. If that worked, Ken would empty the bullets. If not, he would flip his hand and Robby would cut through his knuckles.
What the fuck are we doing?
Robby squeezed the throttle. The chainsaw responded with a grinding roar.
Ken winced. His arm stiffened, as if the blood within his veins had solidified. The discomfort spread along his bicep and shoulder.
Robby released the throttle. “We don’t have to do this.”
“Quit stalling.” Ken shut his eyes. Horrible images flooded his mind—Robby taking a wrong angle and lopping off his thumb or index finger or his entire hand. Every scenario ended with geysers of blood. He could barely keep himself together as the whirring noise grew closer.
Closer.
Clo—
Something seized Ken by the throat. Two cold, sturdy hands. They found a grip, the thumbs crushing down on his trachea. When he opened his eyes, nobody was there. But the sensation intensified. It was too firm to be his imagination.
He glanced at his gunhand.
The chainsaw drew nearer.
The pressure on his throat worsened.
Ken struggled to breathe. He tried to muster a scream, but another set of phantom hands clawed through his chest and punctured his lungs. He could feel air escaping into the hollow of his torso.
His head throbbed.
His vision blurred.
This wasn’t anxiety. He was suffocating—or rather, being suffocated.
As the whirring chain dropped within an inch of the revolver, he pulled his hand away.
Robby released the throttle. The chainsaw quieted to a chug.
“Stop?”
Ken would’ve nodded, but the pressure around his throat remained. It didn’t fade until Robby set the chainsaw on the table. Slowly, the phantom hands released his neck and chest. Breath trickled through his nose, his lungs aching as they received nourishing air.
“Shit,” Robby said, “your neck’s all red.”
Ken sat still, afraid to move.
“Put that chainsaw away,” he said once he got his voice back. “We’re going after Glinski.”
Chapter 25
Before any more unseen hands could suffocate him, Ken marshaled Robby, Chrissie, and Hannah through the front door and into his Camry, which still carried the scent of chlorine from Angela’s pool. The Fujima brothers took the front while the girls took the back. Ken, who couldn’t stop shaking, failed to insert the key into the ignition. Normally, he wouldn’t trust his brother to drive a John Deere through an open meadow, but tonight he trusted himself even less. They swapped seats and hit the road.
“How far is this place?” Hannah asked.
“Far enough for Ken to reconsider shooting you,” Robby said.
Ken sighed. “Drive, Rob.”
They left Wilkes-Barre and motored toward a small, tucked-away development called Hamilton Acres. It lay behind a sprawling cemetery and a scenic stretch of pines. For a moment they drove through wilderness before luxury homes sprouted up. Glinski lived in a gaudy two-story McMansion toward the rear of the development. Wide stretches of shadowy grass surrounded her home, along with a sturdy steel fence. A streetlamp cast a milky orange glow a
cross the lawn.
They parked in darkness along the curb. Ken moved to open his door but instead his revolver bumped the handle. The gunhand was getting in the way of everything—his lifestyle, his morals, even basic tasks like exiting a parked car.
“Want me to keep the car running?” Chrissie asked.
“No,” Ken said. “You’re coming with us.”
Outside, the night air held a nervous cool. It brushed his tender throat like an unseen blade. He shivered in place, unwilling to approach the house.
“Rob, are we even sure she’s home?”
“Positive,” Robby said. “She just tweeted a photo of pistachio ice cream on her nightstand.”
Pistachio. That was Ken’s favorite flavor. Knowing that he and Glinski shared a sweet tooth didn’t make things any easier. “I don’t think I can do this.”
Robby shrugged. “How about I call my guy and get you some Xanax?”
“Do it,” Chrissie said. “If he doesn’t want the shit, I’ll take it.”
Ken groaned. “I want this to stop.”
“It won’t stop,” Hannah said. “You can end it, but you can’t stop it.”
Ken breathed deeply, until his lungs could expand no farther. He approached Glinski’s house from the side lawn. The driveway gate was shut so he climbed the fence—a difficult task for a one-handed high school teacher—and nearly tore his arm from his socket before he dropped hard on his hip.
Chrissie cackled. She, Robby, and Hannah climbed the fence with ease.
Ahead floodlights shined across the front porch, highlighting its two-story entry arch and the Corinthian columns that supported the front gable. Ken considered ringing the doorbell until he spotted a security camera above the door.
Great. Honestly, Ken wasn’t surprised. Fancy houses always came equipped with security. No telling how many surveillance cams adorned the place, but it was likely that a break-in would trigger alarms and send the cops flying. Instead, he and the others snuck along the bushes beside the house, hunching low, checking for cameras. His gaze bounced around but stopped when a clinking sound startled him.
Ahead, a chain rattled in the pitch-dark backyard. As he crept closer, the rattling gave way to barking.
“Got ourselves a pooch,” Ken said.
“What breed?” Hannah asked.
“Who cares,” Robby said. “We’re not here to adopt.”
“I’m good with dogs,” Hannah said, powering on her phone light. The beam bobbed ahead but failed to reach the dog. “Depending on the breed, maybe I can calm it down.”
“Give me your phone,” Ken said impatiently. He grabbed it and approached the pissed-off animal. A thrashing silhouette lunged toward him, each bark harsher than the last. A growling brown snout poked into view. Light gleamed off a set of fangs.
Ken retreated in a hurry.
“What kind?” Hannah asked.
“Rottweiler,” he said, pressing a hand over his pounding heart. “Thing’s on a long leash. Be careful when you go near it.”
“Wait, I didn’t say I was going near a rottweiler.”
“Then what good are you?” Robby snapped.
For once, Ken agreed with his brother. He agreed so much that he considered executing Hannah on the spot. One quick blast to the forehead was what she deserved. Her hair was already a mess, so her face might as well match. He’d be doing them both a favor, and as he angled the revolver toward her, he—
“Shit.” Ken clutched his wrist. “It’s happening.”
Hannah backed off. “Maybe I should head back to the car.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Robby said. “Ken needs our help.”
“With what exactly? We don’t even have a plan.”
“Let’s just ring the doorbell,” Chrissie said. “You can carry me onto the porch and pretend I OD’d. Maybe this doctor lady will buy it.”
“If she doesn’t, she’ll have our faces on camera,” Ken said.
“Not if we keep our heads down,” Robby said.
The barking went on.
Ken knelt beside the bushes, gathering his thoughts. He considered Chrissie’s plan, but the security camera spooked him. They could try entering through a smashed window, but that would likely trigger an alarm. Besides, there was no telling how prepared Glinski was for a home invasion. She might have a panic room or—worse—something to shoot him with.
There had to be a wiser option.
C’mon, think!
Frustrated, he stabbed his gun at the dirt. His thoughts crossed and collided. Every time he tried concentrating on a plan, Robby and Hannah’s bickering interrupted him. When he told them to shut up, the rottweiler started barking again.
That gave him an idea.
“You guys, head back to the car. I won’t be long if this works.”
“If what works?” Robby asked.
“Just keep the car running.”
They vanished into the darkness.
Ken crept forward. At the edge of the backyard, he crawled inside a corner shrub, concealing himself between the branches. The rottweiler approached. Fear climbed within Ken’s chest as the leash rattled. The animal pounced, landing within two feet of his hiding place before the chain reeled back. The barking resumed.
Louder and louder.
Exactly what he’d hoped for.
Ken shook the bush, antagonizing the dog until an upstairs window opened.
Glinski called out, “Sunshine, quiet down!”
Sunshine did not. The rottweiler thrashed against its leash.
Ken held his breath.
Moments later a light above the deck flickered on. The backdoor squealed open. Out stepped Glinski, feet thumping across wooden boards. Through the shrub branches, Ken spotted a navy-blue bathrobe covered in Penn State logos. She leaned over the wooden rail and whistled. She was thirty feet away—so close, yet much too far. From what Ken had learned about snubnose .38s, they were only effective at extremely close range.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Glinski asked. “Another squirrel?”
Sunshine barked in reply.
“Oh, you want to come inside? Is that it?”
Another bark.
“All right, you talked me into it,” she said, descending the wooden steps. “But no more peeing on the carpet. Got it?”
With her every step, Ken’s heart boomed in his chest. This was it. Couldn’t ask for a better scenario. The rottweiler was mere feet away. If Glinski came near enough to undo the leash, he’d have an easy shot. The only caveat was that he would have to shoot her before she released the dog. Last thing he wanted was to be mauled during his escape.
Humming a placating tune, she sauntered across the lawn.
He slowly raised his gunhand, restraining his movements. He tucked his arm between two branches and angled the barrel toward the dog. Now he needed Glinski to enter the line of fire.
His next inhale stuck in his throat. Sweat waterfalled down his cheeks while his pulse hammered his eardrums. His shooting arm, already poised awkwardly beside his cheek, shivered beyond control.
Through the gaps in the shrub, he watched Glinski squat beside Sunshine. The animal lunged toward Ken, and Glinski turned in his direction.
“What’s with you tonight?” she asked, unknowingly meeting Ken’s eyes.
Ice blocked his veins. He re-aimed the barrel, now steady, even while the rest of him trembled. He noticed impatience written across her face—the same expression she’d worn while diagnosing Mom years ago. That infuriated him, but he took solace in knowing that she soon wouldn’t have a face.
He slid his finger through the trigger guard.
Touched the cold steel fang that was the trigger.
Applied pressure.
More.
More.
More.
The trigger reached its tipping point. Another nudge was all it needed. Then she’d fall flat and never get up.
Trouble was, Ken’s desire to preserve life raged against his need t
o take it. Staring down the woman responsible for his mother’s death forced him to process many emotions. Though most were dark and resentful, there were others. Warm wisps of forgiveness stirred within him. While Glinski was responsible for his mother’s death, Ken never wanted vengeance—at least not until he’d unwittingly picked up this godforsaken weapon.
He knew better. It was the snubnose that wanted the kill; not him. And though the temptations were intensifying, he still had a choice.
Quietly, he pulled his arm back and made the right one.
Chapter 26
“Want to talk about it?” Robby asked, braking for a red light. Once they stopped, he glanced back at the girls before he leaned in and whispered, “I get that you already killed one shitbag last night, but this time was different, right?”
Different for sure. This time Ken hadn’t killed anyone. And though he was satisfied with his decision to spare Glinski’s life, the fever had spiked into a hot resurgence and multiplied his homicidal urges. Worse yet, he couldn’t confide in anyone because they were under the impression that he’d shot Glinski. If they learned the truth, panic would spread. Ken needed everyone calm; a relaxed atmosphere would make it easier to resist the revolver’s dark hunger. If he held out long enough, perhaps the gun would surrender and drop from his grasp, hoping to find a new wielder.
Ken liked that idea. But until it manifested, he would consider himself a safety hazard.
The Camry’s forward motion shook him from his musings. As they rounded Public Square, he noticed college kids barhopping between Rodano’s and Franklin’s. He wanted to stick his revolver out the window and shoot, but he restrained himself, opting to shut his eyes and inhale cool nighttime air. Beside him, Robby rambled on about how people should talk about their problems. Ken thought that was the most hypocritical thing he’d heard all year.
When they pulled into the driveway, the Backfield Bar next door was rocking, the jukebox blasting Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.” He normally cringed at sleazy ’80s rock, but the lyrics made him think of Angela floating in the middle of her pool. If only he’d stayed with her.
Morbid vibes smothered him as he reentered the house. The place felt abandoned without Dad sitting there grumbling about the Dodgers. At the kitchen sink Ken splashed cold water on his face. It did nothing for his fever, which approached the melting point with each passing minute. He wondered if Hannah knew more than she let on. If she was holding out, now was the time to spill everything.
Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller Page 12