Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller

by Brandon McNulty

  The blaze in Soward’s eyes could’ve melted a chalkboard. Her words, her sincerity… His gunhand trembled. Even as murderous urges flushed over him, he wished the alarm would never sound. He didn’t want to shoot.

  But he had to. Angela warned him about this. About Soward and these mind games.

  He needed to hold strong.

  Needed to stop being a pushover.

  “You’re not talking your way out of this,” he said. “You may have been able to blackmail Angela with the camera footage, but I’ve got nothing to lose other than a bullet.”

  “Camera footage? What’re you talking about?”

  “The footage of Angela confronting you in this office.” He gestured to the ceiling corners. “From the camera up…there.” His voice trailed off. There were no cameras in either ceiling corner. Nor was there a hanging plant or anything that might conceal a camera. His heart went numb. He looked everywhere but found nothing. Had Soward taken the cameras down?

  “Where are they?” he demanded.

  “Where are what? Cameras? I don’t have any in here. The only cameras inside the building are in the hallways, stairwells, and entryways.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

  “Mr. Fujima,” she said, “I swear on my children’s lives there have never been any security cameras in my office.”

  His gunhand trembled in front of her face.

  “You’re making a mistake,” she said.

  His finger slid inside the trigger guard.

  “Please stop. Look, I’m sorry about giving your job to my daughter’s boyfriend. He’s going to be my son-in-law and my family means—”

  The alarm cut her off.

  Chapter 58

  Ken panicked. With the alarm ripping through his skull, he couldn’t think straight, think at all. Soward flinched but remained before the barrel, the easiest target on earth. His thirsty gunhand pumped bloody fantasies through his mind. When she covered her ears with her hands, he remembered that minutes ago he’d ordered her to keep both palms on the desk. Disobedience deserved punishment.

  Shootshootshoot.

  The ululating siren blared as his eyes traveled throughout the room—from Soward’s face to her scissors to the desk photo of her family holding hunting rifles. He worried she might have a gun hidden inside her desk—

  Shootshootshoot.

  —but then again this was a school. There were no guns in school. And there were no cameras in Soward’s office. That discordant detail from Angela’s story made him hesitate. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find any security cams. Not when he stared, not when he blinked, not when he wished them to appear.

  Now he had an impossible decision to make. If he shot Soward, the nightmare would end. He could drop the gun, wrap his jacket around it, and leave. No more bullets, no more kills, no more deadly pressure.

  But if Soward were telling the truth, Ken would be executing an innocent woman. Worse yet, it would mean Angela had manipulated him into murdering someone. He didn’t want to believe that. He wanted to spend his new life with Angela, the two of them keeping each other’s secrets and healing each other’s wounds. But if she had lied or embellished her story, that dream would die and he would be left with the dusty taste of guilt.

  Maybe Angela had lied.

  Maybe she hadn’t.

  Maybe he was misremembering because of stress, sleep deprivation, or the gun’s effect on his brain.

  One thing he knew, however, was that he was sick of being everyone’s doormat. Too many feet had stomped him through the years, whether Soward, Robby, Olivia, or anyone else he encountered. When people saw Ken Fujima, they saw a pushover. Even this revolver saw him as such, just another wielder who could slake its morbid thirst. It had motivated him to slaughter five people, but it had also given him the power to decide who survived.

  Long as he wielded such power, he couldn’t let the gun dictate who died. Especially not when his target deserved to live.

  That settled it.

  With his free hand he pushed the gun barrel away from Soward.

  Her eyes widened. The alarm blared while she gasped soundlessly with relief. Before she could reach for her phone, he whipped the revolver alongside her temple. She dropped out of her chair to the floor, unconscious.

  Homicidal urges swallowed him, but he fled the room and hurried down the hall. Emergency lights flickered as he descended the stairs and joined a line of students filing out of the building. Nobody made a fuss as he exited the parking lot and headed up the street. The golden arches of McDonald’s beckoned. The parking lot smelled of cheap sausage, greasy hash browns, and car exhaust. He found Hannah sitting on a bench near the entrance, breathing heavy and holding her wounded side.

  “Hannah!”

  She looked up. “Is it over?”

  “Where’s Robby?”

  She gestured to the parking lot. “You tell me.”

  Of the half-dozen cars in the lot, none were Ken’s nicked-up Toyota Camry. He ran to check the drive-thru without success. Robby was nowhere in sight. Ken checked his phone. No messages. He texted Robby and got no reply.

  “What do we do?” Hannah said, wincing. “Call an Uber?”

  Ken saw no other option. A driver picked them up within minutes. When they returned home, he spotted his Camry parked in the driveway, the lights on and the motor running.

  He couldn’t believe it. Robby had ditched them.

  The Uber driver let them out. Ken helped Hannah into the Camry’s passenger seat. Hopper woofed in the back.

  “Once I get back,” he said, “we’ll switch cars and head out in your van.”

  “But you didn’t shoot Soward,” she said, glancing at his pocket.

  “Didn’t need to,” he said and slammed the door.

  The moment he entered the house, his nostrils caught a stench like decayed meat mixed with cheap perfume. He buried his nose in his elbow and staggered across the living room. He knew the basement door would be open. What he didn’t expect were the footfalls pounding the concrete steps.

  He and Robby met at the cellar doorway.

  “K-Ken?” Robby jumped. He grabbed the railing to keep from falling downstairs. Beneath him his legs trembled horribly. “You’re here?”

  “No thanks to you.”

  “My bad.” Robby moved to exit the basement but Ken barred him. “Ken, what gives? We gotta move.”

  “You ditched us.”

  “I was gonna hurry back.”

  “Why are you here?” Ken had a bad feeling he knew the answer.

  “Because,” Robby said, his eyes hidden behind unruly hair. “I wanted a moment with Dad, okay?”

  Ken didn’t believe him. Robby had an opportunity this morning to visit Dad. Him sneaking off to the basement had to involve another motive.

  Glinski.

  “Let’s head downstairs,” Ken said. “Say goodbye together.”

  “Shouldn’t we leave? I mean, if you shot Soward…”

  “I didn’t.” Ken lifted his gunhand from his pocket. “Now let’s say goodbye.”

  “B-but the gun—”

  “Downstairs. Now.”

  As they descended, a killer instinct slithered through Ken’s brain. With each step his world got smaller and smaller while the gun invited him to shoot his way out. At point-blank, Robby was an easy target. If Ken’s suspicions about what happened to Glinski proved real, he would surrender to the gun’s thirst. It didn’t matter that Robby was the only family Ken had left. After everything that transpired these past four days, Robby should’ve known better than to commit a selfish, senseless murder.

  The stench grew thicker as they reached the bottom. It seemed Robby had indeed opened the root cellar to say goodbye. He hadn’t entirely lied.

  But as Ken stepped onto the concrete floor, he noticed Glinski. She drooped lifelessly in her chair, her chin touching her upper chest while a line of drool trailed from her lips. The smell from the root cellar
should’ve awakened her but didn’t.

  That could only mean one thing.

  His brother had crossed the line.

  “Robby.” Ken leveled the barrel with his brother’s back. “I warned you.”

  “Ken?” Robby turned around. Fear filled his eyes, even before he noticed the revolver was aimed at him. When he finally registered it, he jumped backward, waving both hands in front of him. “Fuck, Ken—what’re you doing?”

  “Soward’s innocent, and time’s running out.” Ken curled the trigger. “Might as well execute a murderer.”

  “Wait—I never murdered anybody.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Glinski’s dead. It’s plain as the answers in the back of a textbook.”

  Robby coughed, then started laughing.

  “How can you laugh right now?”

  “Because she’s not dead.” He pointed at the floor near Glinski’s feet. “Look.”

  On the ground lay a syringe next to a crumpled plastic baggie. The sight of it baffled Ken like a snowball in July. Before he could piece everything together, Robby said, “Couldn’t do it, man. That’s why I wanted you to kill her—because I couldn’t do it myself. But letting her off easy wasn’t my style. That’s why I shot her up with the last of my stash. Figured I’d punish her the way I’ve been punishing myself since Mom died.”

  Ken touched Glinski’s neck. When he found a pulse, he turned to his brother. “I almost killed you.”

  Robby shrugged. “Almost doesn’t count.”

  Ken glanced at the crumpled baggie. “Last of your stash, huh?”

  “Yeah. No more. Never again.” He winced. “Next few days’ll be hell, though.”

  Ken threw his arms around his brother. Robby twitched within his embrace. Ken hugged him hard, sending a wordless promise that they would get through this mess. He wished they could’ve hugged it out for hours, but Robby complained of back pain and, besides, they couldn’t stick around. It was only a matter of time before Soward woke and alerted the police.

  Worse yet, the gun was starving.

  And it wasn’t happy about being denied two easy meals.

  “Let’s switch cars,” Ken said, leading the way upstairs. “Then we’re going after Angela.”

  Chapter 59

  Targets. The moment Ken buckled himself into the backseat, he saw targets. They were everywhere. Left and right. Near and far. Across the street. Atop a motorcycle. Behind the wheel of a mail truck. There was no shortage of people to shoot. Everyone who breathed wore a bullseye.

  He wanted Hannah’s skull.

  Robby’s neck.

  The biker’s knees.

  The mailman’s chest.

  Nothing was off limits. Everyone was invited to the slaughter.

  By the time the Camry reached Hannah’s van, desperation had overtaken him. Heat clogged his pores. Numbness claimed his arm. His wrist bent as if pulled by a puppeteer’s string. It struck him as ironic that while his hand held the gun, he was the one being operated. That realization left a minty, moldy taste in his mouth. He wanted to vomit, but not as much as he wanted to piss. And by piss he meant shoot—treat anyone nearby as a potential urinal. Crude as his thoughts had become, he couldn’t shake them any longer.

  One pull of the trigger, he promised himself. Just one. Not gonna hurt anybody. Only shooting to relieve some pressure.

  They parked. He climbed outside. Staggered across the street toward the van. Buried the gun deeper into his pocket.

  Hannah slid open the rear door. Gestured for him to get in.

  On three, he told himself. Just to relieve some pressure.

  One.

  Two.

  Trigger.

  The blast thundered. Recoil spun him sideways. His ankle bent and he tumbled. Elbow smacked blacktop. Head bounced off the yellow line.

  The pain barely registered.

  People were screaming somewhere. Where, exactly? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. All he knew was that shooting and missing didn’t make things better. All it did was put a conspicuous hole in his pocket. Shame he ruined another of Dad’s jackets.

  Should’ve ruined flesh.

  Should’ve taken life.

  Should’ve—

  “Tie me up!” Ken yelled, remembering Michelle’s wrists from the other night. “Tie me up before it’s too late!”

  Dark thoughts swept over him as Robby and Hannah grabbed his arms.

  Ken blinked and found himself in the van’s trunk. He didn’t remember being carried there, but he was inside. He thought he might be dreaming. Robby kept him pinned down while Hannah tied his wrists behind his back. Hopper woofed until it was done.

  It all made Ken furious. Furious enough to shoot.

  But when he tried aiming, his wrist was met with sharp resistance. When he pulled the trigger, it didn’t move. Something was blocking the trigger. He wanted to scream.

  The hatchback thudded shut.

  Ken felt trapped in a coffin. A coffin with windows. Outside, the world moved. He was going places. Places with people he could shoot. Shoot to thrill, baby.

  “Shoot to Thrill”—was that a Guns N’ Roses song? Or AC/DC? Or Van Halen? He hated 80s music, so how should he know?

  Then he remembered. Van Halen sang the song playing at the Backfield Bar the other night. That song “Hot for Teacher.” There was one teacher Ken was hot for, and that was Angela Marconi. But she had lied to him about the cameras in Soward’s office. That wasn’t so hot of her.

  Why would she lie?

  “Why, Angela?” Ken said. “Why? I need to know!”

  “We’re almost there,” Robby said. “Keep your head screwed on.”

  “Breathe, Ken,” Hannah said. “You won’t get answers from Angela if you keep spazzing like that.”

  Ken knew she was right. He needed to focus. Straighten himself out.

  If he could hang on a bit longer, he could get his answers.

  Until he did, the gun would have to go hungry.

  Chapter 60

  Rain pattered the van’s roof. First came an erratic series of drops, like Mother Nature laying out blind fire. Then the heavens improved their accuracy, unloading steady bursts of rain. Wind whipped through the vehicle, chilling Ken in the trunk. The incoming air tasted of blood, and no matter how many times he spat, he couldn’t rid himself of the flavor.

  The van stopped. The hatchback opened. Two potential targets—Robby and Hannah—helped Ken get on his feet in the middle of the downpour. The deluge made the world around him resemble television static. When he turned his head, blinking against the rain, he saw Angela’s two-story home. The sight both thrilled and gutted him.

  Ken staggered in that direction, his wrists battling their shoelace restraints. “She keeps the back door unlocked. Let’s go.”

  Robby and Hannah hurried him to the backyard. Their feet slid in the slick grass. Ken, unbalanced, landed on his chest and flopped like a flounder before they hauled him upright. It dawned on him that three nights ago he’d left this house soaking wet and gone home to accept the gun’s burden. Now he was revisiting the house—soaking wet again—with the intent of finally dropping the same weapon.

  They entered the backyard patio. Wet shoes squeaked against granite tiles. At the back door, he shook free of Robby and Hannah’s supportive hands.

  “Drive to the next street,” Ken said, straining against his bindings. “If the cops come, I don’t want you parked right outside.”

  “Good call,” Robby said. “Hold your fire till we undo these shoelaces.”

  “No, leave them,” Ken said. “You saw what happened to Chrissie.”

  Robby fell silent.

  Hannah stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

  Ken shook his head. “You take them off, I might take your head off.”

  “Pfft. You act like I’ve never survived a gunshot before.”

  “Don’t push your luck.”

  Sh
e whispered in his ear. “The other night I left Michelle at your door with her hands tied. She died because of it. Won’t let the same thing happen to you.”

  “Fair enough.” The temptation of shooting Hannah made his mouth water, but he shook it off. “Free my left hand. But leave some laces blocking the trigger. Buy yourself time to run back to the van.”

  Her hands tugged at the bindings. They stretched tight, then coolly slackened along his left wrist.

  “You’re on your own now,” she said.

  “Careful, Ken,” Robby said.

  Through a haze of violent urges, Ken watched them rush away through the downpour. They disappeared around the side of the house, leaving him alone.

  Just a man, his gunhand, and the final bullet.

  He unraveled the lace from the revolver and opened the back door. It was chilly inside. Dark too. A fluorescent light thrummed above the sink, casting a sickly glow over the kitchen table. Yesterday that table had been his haven. Now it repulsed him like a crime scene. All evidence remained—their tea mugs, her purse, the unopened mail, even the arrangement of the chairs.

  As his wet clothes dripped on the floor, he recalled how Angela savored cold days beside the fireplace. Sure enough, he heard popping logs when he entered the foyer. In the living room he found the fireplace crackling between two wall-length bookcases. Flames cast an orange glow across the leather couch they had spent the night on. Her wrinkled Pooh Bear blanket lay across the seat. He noticed Pooh had his hand stuck in a honey pot. Maybe the chubby yellow bear was hiding a revolver inside.

  When Ken returned to the foyer, he heard a voice coming from upstairs. Not Angela’s voice but a local news broadcaster. Sounded like the same woman who’d reported the double homicide yesterday. He climbed the steps two at a time, his lungs heaving as he reached the top.