Totally Killer

by Greg Olear

  Nodding, Taylor went to fire up a smoke, but found her cigarette case empty.

  “When I was sixteen, I was going to kill my mother and her boyfriend,” she told me. “I had it all worked out. I was going to forge a suicide note and blow their fucking heads off. I had the letter written, I had the gun loaded—Billy Ray always kept guns in the house. The preparations were all made.”

  “But you didn’t do it,” I said, hating the implicit question mark at the end of my sentence. I mean, of course she hadn’t done it. Darla Jenkins was still alive and well, sucking at the teat of the State of Missouri. But there was something so intense in Taylor’s expression that I second-guessed myself.

  “I was pretty sure I’d get away with it, but I needed to be positive. I was still a minor, but I was sixteen—what if they tried me as an adult? The State of Missouri isn’t exactly lenient on murderers, and Darla wasn’t worth the gas chamber. So she lived, only to breed again.”

  I didn’t say anything for a while. In the apartment below, Trey Parrish was playing “Down with O.P.P.” on his megawatt sound system. We sat there mute, listening to the rumbling bass shake the building.

  “Wow,” I said finally. “That’s heavy.”

  Though small potatoes to what she had done the previous evening, the information still jolted my equilibrium. It’s like if someone tells you that they’re gay, or that they had an abortion—it takes a while to fully process. Killing somebody takes a while to process, too. That’s what Taylor was dealing with, although, again, I had no idea at the time.

  “If you lived through what I lived through,” she said, “you would have considered it, too.”

  “You’re probably right.” I decided to change the subject. Gesturing to the books on the table, I asked her what she was doing.

  “Horoscopes,” she said sheepishly. “I had our charts done.”

  “Ours?”

  “Mine and Asher’s.”

  “Oh.” I rose from the couch to get a closer look. The books on the table included an ephemeris, the AFA’s Astrological Atlas, a Table of Houses, and three Robert Hand books: Planets in Composite, Planets in Youth, and Horoscope Symbols. The charts themselves were circles divided into twelve uneven segments, like a sloppy pizza. Littered around the rims were handwritten hieroglyphics, some of them resembling automotive logos, whose meanings I could not begin to discern. “I didn’t know you believed in that crap.”

  “It’s not crap,” Taylor said. Then she went into this long, rambling explanation of how Asher was a Scorpio—hence the penchant for secrecy—but with Gemini rising, which meant he was dispassionate about matters of the heart, and how his moon was in Aries—not good placement for the moon—and that he had Mars in the First House, which supposedly explained his macho, take-charge nature. Her chart contained several T-squares, creating conflicting aspects among her planets. There was also a lot of quincunx happening, whatever that was. She was a Pisces, which meant she was easily swayed, with Sagittarius in her Seventh House, hence the seventy-some-odd sexual partners. The placement of Saturn was also instrumental, but I don’t remember how or why. There was also a third analysis, called a synastry grid, which compared his chart with hers, checking for areas of harmony or opposition. The whole thing was bunk—or so I thought at the time. Her foray into occultism did, however, make one thing abundantly clear.

  “You must really love him,” I said, masking what a blow to my own heart this revelation was.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I guess I do.”

  On the subject of free will, astrologers will tell you that the stars incline, but they do not compel. A nice enough platitude, but let’s get real. For most of us, inclination and compulsion are in conjunction. We know this alliance by its trade name, Fate. Once she found out his secret—and certainly once he coerced her into homicide—Taylor should have been repulsed by Asher Krug. Instead, she was drawn to him all the more. She shouldn’t have been, but she was. Was this inclination? Compulsion? Or just bad luck?

  “I rented Heathers again,” I said. “Want to watch?”

  “Sure.”

  CHAPTER 14

  A

  ndrew Borden lived in a magnificent Tudor-style home in Short Hills, a tony Jersey suburb known for its ostentatious shopping mall. His manse was at the end of a cul-de-sac, rows of high bushes and evergreen trees insulating him from his neighbors and the street. His was a residence that afforded quiet, security, and above all privacy to its residents—and anyone who chanced to murder them. A black Ford Explorer was parked out front, in the shadows between two streetlights. Its passengers could just see through the front window, between a patchwork of leaves and branches, where the man of the house sat in a La-Z-Boy, reading the newspaper. He had a cylindrical object in his hand, either a thick pen or a thin cigar.

  Asher and Taylor sat there in the dark, listening to the sound of their breathing. Her heartbeat was so loud, there in the stillness, that she swore the beginning of The Dark Side of the Moon was on the stereo. But no, the SUV was off. Finally, she could bear the silence no more.

  “So what, did someone flake out?”

  “Something like that.” Asher drew from an attaché case two .44s and a velvet bag. “This is the kind of guy we should be pink-slipping.”

  Closing the case, he laid the guns on top of it. “Baby boomer, investment banking executive. Contributes nothing to the world, but draws more salary than a dozen Gen Xers.”

  He dumped the contents of the velvet bag—a pair of magazine cartridges and two metal cylinders that might have been lifted from a ratchet set—into his hand and held up one of the cylinders for Taylor to see. “Silencer.”

  Asher screwed the silencers into place, inserted the cartridges, polished anything metal with the velvet bag. “I’ve been on so many assignments lately that have nothing to do with our stated purpose. I understand Heinz and Tower—we had to send a message. But Bakhtiar? Why send me to Paris to whack Shapour Fucking Bakhtiar? First of all, he’s Iranian. Second of all, he’s on our side.”

  Taylor was not listening to him, and even if she were, she had no idea who Shapour Bakhtiar was. She was examining the shiny weapon, caressing its barrel, her eyes gleaming. “Can I see?”

  Asher handed her one of the pistols. “When you see red—there on the side—that means the safety’s on. I’ll tell you when to disengage it. Have you ever shot a gun before?”

  She couldn’t have been more excited. This is more like it, she thought. It was less than a week since the Steward pink slip, and her enthusiasm to continue had not abated.

  “Have you ever shot a gun before? Taylor…Taylor, pay attention. Have you ever shot a gun before?”

  “No.”

  “The thing to remember is, squeeze. Don’t jerk your hand backward. Do this”—he squeezed an imaginary trigger—“and not this”—he demonstrated the undesired jerk-back of the hand—“Okay? Just hold it steady and you’ll be fine.”

  “What if I miss?”

  “It’s a fucking .44. You won’t miss. Now, put it in your purse and hand me the Bible.”

  She handed him the book and stowed her weapon in her bag. “How do we know he’s alone?”

  “His wife plays bridge every Wednesday night. We have very good intelligence on this. What time do you have?”

  “Quarter to ten.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  They got out of the car and walked up the gravel driveway to the front door. Her right hand was inside the bag, her fingers wrapped around the pistol. Asher carried the Bible; his own gun was tucked into his pants under his jacket.

  He rang the doorbell. Decades passed. Butterflies were spinning round-round-baby-right-round-like-a-record-baby in Taylor’s stomach. Finally the door opened. Standing before them was not Andrew Borden, investment banking scum, but a bird-like woman in her late forties. She wore a bathrobe and hair curlers and carried a box of tissues.

  Obviously, there’d been a breakdown in intelligence, but Asher seemed unpert
urbed. “Good evening, ma’am. We’re very sorry to disturb you at this late hour, but the Good News we’ve come to share simply cannot wait.” He appropriated a Rhett Butler drawl that almost made Taylor laugh. Gesticulating dramatically with the Bible, he said, “Could we kindly come in and talk to you for a few minutes?”

  Mrs. Borden—for the hair-curlered woman at the door was she—scowled at them. “I don’t think so. We’re very busy, and…”

  Asher took a step forward, blocking the door jamb with his foot. “Ma’am, there’s always time for the Lord. If you forget Him in this life, He will forget you in the next. We’re only here for your own good.”

  Mrs. Borden smiled condescendingly. “And I appreciate that. But we’re really not interested.”

  “Abby?” called a gravelly voice from the next room. “Abby, who’s at the door?”

  “I apologize, ma’am, but we just can’t take no for an answer.”

  “Abby? Honey, is everything okay?”

  The would-be missionary let the Bible slip from his hands. Abby Borden watched it fall, instead of watching Asher smack her in the temple with the handle of his gun. She collapsed in a heap on top of the book.

  “Abby? Abby!”

  “Come on. Quick.”

  The assassins stepped into a cavernous foyer, its walls papered with an off-white damask print that matched the ceramic floor tiles. There was a settee, an umbrella stand, a grandfather clock, and, by the front door, a throw rug, on which had fallen Mrs. Borden’s limp but still living body. Directly in front of them was an archway that led to the kitchen; on the left, a closet and a stairway to the second floor; on the right, the origin of the gruff voice, the living room.

  Asher motioned to his accomplice, his right palm perpendicular to the ground, like a crossing guard, or Marcel Marceau half-miming a wall. “Stay by the door.”

  Taylor drew her gun, closing the door gently behind her, and watched Asher drag the throw rug—and by extension, Mrs. Borden—to the foot of the staircase. She became aware of an odd odor, a pungent mixture of cheap cigar and expensive perfume.

  “Abby!”

  Andrew Borden burst in from the living room, wearing dress slacks, polished Johnston & Murphys, suspenders, and a sleeveless undershirt. This last item afforded a view of his left bicep, on which was tattooed the words SEMPER FI. He was six-six if he was an inch, and all muscle. He glanced at Taylor, then at Asher, then at the fallen body of his wife, then back at Asher. “What the fuck…”

  “Good evening, Mr. Borden.” Asher waved the .44, taking a few steps toward the center of the room as the investment banker moved in the direction of the kitchen. The bathrobed woman now lay between the two men, crumpled on the throw rug.

  Borden rushed to his wife, bent down, cradled her head in his hands.

  “Get away from her.”

  “She’s hurt. She needs help.” He patted his wife’s face. “Abby? Abby, can you hear me?”

  Asher cocked the gun. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  With his free hand, Asher wiped away all the sweat that had suddenly appeared on his brow, which diverted his attention just long enough for Borden to tackle him. Both Asher and his gun crashed to the floor, the latter sliding across the ceramic tile into the living room. The investment banker, muttering curses under his breath, landed a blow to the abdomen of the fallen assassin. Asher retaliated with an open-hand shot to the chin, which sent Borden reeling.

  Asher scrambled to his feet and made for the living room. Before he could get there, Borden tripped him up. A wrestling match ensued. Asher might have been younger and a professional killer, but Borden was bigger, stronger, angrier, and an ex-Marine. In no time he had his attacker pinned to the ground.

  “Who sent you?” He punched Asher’s jaw so hard Taylor could feel it. “Answer me, you little prick.” Another punch, this one a touch harder.

  Taylor, meanwhile, had the look on her face of a Richard Kimble about to jump into the waterfall in The Fugitive (in 1991, Harrison Ford was still reading the script). She aimed the .44 at Borden, but she didn’t want to fire and hit Asher by mistake, which, considering she’d never shot a gun before, was a distinct possibility. What was the best course of action? She glanced from the combatants to the unconscious woman to the umbrella stand. It was made of sturdy metal. A whack on the head with that and Borden would be knocked senseless—or would he? And in order to wield the umbrella stand she would have to drop the pistol. There was no way she was doing that.

  “Who sent you?”

  “Your sister.” Asher, who had somehow freed his right hand, landed a roundhouse to the other’s cheekbone. Borden toppled to his right, the momentum rolling both men into the living room—and toward the fallen gun. There was now a clear path between Taylor and the foot of the staircase.

  In action movies the hero always shows great resource in dispatching the enemy—shoving an electric fan into his bathtub just before the bad guy can shoot, offing the last three terrorists with a .22 Scotch-taped to his bare back, and so forth. But Andrew Borden, despite his size and pugilistic ability, was no Auric Gold-finger, no Hans Gruber. He was just an investment banker. Taylor did not need to be innovative. She could beat him with the oldest trick in the book.

  As the men continued to fight, she darted across the room and pointed her own gun at Mrs. Borden’s temple. “Listen up, asshole. Leave him alone or I’ll shoot her.”

  They continued to grapple.

  “Did you hear me? I said stop it.”

  This seemed to work. Both of the men froze in mid-fight. The way their bodies were intertwined, they might have been playing Twister.

  “Let him go. Let him go right now.”

  Borden did as he was told.

  Slowly Asher rose, dusted himself off, rubbed his jaw. “That’s some left hook you got there.” He retrieved his pistol and cocked it.

  “I…used to box at Princeton.” For once in Borden’s life, dropping the name of his alma mater did not help him. “What do you want from me?” His voice had lost its bravado.

  “Stay down,” Taylor commanded, “and come closer.”

  The investment banker did not move right away. He just looked at her, eyes glassy, and started the inevitable plea for mercy. “Let her go. Please let her go. Kill me if you have to, but let her go.”

  “I said come closer.”

  Borden took several uneasy steps into the foyer.

  “Now, get down.”

  The investment banker just stared at her with terrified eyes.

  “She said get down, fuckwad,” Asher added.

  Without further delay, Borden assumed the position of a Muslim at prayer time. “Please. Just let her go. I beg you…” He was sobbing in earnest now. “Please…please…please…”

  Taylor inched closer to the blubbering investment banker, who, in his moment of pusillanimous weakness, inspired rage in her, for reasons she could not explain. His wails were like those of a car alarm—strident, annoying, and, ultimately, futile. She wanted them to stop, for there to be silence, like there had been in the Explorer. Dead silence.

  “If you’re a religious man,” she said, “I suggest you start praying.”

  Although his theological convictions were probably questionable, Andrew Borden proved a pragmatist. He made the sign of the cross, held his hands in prayer position, and had rolled off a Hail Mary and two and a half Our Fathers before he felt the barrel of the gun at the base of his skull.

  “…hallowed be Thy name…”

  Asher was still on the floor, nursing his swollen jaw. He slowly clambered to his feet.

  “…Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven…”

  Taylor watched the man grovel. His life was in her hands! This was what she had missed with the Seward hit, and what she had sought with this one. The surge of power was tremendous—even more of a jolt than she’d expected. Or so she wrote in her diary that night.

  “…give us this day our daily bread, and
forgive us our trespasses…”

  She glanced over at Asher, who had shaken off the pain. He gave her a thumbs-up.

  “…as we forgive those who trespass against us…”

  The power she held in her hands! It made her tremble and almost drop the gun. She felt like a god. Like God.

  “…and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…”

  Holding the pistol with both hands, to better absorb the kickback, she said, “Amen,” and calmly squeezed the trigger. Almost instantly there were red splotches all over the white tile, giving the floor the look of a Jackson Pollock painting she had been unable to see at MOMA. She took in the tableau for a long time, as an artist would her ultimate brushstroke.

  “You were right.” She gestured to the larger-than-expected hole in what was left of Andrew Borden’s head. “I didn’t miss.”

  “Nice work,” Asher said. “Very clean.”

  “Thanks.”

  The grandfather clock began to chime; it was exactly ten o’clock.

  Taylor gestured toward the body at the foot of the stairs. “Is she dead?”

  “Moot point, really.” He raised his gun and rained bullets on Abby Borden’s body.

  For a fleeting moment, Taylor felt sorry for the older woman. Abby wasn’t the pink slip, after all, and if her nose had not been runny, she would have been playing bridge. But the moment was just that, fleeting, soon replaced by a narcotic euphoria.

  “Leave the gun,” Asher told her. “We have to get out of here quick.”

  “What’s the rush? Quid Pro Quo doesn’t answer to the police, right?”

  “Taylor,” Asher said, “this wasn’t a pink slip. This was an act of revolution.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain in the car. Let’s go.”

  Too many baby boomers were going to live into their eighties and nineties, and work well into their seventies. They would make too much money and suck up too many jobs for too long, unless action was taken now. Starting with the financial companies in New York, and spreading to the entertainment industry—which was responsible for the pejorative way Generation X was perceived in the media—the baby boomers holding the top jobs would be executed. Slowly, methodically, completely. A genocide of bloated CEOs, of movers and shakers who didn’t move or shake fast enough. This was the revolution, Asher explained, as he navigated the tortuous and poorly-labeled New Jersey highways, speeding back to Manhattan as fast as the Explorer could go. This was what he had enlisted her to help with.