Ken pulled the glass away. He wasn’t surprised by her confession; it was something he, Robby, and Dad had suspected. But hearing it from her now made things brutally real. It sent raw heat down his forearm and into his gunhand. Part of him wanted to avenge his mother, but that part would have to go hungry.
Two nights ago, Glinski had insisted she was sorry about what happened. Ken didn’t fully believe her then, but he did now. She had nothing to gain from confessing to him. Nothing other than his complete and total forgiveness.
But he could only offer true forgiveness if she understood what she’d done.
“Something you should know,” he said, his throat swelling. “My mom was the heart of this family. Maybe that sounds like a silly cliché, but it’s the truth. She brought strength and warmth to this house. When she passed away, everyone else crumbled. I became isolated and angry. Dad drank day and night until he fell down the stairs. And Robby, well…after Mom’s death he started using the pills you prescribed her.”
Glinski winced.
“I’m not telling you this to make you feel worse,” he said, clearing his throat. “After what I did these past few days, I’m in no position to judge you. But I do want you to know how special my mother was. And I want you to remember her. I want you to honor her every time you step into an exam room. Can you do that?”
Glinski rolled her lips together. She nodded.
“Thank you.”
After she finished the water, he approached the root cellar. Though he’d sealed the doorway, the stench of decay nonetheless permeated the air. He hurriedly bit off a piece of duct tape and fixed the funeral note to the door.
Before backing away, he patted the door. “Bye, Dad.”
Then he went upstairs, sank into his recliner, and failed to fall asleep.
Chapter 53
Morning came. At the first sliver of sunrise, Ken wanted to kill. Needed to. He grew feverish; nasty thoughts crept in. The urges felt stronger today. Hungrier. Though he intended to slay Principal Soward within the hour, part of him craved immediate destruction. Anyone was fair game. Hannah on the futon. Robby upstairs. Glinski downstairs. The neighbors across the street. Even himself.
That brief suicidal urge snapped him back to reality. He spotted the suitcases by the back door and remembered he needed to load them into his Camry.
Rising from his recliner, he groaned. Everything ached. Three straight nights of little-to-no sleep had taken their toll. Walking put strain on his knees, which could’ve used an injection of WD40. His lower back flared with every step, the muscles moaning from all the times he’d lifted Dad out of his wheelchair. The thought of Dad drained Ken even more as he lugged the suitcases and duffle bags outside.
Shortly after he returned, Robby wandered downstairs. He looked rough, his eyelids swollen like knife wounds. Every step was punctuated by a sharp, agonized hiss. He hugged the nearest wall as he guided himself toward the kitchen.
“You okay?” Ken said.
“My legs are fucking killing me,” Robby said. “I took two gabapentin. Probably should’ve taken three. Everything hurts. My bones feel ready to pop out of my skin.” He grimaced. “We leaving soon?”
“Just finished loading the bags,” Ken said, filling a mug at the sink. All the exertion had left his throat dry. A large gulp of tap water did little to alleviate his thirst. “Our suitcases are in the trunk, along with snacks and dog food. We’ll transfer everything into Hannah’s van later. I’d rather take her vehicle in case cops look up my license plate.”
“Who’s your target?”
Ken explained his plan to kill Soward. It needed to happen at her home before she left for school. Though she lived with her husband and two teenagers, he hoped to catch her alone outside the house, maybe on her way to the mailbox. If she didn’t leave the house, he would ring her doorbell, shoot her, and run.
“What if somebody else answers the door?” Robby said. “You’re banking on everything going right.”
“Enough has gone wrong,” Ken said, ripping open a packet of instant coffee. He swallowed the crystals like sugar. “I’m due for a windfall.”
Robby scratched his cheek, glancing at the basement door. “What’re we doing with Glinski?”
“I’ve thought it over.” Ken choked down the stale coffee taste. “Once we hit the road, we’ll find a pay phone—if those still exist—and drop an anonymous tip.”
“Fuck that,” Robby said. “Go downstairs and use your last bullet. End this nightmare the easy way.”
“I can’t. It has to be Soward.”
“Too risky, man. Glinski is a layup by comparison.”
“If I let Soward live, she’ll get away with something unforgivable.”
Robby turned scarlet. “Wait, killing Mom was forgivable?”
“Soward is irredeemable,” Ken said, feeling the coffee crystals kick in. “What she did was deliberate, and there’s no telling when she’ll do it again.”
“No telling when Glinski will overlook someone’s cancer either.”
“Glinski has changed.”
“People don’t change, Ken.”
“Then why should I believe you will?”
Robby winced. “What?”
“Why bother taking you to LA if you’re only gonna shoot heroin in the slums? Someday I’ll get a call about you dying in an alleyway south of Little Tokyo. Think I’ll be excited to identify your body? To lose the only family I have left?”
“Fuck off!” Robby roared in his face. “Don’t make this about me. Just shoot Glinski already—you should’ve shot her instead of Chrissie.”
“I shouldn’t have shot anyone.”
“Yeah, but you did. You shot somebody I cared about. At least get it right this time. Here—” Robby ripped open the silverware drawer. He lifted a steak knife and approached the basement door. “I’ll get you started. This time, I won’t hesitate.”
Ken leveled his revolver. “Stop right there.”
Robby laughed. “You won’t shoot me. I’m your brother.”
“You are. And you’re the last good thing this family has to offer,” Ken said, feeling his throat turn scratchy. “Mom’s gone, Dad’s gone, and in a way I’m gone. But you, Rob—you’re the one thing I have left to root for. Don’t take that away from me.”
Robby bared his gritted teeth and shook his head, fuming.
Ken gestured toward the silverware drawer. “Put the knife back.”
Robby returned the knife and slammed the drawer shut. “Some brother you are.”
“You’ll thank me someday.”
“Like hell I will.” Robby shoved him square in the chest.
Ken stumbled backward. His hip struck the counter, and heat burst along his side. Dark thoughts cluttered his mind: I should shoot Robby. Here and now. Peg him in the shoulder and send him spinning to the ground. Then pump lead into each needle hole along his arms, savoring every—
“No!” Ken pointed his gunhand toward the floor. When he lifted his head, Robby was looking at him funny. Hannah, now awake and upright in the kitchen doorway, was eyeing the revolver with concern. The wall clock read 7:20. Yesterday, he’d shot Officer Tormon sometime after nine. Wouldn’t be long before the urges intensified.
“The gun’s taking over, isn’t it?” Hannah said. “With Michelle it seemed extra hungry before the last kill.”
Ken shook his head. “I’m fine. But we should get moving.”
Leaning against the wall, she said, “Long as someone ties my shoes, I’m ready.”
“Robby?” Ken asked. “Do you mind?”
Robby said nothing. For the longest time he stared at the basement door.
Chapter 54
On the drive to Soward’s house, Ken noticed a black Chevy Blazer with a dented bumper in his rearview mirror. The SUV had followed him through five consecutive intersections while maintaining its distance—exactly what cops did in the movies when they were tailing someone. He told himself he was being paranoid, but a le
ad weight nonetheless sank through his abdomen.
Maybe I’m imagining things, he thought. Let’s see.
Approaching the next intersection, Ken flicked his left turn signal and watched the rearview mirror. Behind him, the SUV’s turn signal blinked yellow. It didn’t prove anything, but his next move would.
Once he reached the intersection, he cancelled the turn signal and drove straight through. In the rearview he watched the SUV pause before making the left turn.
His lungs emptied with relief.
“Something wrong?” Hannah asked. She was riding shotgun, leaning against the door, her legs stretched out. Though earlier she’d insisted her side felt fine, the grimace on her face implied otherwise.
“Keep an eye out for a black Chevy SUV,” he said. “Might be tailing us.”
“Relax,” she said. “If the cops suspected you of killing Tormon, they’d be slamming your face against an interrogation desk right now.”
“Might not be the police,” he said. “Could be Hogwild’s crew.”
“No way,” Robby said, twitching in the backseat. From his lap, Hopper barked in agreement. “Think, Ken—if anything, they’re pissed at the cops, not us.”
“Hope you’re right,” Ken said, double-checking his rearview. “Just watch out for that Chevy. We’re almost there.”
Principal Helen Soward, who belonged in a damp plague-infested cell in a medieval dungeon, lived in Kingston on a suburban street overflowing with two-story homes and unrealistically green yards. The houses ranged from Victorian to colonial, some showing their age despite eye-grabbing verandas and façades. Soward called 56 Benson Street home. Though a weeping willow worked hard to hide the building, the outward decay was unmistakable.
It wasn’t until Ken’s third loop around the block that he was convinced he wasn’t being followed. He made an extra loop to survey the neighborhood and get his bearings. There wasn’t much happening except for an occasional car backing out of a driveway or someone in loungewear trotting out for the newspaper. He parked along the curb three houses down from Soward’s and faced Hannah.
“I’m going for a walk. You and Robby behave while I’m gone.”
“That’s asking a lot,” she said.
“For once I agree with her,” Robby said, still twitching and bouncing in place.
Ken grabbed a hoodie and Dodgers cap from the backseat. He put them on and checked his ultra-casual disguise in the mirror. He considered removing his glasses, but if he did, he might shoot the wrong person by mistake.
“Soon as you hear gunshots, get ready,” he said, pulling the hood over his cap. “Then we’ll drive away, switch to Hannah’s van, and argue over radio stations till we reach Ohio.”
“Hope you like grunge,” Hannah said.
“I don’t.”
“Neither do I,” Robby muttered.
Ken headed up the sidewalk, his legs wobbling like cafeteria Jell-O as he passed 50, 52, and 54 Benson Street. Ahead stood Soward’s weeping willow; beyond it was a porch decorated with wind chimes and a smiling scarecrow. As the chimes jingled, he decided ringing the doorbell was his best option. If Soward came to the door, he’d shoot. Trouble was, her Cadillac Escalade sat in the driveway beside her husband’s Land Rover. That meant her husband and kids were home, too. If anyone else answered the door, his plan would crumble.
Ken crossed the lawn to the front porch. A flimsy storm door stood between him and the foyer. His nerves paralyzed him the moment he reached for the doorbell. He kept thinking about that black Chevy, wondering if a second vehicle was tailing him, one he hadn’t recognized.
He glanced back at his Camry. Robby and Hannah appeared to be bickering. Hopper poked his snout between them. Meanwhile, cars zipped down the street. Joggers hustled. Neighbors stuffed their mailboxes. Any of them could be undercover cops waiting for him to make a guilty move.
He thumbed the doorbell.
A masculine voice yelled, “All right, Helen, I’ll see who it is.”
Here comes the husband. Shit.
Ken hurried down the porch steps and into the driveway. The front door opened with a squeal as he ducked alongside the house. Soward’s husband called out “Hello?” a couple times, then grumbled to himself.
So much for the doorbell strategy.
Ken crept toward the backyard. It was even greener than the front, with a lavish birdbath in the center and a two-car garage nestled in the rear corner. He couldn’t understand why Soward wasn’t satisfied with a family and all these luxuries. Why’d she have to molest a student? The whole thing disgusted him. Infuriated him.
He darted for the back door and knocked, pounding with his fist.
Footsteps sounded inside. They grew louder until the knob twisted and the door swung inward.
A salt-and-pepper-haired man in a three-piece suit peered out with an annoyed scowl. “Listen, if you’re some reporter—”
Ken lifted his revolver.
The man gasped.
Shoot him, a voice whispered. Need to shoot. Shootshootshoot.
Ken buried the urge. “Step outside.”
Mr. Soward’s eyes bugged. In a small voice, he said. “P-please don’t.”
“Step outside and shut the door. If you make a sound, I’ll make a louder one.”
Mr. Soward obeyed, his movement clunky and slow, as if controlled by a novice puppeteer. After stepping outside, he reached back for the doorknob. The moment he pulled the door shut, it made an odd, rumbling growl.
It took Ken’s sleep-deprived mind another moment to realize the growl wasn’t coming from the door.
It was coming from the driveway.
Principal Soward was leaving.
In a wide-eyed panic, Ken swung the revolver at the husband’s head. The first blow hammered his scalp and the second struck his neck. Mr. Soward shouted for help, a request that ended abruptly when Ken whacked his temple. The man crumpled onto the doormat, and Ken sprinted for the driveway.
By the time he rounded the corner of the house, all he saw were taillights. He raised the revolver but couldn’t get a clear shot. The Escalade veered onto the street, leaving him with nothing but a lungful of acrid car exhaust.
As he coughed it out, he understood Principal Soward was heading for school.
And now, so was he.
Chapter 55
Positive thoughts. Happy thoughts. Wholesome thoughts.
Ken clung to them like sweaty hands on a greased ledge. In reality he clung to Hopper, hugging the pit bull tight. They lay tangled in the backseat of the Camry while Robby navigated Wilkes-Barre traffic. Robby had insisted on driving—he said it would distract him from his shakes—and Ken welcomed the opportunity to collect himself. The lethal urges were multiplying. In the passenger seat Hannah swiveled her head, checking for cops and casting worried glances at Ken. Whenever their eyes met, he envisioned her brains sliding down the windshield.
“Keep me sane,” Ken whispered to his furry accomplice.
“You say something?” Robby asked.
“I said hurry up.” Soon as the words left his mouth, his wrist bent in Robby’s direction. Ken hugged Hopper close and pictured clear blue skies. He needed to be patient. Needed to end the right person’s life. “We need to hit Soward before she enters the school. Hannah, is anyone following us?”
“Just regular traffic. Nothing suspicious.”
“Good.”
They swung into the Morgan High School parking lot on squealing tires. A trio of students jumped as Robby nearly clipped them with the front bumper. As the Camry veered around the back of the building to the faculty parking area, Ken spotted Soward’s Escalade. It slid into the number 1 spot along the sidewalk, within clear sight of a surveillance camera on the corner of the building. The SUV’s taillights glowed red in warning.
“How you want me to do this?” Robby said.
“Get as close as you can,” Ken said, nudging Hopper aside. Without the dog’s weight across his thighs, he feared he might float
away. “Try to avoid the surveillance cam.”
Hannah turned around with a concerned look. “Are her kids with her?”
Ken swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
The Camry inched toward the Escalade.
Ken tried for a deep breath but his nostrils were stuffed. Sucking air through his mouth did nothing but dry his throat. His lungs seemed absent, and when he forced a cough, he choked instead. Kills didn’t have to be comfortable, but this was agonizing.
They rolled past two parked vehicles, coming up on the vice principal’s Buick.
Ken lowered his window. It only sank partway, but it would allow a clear shot. His gunhand trembled—both with fear and the snubnose’s hunger.
They passed the Buick.
It was time.
Soward’s passenger door opened. Her son climbed out. If he had turned his head, he would’ve seen Ken. Instead, the boy pulled his backpack over one shoulder and slammed the door without looking. He sauntered toward the building.
Through the Escalade’s rear windshield, Ken watched Soward’s daughter exit the back door on the driver side.
“Mom,” she said, “can I get an Apple Watch?”
“Absolutely,” Soward said, slamming her door. “Ten Christmases from now.”
“I was thinking this weekend?”
“Think again.”
“Holy crap, Mom. Could you even ask me why I want one instead of assuming I don’t need it? Jesus.”
The Camry rolled forward, pulling Ken within range of Soward and her daughter. They stood beside the Escalade, the elder shaking her head while the younger stomped her foot to punctuate her argument. The girl was blocking Ken’s shot with her tirade. When she flung her hands up in frustration, he noticed a cut on her finger. Blood had smeared the knuckle, and he yearned to spill more.
Robby pumped the brake. The Camry jerked to a complete stop.
Neither Soward noticed, still engaged in their dispute. The daughter was clearly flustered. Ken wondered if she wanted to shoot her mother. He sure did. If the girl would only step aside, they would both get their wish.
Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller Page 23