“Who you going after?”
He frowned. “Good question. Up till now my biggest concern was you calling the cops. Haven’t had time to figure out my next target. I suppose I’ll go after another drug dealer. Ideally, I’d like to eliminate someone who deals to high schoolers. I’m still pissed about what happened to Pete.”
Angela released her grip on his hands. She sank back into her chair and chewed on her thumbnail as if mulling something over.
“What?” he said. “You think it’s a bad idea? Too risky?”
“No, it’s…fine.” She glanced into the corner of the room. Something about her demeanor was defensive. Like she was hiding something. After she’d been so candid about his situation with the gun, this came as a surprise.
“Angela? Something on your mind?”
“Just thinking.”
“About what? Do you know something that can help me?”
Her chair creaked as she shifted in her seat.
“If you know anything about the person who dealt those fake Oxys to Pete, you need to tell me. Is there someone who can identify the dealer? A student? A teacher? Anyone?”
Her eyes locked with his. “I…I don’t want to say it.”
“It’s okay. You can tell me. I just want to protect our students.”
“I know you do.” Reaching up, she pushed her hair back and took a deep breath. Then another.
He leaned in. “Do you know who sold Pete those drugs?”
“No,” she said, “but I know who caused him to OD.”
Chapter 50
The teakettle went off with a wail. Ken startled in his seat like a solider awakened by mortar fire. He pressed a hand against his chest; his heart tapped violently, telegraphing a distress signal to the rest of his body. By the time he’d settled, Angela had dropped chamomile tea bags into two mugs. As she attempted to add boiling water, her trembling grip caused her to miss the mugs and splash the counter. When she brought the mugs to the table, she sat and stared at the wall again.
“Well?” he said. “Who caused Pete to OD?”
She shifted awkwardly, the chair creaking underneath her. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can go through with this.”
He lifted his mug to his nose. The warm scent of chamomile did nothing to ease his nerves. “I know it’s hard, but you need to tell me.”
“I want to. I really do.” She chewed her lip. “But it’s like signing a death warrant.”
“Whoever it is, they did something horrible.”
“Still, I don’t want to order an execution.” Her fingers clutched her mug. “Besides, in a way, I’m responsible. I could’ve stopped it. I could’ve done something. If I had, Pete would still be alive.”
Ken slid his chair around the table until their shoulders were touching. He pried one of her hands off the mug and wrapped his own firmly, supportively around it. “Whatever happened, however you messed up…I know how you feel. On Friday night I could’ve stayed home, could’ve stayed with you, could’ve left here five minutes earlier or five minutes later. If I’d done anything differently, I never would’ve picked up this gun. But I did. I regret it, and I regret almost everything I’ve done since. Now I’m stuck with the consequences. All I can do is focus on the future, on making things better. Same goes for you.”
As the words left his mouth, his head tingled. There was a strong intimacy in sharing their guilt, their burdens, their fears. He and Angela might as well have been the last two people on earth.
“Okay.” She nodded awkwardly, as if her neck were out of alignment. “First of all, that pencil you found in my backyard—it belongs to Pete.”
Though it didn’t surprise Ken that Pete owned such a pencil, he couldn’t understand how it ended up here. “What was it doing in your backyard?”
“Pete dropped it there. On Friday night.”
“The night of your party?” But if the pencil was the source of the snapping noise, that meant… “Wait, he saw us in the pool?”
“Pete lived three blocks away,” she said. “That night he came here for help.”
“With what?”
She hung her head. When she looked up, her eyes were glossy. “Remember on Thursday in the lunchroom, when I said I’d talk to Pete? Well, I did. After study hall I pulled him aside. He tensed up when I mentioned the parking lot, but I reassured him that he wouldn’t get in trouble, that I knew he’d bought drugs, that I just wanted to know what was bothering him.
“For a while he stood frozen beside my desk. There were tears in his eyes. He asked to talk in private, so I shut the door. Then he told me about Principal Soward.”
“What about her?”
“Apparently Pete needed a scholarship recommendation for one of the local colleges. Soward is pals with someone on the admissions committee, so Pete thought a letter from her would boost his chances. Anyway, he asked her, and she scheduled an appointment for after school. When he let himself into her office, he found Soward with her leg up on the desk and an electric razor in hand. She was shaving.”
Ken grimaced. “Ugh.”
“I know.” Angela stared into her mug. “Pete tried to leave, but Soward insisted he stay. She claimed she shaved her legs at work sometimes, that it was no big deal. Once he sat down, they discussed the scholarship. She promised him a glowing recommendation but wanted something in return.”
Angela looked off into the corner of the room.
Ken squeezed her hand. “What’d she want?”
“She wanted him to paint her toenails.”
“She—you’re kidding.”
Angela blew on her tea, her breath shuddering. “Pete didn’t go into detail. He said he painted her toes. Then she asked him to help her finish shaving. He shaved everything. First her legs, then they…kept going.”
Ken squirmed in his chair. To think his student had been coerced into something like that. And by Soward of all people—the same woman who had tried painting Ken as a pedophile the other day. The nerve of her. It made his blood burn.
Still, one thing bothered him.
“Angela, why didn’t you do something?”
“I did,” she said. “That’s where I screwed up.”
“How?”
“After Pete confided in me, he begged me not to tell anyone. He thought it would follow him the rest of his life, but I reassured him. I said he wouldn’t have told me the story unless he wanted someone to stand up for him. I considered telling the police. I probably should’ve. But I was afraid they wouldn’t do anything. Remember, Soward’s husband is in politics. I was worried he’d cover it up.”
“So what did you do?”
“I snuck into her office after school. She had a meeting downstairs, so I searched her desk for evidence. I found the nail polish and started digging through the drawers for her electric razor. One drawer was locked, and I tried prying it open with a pair of scissors, but Soward came in.
“She spotted the nail polish and stared me down. Neither of us said anything. It was like we were each waiting for the other to make the first move.
“Then I asked her why she wasn’t shaving today.
“She gave me a funny look, and I accused her straight up. She denied it.
“I was so furious, I ran around her desk and got in her face. We started yelling. I told her to unlock her drawer so we could see if her razor was in there. She denied it and threatened to fire me.
“Before I could stop myself, I put my hands around her neck.”
“What?” Ken said.
“I lost control,” she said. “It was like you in the basement with your father’s murderer. Except I didn’t go through with it. Soon as my thumbs pushed against her throat, I stopped myself. I couldn’t believe I’d gone that far.
“Soward shoved me back. She denied Pete’s story. Said it was his word against hers. Then she pointed to the security camera behind her desk. She ordered me to never speak against her or else the video footage would reach the police.” Angela shook her he
ad, her mouth drooped with dismay. “I backed off. What else could I do?
“On Friday I saw Pete in the hall. I didn’t want to discuss anything at school, so I asked if he wanted to regroup over the weekend. He said no, but then he showed up while you and I were in the pool.
“After you left, he ran out of the trees. I’d never seen anyone so on edge. I wrapped myself in my robe and told him about my encounter with Soward. He started freaking out, yelling at me. Said he didn’t want my help—that he didn’t want people knowing about what happened with Soward.” She swallowed hard. “He said he was losing his mind. That he only managed to sleep the night before because of some pills he took. I thought he meant regular sleeping pills, but…”
She began to sob.
Ken wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She hunched there, lifeless. It pained him that she had to bear such a terrible secret. These past three days he’d been wishing that someone out there could understand his burden. Now he wished otherwise. Angela didn’t deserve this situation. Didn’t deserve Pete’s death on her conscience. Didn’t deserve Soward’s blackmail.
None of it.
“First thing tomorrow,” he said, “I’m ending this.”
Chapter 51
Later that night they showered together, washing away the dirt and woodsy debris. After soaping and rinsing, they held each other beneath the warm spray. He kept his gunhand at his side, pointed away from her; his free arm circled her securely around the shoulders. Her arms, slick against his lower back, squeezed tight. Since Friday night, he’d felt as though he’d been drifting from his own humanity, but her embrace drew him back in.
She lifted her chin off his shoulder and whispered, “You can hold me with both arms.”
“But the gun—”
“You won’t shoot me,” she said. “We both know that.”
Hesitating, he wrapped both arms around her, resting the gun’s cylinder against her shoulder blade. She didn’t flinch.
Later they dried off and went downstairs. She led him into the front living room, where bookshelves lined the walls and comfy furniture surrounded an ornate fireplace. She started a blaze, and they made themselves cozy on a leather couch. They spooned, her back pressed to his chest, offering as much warmth as the fire. She pulled a Pooh Bear blanket over them and leaned back against him, her weight solidly soft, her shampoo mercilessly fragrant. Her hair was damp from the shower, and he caressed it and allowed his eyelids to droop.
As sleep approached, he buried his gunhand under the couch cushion. Doing so disturbed her. When she twisted around, she noticed his arm was tucked away.
“What’re you afraid of?” she asked.
“Shooting you in my sleep.”
“Relax,” she said and draped his arm around her. Her long, warm fingers wrapped around his gunhand, holding it securely, the barrel pointed at the carpet. They lay there listening to the crackling logs. Her thumb caressed his knuckles, back and forth. She glanced back at him, smiling. “See? You won’t shoot me. You’re a good man.”
He kissed her.
When their lips separated, she twisted around again, her back to his front. They lay together, dozing in front of the flames. He drifted in and out of sleep until her voice startled him.
“…don’t you think?”
“Hmm? What?”
“I said nothing beats a cool night in front of the fireplace.”
“Can’t argue there.”
“Will you miss the cold weather?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you’re in sunny California.”
“Oh.” He stared at the ceiling, wishing she hadn’t mentioned it. So much for savoring the moment. Now his mind wandered into future territory. He pictured eighty-degree sunshine, air-conditioned classrooms, and the old LA apartment he grew up in. Hopper and Robby would be there, but the fantasy felt empty.
“Angela?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s go together.”
She laughed. “Riiight.”
“I’m serious. Being with you tonight…it’s like I never picked up this gun.”
She rolled toward him and traced her fingertips along his chest. They left a warm, dizzying trail. In the shadows, he noticed she was smirking. “If I say no, will you shoot me?”
He stuck his thumb and index finger out, touching the latter to her temple. He dropped his thumb. “Bang.”
She smiled. “Forgot that we’re outlaws.”
“At the very least, I am.” He brushed her cheek. “This’ll sound crazy, but if you want to leave with me tomorrow, I can ask Hannah about getting an extra ID.”
“I-I don’t know. Can Hannah even be trusted?”
He hesitated. Ever since shooting Hannah, he’d felt obligated to take care of her. Somewhere along the way, he’d started trusting her, and he never stopped to ask himself whether that was wise. “Hard to say.”
“She seems shady, is all.”
“If you’re concerned, let me make the trip alone. Once I get my ID, I’ll see about getting yours.”
Angela rolled onto her back, staring upward. “Won’t it be hard to start over with a new ID?”
“Maybe you won’t need one,” he said. “When things cool down, divorce your husband and apply for teaching positions out west. Once you’re hired, meet me there.”
She said nothing. He was certain she would turn him down. Ditch him like Olivia had years ago. The thought of losing Angela made him want to shoot himself.
She rolled onto her side, her back against him.
“Let me think about it, Ken.”
Chapter 52
Though it pained him to leave the cushioned warmth of Angela’s couch, Ken needed to head home and start packing. When he arrived, he heard Hannah snoring. He decided to pack quietly and let her snooze. Regardless of what shape she was in after sunrise, they were hitting the road and not looking back.
Upstairs he found his brother snoring, an arm around Hopper. Robby always said he hated to sleep alone, and tonight he’d found a wholesome partner. A bottle of sleeping pills lay on the nightstand, but thankfully there were no needles in sight. The sweat-stained bedsheets indicated he was already struggling through the early stages of withdrawal. He had a rough road ahead, but a clean night’s rest was a good start.
Ken tucked some t-shirts, button-downs, and pants into a suitcase. Underwear and socks followed, folded neatly on top. He scoured the hall closet for toiletries: toothbrushes, soap, shampoo, hair gel, everything he might take on vacation.
That’s what this is, he told himself, a strange vacation.
With clothes and toiletries packed, he returned downstairs. In the kitchen he noticed the answering machine was blinking. When he played the message, he recognized Takahashi’s voice, once again urging Dad to call ASAP. Ken dialed the number, but nobody answered. He returned the phone to its cradle with a feeling of unease.
He collected the scrapbook containing Mom’s recipes. Inside were family photos from years ago. Back when Mom was healthy, Robby was clean, Dad walked upright, and Ken himself hadn’t devolved into a cut-rate serial killer. That was the annoying thing about photos; they had a way of saying, Look, life was good once. Too bad it didn’t last.
He bagged nonperishable snacks, along with all the dog food Hopper could handle. After loading two suitcases and three duffle bags, he parked everything by the back door. He double-checked each room, but there was nothing else in the house of significant value.
Nothing other than Dad.
Ken wrote a clumsy left-handed note, requesting that Dad’s body be cremated and that his ashes be spread across Mom’s garden. Tears dotted the paper as he wrote. After signing it, he hurried downstairs.
Glinski, who sat taped to a chair that was taped to the shelving rack, pleaded for a glass of water. Ken brought her one. As she sipped from a bendy straw, she glanced up. She drained half the glass, cleared her throat, and in a rough voice said, “Please let me stand up. My legs and back
are sore from sitting all day.”
“You’re in luck,” he said. “I’m about to unload my final bullet.”
She gawked. “O-on me?”
“No, another target,” he said and was warmed by the relief on her face. “Once the gun’s empty and I’m far away, I’ll send someone to cut you loose.”
“Seriously? You’ll let me go?”
“Yep. Just promise me you’ll take better care of your patients.”
“I will.”
He tilted the straw toward her lips. While she sipped, he said, “Robby and I will be gone after today. The lawsuit will disappear along with us. Hopefully that’ll put your conscience to rest.”
“It won’t,” she said, talking around the straw. “Doubt I’ll ever get over it.”
Ken hated to think what that meant for his own conscience. If she couldn’t forgive herself for one botched diagnosis, how could he possibly find peace after executing multiple people? This nightmare would soon end, but a deluge of guilt would follow. He supposed he could atone by taking care of Robby and Hannah, but then what? He needed to help others somehow. Perhaps he could start here.
“Doctor,” he said, kneeling so they were at eye level, “I forgive you.”
Glinski said nothing. Her shoulders relaxed a bit. He hoped the rest of her would too, but she began shaking her head like a madwoman.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I should’ve caught your mother’s cancer.”
“We all make mistakes.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, her voice rising. “The prescription I wrote for your mother was one I often wrote. Too often. Whenever a patient grumbled about back pain, I couldn’t wait to get my pen out. Every time I wrote that script, I made money. The drug company paid me to speak at conferences, and those speaking fees took the sting out of my student loans, my malpractice insurance, my mortgage. I used to tell myself that it made life easier for both me and my patients, so what was the harm? Then your family filed that negligence lawsuit. That changed everything.”
Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller Page 22