Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller

by Brandon McNulty

  “Back door’s blocked,” he said. “There’s no getting out.”

  A shuffling sounded. Hogwild stifled his movements, but the noise was plain even to Ken’s faintly ringing ears. The dealer tried the doorknob. A thud followed as he shouldered the blocked door.

  Robby raced around to the front. “Ken, you’re pissing him off. Don’t do this. You keep this up, he’ll stop delivering to me.”

  As if I needed more motivation to keep this up.

  “Hog,” Ken said, “let’s quit wasting each other’s time.”

  The man finally spoke. “Fuck off.”

  Time to get justice for Pete.

  “A high school student died yesterday,” Ken said. “He OD’d on pills.”

  “Sucks to be him. Now unblock the door and leave before I call my boys.”

  “Any of your boys deal counterfeit Oxycontin?”

  “How the fuck should I know? It’s not like we sample the shit together.”

  “Who deals to high schoolers around here?”

  “Man, I don’t know.”

  “You’re not in contact with other dealers?”

  “I don’t ask questions. I just sell whatever shit I get from my distributor.”

  “Then call your distributor and ask him.”

  Hog laughed. “If I do that, he’ll come down here and cut both our throats.”

  “Ken, don’t push it,” Robby urged.

  “Right,” Hog said. “You’re pissed at the wrong dude. Remember, I deliver to older crowds, not kids. I’m not the bad guy here.”

  No, not you. Ken glanced at his sunken, shriveled brother. You, Mr. Dealer, deserve a gold star.

  “I got standards,” Hog continued. “If you wanna know who’s dealing to kids, ask some kids. Don’t ask me.”

  “Told you,” Robby said. “Hog’s got standards.”

  Ken rolled his eyes.

  Robby knocked on the boarded-up window. “Yo, Hog, since we’re already here, can you hook me up like we discussed?”

  “Only if you pay double like we discussed.”

  “Great. Meet you out back.”

  Ken glared at his brother. Unbelievable. They hadn’t come here to score. And where did Robby get money? Two days ago he couldn’t afford a shirt and pants. That meant he’d probably stolen from Dad’s upstairs dresser. To think Robby could go from crying over Dad’s corpse to raiding his bedroom for drug money… It made Ken’s finger curl around the trigger.

  “Tell your tight-assed brother to wait in the parking lot,” Hog said.

  “You heard him,” Robby said, his eyes pleading. “Come on, Ken. If you want my help today, I need to buy my shit now.”

  “Fine,” Ken said through gritted teeth. “But this is the last time you spend money on a fix. Hear me?”

  Robby said nothing.

  Ken carried the collapsible wheelchair back to the Camry, stashed it in the trunk, and got behind the wheel. He parked where he had a clear view of the shack’s rear door. Robby was there, giddy as a boy about to order candy and soda. He dug his pockets, counted out Dad’s money, and handed it over. Hogwild collected it, then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, gesturing for a little extra.

  Robby ran over to the car.

  Ken lowered the window. “You’re not getting a penny from me.”

  “It’s not that,” Robby said. “Mind waiting five minutes?”

  “For what?” Ken asked.

  “Negotiating.” Robby wet his lip. “Won’t take long.”

  “How about I negotiate for you?”

  “Stay outta this, Ken. I need five minutes—maybe ten. I’ll try to hurry.”

  Robby headed for the shack. He ducked inside and shut the door behind him.

  While Ken waited, a nervous cloud expanded within his chest. Without thinking, he tightened his seatbelt, afraid he might otherwise float away.

  Minutes passed.

  He grew weary of sitting around. He wanted answers. All he needed to do was rip open the door, point the gun, and demand names of dealers and distributors. The only thing stopping him was the consequences. He didn’t know how drug dealers reacted after they had a gun pulled on them. Hogwild might harm Robby or mobilize his boys and send them to the Fujima house tonight.

  More minutes dragged by.

  This is taking too long, Ken thought. I can’t keep sitting around. Not while the answers to my problems wait inside that concession stand.

  With a hammering heart, he got out of the Camry. Birds cawed and motors hummed in the distance. He worried a family might pull into the parking lot at any moment. He double-checked the ballpark, making sure there were no stragglers playing catch in the outfield. Aside from oak trees trembling in the September breeze, nothing moved.

  This time, when Ken tried the shack’s doorknob, it spun easily. He opened the door and heard a slick popping noise coming from inside.

  Sunlight leaked in and shined off Hogwild’s belt buckle. It lay on the concrete floor, next to Robby’s bent knee. A little higher up, Robby had his face where the belt buckle should’ve been. Two plump hands clutched his head, maneuvering it back and forth in a steady rhythm.

  The rhythm cut to a stop as they both noticed the room had gotten brighter.

  Robby leaned back to relieve his mouth of its five-inch burden. His eyes went wide, his cheeks deep red. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said something.

  Whatever he said, it never reached Ken’s ears.

  All he heard was the gunshot.

  Chapter 36

  Ken welcomed the icy shock of the bathroom shower spray. It roused his skin to life, for better or worse. Since leaving the ballpark, he’d been numb in both body and mind. He hadn’t yet processed his third murder, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  Details trickled into his mind’s eye—blood leaping from Hogwild’s wounds, Robby scrambling out of the shack, their hasty drive home—but the memories hardly impacted him. Of his three murders, this one bothered him the least, despite being the freshest and most calculated. Maybe he was too exhausted to care, maybe he was growing desensitized, or maybe his conscience approved of him eliminating his brother’s chief heroin source. The only downside was that Ken hadn’t learned who’d sold fentanyl to Pete.

  Now, as the warm water kicked in, Ken allowed the sweat, oil, and blood to roll off him and trickle down the drain.

  Afterward, he toweled off and patted his gunhand dry. A fresh kill meant he could relax. Maybe even sleep tonight. All things considered, he felt great. Sure, he’d taken another life, but that particular life had tormented many others.

  Not that Robby agreed.

  “How could you be so stupid?” He pounded the bathroom door. “Hog has friends, you know? Once they realize I was the last one he saw, I’m fucked.”

  “How would they know it was you?” Ken said, gelling his hair back—a clumsy task for a one-handed man. “We stomped his phone and dropped it down a sewer grate. Nobody will see the texts.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He could’ve told someone he was meeting me.”

  Ken paused as he fixed his hair. “Will they come after us?”

  “Probably not, but when I reach out, they might sell me some tainted product. That’s how they retaliate.”

  “Then don’t buy anything.”

  “You don’t get it!” Robby struck the door. “I have to!”

  “Calm down,” Ken said.

  “Calm down? You killed my dealer!”

  “Relax. Before long we’ll be on the road. I’ll take care of you.”

  Ken stepped into a fresh pair of boxer shorts. They felt good against his cool, clean skin. He donned a short-sleeve button-down, khakis, and his favorite pair of argyle socks. The bathroom fan hummed above, and he focused on the sound, relegating his brother’s yapping to background noise. Studying himself in the mirror, Ken didn’t exactly love who he saw, but it was an improvement. Last night he’d slaughtered his brother’s girlfriend while under duress. This mornin
g, however, was different. He’d killed Hogwild without any gun-induced pressure. For the first time since Friday, he felt like he was in control.

  When he opened the bathroom door, he found Robby leaning against the wall, clutching anxiously at his head. Tiny dots of blood covered Robby’s cheeks and his hair looked greasy. He reeked of spearmint mouthwash.

  Ken squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “We’ll get through this.”

  “You don’t understand. I don’t just ‘get through’ things. I’m a mess. Dad’s dead, Chrissie’s dead, you’re killing people, and I don’t know how long I can stretch the dope I have left.”

  Ken pulled him close. The spearmint gave way to an underlying sweaty odor. “We’ll get through this. Once the revolver’s empty and Hannah’s good enough to walk, we’ll hit the road. Till then, why not grab a shower? You’d be amazed what a shower can do.”

  Downstairs on the futon Hannah lay flat, her arms at her sides, palms up. He’d offered her the TV remote earlier, but she declined, opting for a yoga pose instead. Her deep breaths brought peace to the living room. Ken warmed two slices of toast and carried them in on a plate.

  “Hungry?” he asked, sitting on the armrest. “You look it.”

  She opened her eyes. “Way to disrupt a girl’s zen.”

  He laughed. “You should see how I wake students who fall asleep in class.”

  “You’re in a good mood. You should shoot heroin dealers more often.” She tried to sit up. He set the plate down and helped her. Once she was upright, he offered her the toast. She refused. “Better wait till my stomach settles.”

  “How’s the wound?”

  “When I lie flat, it’s bad. Sitting up, it’s hell.”

  “Once you’re better, we’ll hit the road, the four of us.”

  “Four of us? Me, you, Robby, and…?”

  “Hopper.”

  “Oh, right.” She smiled at Hopper, who was snoozing on the recliner. “The only redeeming member of your family.”

  “Hey, I saved your life last night, remember?”

  “Save Michelle’s life. Then we’ll talk.”

  “That’s not fair,” he said. “We both lost a loved one.”

  “Correction. I lost three loved ones thanks to your family.”

  “Maybe it’s time to stop keeping score.”

  “Those points don’t erase from the board.” Her eyes fell on the revolver. She didn’t look away as she said, “Anyway, I’m in no condition to be agitated. Let’s drop the subject.”

  “In that case, let me ask you something,” he said, pulling the ripped note from his pocket. “The buyer you met with. His name was Takahashi?”

  “Yep. Total creepo. Guy kept hitting on me and Michelle.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “Not much.” She winced. “He can offer a lot for the gun. Seems he’s well connected.”

  “Did you get his first name?”

  She squinted. “Hmm. It was something generic like John or Jim.”

  “John or Jim…” Ken ran to the kitchen phone and dialed the number on the caller ID.

  Takahashi picked up on the first ring. “Hello? Goro?”

  “Actually, it’s Ken. I have a ques—”

  “I must speak with your father. It’s important.”

  Ken hesitated. “Sure, I’ll ask if he’s ready to come off the toilet. What’s your name again?”

  “Takahashi.”

  “What about your first name?”

  “He’ll know who it is. Besides, you’re the one who called me.”

  “True, but I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s David.”

  Ken held his breath. “Do you have a brother named John or Jim?”

  “I’m an only child. Now put your father on the phone.”

  Ken set the phone down, counted to ten, then picked it back up. “Dad says he’ll call you when he’s feeling better. He’s been sick all weekend.”

  “Tell him it’s urgent.”

  “I can take a message.”

  “Tell him that if I don’t hear from him by tonight, I’ll assume he’s dead.”

  Before Ken could respond, Takahashi broke the connection. The dial tone thrummed in his ear, and Ken wondered what that last statement meant. It was an odd thing to say. In any case, he was relieved to know that this Takahashi bore a different first name from the buyer.

  He returned to the living room.

  “What was that about?” Hannah asked.

  “My father had a buddy named Takahashi. Not the same guy, though.”

  “It’s a pretty common last name. Can I have some toast?”

  He broke a slice in half and handed it to her.

  “So, three more kills…” She nibbled her toast. “Who’s next? Stalin? Hitler? Genghis Khan?”

  “If only.” He wondered if he’d be able to teach World History once they reached LA. Hopefully the buyer could provide fake teaching degrees in addition to fake IDs. “Tonight there’s a vigil for a student of mine who OD’d on fentanyl. When I go, I’ll see if I can learn anything about who supplied him.”

  “You’re going to a vigil?” she asked, appalled. “Are you insane?”

  “Why?” He grabbed a piece of toast. “What’s wrong?”

  “Idiot, you have a loaded revolver attached to you. At an event like that, you’ll be expected to shake hands, give hugs, and blow your nose. You can’t hide your hand in your pocket the whole time.”

  He bit into the toast. Its rough texture scraped the roof of his mouth as he pictured himself being offered a handshake, followed by baffled looks from Pete’s family when he refused. That would put a dent in his plan to obtain info.

  There had to be another way.

  Studying his gunhand, he pictured different methods of concealing it—bags, sleeves, anything that offered coverage. None, however, seemed appropriate enough for an event as reverent as a teen’s memorial vigil.

  While he brainstormed, he grabbed his mother’s quilt and wrapped it around his gunhand. The odd bulge at the end was too obvious.

  But as he continued wrapping over it, he got an idea.

  Chapter 37

  The vigil spread eerie silence throughout Kirby Park. An evening drizzle fell without a sound, and though the breeze was constant, nearby trees dared not shake their branches. None of the gathered students, teachers, or family members spoke a word. Everyone stood in a half circle beneath the park pavilion roof. Ken and Robby faced a plastic table decorated with photos and trophies from Pete Chang’s past. From his life that was no more.

  Ken’s free hand clutched the fiberglass cast that Dr. Glinski had wrapped for him just hours ago. After he had gathered the necessary supplies at CVS, Glinski taped him up at gunpoint, stuffing the cast full of crumpled newspaper in order to obscure the revolver’s shape. The finished product looked like a shrunken boxing glove and offered no ventilation. Heat smothered his fist; sweat tickled incessantly between his knuckles.

  To his left, the scent of burning candles spread through the air. A sobbing woman—Pete’s mother—passed them out, and her husband followed and lit them.

  Among the mourners stood Officer Isaacs and his daughter Lexi, whose all-black gothic attire couldn’t have been more appropriate. Beside her stood Principal Soward, wearing a charcoal gray business suit and her trademark scowl. She was accompanied by her two teenage kids, both of whom were students at Morgan High. Soward cupped a hand around her candle’s flame and glanced in Ken’s direction. The moment she spotted him, her eyes narrowed.

  Mrs. Chang handed candles to Ken and Robby. Once Ken’s was lit, his throat went tight. He wanted to cough but didn’t dare disturb the silence.

  To his right he spotted Angela with several other teachers. Once her candle was lit, the flame reflected off her tear-soaked cheeks. She pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. Ken wanted to curl an arm around her but could only stare into the dancing flame before him.

  Pete’s parent
s approached the table-shrine and set three candles among the photo frames and art awards. When Mrs. Chang faced the crowd, she opened her mouth to say something and broke down crying. She slid to her knees with a hard, deafening thud. Her husband behind her held her torso upright while she moaned, and the gathered crowd joined her with harsh, heartbroken sobs of their own.

  “This is too much,” Robby whispered. “I’m heading back to the car.”

  “Stay,” Ken said, blinking back tears. “I’ll need you here when I talk to Pete’s friends.”

  Mr. Chang announced that if anyone wanted to speak, they were welcome to. At first nobody volunteered. Then a kid from Morgan High stepped forward. Eddie Alvarez. The boy had goofed off in Ken’s classes last year, but now he reverently marched toward the table and set something down on it. A PlayStation controller.

  “Me and Pete used to play Fortnite together,” Eddie said in a subdued tone. “It’s weird saying ‘used to’ because we just played online three nights ago. Yesterday I texted him to see if he was down for another game, but…” Eddie paused. It was long and uncomfortable. “I-I moved here last December. Didn’t know nobody. One day I’m sitting in class struggling through a pop quiz and Pete holds up his test sheet all casual, like he was double-checking it. He held it at a funny angle so I could copy his answers. I ended up passing because of him. He’d do chill things like that, y’know? He’d…he’d…”

  Eddie covered his face and turned away.

  Ken’s eyes watered. That speech reminded him of all the little things you lost when someone died. You lost more than a living, breathing human being. You lost someone to play videogames with. You lost someone who had your back when you didn’t study. You lost a part of yourself.

  Two nights ago, Ken lost more than a father. He lost a source of laughter, warmth, and guidance. He lost someone who understood him, cared about him, and told him when to man up. He lost a food critic, a support pillar, a best friend.

  The gathered mourners dispersed after Eddie’s speech. Some broke off into small groups and traded stories about Pete. Others cried over photos and artwork. Officer Isaacs glanced in Ken’s direction and offered a strange, almost neighborly, smile. Seemed this vigil could soften anyone.