Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller

by Brandon McNulty

  Again, she shrieked.

  “Angela, please.” He reached out. “I’d never hurt you, I swear.”

  “Get away!” She kicked his outstretched hand. Her eyes glared in defiance. “You hid that gun while we ate breakfast—while we had sex by the pond. Was that your plan? Were you gonna shoot me if I didn’t fuck you?”

  The last part stung. Ken steeled himself and stretched his hand closer. “It’s a long story, but three nights ago my father was shot dead and the killer left this gun behind. I picked it up, and it’s been stuck to me ever since.”

  She shook her head, her expression incredulous.

  “I know it sounds insane, but it’s true. I can explain everything.”

  “You’re sick—you shot that guy in the chest over a dozen times. And then that cop. You shot them and now they’re dead. Dead!”

  “Calm down,” he said.

  Surely somebody had called 911 after the gunshots. They needed to leave. “Listen, we can’t have this conversation here. I can explain everything, but we need to leave now.”

  “What if I stay here? Will you shoot me? Make it look like a suicide? Make it look like I killed those people?”

  “Please take my hand. I won’t hurt you. If you want to turn me in later, fine. But give me a chance to explain.”

  He leaned in, extending his hand.

  She flinched away.

  Wind gusts shook the surrounding oaks, unleashing a chorus of woodland noise. Between the scraping branches, the swishing leaves, and his own ringing ears, Ken couldn’t hear himself think. Nor could he determine if any sirens were approaching. Every second he spent arguing with Angela put his future in peril.

  “Listen, I can’t stay here,” he said. “If you’re coming with me, now’s the time. If not, that’s okay. All I’m asking for is a chance.”

  The woods thrashed louder.

  Angela met his eyes.

  She reached for him.

  But instead of taking his outstretched hand, she grabbed his cast. Careful not to point it at her face, she studied it. The shattered opening transfixed her. She angled it toward the light, eyeing the snubnose inside.

  Then she glared at him.

  “I have to go,” he said. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  Without a word, she shoved his cast away.

  Chapter 47

  “What an idiot!” Hannah exclaimed when Ken had finished recounting the morning’s events. His story had injected her with energy—more accurately, fury. She sat upright on the futon without cringing for the first time since receiving her stitches. Her eyes—vacant minutes ago—narrowed in outrage. Her fist pounded the armrest. “Idiot. You should’ve known cops work undercover.”

  “I know, I know.” Frustrated, Ken yanked his busted cast from his arm and flung it at the ground. He hung his head. It felt like the weight of the two dead cops was crushing down on him. “Isaacs said they were dirty. I took his word. Figured he had insider info.”

  “From the sounds of it, all he has is this massive grudge against anyone who might be involved in drug trafficking. He doesn’t care whether they’re genuinely guilty. Hell, he even suspected your dad. You should’ve caught that.”

  “Well, I didn’t!” Ken kicked the futon. “Instead, I fucked up, caused a shitstorm, and killed two people who were trying to solve the problem. So, yeah—you’re right—I should’ve thought twice. Thanks for the fucking tip.”

  “Chill, Ken.”

  “Chill?” He shook all over, sweating like mad. His burned fist felt like it was melting off his arm. “How am I supposed to chill?”

  “Take a deep breath,” she said, eyeing the gun. “We’re almost out of this.”

  He inhaled, catching the thick scent of the aloe he had sprayed on his gunhand earlier. It had failed to mitigate the burns, same as deep breaths now failed to settle his nerves. Images and worries pinballed through his mind. Memories of the shootout clashed with potential arrest scenarios. He wasn’t sure who would link him to the massacre, but at least one person could.

  “Know what worries me most?” he said. “Angela.”

  “Why? Think she’ll rat you out?”

  “Hard to say.” He glanced at his empty cast lying on the floor like a charred husk. “Actually, I think she’ll stay quiet.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “She could’ve called 911 from the woods, but she didn’t.”

  “Doesn’t mean shit. She can change her mind. Especially if she’s afraid you’ll come after her. Or she might feel obligated to report you. Is she one of those stubborn goody-goody types?”

  “Not really. She’s more of a rule-breaker.”

  “That helps us.”

  “Yeah.” But he didn’t fully believe Angela would remain quiet. He could only imagine the pressure she was under. Her conscience was probably eating her alive. He never should’ve involved her. She’d only witnessed the shootout because he’d forced some last-minute romance into his schedule. Now she—the lone bright spot in his life—had to carry an unbearable burden.

  He doubted she could carry it for long.

  “We can’t stick around,” he said. “Let’s leave for LA.”

  “Now? I can barely walk to the toilet.”

  “Hannah, I know you’re uncomfortable, but suck it up.”

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “You seem fine.”

  “Oh really?” She reached beneath the armrest and lifted the bucket she’d been puking into earlier. “Sure I’m ready for a road trip? And what about your brother? He was throwing up in the bathroom all morning before he went upstairs.”

  “You’ll both have to tough it out,” Ken said, blowing on his burned fist. “We can’t stay here.”

  “Wait.” She pointed at the muted TV. “Breaking news. Turn it up.”

  Ken increased the volume. The news anchor—a forty-ish blond guy—announced that two cops and two men with criminal records had been fatally shot in the woods less than a mile from the Cabin Café. “Authorities say they have no information on the suspect at this time, but they believe it’s related to drug trafficking. They request that anyone with information on the shooting contact them. Our very own Kendra Johnson is live near the scene.”

  The screen cut to a somber young woman holding a microphone. In the background was the Cabin Café.

  “I’m here live. Earlier today, four people, including two law enforcement officers, were fatally shot near this restaurant. Businesses closed following the shootings, and residents remain in their homes. Earlier I managed to speak with some of them. Their reaction? Horror.”

  Ken turned off the TV. He couldn’t stomach any more.

  “We’ve got time,” Hannah said. “They don’t have info on the suspect.”

  “So they say.”

  “If anyone saw you, they’d have a description.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m safe.”

  “I’m telling you, they—” She coughed, then grabbed her side. “Shit.”

  “Need anything?”

  “Yeah. Need you to go back in time and not shoot me.”

  “Hannah, I’m in no mood for sarcasm. Do you realize my car was parked at the Cabin Café for hours? If anyone connects my Camry to the murders, they’ll check the traffic cameras. Once they get my license number, I’m screwed.”

  “You’re being paranoid.”

  “Am I? Do you really believe I didn’t leave a single clue behind? What if the waitress gives descriptions of everyone she served this morning? She’ll remember me—I was the nervous wreck who ordered two glasses of wine with breakfast. What kind of lunatic orders wine with a mushroom omelet?”

  Hannah laughed.

  “What? Is this funny to you?”

  “It is,” she said, clutching her side again. “You need to chill.”

  “When will you be ready to leave?”

  “No idea.”

  “Give me an estimate.”

  “Well…I feel shitty, bu
t another night’s sleep should help.”

  Another night. Might as well be another month. Ken wondered how long he could realistically remain undetected. Minutes? Hours? Best case scenario was that the cops suspected a local dealer had done Ken’s handiwork. That might throw them off, but what about Angela? Any moment now she might dial 911.

  Unless he intervened.

  He grabbed his keys off the coffee table.

  “Where you going?” Hannah asked.

  “To see Angela.”

  “Are you nuts? She might call the cops the moment she sees you.”

  “Or the moment she doesn’t see me.” He rose to his feet, heart thumping around his ribcage. “It’s like you said. She could change her mind any second.”

  “Ugh. Sometimes I hate when I’m right.” Hannah dropped her head against the pillow. “Be careful. If you get busted, me and your brother go down with you.”

  Ken paused while zipping his jacket. In his desperation to cover his tracks, he’d forgotten about Robby. Visiting Angela could trigger a series of events that would lead to Robby being arrested for home invasion, kidnapping, and enough murder-related charges to land him in prison long-term. Ken hated to risk his brother’s future.

  Yet if Ken backed down now, how was that any different from when he’d allowed Olivia to ruin him? Years ago, he’d been afraid to confront her about something difficult and private. Now he found himself in a similar position. This time, however, he knew better; pretending everything was okay would only make things worse.

  He pocketed his gunhand and headed for the door.

  Chapter 48

  Angela wasn’t home. Nor would she answer her phone.

  Ken tried the doorbell several times before entering the backyard he’d fled from three nights ago. A chilly breeze shook the arborvitaes that provided a high, leafy fence around the yard. He sat on a lawn chair beside the empty fire pit and leaned back, listening to swishing trees and the murmur of distant vehicles.

  One thing bothered him from the other night: the snapping noise he’d heard while in the pool with Angela. That noise had spooked him, sent him home, and set this nightmare in motion.

  He rose and moved to check around the trees, maneuvering numerous branches. He didn’t know what he expected to find—maybe some rabid squirrels—but when he lifted a low branch, he noticed something odd.

  In the dirt lay a broken pencil. A blue one like Pete Chang used in class. It had been snapped down the middle, although a wood sliver connected the two halves. Ken lifted it by the pointed half and stared. What was it doing here? Had someone been hiding with it in the trees? One of Angela’s teacher friends? If so, why? Who sneaks around with a sketch pencil?

  A motor rumbled and stopped nearby. The slap of a car door followed.

  “Ken.”

  He flinched, the arborvitaes trembling in the wind beside him. He turned and saw Angela standing at the edge of her backyard. In one arm she cradled a bulging brown grocery bag. Two plastic bags dangled from her opposite elbow. She wore a burgundy long-sleeve dress with a white belt. Her expression was deathly numb as her gaze shifted between his jacket pocket and the broken pencil in his fingers. He considered asking about the pencil, but it was the least of their worries.

  The moment he stepped toward her, she set her bags down and reached inside her purse.

  She pulled out a gun. A snubnose revolver. She steadied it with both hands, lining the barrel up with his chest. They were separated by the width of her swimming pool and then some, meaning that if she fired, she’d likely miss. He half-wished she’d come closer and shoot him dead.

  Instead they stood there wordlessly. The arborvitaes swished in the wind; her grocery bags flapped and crinkled.

  Finally, he said, “Wanted to check on you.”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice was toneless.

  “Can we talk?”

  “That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?”

  “I was hoping for somewhere more private.”

  “And I was hoping I’d never see you again.”

  “If that’s what you want, I’ll leave. Just say the word.”

  The afternoon sun gleamed off her forehead. She was sweating—no doubt panicking. It must’ve taken all her resolve to stand her ground with that weapon. He hated himself for putting her through this.

  “Angela, I’m sorry. I came here to talk, but if that’s asking too much, I understand. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  With each deep breath her shoulders rose and fell.

  The revolver trembled in her hand.

  She shook her head.

  Finally, she said, “Take my groceries inside.”

  He put the pencil in his other pocket, walked slowly toward her, and lifted the bags. They entered through the back porch, and he set the groceries on the kitchen table. She ordered him to tuck one plastic bag in the fridge and the other in the freezer. Aiming at him from across the room, she sighed. “I must be crazy, letting you in here.”

  “Yeah.”

  She wiped her brow with her sleeve. Sweat darkened the fabric. At the kitchen table she sat, nudging away a cluttered stack of mail. When she pulled her chair in, her unwashed hair swung alongside her cheeks. It still contained flecks of dirt and leafy bits.

  “You should wash your hair,” he said, taking the seat across from her.

  She rested both elbows on the table, now pointing the gun at his throat.

  He decided to jump right in. “Angela, what happened today wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like that. All I wanted was breakfast with you.”

  She blinked. Her face was pale, her eyes sunken. “I’m not sure how to feel. One minute we’re eating omelets, then we’re having sex in the mud, then we’re screaming at each other about those men you shot, and now here we are. It’s like emotional roulette.” She blinked again. “I’m all burned out. Confused. Like, how’d it come to this? And why are you in my kitchen hiding a gun in your pocket?”

  He slowly set his gunhand on the table, making sure it was pointed away from her. “I want to explain everything.”

  Her eyes fell on his revolver. “Let’s hear it.”

  Chapter 49

  Angela absorbed the news with a series of blinks, stares, and the occasional grimace. Several times she interrupted for clarification, and Ken held nothing back. He delivered the full rundown of his weekend, revealing everything, from the hard, gruesome facts to his nagging doubts about Hannah’s plan to trade the cursed revolver in for a fresh start.

  After a prolonged silence, Angela slowly tucked her snubnose back into her purse and zipped it shut. However, her eyes never left him as she put a teakettle on the stove. When she sat again, she said, “I need to know one thing. Did the gun kill that cop, or was it your choice?”

  He opened his mouth, then paused.

  “Don’t sugarcoat it. Tell me.”

  He nodded. “My choice.”

  “And the others?”

  Again he nodded. “The guy with the neck tattoos, definitely. Hogwild, definitely. With Chrissie, the pressure was heavy, but the ultimate choice was mine. Same as when I shot Hannah. As for Michelle, that was self-defense.”

  “Sounds like the gun didn’t kill anyone. It was all you.”

  Her words struck like a fist to the windpipe. He wanted to argue that he didn’t grab the revolver with malicious intentions. That he’d tried to separate the gun from his hand and tried harder to resist its haunting pressure. That he’d killed Hogwild and euthanized the cop because he wanted safe, clear-headed kills.

  Clear-headed kills, he thought. What have I become?

  Rather than arguing with her, he said, “Yeah. All me.”

  For a moment she said nothing. She stared at the kitchen wall, eyes lifeless, hands folded beneath her chin. He could only imagine what thoughts twisted through her mind. Undoubtedly she was worried she could be next if she upset him. He would never consider harming her, but she didn’t know that. All she knew was he’d killed fi
ve people since Friday night, and he intended to kill one more.

  Her eyes met his. “Have you picked your final target?”

  Ken didn’t mean to laugh, but he couldn’t help it. The tension in his chest was unbearable, and the fact that she seemed to accept his situation was an immense, almost narcotic relief. He’d expected many different responses from her, but not this one. “You’re okay with this?”

  “Not one bit. It’s wrong. It’s disgusting. You murdered people.”

  His mouth went dry.

  “But at the same time,” she said, “I keep asking myself what I would’ve done in your position. Can’t blame you for killing your father’s murderer. Nor can I blame you for shooting the others once you understood the gun’s curse.” She smiled a sad smile. “It’s an awful situation, and you did some awful things, but I’m not sure that makes you an awful person. In fact, you did some good. Saving Hannah, sparing Glinski…that’s the Ken Fujima I know.”

  Hearing this didn’t erase his guilt, but she was right. He’d shown restraint. As much as possible. If a lesser man had grabbed the gun, Hannah and Glinski would be corpses by now. Many people in this world would jump at an excuse to unleash their hatred, but Ken had battled those urges.

  Not that he’d won every battle.

  “Wish I’d spared Chrissie and Tormon,” he said. “Those two didn’t deserve it. They were innocent.”

  “So were you, Ken.”

  Angela leaned across the table and took his hands—both his empty hand and his gunhand. Her grip was warm and firm. It eased the tension in his muscles and stirred a faint hope within his chest. He never wanted her to let go.

  “Thanks,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Once I leave town, you should report me to the authorities. Tell them everything that happened this morning. I don’t want you getting pegged as my accomplice or anything.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, massaging his hands. “I’m more worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. Things will get easier once I’ve used my last bullet.”