Blue light flickered from the master bedroom. The TV reporter droned on. Ken approached, his wet shoes squeaking along the hardwood. He stumbled into the wall outside the bedroom, knocking a mass-produced painting off its hook. It depicted a grassy meadow, like the one they’d had sex near yesterday.
“What was that?” Angela asked, startled. “You hear that?”
Was she talking to someone? Maybe in person, maybe over the phone? He hoped it was the latter. He wanted privacy.
“Don’t worry, Angela,” he said as he entered the bedroom. “It’s only me.”
Chapter 61
Angela wasn’t alone. Her husband Dom stood beside the bed digging through a suitcase. Judging from the bags under his eyes and the nasty sunburn across his cheeks, Hawaii hadn’t been paradise for him. When he looked up from his wrinkled clothes, he spotted the revolver and flinched. With superhuman speed he jumped in front of his wife and lifted the hardshell suitcase like a shield.
“Y-you’re the guy from Friday night,” Dom said, his brow furrowed. Shirts and pants spilled from the suitcase onto the floor. The reek of the man’s cologne spread across the room. “Please don’t hurt us. What do you want, pal? Money? Try my office downstairs.”
“I don’t want money,” Ken said, steadying the gun. The TV was on, a news anchor discussing yesterday’s woodland shootout. “I want to talk to Angela.”
She peeked past her husband’s shoulder. “K-Ken? What’re you doing here?”
“Why’d you send me to kill Soward?”
“Kill Soward?” Dom said. “The principal?”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” she said.
“You sure do.” Ken stepped forward, eyes locked on Angela. His heart rammed within his chest. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna explain why you lied. Right now.”
“Ken, have you gone insane?”
“Answer me.”
“Please leave,” she said. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Where should I be?” he snapped. “Back in the principal’s office? Standing over Soward’s corpse with a smoking gun? That’s what you wanted, right?”
“Listen, pal,” Dom said in a small voice. “Let’s all cool down a sec. I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding.”
“Oh, there is,” Ken said.
“Then let’s talk it out.” Still clutching the suitcase, Dom slid a hand into his pocket, reaching toward a rectangular bulge. “Why don’t we—”
Ken stepped closer. “Drop the phone. Now.”
The phone hit the carpet with a thud.
“You too, Angela. Drop your phone next to his.”
Reluctantly she obeyed.
“Now kick both phones toward me.”
Dom drew his trembling leg back. As Angela whispered in his ear, he hesitated.
“I said kick them toward me,” Ken snarled.
Dom kicked the phones, one after the other. They slid across the carpet, stopping within inches of Ken’s foot. He stomped them both. His ears welcomed the sound of cracking screens.
Angela whimpered. “Please, Ken. You’re not thinking straight.”
“There are no cameras in Soward’s office,” Ken said, thrusting his weapon forward. Both Marconis gasped. “You lied. Admit that much, or I’ll shoot.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, panting. “I lied about the cameras.”
“Why?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“You knew I had to kill someone. You gave me Soward’s name. You used me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Bullshit!” Ken roared. “Why did you lie?”
She whimpered behind her husband’s shoulder.
“Answer me.”
Sobbing, she shook her head.
“Now, or I’ll shoot!”
Again, she shook her head.
Ken began to tug the trigger before he reconsidered. If the bullet killed her, he would never learn the truth. He wanted to believe there was a misunderstanding—that once she explained herself, they could work everything out. But he needed her to talk. If the gun couldn’t coax her, he needed another approach.
“Angela,” he said, stepping forward to within six feet of them. “Yesterday you asked how I got the name ‘Ken the Eraser.’ At the time I wasn’t comfortable telling you, but now I am. It’s a fun story. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“That’s okay,” Dom said, lifting the suitcase so it hid their faces. “We don’t need any stories.”
“Yes, you do!” Ken snapped. “Lower that suitcase so I can look you both in the eyes.”
After brief hesitation, Dom obeyed.
“Please leave,” Angela whispered as her frightened face came into view. “Please, Ken.”
“No. You need to hear this.” His breathing accelerated. “I already told you about Olivia and the drama teacher. After they moved in together, I drove up to their house every night trying to win her back. I brought her gifts—things like her favorite dinners, hot fudge sundaes, you name it. Every night I stopped by with something new. Eventually the drama teacher ordered me to stop coming to the house. Said I would regret it if I didn’t.
“But I kept showing up. Every night. I just wanted Olivia back.
“Then one day after school, a student visited my classroom. She was dressed provocatively for a role in the school play, which was based on Titanic. She needed my help with chemistry equations, so we sat at my desk and reviewed the material. At one point I went to the chalkboard to write an example. Then she hurried up to me holding her calculator, asking if she had the math right. The moment I glanced down to check, an odd beep sounded from the hallway. When I looked, nobody was there, so I thought nothing of it.
“Five minutes after the student left, I was erasing the chalkboard when the drama teacher stopped by. He held his phone out to me. On the screen was a picture of me and the student standing near the board. The angle made it look like I was coming on to her. The asshole said if I tried to get between him and Olivia again, he would email the photo to the entire school district.
“I snapped. I yelled at him, demanding he delete the photo. He laughed, and I tackled him to the floor and pounded his face with the eraser in my hand. Chalk dust flew everywhere. He started coughing. I kept hitting him until he cried for help, at which point I fed him the eraser like an ice cream sandwich. I stuffed it as far into his mouth as it would go. I wanted him coughing up chalk dust for weeks. Not because of Olivia, but because he’d used one of my students against me. That’s a line he never should have crossed.
“Same goes for you, Angela.” Ken leveled the barrel at her face. “You used Pete to send me after Soward. This is your last chance to explain why.”
Her lips trembled. “Okay. But please lower that gun. I can’t think straight with that thing pointed at me.”
Ken lowered the weapon. “Talk.”
“First of all,” she said, squeezing her husband’s shoulder, “you should know that yesterday I was scared. I was afraid of what you might do to me.”
“Get to the point.”
“Sure. But first hear me out. You should know that when I—” Angela screamed and shoved her husband forward. Dom charged after Ken, the suitcase raised high. Events happened too fast for Ken to react, and the hardshell case slammed into his torso, driving him backward. Ken stumbled, lost his balance, and reached behind himself to break his fall. The corner of a wooden dresser drilled him in the ribs. Sharp pain lanced through his side. He stiffened against the sensation and dropped to his knees.
Reflexively, his fingers clenched. Including his trigger finger.
The gun went off.
The report echoed through the bedroom.
His back turned to the Marconis, Ken pulled himself to his feet. Through his ringing ears, he heard Angela’s screams. He turned toward her voice; her husband’s fist found his face. It crashed into his forehead and all went dark.
White lightning burst through his mind. When Ken regained his visi
on, he found himself looking up at the ceiling. He didn’t remember collapsing. Nor did he remember Dom dropping onto him, yet now the bigger man straddled his chest, pinning him under his bulk and the overbearing stench of his cologne.
Ken tried to shake loose, but a thick forearm barred his windpipe. His face flamed from the crushing pressure. Gasping for air, he twisted his head. Dom’s free hand was tugging at the revolver, struggling in vain to rip it from his fingers.
Angela shouted, “Dom—both phones are busted!”
“Then run next door,” he said. “Have someone call 911.”
Shit, Ken thought. If they call 911, it’s over.
Dom leaned forward, increasing the pressure to Ken’s throat, blocking airflow. If Ken planned on remaining conscious, he needed to act fast.
He glanced at his gunhand. Dom’s sturdy grip on it didn’t block the trigger. Ken pulled in quick succession until it roared in response.
The blast and the recoil startled Dom. When he lost his grip on the revolver, Ken whipped the weapon against Dom’s cheek. It struck bone. He swung again, this time cracking the man’s nose.
Dom released a garbled moan and cupped both hands around his busted nose. Blood leaked between his fingers, dripping hot onto Ken’s shirt. For a moment Ken caught his breath. Then he punched the revolver against the bloody, sunburned mess that was Dom’s face. A harsh crack followed, and Dom collapsed, motionless, on his side.
Ken rolled over and spotted Angela rushing down the hall. He aimed low and pulled the trigger. Click.
“Angela, stop!”
Her footsteps pounded the stairs, and he rose to give chase, his lungs heavy with stagnant air. He pulled the trigger four more times, readying his next blast.
Angela reached the bottom step and lunged for the front door. She caught the knob, found it locked. She moaned and looked over her shoulder as Ken descended the staircase. Panicking, she popped the deadbolt and ripped the chain lock free. The moment she grabbed the knob, he fired at the hardwood floor.
Splinters exploded near her feet.
Screaming, she fled toward the kitchen.
He pursued, his feet pounding hardwood. The moment he reached the kitchen threshold, he watched her reach for the back doorknob.
He fired, shattering a nearby glass cabinet.
She took cover behind the kitchen table, where yesterday he had poured his soul out to and been fed lies by a woman he thought he trusted. She shoved chairs in his path and flung ceramic mugs at him. He dodged mugs and a saltshaker before he barreled ahead to cut off her rear exit.
His back to the door, they faced each other, the table between them. If he wanted her dead, he could easily land the shot. But his curiosity overpowered the urge, and he demanded she answer.
Instead she lifted her purse off the table, reached inside, and withdrew her snubnose.
A pit widened in his stomach. He ducked as the first shot boomed. Her weapon was louder than his and, he imagined, more powerful. He dropped down and returned fire from beneath the table before she retreated to the dining room.
Rather than following her in, he took position along the doorway.
The moment he poked his nose out, a shot erupted. Panic flooded his brainstem. The shot pinned him back, and he ducked for a safer vantage point. He spotted Angela’s reflection in the glass of one of the curio cabinets in the dining room; she appeared to be squatting behind a chair at the far end of the mahogany dining table.
He stuck his gunhand out and fired.
Angela returned the thunder with three consecutive shots. One whizzed past Ken’s ear. It dawned on him that she was willing to kill him. It also dawned on him that she had just squandered precious ammo. He calculated that they each had one bullet remaining, but his would return to the chamber over and over until it ended a life.
“It’s over, Angela,” he shouted. “I can keep shooting. You can’t. Drop your gun and start talking.”
He waited for an answer.
All he heard was the patter of footsteps. She was moving.
Then so was he. Rather than chasing her through the dining room, he returned to the foyer. He knew she sought the front door, and the moment she lunged for it, he hammered the trigger. He missed, but the booming report drove her into the living room.
The fireplace painted the room in shifting orange hues. Sweat slicked his forehead. Ken noticed shadows on the far bookcase beyond the couches. Several shadows were shaped like stretched-out furniture. One, however, was shaped like a kneeling woman with something in her hand.
“Angela,” he said, readying his next shot. “Drop the gun.”
Angela looked out from behind the couch. Her tousled black hair hung across half her face, leaving one frightened eye staring back at him. Moisture glowed along her exposed cheek. The collar of her gray t-shirt was dark with sweat. Her head shook from rapid breathing.
“You should leave, Ken.”
“I will once you answer my question.”
“You won’t like the answer.”
“Tell me anyway.”
She didn’t reply, so he snapped his arm forward and fired.
She took cover.
He rushed ahead, clicking through the empties as he passed the coffee table. Time slowed down as he rounded the couch. He found her squatting behind it, the barrel pointed toward the ceiling. By the time she reacted, he had aimed at her face.
“Drop it!”
Her revolver hit the carpet.
He kicked it away, toward the rear bookcases.
Now that he had her at point-blank range, his every thought ended in murder. He’d always found her beautiful, but ultimate beauty required a bullet in the head. His gunhand wanted it. He wanted it. But there was one thing he wanted more.
“Start talking,” he said.
“Okay, okay,” she said, backing toward the flames. She lunged for the steel poker beside the fireplace and held it before her like a rapier. “Please don’t come any closer.”
“If you want to live, tell me the truth.”
“Okay, I will. Really. I still owe you a secret, remember?”
Yesterday’s breakfast seemed millennia ago, but he did remember. Somehow, he moved his finger outside the trigger guard. The voices, the visions crashed in on him, begging him to splatter her brains across the leather-bound volumes on the shelves. He pictured her death in infinite ways. One vision after another, recoil and blood spatter and entry wounds.
So many entry wounds.
He blinked the visions away. In their place remained the horrorstruck face of Ms. Angela Marconi. His coworker, his lover, his one-time hope for a happy future. He wanted to believe this was all a misunderstanding—that he’d missed a beat somewhere or that the gun had loaded erroneous thoughts into his head like wrong-caliber ammo.
But she had lied. He knew she had.
“Can’t hold out much longer,” he said, fighting the urge to shoot. “Tell me.”
“Please don’t kill me, Ken.” Her eyes, wide and glossy, met his. “I wanted Soward gone because she knew something that could ruin me.”
“What?” When she didn’t reply, he yelled, “What is it?”
“She saw me with him.”
“Saw you with who?”
“Last week,” she said. “She saw Pete get into my Jeep.”
Chapter 62
“Pete and I were together,” Angela said, glancing at the fireplace. “I won’t even pretend otherwise. And, believe me, I know what you’re thinking. I’m aware of the laws, the rules against teacher-student relationships, everything. But just because he was a student—that didn’t change the way I felt.”
Ken shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”
“I couldn’t be more serious,” she said. “We loved each other, Pete and I.”
“No…” His mind swam against the bizarre current. “He was a kid, Angela. A seventeen-year-old kid.”
“He was a man and I was a woman.” She swiped her hair away from her face.
Firelight shined off her forehead. Her eyes radiated a look of utmost sincerity. “It wasn’t some silly fling. It developed naturally, meaningfully, over time. Last year in class I confiscated a drawing of his, a picture of me at my desk with a look of deep longing in my eyes. The moment I saw it, I realized how empty my life was. It was as though Pete saw right through me, saw past all my forced smiles and phony energy, all the way to the real me. Never had I seen myself like that before. It was a moment of clarity like I’ve never had.
“After I praised his work, he drew me a new portrait every week. I started to see myself differently. Then I saw him differently. It made me uncomfortable at first, but soon I accepted how I felt. We both did.
“This past summer I saw him almost every day. He lived nearby and used to jog past my house. One day I was in the front yard pulling weeds, wearing my swimsuit. I caught him looking at me while he pretended to tie his shoes. It was adorable. I brought him a glass of water, we talked, and I honestly didn’t think anything of it. But then he came back the next day. And the day after that. All summer long we talked—no, we communicated. Every conversation had meaning. Being with him—there was nothing like it. I felt so alive, so nourished. When he mentioned he’d never clicked with any girls in his class, I knew what he wanted. What we wanted.”
Ken gritted his teeth. “We’re supposed to take care of our students. What you did—you’re disgusting.”
“Disgusting? You’re saying it’s disgusting to desire someone who’s complex, artistic, and driven?”
“It’s sick and you know it.”
“Sicker than what you did? You killed five people.”
“Don’t go there.” His gunhand wanted to silence her on the spot. “You know I had no choice. I had to kill. Either myself or six others.”
“So that made it acceptable?”
“I never said that.”
“No, but you believe it.” Her eyes burned with defiance. “One crappy Friday night Ken Fujima picks up a haunted gun, and suddenly immoral acts are justified. But what about the rest of us? What about that dealer you shot—Hogwild, was it? You killed him because he sold heroin, but maybe he didn’t have a choice. Maybe he did it to keep his family from starving.”
Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller Page 26