BRING HER BACK

A novel by Jeff Strand

Bring Her Back copyright 2018 by Jeff Strand

Cover design by Lynne Hansen http://www.LynneHansen.com

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com

PART ONE

a love story

one

I don't get why "Call me Ishmael" is considered the greatest opening line of all time.

Is it because of his goofy name? (And is it racist to call his name goofy? I think Ishmael is a bible name, so it might be blasphemous as well.) I had an English teacher once who said that the "call me" part is what made it so amazing, since you could tell that Ishmael probably wasn't his real name, and you also knew he was telling his story to somebody he'd just met. I guess that makes sense, but I personally wouldn't give it the medal for Best First Line Ever. I'm not saying it's a bad opening line. It's better than anything I could write. But c'mon.

To be fair to Mr. Melville, that's all I read of Moby Dick. I'm not a big literary guy. I'm sure you would've figured that out quickly enough on your own, but I might as well say it up front. I'm not a natural book writer. No teacher ever pushed me in that direction. Nobody ever said I was good with words, spoken or otherwise.

I'm writing a book now because I've got an insane story to tell, and since it happened to me I think I should be the one to tell it. I'll get somebody to help me fix it up when I'm done.

Anyway, call me Frank.

That's my real name. Frank Johnson. You already know I'm not making this story up because if I were I wouldn't have such a normal name. If your name is also Frank Johnson, I hope that reading this isn't too weird for you.

I'm twenty-six years old. I was twenty-five when this stuff happened.

I'm not a handsome man. I had the nickname "Frankenstein" for much of my life, and though I don't think it's a fair comparison, there are definitely elements that match up. Tall. Stiff. Ugly. Some would say "unnerving." When I look in the mirror—which I try to avoid, but when people think you look creepy it's important to maintain good grooming habits—I can see it.

Beady eyes that are a little too close together. An oversized brow, which, yes, is a Frankenstein feature though I still don't see the resemblance. A creepy smile. I tried to practice less creepy ones in the mirror, but you can't really change how you smile. All you can do is not smile at all. I don't want that.

I tried to experiment with different haircuts and facial hair. Didn't work. I even tried wearing glasses I didn't need. That just gave me the appearance of a creepy guy trying to appear intelligent. Finally I gave up on trying to mess with my look and just went with a clean-shaven face and short straight hair. Though I know that beauty is a matter of opinion, there are also times when I feel that it crosses into objective reality, and I'm simply not a good-looking guy. If I had musical talent, I suppose it wouldn't matter, but you don't want to hear me sing.

It's hard to get a girlfriend when you look like I do. You can't flirt. A normal guy can say, "Hey, you look nice in that dress!" Coming from me, it sounds like "Me rape pretty-dress lady!" If I said "I noticed you from across the room" it would be scary as shit.

Also, my dad killed a bunch of people.

I don't mean that he was a serial killer. He didn't lure unsuspecting victims back to his lair and keep their fingers as souvenirs. He murdered them all at once. Brought a gun to work and took out eleven of his co-workers, including one that I know he liked. He said she'd always offer to bring him back a cup of coffee when she went to get one for herself from the break room. Turned the gun on himself, then chickened out a split-second after he pulled the trigger, so that instead of blowing his brains out he merely turned himself into a vegetable. He never emerged from the coma to offer an explanation. It took him way too long to finally die.

That happened when I was fifteen. Ruined my social life.

Let me state for the record that things were far worse for my father's victims and their families than they were for me. My suffering doesn't come close to theirs, no question. That doesn't mean it didn't still completely suck for me.

Another thing to clarify: he was the only father I ever knew, but I was adopted when I was a baby. So if you're on the "nature" side of the "nature vs. nurture" argument, I'm totally in the clear. I'm also fine on the "nurture" side, because trust me, Mom and I didn't have a clue about his homicidal tendencies. No wife beating, no alcoholism, no long hours spent in the basement with the door locked. He only seemed to moderately dislike his job.

Mom continues to swear that he was innocent to this very day. It's pretty hard to be framed for killing almost a dozen people in an office building with security cameras running and a final standoff where you shoot yourself in the head before the cops can do it for you, but sometimes love makes you blind.

To recap: I'm a big creepy looking guy whose dad went on a murderous shooting spree. So, yeah, not a lot of female attention in my life.

I did eventually lose my virginity. I was twenty-two years old, and nobody else was left in the bar. She was way older than me, fairly unattractive, and it felt like we were giving each other pity sex, instead of only me being pitied. (Don't get me wrong—I would've taken one-way pity sex, too.) It went okay. I was less inept than I would've been if it had happened ten years sooner, and she was more than happy to give me some useful pointers.

When we were done with the second round, she said she hoped we could keep seeing each other, but that she had something important to tell me: she wasn't actually divorced yet. I said that I hoped we could keep seeing each other, too, and that I also had something important to share: my father was responsible for the Jacksonville Office Massacre.

I felt like her revelation was the bigger deal, because it was admitting to a huge lie, while mine was just based on the desire to not overshare before we went back to my apartment. She didn't see it that way. Based on her reaction, this was as bad as saying, "Hey, by the way, guess who has an STD?"

She left. I didn't try to stop her. It was for the best. I wouldn't have been able to handle the guilt of having a relationship with a married woman.

After that, I quit drinking and quit trying to meet anybody.

I moved around a lot. Not for my career or anything; I just liked trying out new places to live. Small town. Big city. Medium-sized city. Pretty much once any given lease was up, I picked a new section of the United States in which to reside. I sometimes thought about moving to a new country, but I wasn't quite that ambitious. I had no real skills, so I washed a lot of dishes, bagged a lot of groceries, and did a lot of customer service on the telephone.

I was working in a call center in Atlanta, trying to make angry people slightly less angry about their credit card problems, when I saw the flower lady. I don't mean that she was in the call center itself. I was walking home and I saw that she'd set up a small stand a couple of blocks from the building where I worked.

She was beautiful.

Was she traditionally beautiful? Maybe not. I sure wasn't one to judge. She was a heavyset woman with a pale complexion and brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore pink lipstick and a polka-dotted blouse under her white apron.

I had no particular affinity for flowers, but it wasn't as if I disliked them, and suddenly I wanted to buy one. I walked up to her stand, hoping to project the confidence of an experienced flower-buyer.

"Hello," she said, smiling. Her smile was as radiant as mine was creepy. Up close, I could see a few streaks of gray in her hair.

"Hi." Her flower selection was too vast. I didn't know where to start. I didn't even know my favorite color.

She could sense that I was clueless. "Are these for your sweetie?"

"Yes," I said. "They're for my sweetie."

"Roses always work."

"Okay."

"A dozen?"

"Yes."

So I bought a dozen roses from her and went home. They actually looked pretty nice on my dining room table. I didn't believe in love at first sight, and I didn't spend the evening plucking the petals and doing the whole "She loves me, she loves me not" thing. But I did spend more time thinking about her than I would normally spend thinking about a woman with whom I'd conducted a brief business transaction.

The next afternoon, I bought more flowers from her. Tulips.

The afternoon after that, I bought daisies.

Every weekday, I stopped at her stand and purchased some flowers. I wasn't being a stalker. Her stand was on my way home from work—it would've been ridiculous to purposely change my route to avoid her, right? I wasn't making special trips to visit her, and I wasn't peering at her from across the street with binoculars. I never lingered at her stand. I didn't masturbate thinking about her. All I did was buy flowers I didn't particularly want five times a week. Nothing wrong with that, aside from the fact that I didn't have much in the way of disposable income.

I occasionally considered tossing them out after I turned the corner, but no, that felt like it would be some sort of weird betrayal. So my dining room table was covered with about a week's worth of flowers at any given time, which was all I could put on there and still have a place to eat. Every day I'd replace the oldest flowers with the new acquisition.

I was worried that my behavior might seem stalkerish when I eventually confessed it to her, if I ever did, but she might also find it endearing. I was, after all, probably her best customer.

She was always smiling, even when she wasn't interacting with anybody. She had a face that was made for smiling. My normal expression when I wasn't thinking about anything was a mild scowl, like I was constipated or annoyed by the current political environment. I believed that the flower lady probably smiled while she was standing in line at the DMV or doing her taxes.

Three months after she opened her flower stand, I decided to ask her out.

I popped a fourth mint into my mouth as I left the building where I worked. Was it possible for your breath to be too minty fresh? Good breath was supposed to seem natural; I didn't want her to think I was trying too hard. Or maybe women appreciated the conscious effort. I didn't know how any of that worked.

My stomach began to hurt as I walked down the first block. The worst she can say is "no," I told myself, although in theory she could say, "Good God, no, no, no, what the hell were you thinking you physically repulsive socially inept sweating freak? I'm calling the cops." That would be worse than "no." Though if she did turn me down, at least I'd save a lot of money on flowers.

My stomachache was joined by a headache as I walked down the second block. I tried to calm myself down. After all, I'd been wanting to do this for three months. It might be the best decision I'd ever made. No more lying in bed cursing my cowardice. No more fantasies of what our life might be like together.

There she was.

An actual customer was in front of her flower stand, which wasn't usually the case, so I would have the opportunity to wait around, getting more and more nervous until my gut sprung a leak, spraying stomach acid all over her merchandise.

The customer, a middle-aged man with the exhausted look of somebody who'd slept on the couch last night, bought a bouquet of roses and walked away.

"Hi there," said the flower lady, beaming at me. "What do you want for your sweetie today?"

"What do you recommend?" I asked, deciding to postpone my confession for a few more moments, and possibly another day, week, or year.

She picked up a small bouquet. "Violet and yellow tulips."

"Good color contrast."

She nodded.

"I'll take them," I said, mentally cursing myself for chickening out.

"Great! That's twelve dollars."

I took my wallet out of my back pocket, removed a ten and two ones, then hesitated. This was stupid. It was absurd not to just ask her out. I'd want to bash my head against the brick building if I didn't finally go through with this, and why risk the concussion?

"Actually, no," I said.

"No?"

"I'm still going to buy the flowers, but I have a confession to make."

Her smile faltered, as if she was worried that my confession might involve a large hunting knife with a bloodstained blade.

I took a deep breath. "I don't have a sweetie."

"You don't?"

I shook my head. "I made her up. I buy flowers every day because it gives me a chance to talk to you. Briefly."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

Her smile became genuine again. "Well, that was dumb. I would've talked to you anyway."

"I don't know if you have a boyfriend, but if somehow you don't, which wouldn't make any sense, I was wondering if you'd want to maybe go on a date." I blurted out the last part, but I felt that, considering my jangled nerves, I was doing well by not spouting pure demonic possession gibberish.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Frank."

"Hi, Frank. I'm Abigail."

"Hi, Abigail."

"Put your money away," she said.

"No, I said I'd buy the flowers."

"Put it away, goofball. You don't have to buy flowers for your fake girlfriend anymore."

I tucked the bills back into my wallet, and returned it to my pocket. Was this going well? Was it actually going well?

"It just so happens that I'm currently between boyfriends. Two years between them."

"That's fantastic!" I said. "I mean, not for you, I guess, but..."

"What did you have in mind for our date?"

"A movie?"

"I do like movies."

"Are you free tomorrow?"

"I sure am."

"Do you want me to come get you? Or do you want to meet in a public place?"

She pointed to the left. "Do you know the apartment complex two blocks that way?"

"Yes."

"I'll meet you outside the leasing office. It's the first building you'll see."

"Sounds great."

"What time?"

"Noon?" I really should have checked the movie times. I guess I hadn't actually envisioned a scenario in which she accepted my invitation.

"That works. This'll be fun. I'm glad you asked me out."

"So am I."

"Do you promise me you're not married?"

"One hundred percent."

"Blood will spill if you are," she said, not completely sounding like she was kidding.

"I'm not."

"And do you swear that you made up having a girlfriend? I don't want to get in the middle of an ugly breakup."

I nodded. "I made it up because I was too scared to ask you to go to the movies."

"Cost you twelve dollars a day."

"I know."

"Sure you won't be embarrassed to be seen with an older woman?"

"You're older?"

"I'm almost thirty."

"Really?"

"Twenty-nine."

I grinned. "I'll be proud to be seen with you."

"Good. See, Frank? Wonderful things happen when you stop being scared."

two

The rest of my evening was spent trying to convince myself that this wasn't a cruel prank.

Why would she want to go out with me? I was hideous. People would make fun of her. She'd be okay in the darkness of the movie theater, but if we went to get something to eat afterward, she'd have to sit across the table and actually look at me. How could she enjoy her meal?

This had to be a prank.

I'd show up to the leasing office and, I dunno, some kids on the roof would douse me with pig's blood or something.

Maybe not that extreme. Maybe she'd just be standing around with some friends, point at me, and say, "See? That's the thing that asked me on a date! I wanted you to see for yourself!" And they'd all howl with laughter.

That was also unlikely. Of course it wasn't a prank.

Which didn't mean she wouldn't change her mind and just not show up at our meeting spot.

How long would I wait for her? I obviously wouldn't storm off at 12:05, but how long could you wait for somebody who was late before it became truly pathetic? Thirty minutes? An hour?

Truthfully, and I hope you appreciate that I'm confessing this, I would have waited all day. I wouldn't have cared if it was pathetic. I would've brought a book, sat down in front of the leasing office, and waited until midnight if I thought there was still a chance that she'd show up. I wouldn't have gone around knocking on doors to find her or anything like that. I would have waited at the designated meeting spot. But, yeah, I would've waited for twelve hours and convinced myself that she had a good reason for being late.

When I walked into her apartment complex at 11:40, she was already there.

I hesitated. Would she think, "Oh my God, why is this guy here twenty minutes early?" Was that weird? It couldn't be too weird if she was out there early. I didn't mind if she thought I was desperate, but I didn't want her to think I was spooky.

She's not going to think you're spooky, I told myself. Arriving twenty minutes early is not the same as sleeping outside of her bedroom window. If you wipe away drool before you shake her hand, she'll think you're spooky. Otherwise, chill the hell out.

I kept walking. I was glad that I'd worn one of my nicest shirts, because she was in a short green-and-white polka dotted dress. Her hair was down over her shoulders and had a little curl on the ends. She'd made a very definite attempt to look nice for our date. She wouldn't do that if she was going out with somebody she considered grotesque.

Abigail looked over and saw me. She was already smiling, but her smile widened and she waved.

After I walked over to her, we had kind of an awkward moment where she went in for a hug at the same time that I reached out for a handshake. She laughed and shook my hand.

I suddenly realized, because I was so bad at dating, that I'd just assumed that the eight-block walk to the movie theater was okay. I owned a car but rarely used it. It was a hot day. She might have thought I was going to pick her up in an actual automobile. We should have discussed this beforehand.

"Is it all right to walk?" I asked. "I mean, I can go back and get my car..."

"I love to walk. Maybe for our next date we'll go on a hike."

Abigail suddenly looked very uncomfortable with what she'd said. I think it hit her that we were fifteen seconds into our first date and she was already talking about the second. Though I was thrilled with her optimism, I could also understand why she looked horrified. If I'd said "Maybe for our next date" I'd probably have politely excused myself and found a good place to commit suicide.

"That would be nice," I told her.

"What movie are we going to see?" she asked.

"We have a few options. Do you like romantic comedies?"

"Not particularly."

"Really? You sell flowers."

"I know. It's one of many odd things about me."

"What's your favorite kind of movie?"

"I love a good horror flick. I also love a bad horror flick."

I wanted to ask her to marry me. I decided that it wasn't a smart idea, even in jest.

"Well, I don't know if it's bad or good, but Harken is playing."

"I've been wanting to see that," said Abigail.

"Perfect. That was easy."

We walked to the movie theater. I don't want to suggest that I magically transformed into a debonair, socially magnificent gentleman better suited to a top hat and tails than my current attire, but I did a good job of talking. I occasionally said things that were witty. For eight entire blocks, walking at an average pace, I did not say a single thing that made me cringe. Not one thing. For eight blocks!

It's okay if you don't believe me. I know what I did.

Abigail and I didn't talk about anything important during the walk, but it was the best frivolous conversation I'd had in my life. And she seemed to like me. Maybe I wasn't as repulsive as I thought. Or maybe she had an ugly guy fetish. It could've also been that the whole "looks don't matter to some people" thing, often rumored but never confirmed, was true.

We arrived at the movie theater early, which was fine with me. I hated getting to the movies late, and I hated people who got to the movies late. I didn't want to murder them or anything; I just didn't like them.

I bought our tickets and we went inside.

"I wish you hadn't done that," said Abigail, not smiling.

"Done what?"

"Paid for the tickets."

"Why?"

"It's offensive to women when men insist on paying for everything. It implies that you don't think we're equals. It's extremely disrespectful. I thought you were better than that."

"Oh my God, I'm sorry, I didn't realize—"

Her smile returned. "I'm kidding."

"Okay. Good."

And then her smile disappeared again. "Oh, shit, that wasn't funny, was it? It's too soon for me to be making jokes like that. I made you uncomfortable. Fuck. I'm always doing stuff like that. You asked me out on a date and it's totally appropriate that you'd buy the movie tickets. If I'd asked you out, I would've paid for them. That's how it works. It wasn't funny. Please don't hate me."

"I wouldn't hate you over a joke."

"You promise?"

"Yeah, I promise. It was funny."

"It wasn't funny."

"It did scare me. I won't lie."

"If I do that again, just punch me."

"I'm not going to punch you," I informed her.

"Not hard. Don't break my jaw. Just knock out a tooth."

"I liked your joke. I mean it. You could have kept me going for a lot longer, but you didn't. It lasted the perfect length."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks." Her smile finally returned. "You're probably nervous about buying us popcorn, candy, and soda, but I swear I won't do that again."

"You can if you want."

Abigail shook her head. "No, what I'd do is wait for you to ask me if I wanted anything, and then get all up in your face and say 'Oh, so you think the fat girl needs candy, huh?'"

"I'm glad you didn't do that."

"Me too."

We stocked up on treats for the movie. Though our taste in candy was not completely identical, there was enough overlap to make me think about how compatible we were. The concession stand had nachos, and I made an extremely witty comment about people who would eat nachos during a movie. I'm not going to include it here because it was kind of a "you had to be there" comment and you'd probably go, "Eh, that wasn't so witty."

I was slightly less convinced of our compatibility when she said that she usually sat in the front row. Maybe it's because I'm a tall guy, but I never sit up front. It would kill my neck. And you're seeing the movie at a weird angle. Though I would've sat in the front row if that's what Abigail really wanted, fortunately we compromised and sat a few rows back.

The theater had pre-show stuff playing. Commercials and behind-the-scenes features on upcoming movies that didn't count as actual trailers. This was nice because when our conversation halted for a bit, we could watch the pre-show for a while instead of just sitting awkwardly in a silent auditorium.

Harken was pretty good. Though she'd said she liked bad movies, for our first date I was relieved that it was good instead of bad. Not that she would've judged me by the movie, but you know what I mean.

About an hour into the movie, she leaned over to me and whispered, "This is my favorite part." Then the heroine's best friend got her head chopped off. It was a surprising moment. I thought the best friend was going to live, though in retrospect I should've seen it coming.

(I despise people who talk during the movies, but there was nobody sitting near us and a quick whisper is okay. It wasn't like she spoiled anything.)

I did think it was kind of strange that she'd apparently already seen the movie, even though she said that she'd been wanting to see it.

When it was over, we stayed through the end credits—there was nothing after them—and walked out of the theater. "What'd you think?" asked Abigail.

"I liked it a lot."

"Me too."

"Had you already seen it?"

She seemed to realize that this didn't match up with what she'd said before. "Yeah, yeah, I saw it opening night. I guess I, I don't know, I guess I didn't want to make things complicated when we were picking a movie. I was nervous, you were nervous, and I took the path of least resistance. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize."

"If we keep seeing each other, you should know upfront that I'm not as well adjusted as other girls you've dated. I'm not a psycho crazy chick, don't worry about that, but the stuff you've seen from me is pretty much how I am."

"I like it," I said.

"You like it, or you'll tolerate it?"

"I like it."

"I like you too, Frank."

We didn't kiss.

I'd planned to take her out for something to eat after the movie, but we were kind of sick to our stomachs from all of the popcorn and candy we'd consumed, so we settled for coffee instead. We mostly just talked about the movie. Abigail had more intelligent things to say about it than I did, though to be fair, she'd seen it twice.

I wondered if I missed a perfect opportunity to reveal my father's killing spree. It certainly would've made Abigail feel better about her little fib. I wasn't sure, though, that "I'm not well-adjusted" would balance out "My dad murdered a bunch of people." My confession could wait.

After coffee, we went back to her place and had kinky sex.

No, we didn't. I was just trying out being an unreliable narrator. I walked her back to her apartment complex, and she thanked me for a wonderful afternoon and said that she'd love to do it again sometime soon. I said that I too would love to do it again sometime soon. We both went in for the hug. Then I promised that I'd see her at her flower stand on Monday.

I walked back to my own apartment, feeling great. I was pretty sure I wasn't hallucinating the sparks between us. If this were an animated film, there would've been chirping birds around me and I would've broken into song.

Marc was standing around outside when I arrived at my building. He was a few years older than me, maybe twenty-nine or thirty, and had that thing where his arms were so heavily tattooed that he always looked like he was wearing a long-sleeve shirt. He had scraggly facial hair. Even an open-minded person who was always willing to give others the benefit of the doubt would look at him and think, "Drug dealer."

They'd be right.

And I guess this is the part of the story where I have to admit to my criminal ties.

three

"Yo," said Marc.

"Yo," I replied. The word "yo" never felt right coming out of my mouth.

"You up for a job tonight?"

"Maybe."

"I could use you."

"Okay."

"Ten-thirty?"

"Sure."

"Thanks, dude." Marc gave me a fist bump. "See you then."

I went inside. Let me clarify something: I wasn't a drug dealer. All I did, on rare occasions, was accompany Marc to meetings where he believed that having a tall, creepy-looking guy like me standing next to him might be beneficial. I didn't have to do anything but be present. I didn't have to say anything. I wasn't supposed to say anything. Just stand there and look like me.

He'd approached me about a month after I moved into his building. Before that, we'd exchanged names and occasional pleasantries but hadn't had anything resembling an actual conversation.

"I like your look, dude," he'd told me.

"Thank you."

"How are things going for you? You doing okay, money-wise? Times are tough around here."

I shrugged. "Not too bad." This was before my low-paying job at the call center. I was making even less bussing dishes at a diner.

"You interested in making two hundred bucks? Cash money. Won't even take an hour."

"What do I have to do?"

"Not a damn thing. You'll walk behind me, I'll conduct some business, and we'll leave. You might get a pat-down. No big deal."

"Is it dangerous?"

Marc shook his head. "No, dude, you're there to keep things safe. You're there to prevent violence. I wouldn't put you in harm's way."

"I'll have to think about it."

"The guy we're meeting is totally cool. All you are is a precautionary measure. You're like an extra parachute when you're skydiving. Nobody ever needs that extra parachute, but it's good to know it's there."

"Two hundred and ten."

"Done."

Marc drove us to a crappy hotel, and I went with him into a room littered with beer bottles and empty pizza boxes. I did indeed get a pat-down, though there were several places they didn't check that I could've hidden a weapon. Marc gave a duffel bag to a sweaty guy, got a smaller duffel bag in return, and we left.

"See?" he said as we got back in his car. "No problem."

We did it four or five more times. Different hotels but always the same sweaty guy. In and out. Easy. Two hundred and ten bucks each time.

I felt guilty taking part in this. I didn't even smoke weed, and I was sure the duffel bag was filled with much worse stuff. (I almost asked once, then decided against it.) I'd never done anything like this in any of the other places I'd lived. I justified it to myself by focusing on what Marc had said: that I was there to prevent violence. Without me, people—unsavory people, but human beings nonetheless—could get hurt or killed.

It was a weak justification. I know that now and I kind of knew it then. If you truly need a motive for my entry into the world of crime, go with "stupidity."

As I walked up the stairs to my apartment, I wished I'd told Marc no. I almost had a girlfriend now, and I shouldn't be doing this kind of thing anymore. Though I didn't know Abigail very well, I didn't think she would approve of me being involved with these kinds of people.

I'd tell Marc that tonight was the last one. He'd have to find some other big scary looking bastard to accompany him.

I met him outside the building at ten-thirty, then we got in his car. "We're meeting somebody different tonight," he said. "New business partner. Name's Wulfe, with a U instead of an O and with an E at the end."

"Oh."

"That a problem?"

"A little. You didn't tell me that before. Are you sure it's safe?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's totally cool. Same deal as always. We walk in, swap bags, walk out."

"Two hundred and fifty."

"Listen to the master negotiator!" Marc laughed. "You know what, that's totally fair. Two hundred and fifty it is. By the way, we've never really talked about it, but there are other opportunities for a guy like you. I could set you up with extra jobs that pay way more."

"No thanks. This is fine."

"The offer's on the table. You ever decide you want a new wide-screen TV or something, you just let me know, all right?"

"I will."

This time we didn't go to a hotel. We went to a seafood restaurant that was closed for the night. Marc parked behind the restaurant next to the Dumpster, and an unfriendly looking man let us in.

There were six people in the back room. We'd never done a meeting that had more than a couple. Marc didn't seem surprised or nervous, so I did my job and walked in right behind him.

Five of the men were standing. One sat on a rolling desk chair, though the actual desk was on the other side of the room. None of these men looked like they should be involved in the food service industry. They looked like people you'd suspect were responsible if your pet went missing. The guy on the chair, who I assumed was Wulfe, appeared especially sleazy. He had long greasy hair, bad teeth, and bad skin, though admittedly his clothes were stylish and clean.

"C'mon in and join the party!" he said, not getting up. The unfriendly looking man shut the door behind us. "Can I get you anything? Water? Crab legs?"

"Nah, we're good," said Marc.

This pat-down was significantly more thorough than the previous ones. Not that it involved a body cavity search or anything, but it was a good thing I wasn't homophobic.

"They're clean," said the man who'd given me far more action than I got from Abigail.

"Shit, check the big guy out," said Wulfe, rolling his chair to the left. "He looks like fuckin' Lurch from The Munsters."

 The Lurch comparison was one I'd heard many times. It was, of course, The Addams Family, but I obviously wasn't going to correct him. I just stood there.

"Doesn't he, though?" Wulfe asked the other men. "He's totally fuckin' Lurch. Say 'You rang?' for me. Go on, say 'You rang?' I wanna hear if you have that same low-ass voice. Damn, I never thought I'd meet Lurch in the fuckin' flesh. Say 'You rang?'"

I shook my head.

"I've got that right, don't I? The Munsters? Was it something else?"

"No, it was The Munsters," said one of the men.

"Or, no, wait, who was that big fucker in the James Bond movies? Fucker with the teeth. You know who I'm talking about?"

"Jaws?" asked the man who'd incorrectly confirmed The Munsters.

"Jaws! That's it! Fucker looks like Jaws. Aw, shit, the good Lord above must've been all like 'Fuck this guy!' when He made you. I'm just playing. You know that. I bet you get mad pussy, don't you?"

I didn't answer.

"I was asking a real question. A great big Lurch and Jaws-looking motherfucker like you must get all the pussy. I mean, all of it. The world's population is going down because there ain't no pussy left for the rest of us. When's the last time you busted a nut?"

"We should get down to business," said Marc.

"Is that how it is?" asked Wulfe, sounding genuinely irritated. He rolled his chair forward. "I'm here trying to engage in some friendly banter, and you're going to be rude to me right to my fuckin' face? That ain't how you start a business relationship, my man. You don't come in here, into my goddamn place, and tell me how I should behave. I was being social. Maybe you could learn some fuckin' lessons from me."

"You're right," said Marc. "I apologize."

Wulfe mimicked him. "'I apologize.' Fuck yeah you apologize. You've both been nothing but assholes since you stepped in here. When I offer you crab legs, you take the fuckin' crab legs, okay? You do not try to rush me through our meeting like you're just trying to get your rocks off with some whore. Foreplay, man. I'm trying to establish shit here. I want us to be working together for a long time. You want a one-night-stand, you peddle your product elsewhere."

"I genuinely apologize," said Marc. "Complete misunderstanding. I'm used to people wanting to make these meetings as quick as possible, and I was trying to be respectful of your time."

Wulfe stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment. "Yeah, okay, that makes sense. Sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Please don't send Mr. Lurch over there to hurt me."

I was doing my best not to throw up. If Marc needed an actual bodyguard instead of just somebody to stand here looking intimidating, he was out of luck. I was impressed with my own ability to stay calm, but the second we were out of here, I knew I'd be shaking.

"I'd love a crab leg," said Marc.

"You're overcompensating. They've been in the fuckin' pot too long anyway; I shouldn't have offered them to you in the first place. Now I'm going to be respectful of your time and ask you to bring over your bag of goodies."

Marc walked over to Wulfe, who did not stand up or extend his hand.

"Do I just set it on your lap or...?"

"Lap's fine."

Marc set the duffel bag on Wulfe's lap and then returned to where he'd been standing in front of me.

"I'm not crippled or anything," said Wulfe. "It's just a comfy fuckin' chair, know what I mean? Sure you don't have severed heads in here? Can you imagine the expression on my face if I unzipped this bag and there was a fuckin' severed head in there looking back up at me? My men would be cleaning so much shit up off this chair that it wouldn't even be funny."

"I promise there isn't a head in there," said Marc.

"Yeah, well, that's just what somebody who was carrying around a bag of severed heads would say. I guess it would be leaking more. And you'd know that my men would rip you to fuckin' pieces if you tried something like that. So I'm gonna unzip this bag and feel pretty comfortable that I'll see merchandise and not heads."

Wulfe unzipped the bag. He reached inside and took out something the size and shape of a brick, covered with aluminum foil. I didn't know much about drugs, but I assumed it was heroin. Maybe I'd seen this kind of thing in a movie or TV show. And though I didn't know much about the price of heroin, I felt like the merchandise in the duffel bag was worth enough that I was getting totally screwed doing this for two hundred and fifty bucks.

I'm sure I was getting screwed the other times, too, but this was the first time anybody had actually taken the contents out of the bag. The other times I'd tried not to think about what was inside.

"Test this out," said Wulfe, tossing the brick to one of his men. The man sat down at the desk and began to unwrap it. Wulfe set the duffel bag on the floor and rolled his chair back. The wheels squeaked. "Anybody know any party games for while we wait?" he asked.

Nobody offered any suggestions.

"You're a bunch of joyless sons of a bitches. There's a rod up every single ass in this room. We're not in a nuclear fusion plant—it's okay to relax and enjoy life a little bit. How about some Truth or Dare? Lurch, truth or dare?"

I had absolutely no desire to play Truth or Dare, or any game, but I didn't want to set him off again. "Truth."

"When's the last time you busted a nut in a chick? I asked this earlier but you never answered. Now you have to."

"Last week," I lied.

"What day?"

"Saturday."

"Who was she?"

"You only get one question," said Marc.

"Why doesn't it fuckin' surprise me that you're a stickler for the rules? All right, all right, I'm not gonna mess with the proper fuckin' procedure. My turn. Somebody ask me if I want truth or dare."

"Truth or dare?" asked Marc.

"Dare."

Marc fidgeted for a bit as he tried to think of something. "I dare you to drink an ounce of the crab water."

Wulfe gaped at him, delighted by the answer. "Oh, wow! That's some fucked up shit right there! Drink the crab water. Did everyone hear that?" He clapped his hands together as he laughed. "You're out of your damn mind if you think I'm gonna drink any of that nasty-ass crab water. Nice try, though. Marc, truth or dare?"

"It's good," said the man who was testing the product.

"I knew it would be," said Wulfe. "They wouldn't be dumb enough to try to rip me off. Oh, they would have such a bad night if they did. I've got a whole fuckin' restaurant full of ways to torture somebody to death. Know how many knives you need to run a seafood place? Lots. Lots of knives. I'm no psycho, but it almost would've been nice if the brick was filled with Play-Doh or some shit so you could suffer the consequences of trying to pull one over on me. You know how long it's been since I've had to really fuck somebody up? Like, I don't even remember how long ago, that's how long."

"That's a good thing," said Marc.

"Yeah, I guess." Wulfe waved to the unfriendly looking man who'd let us in. "Get these fine gentlemen their money! They're in a hurry to leave! Lurch probably has some hot chick waiting in the car. Don't forget to save some pussy for the rest of us."

The man handed Marc a small blue duffel bag.

"Thank you," Marc said. "Pleasure doing business with you."

"You can count it," said Wulfe. "You won't hurt my feelings."

"Nah, I trust you."

"Then you're a fuckin' idiot. We're doing a goddamn drug deal, man. You don't just say 'Nah, I trust you.' There could be a severed head in that bag. It's too small for a human, but it could be a dog head. Chihuahua head. What if it's just filled with dog shit? You're gonna let yourself walk out of here with a bag full of dried-up dog shit?"

Marc unzipped the duffel bag.

"I'm not trying to bully you," said Wulfe. "Just trying to teach you life lessons, that's all. You'll be walking out of here a better person than when you walked in. I'm a good influence."

It was awkward for Marc to hold the bag and count the money at the same time. He pretty much just poked around in it for a minute or so. Wulfe continued talking during the process, of course.

"All there," said Marc.

"Good. Now get the fuck out of my face, you uptight pricks."

Marc and I left. We got in his car and didn't speak until we'd driven out of the parking lot.

"Dude was a trip, huh?" asked Marc.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry about that. I thought it would be like the other times."

I shrugged. "Nobody got shot."

"That's true. I didn't know he was going to make fun of your physical appearance. That wasn't cool. I'm going to give you three hundred because it was kind of tense in there."

"Thank you."

"I mean three hundred total. Not three hundred on top of the two-fifty."

"I knew what you meant."

"Next time we'll know what to expect."

"I'm not doing that again."

"No?"

"I think I have a girlfriend now. I accepted your job offer because you're a nice guy, but I can't keep doing this. It's not me."

"Hey, I respect that," said Marc. "We all need to choose our own path in life. If you need some extra spending money to take your lady out for a night on the town, you know who to ask, but I won't bug you about helping out again."

"I appreciate it. You're a good friend."

When we got back to our apartment building, he gave me my three hundred dollars and wished me goodnight. I was relieved that my criminal days were over. It was hard to believe I'd done that kind of thing. I could've gone to prison. I didn't know what kind of sentence you'd get for just being in the room where a drug deal happened, but there had to be some jail time, right?

The next day I did what I'd do on any other Sunday: not much.

On Monday I went to work. I usually ate lunch at my desk, but since Abigail and I had gone on a date, I didn't see any reason I couldn't walk over to her flower stand. It would no longer be creepy.

She smiled when she saw me. She hadn't been smiling before.

I'd never seen her wear makeup, not even on our date. She was wearing it now. It was heavier around her right eye.

four

I didn't want to start off our conversation by asking about her eye.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi."

"How are you?"

"I'm good."

"I thought I'd come out and see you on my lunch break."

"I'm glad you did."

"I only get half an hour, though, and it takes ten minutes to walk here, and then ten minutes to walk back. So I can't hang out very long."

"I get as long of a lunch break as I want," she said. "It's one of the perks of owning my own business. So if I meet you at your work someday, that gives us an extra twenty minutes." She tapped her forehead. "Yeah, I did the math in my head. You have to be good at numbers when you own your own business."

(She was being funny. You may have gotten that, but I didn't want it to look like she was legitimately trying to portray her arithmetic as an impressive accomplishment.)

Our first minute was just about over. I figured I should probably address the elephant in the room. "Makeup, huh?"

"Yes."

"It looks nice."

She sighed and touched the area under her eye. "Can you tell?"

"Yeah. I mean, it doesn't look bad. A normal person wouldn't notice. Did you fall?"

"No."

I waited for her to explain. She didn't.

"Did you bump into something?" I asked, to fill the silence.

"No. It's...it's the bad kind of black eye."

"Who hit you?"

"You don't know him."

"I don't know anybody you know."

"I want us to be open and honest with each other," said Abigail. "But I also don't want to discuss this out here on the street. I'll tell you what happened tonight. Do you want to get dinner?"

"Sure."

"I'll close up at six. There's a good vegan restaurant near here."

"You're vegan?"

"No, I just like to eat healthy sometimes. Meet me here?"

"Okay."

"Perfect. See you then."

Our ten minutes weren't up, but it seemed like she was ready for me to go. Which was fine because I didn't feel like talking about trivial stuff when the question of who had hit her remained unanswered. As I walked back to work, I breathed deeply, trying to be at peace with the world. No reason to fly into a rage until I knew the details of what had happened.

Who could it have been?

I'd kill him.

No, I wouldn't kill him. I'd have a very stern, very serious talk with him, and it would not happen again.

Have you ever tried to be a customer service representative when you're almost trembling with fury? It's not an easy task. It's difficult enough to be professional and polite on a normal day, when you have people on the phone yelling at you and not listening as you try to calmly explain things to them. I couldn't afford to lose my job, and it wasn't the customers' fault that somebody had given Abigail a black eye, so I remained courteous while gnashing my teeth and squeezing one of those foam stress balls that I borrowed from a co-worker's desk.

I always got off work at four. I didn't want to walk past the flower stand; I wouldn't have known if I should stop and say hi, or just wave as I walked past, or what. Instead, I took a different route home and hung out in my apartment for a couple of hours.

At six o'clock, she greeted me with a hug, and then we walked to the vegan place.

"Get what you want," she said. "It's on me."

"Who hit you?" I asked.

"Can you please not pressure me? Could we at least order our meal before we get into this? It's not like he's fleeing the country and he's going to get away if I don't tell you all about it right away."

"Okay."

"I didn't mean to snap at you. You're concerned and I appreciate it. It's just a very stressful situation, obviously, and I need to work my way up to it or all you're going to get is me crying and punching the table."

"I understand." I glanced at the menu. "They have chicken nuggets here?"

"Imitation chicken nuggets. They taste just like the real thing."

"They can't."

"They do. You won't be able to tell the difference."

"Pretty sure I will."

"I don't know what your taste buds are like," she admitted. "Maybe your palate is so refined that you'll pick up on the subtle intricacies in flavor. I'll just say that they're a very good approximation of what it tastes like when you mash up a chicken into paste and deep-fry small chunks of it."

"Maybe I'll get that, then."

When the server came to take our orders, I got the nuggets and Abigail got olive hummus with pita chips. She glanced around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping, then leaned across the table and spoke in a very soft voice.

"A couple of years ago I was in a relationship with a man named Neal. It wasn't all bad. Some of it was great. Overall, though? Dysfunctional as hell. Lots of yelling. Lots of jealousy. I'm not saying that I don't get jealous, too, but this was the 'I don't like you having lunch with your male co-workers' kind of jealousy. He didn't like that my doctor was a man. You know you've got a problem with jealousy when you don't want your girlfriend to have a male doctor."

"Agreed," I said.

"He never got violent, not at all. Even when we were screaming at each other, he never so much as grabbed my arm. That's not why we broke up. I just eventually realized that it wasn't going to work out and told him it was time for us to be done."

"How long were you together?"

"A few months. I never thought we'd get married or even move in together. It was just one of those toxic relationships that you stay in even though everybody else around you can see that it's a bad thing. So it was over. Every once in a while, not often, he'd text me and ask if I wanted to meet him for coffee, and I'd always say no. He'd text 'I miss you so much, let's give it another chance.' I assumed he was just horny." She took a long drink from her glass of water. "I hate that we have to have this kind of conversation. We're supposed to be talking about fun stuff."

"It's okay."

"That's all it was. A text maybe every few weeks. He can turn on the charm when he wants to, so I don't think he was lonely all that time. Maybe I should've been flattered. Anyway, it was no big deal. It wasn't like he showed up at my place. At least not until yesterday."

The story was about to get dark, and I hoped my face—unpleasant to look at in the best of times—didn't make her reconsider our relationship.

"I told a couple of friends that I had a date. Somehow, word got back to Neal. He showed up at my apartment. I let him in. He asked about you. I told him that you were a very nice guy and that I didn't have anything else to say to him and that it was time for him to stop texting me. He hit me."

"Did you call the police?"

Abigail shook her head. "He looked completely stunned by what he'd done. No way did he show up at my place intending to lay a hand on me. He apologized and cried and begged me to forgive him, and I made it very clear that he was never to contact me again, and if he did, he'd be lucky if all I did was call the police. He promised that I'd never see him again and left. End of story."

"How do you know that's the end?"

"Because he doesn't want me to cut off his balls. He knows it's not an empty threat. It's something that will literally happen, in reality, using a pair of scissors that I've already picked out."

"What's his last name?" I asked.

Abigail leaned back in her seat. "I'm not going to tell you that."

"I wouldn't do anything."

"I told you about this because you asked, and because I thought it was fair for you to know why the girl you're dating has a black eye. I'm not asking you to get involved. I'm telling you not to get involved. This isn't your problem and he's gone from my life."

"Okay. If he comes back and you want me to do anything, I will."

"He won't come back, and I wouldn't want you to do anything. I assure you, he'd press assault charges against you."

"I'd only talk to him," I insisted.

"If you talked to him, you'd want to punch him."

"I thought you said he could turn on the charm."

"With the ladies. He can also be a smarmy piece of crap. You wouldn't like him."

"Probably not."

"Anyway, it's over," said Abigail. "If you have any questions, ask away, but if not, I'd like to just forget that it happened."

"I don't have any questions."

"Great. How was your day?"

"The usual."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Mostly a good thing, I guess." Shit, I was being a dull conversationalist. I should've come up with some talking points before I got here, but I was too focused on her injury. Was now the right time to tell the truth about my father? Or should I wait until she was less emotionally fragile? She didn't seem emotionally fragile right now, but she couldn't possibly be in a good state of mind this soon after an ex-lover hit her.

"That's good," she said. We were both sucking at this conversation. It was only our second date, so we shouldn't be anywhere close to have exhausted all of the possibilities for subject matter.

"Do you like cats?" I asked.

Abigail nodded. "I love cats."

"Do you have any?"

"One."

"What's his name?"

"Her name. Queenie."

"What color?"

"Gray."

"Cool."

"Do you have any cats?"

"No," I said. "My apartment doesn't allow pets."

"That's too bad."

"Yeah. Do you have any dogs?"

"No."

"Do you like dogs?"

"Yes."

"Me too."

"I never had dogs growing up, though," said Abigail. "We were always a cat family."

"We never had any pets."

"Nothing? Not even fish?"

"Not even sea monkeys. In fifth or sixth grade I wanted a snake but my parents wouldn't let me get one. I was mad for a while, and then I thought, 'I've got enough problems making friends—why should I be the weird kid who has a snake?'"

"I had a friend with a snake once. I thought it was the best pet ever until I watched him feed a mouse to it. That traumatized me for weeks."

"Yeah, I don't think I would have fed mice to my snake if my parents had let me get one. I'm not sure if you have to feed them live stuff or if you can just buy snake food. I didn't research it very much."

I needed to tell her. The longer I waited, the more awful this was going to be. We hadn't even kissed yet, so if she was completely freaked out, at least she wouldn't have the germs of a killer's son on her.

The server brought our meals. I was surprised to discover that the chicken-free chicken nuggets did indeed taste like the real thing. (By which I mean they tasted like chicken nuggets, which don't taste much like real chicken.) The texture was a bit off but they were good. I'd never tried hummus, which I'd assumed would be among the foulest substances I'd ever placed into my mouth. I'm not sure why. I didn't even really know what it was. But Abigail gave me some of hers, and it was quite tasty. I wasn't planning to rush out to my local hummus shop to fill up my refrigerator, but sure, I'd eat it again.

Though the arrival of our food gave me a brief reprieve, I felt like I really needed to make my confession soon. I'd wait until after we were done with the nuggets and hummus, so as not to spoil a fine meal, but I'd do it before we left the table.

"I have to go to the restroom. Back in a second," said Abigail, leaving the table.

That didn't count.

She returned and we finished our healthy dinners. (Were pseudo-chicken nuggets healthy, or was the point just to not murder chickens? I'd pretend they were healthy until somebody told me otherwise.)

"You're looking very serious," she said.

"Am I?"

"You always look serious, but you're looking more serious than usual."

"I have something to tell you."

"I'm ready."

"It may upset you."

"Just tear the Band-Aid right off."

"You know I had a dad, right?" What a stupid thing to say. Of course she knew I had a dad. I should've started that sentence with "Durr..." though I'm thankful that I didn't.

"Yes," said Abigail. "And I know what this is about."

"You do?"

"I did some online research. Not deep-dive Internet stalking. Your father comes up pretty early in a Google search."

"I meant to tell you sooner."

"We're in the middle of our second date, Frank. It's fine. I knew you'd tell me when you thought the time was right. It's not like I came right out and told you that I'm a necrophile."

"What?"

"That was a joke." Abigail suddenly looked horrified. "Oh my God, did you think I wasn't kidding? I don't give off that kind of vibe, do I? No, no, no, total joke. Fuck. I thought you'd laugh."

"I'm laughing now," I said, forcing myself to chuckle. It would've only taken me a few moments to decide that she was messing with me, but there had indeed been a moment where I thought she'd upstaged my revelation about my dad being a mass murderer.

"I'm sorry. I was trying to lighten the mood. And, yes, I know it says something about me that I tried to lighten the mood by talking about having sex with corpses." She glanced around the restaurant to make sure nobody had overheard her. One woman obviously had because she quickly looked down at her plate.

"Well, you didn't actually talk about it," I said. "It was just a quick reference."

"Fair enough. Anyway, let's get back to your dark secret. I would've eventually confronted you about it, but not this early. It's not like you've ever shot a bunch of people. Did you?"

"No. Not even one."

"And I can't have kids, so we don't have to worry about passing those genes on."

I could tell that she immediately realized that this statement a) was kind of insulting, and b) did a scary-rapid fast-forward to discussions about us having children together.

"You know what?" she asked. "If we apologize every time one of us says something stupid, that's all we'll do. Can we agree to just ignore the fact that neither one of us knows how to behave?"

"Deal," I said. "Also, I'm adopted, so I don't have any office-shooter genes to pass down."

"Even better. I'm not saying I don't care about it. It wasn't like I clicked on the news article and went 'Eh, no biggie.' But it's not a deal-breaker for me. I'll judge you based on you, not something your dad did ten years ago."

"Thank you," I said. I didn't thank her for reminding me that the ten-year anniversary was coming up. "Do you have any questions about it?"

"No. I mean, I do, but they can wait. Are we done with the heavy stuff for now? Can we talk about vegan dessert?"

"We sure can."

The "no innocent cows were milked in the making of this" ice cream was kind of gross, but Abigail enjoyed it, and that's what was important. We parted ways outside the restaurant with a quick hug and a promise to see each other at lunch tomorrow.

Though I'd done a good job of hiding it, I was still pretty mad about the asshole who'd hit her. I wasn't going to hunt him down or anything. Abigail would be pissed if I got too much into her business. That said, she wasn't the only one who could do a bit of online research.

five

I'm no master sleuth, but I didn't have to be to find Neal. Some quick scrolling through social media (Abigail didn't post often, which was helpful—less to look through) and I found a selfie of her with Neal Miller. His arm was around her and they were smiling happily. He was way more attractive than me, but then again, so were most people. He looked pleasant enough.

His Facebook page was public. Unlike Abigail, he posted all the time. He was one of those people who shared every meal he ate, every movie he saw, and every social event he attended with the world. Abigail was right: he wasn't lonely. Lots of selfies with him and various women. About forty-five minutes ago, he'd used the "check-in" feature to let the world know he was at a bar.

I could use a drink.

I wouldn't do anything. I just thought it would be good to see the enemy in person. I wouldn't say a word to him; I'd keep an eye on him while I had one beer, and then I'd go back home. It wasn't an invasion of his privacy if he posted his whereabouts on social media.

Abigail wouldn't be happy if she knew I'd visited the bar, but I certainly wasn't going to post about it. And since I wasn't going to actually speak to Neal, she'd never find out. I wouldn't linger. I was entirely capable of keeping my temper in check, so I knew I could watch the piece of crap without succumbing to the desire to punch him off his bar stool.

The bar wasn't within walking distance—I mean, technically it was, but it would've taken three hours—so I drove. During the drive, I had at least twenty moments where I thought I should turn around and go back home. I ignored these feelings. A lot of people trusted their gut, but my gut was notoriously unreliable.

There were a few cars parked out front when I got there. I went inside. The music was too loud but I liked that the place was poorly lit. Everybody looked over at me, and a couple of them stared. I was used to that. As has been well established, I was a big creepy looking guy. People stare at those things.

Neal, who sat alone in a booth, was one of those staring.

When I caught him looking at me, he quickly returned his attention to his glass of whiskey. (Tequila? Bourbon? One of those.)

The bar had a perfect spot where I could sit facing Neal without it being obvious that I was watching him. I ordered a beer. The bartender asked what kind I wanted. I didn't care, so I said "Anything domestic."

Neal looked completely miserable.

Pathetic.

The guy was having a long dark night of the soul.

He seemed to be the kind of person who'd struck a woman in anger, and was consumed by feelings of self-loathing, wondering what kind of monster he really was.

I'm not suggesting for one second that I felt sorry for that scumbag. If Abigail wanted to cut off his testicles, I would've held him down for her. But...yeah, she was right. Neal was no threat to her or anybody else.

It was making me sad to look at him. I was ready to go, but I didn't want him to wonder about the scary-looking dude who came in, took a couple sips of his beer, and then left. I finished my frosty beverage at a reasonable pace. I never made eye contact. I made a show of constantly checking my phone, hoping that it might convey the image of somebody who was waiting for a friend to meet him here.

I considered sighing with frustration as if I'd been stood up, but I was such a bad actor that I might have sent the message I am here to spy on you. I simply paid for my beer and left.

I didn't have to think about that asshole anymore.

I drove back to my apartment, which I guess I haven't described yet. You're probably thinking "shithole" and you're not completely off the mark, though I did keep it clean. There were rust stains in the bathtub and blotches on the ceiling, but there was no food on the floor, and if there were dirty dishes in the sink they were always from the most recent meal. Same thing with clothes: I might've thrown the clothes I wore on a certain day on the floor before I went to bed, but they'd be in the laundry basket before the next day's clothing could join them.

Though I was most assuredly not a neat freak, I was also not a disgusting slob. If you made a diagram with "neat freak" on one side and "disgusting slob" on the other, and you put a red dot in the center, I'd be halfway between "neat freak" and the red dot, if that makes sense. It helped that I didn't own much. I pared down my possessions before each move and didn't acquire much new stuff in-between.

My refrigerator and cupboards generally contained actual food.

My bed was a bed, not just a mattress on the floor. Admittedly, this was not true at all of my former residences, but it was for this one.

If Abigail were to come over, my apartment would give me little reason to be ashamed. It was small, yes, but I think she knew I wasn't rich. (Of course, I bought flowers from her every single day that I didn't want, and we'd splurged on expensive movie theater concessions, so maybe she thought I was a millionaire.) A quick vacuuming, dusting, and some minor tidying and I'd be good to go.

Well, and I'd have to take care of my bedroom wall. That was obviously the big issue.

I rarely had guests, and when I did, they weren't the kind of guests who would be going into my bedroom. With Abigail, I'd at least show her the bedroom as part of a tour, even if we weren't ready to spend any time in there yet. So I had to take everything down.

I honestly don't know how this is going to sound. I'll just say it: I kept pictures of all of my dad's victims up on my bedroom wall.

And their obituaries.

And handwritten stories I'd composed about how their lives would've gone had they not been murdered.

I'd started writing these when I was sixteen, a year after the shooting. I honestly don't know if my therapist would have considered them a healthy outlet or something really fucked up (I didn't tell her about them) but they made me feel better.

Sometimes I'd add to the stories, with as much as a couple of years between updates. Sometimes I'd throw one away and start from scratch, based on creative inspiration or just to reflect my improved writing skills. They ranged from a few paragraphs to an epic that was eight pages taped together. Various genres were reflected: romance, science fiction, mystery, inspirational drama, but the unifying theme was that I gave them all happy lives. New additions to their families. New opportunities. New adventures.

One guy won the Nobel Peace Prize. One lady stopped an alien invasion.

No, you may not read them.

It's possible to make a convincing argument that writing stories about the amazing future accomplishments of these people was simply a depressing reminder that their lives were snuffed out far too soon. I won't argue that. For me, I don't know, it was like a way of undoing the damage, even if I was the only weirdo who'd ever know it. The stories didn't have happy endings—they didn't have endings at all. They all stopped in mid-sentence. When I added to one, the new material would also stop in mid-sentence. No endings.

Stupid and childish, I know. When your dad kills eleven innocent people, you can judge me.

(If your father is indeed a mass murderer, I apologize for my snippy tone.)

(In fact, I apologize for my tone even if your father isn't a mass murderer. Inappropriate. Sorry.)

Basically, I'm trying to say that the wall of my bedroom was decorated in such a manner that it might be alarming to somebody who walked in there, particularly if the idea of eventually being intimate with me wasn't out of the question. I wasn't going to take it down quite yet, but I would before the next time I saw Abigail, just in case.

And, yes, having the pictures up there haunted me and gave me sleepless nights.

* * *

I almost—but not quite—wanted to tell Abigail that I'd seen Neal at the bar, just to reassure her that the guy felt terrible about what he'd done. It might give her an extra bit of peace. Obviously, since this would involve confessing that I'd looked him up online and then driven to the bar where he was drinking his misery away, I would be doing no such thing.

I was no longer twitching with anger, so the next day at work was a better one. Since we hadn't made plans for Abigail to come to my building (she'd mentioned the idea, but I also got the impression that losing sales during lunch was a problem) I walked to her flower stand with burgers in hand. I was comfortable with my ability to hog down a burger and fries in plenty of time to get back to work, but Abigail didn't need to see that side of me yet, and we settled for only eating part of them during our time together.

"Would you like to come over tonight?" she asked. "I'm a decent cook, so I could make us dinner and then we could watch a crappy horror flick."

"I'd love that."

"Are you allergic to anything?"

"The Twilight movies."

"Ha ha."

"I'm just kidding," I said. I'd never actually seen any of the Twilight movies or read the books. They might have been quite good. It wasn't a fair joke.

"Do you have any food allergies?"

"No." I wanted to make a comment along the lines of, "I guess we'll find out, if my face starts swelling up," though funnier, but it didn't seem like a good idea so close to the Twilight comment. I didn't want her to think I was trying too hard. It's easy to go from being amusing to being obnoxious.

"Any foods you hate?"

"Nope." There were actually plenty, including 90% of vegetables, but if Abigail made it, I'd choke it down with a smile.

"Perfect. Six-thirty?"

"I'll be there."

"It's building six, apartment 4B."

I had her full address. Things were getting serious. I tended to assume that most women didn't want me to possess such information.

As I walked home, I tried to figure out what to bring. You couldn't go over to somebody's place for dinner and not bring something. Traditionally it might be a bottle of wine, but this was yet another perfectly normal social behavior that I didn't think I could pull off. I looked like somebody who'd make you want to keep an eye on your drink at all times. If she had wine, great. I'd happily gulp down as much as she offered. But I didn't want to hand over a bottle and have her think, "Oh my God, he's trying to get me drunk so he can strangle me!"

I didn't have any condoms. That was something else I most definitely would not bring over, the whole "be prepared" thing be damned. Though it was our third date, the sex date, that traditional rule probably applied to relationships that had moved past the chaste hug stage in the first two dates. My preparation for physical intimacy would be to make sure I shaved in case she gave me a kiss on the cheek.

I could bring dessert, but she might be preparing dessert. I didn't want to buy something inferior to what she'd made, or, worse, something superior to what she'd made.

I wouldn't bring flowers, of course. I remembered that in high school I had a female friend—just a friend—who sold chocolate bars all year to raise money for her church. They were always on her desk. I didn't realize that our friendship was at the "exchanging gifts at Christmas" stage, so I was surprised when she came up to my locker in the morning and gave me a nicely wrapped present, which turned out to be my very own Bible. I told her that her present was still at home and promised to bring it the next day. (I'm sure she knew I didn't have one, but she wasn't the type of person to call others out on their bullshit.) I had no clue what to get her, so I thought and thought and thought and then suddenly, in what my deranged mind believed was a "Eureka!" moment, it occurred to me that, hey, I knew she liked those chocolate bars!

I bought her a six-pack of them. I didn't even choose a different brand, because I knew she liked that particular brand and wasn't sure what she thought of others.

She was extremely gracious about the gift and even sent me a thank-you card. It wasn't until a couple of years later, after I'd graduated high school and moved away, that I reflected upon this moment and it occurred to me that she had to have been sick to death of those things. My present was about as thoughtful as gift-wrapping a turd.

I was dense, but I did tend to learn the lessons from my complete lack of social awareness, and I would not be bringing flowers to the flower lady.

After much deliberation, I settled on buying a thank-you card. I spent a while trying to find one that was funny and appropriate, but the selection wasn't all that great, and I just went with one that had balloons on the front. When I got home I wrote "Thanks for dinner!" on the inside and signed my name.

I watched TV until it was time to get a shower and get dressed. I gave my teeth an extra-long brushing. Looking in the mirror, all cleaned up and wearing a nice shirt, I still couldn't figure out why Abigail didn't repeatedly puke while we were together. Not that I was complaining. Even with my low standards, I wouldn't want a girlfriend who vomited whenever she saw me.

I picked up the card and left my apartment. As I walked out of the building, Marc was standing outside.

"Looking good, my friend!" he said. "Got a hot date?"

"I sure do."

"I won't wait up for you, then."

I laughed and walked to Abigail's place.

six

Her apartment smelled like spaghetti. Is there any better scent for an apartment?

I knew Abigail had cleaned up for my visit because she'd forgotten to put away a broom and dustpan that were leaning against the wall of the kitchen. It was even smaller than my apartment (which meant it was very, very small) but quite a bit nicer. Without even going into the bathroom I knew there would be no rust stains.

I'd envisioned an apartment where her walls were covered with posters for obscure horror flicks, and had that been the case I would have pledged my eternal devotion on the spot. Instead, she seemed to like abstract art, the kind that required talk of symbolism and stuff to fully appreciate. These were posters, not framed paintings, but they definitely gave the walls a classy look.

"Smells great," I said.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I handed her the card, even though I'd planned to wait until after dinner. She tore open the envelope and removed the card. "No cash inside?" she asked, opening the card.

I laughed, and she immediately knew that I knew she was joking. It was a pretty good joke, comparing my thank you card to a birthday card that might contain money. If I hadn't realized she was kidding, I might have been offended by her lack of appreciation for my thoughtful gesture, but we were long past that stage.

The spaghetti was almost ready, so she had me go ahead and sit down at the dinner table. It would've been hard to fit more than two people at this table; fortunately, we only had two. I put the cloth napkin on my lap. She'd already filled the water glasses, but there were also wine glasses set out.

"Is red wine okay?" she asked. "That goes best with pasta."

"Of course." It occurred to me that I actually knew that red wine paired best with pasta. I wasn't sure how I acquired that information. It made me feel very cultured.

She poured our wine (I didn't recognize the brand and didn't know if it was fancy or cheap) and then took our plates into the kitchen so she could pile them high with delicious spaghetti. There was also garlic bread. I'm no gourmand but I can tell when somebody made their spaghetti sauce from scratch, and my stomach gave a loud rumble.

"I'll take that as a compliment," said Abigail as she set my plate down in front of me.

She sat across from me and we began to eat. The meal more than lived up to the aroma. When I have a meal that is prepared to perfection, I will sometimes close my eyes just to fully experience the flavors, but I wisely refrained from doing that this time.

Abigail told me about the places she'd lived, and I told her about the places I'd lived. She used to own a candy shop ("as you can see, I sampled plenty of my own wares," she said, gesturing to her body) and was doing okay until they raised her rent, making her business unsustainable. Since she couldn't really sell chocolate on the street in the summer, she switched to flowers. 

She'd never been married. Didn't have kids. Regretted many things she'd done. Was proud of many others.

We didn't talk about anything too dark. I mean, losing your beloved candy shop is kind of dark, but not compared to abusive ex-boyfriends and homicidal fathers. It was an extremely pleasant dinner. She asked if I wanted a second helping, and hell yeah, I did. Honestly, I kind of wanted a third, but the first two helpings weren't exactly tiny and there's a point where you're just being a hog.

She said there was tiramisu in the refrigerator for later. So she wasn't immediately kicking me out. Nice.

"Do you want me to help with the dishes?" I asked.

"I know that was a rhetorical question, but I'm going to take you up on that offer. You wash. I'll rinse, dry, and put away, because I know where everything goes."

Though it may sound like I'm getting into "unreliable narrator" territory again, doing the dishes with Abigail was a lot of fun. Not in a "Soap fight!!!" way or anything like that; it was just enjoyable to keep talking to her.

When we were finished (which didn't take long—only two of us had eaten the meal, so it wasn't like we generated dozens of dirty plates) we gave each other a high-five for a job well done. Then Abigail gave me kind of a funny look that I couldn't quite interpret.

"Can I ask you a silly question?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Would you like to dance?"

I froze. My stomach tightened. I think my ears may have started to ring with instant tinnitus. No, I did not want to dance. I was not a dancing type of guy. I could think of few sights that would do more damage to the human eye than me trying to dance. I had no moves. I had no rhythm. My mouth remained silent but my mind said, "Noooooooooo!"

"Are you okay?" asked Abigail.

"Yeah."

"You looked like I asked if you'd help me bury a body."

(Bury a body. #28 on the list of things that I found less horrifying than the idea of dancing. Right before dental surgery without anesthetic and right after being naked in front of my entire fifth grade math class.)

"I'm not much of a dancer," I said.

"Neither am I. I'm awful. I'm really, really awful."

"We should stick to our skills."

Abigail shook her head. "We should do the opposite. I'm not saying to record it and upload it to YouTube. It's just us. You and me."

"I don't know any dances."

"All you have to do is move to the music."

"My body doesn't move like that."

"Here are the rules," Abigail said. "I promise that I will not laugh at you. No matter what. I don't care how much you thrash around, I will not crack a smile. However, you're allowed to laugh at me all you want. Sound fair?"

"I feel like there's peer pressure happening here."

"Don't worry, I won't make you smoke a cigarette. I just think we should try something that's out of both of our comfort zones. You can pick the song."

"That's even more pressure."

"All right, if you really don't want to dance, I won't make you."

I almost said, "Thank you," but I'd been infatuated with Abigail for three months. I wasn't going to screw this up just because I was scared to dance. "I'll do it," I said. "You can pick the song. You promised not to laugh."

"I won't laugh."

"And you can't recoil, either."

"I won't recoil."

We walked into her living room. It was ridiculous for me to be so stressed out over this. Her asking me to dance meant that the date was going well. You didn't ask people to dance if you were uncomfortable around them.

She picked up her cell phone and tapped the screen a few times. "Do you like The Bee-Gees?"

"Please not 'Stayin' Alive.'" I liked that song but I didn't want to have to dance to it. I couldn't let her compare me to John Travolta, or even the parody scene in Airplane.

"No, no, 'Islands in the Stream.' Do you know that one?"

"I'm not sure."

"You do. Everybody knows that one. You'll know it when you hear it."

The opening notes played as she set her phone down on the coffee table. I still didn't recognize the song.

"Sorry I don't have a disco ball," said Abigail.

The lyrics started and I thought, okay, maybe I do recognize this one. It was a good song. Catchy melody.

Abigail began to sway to the music. She was right: she couldn't dance. Not at all. I'm not saying that she was jerking around like she was having an epileptic fit or something, but there was no rhythm in that swaying. It's possible that she was faking it, dancing badly on purpose so that I'd feel less self-conscious. If that was her master plan, it worked, because she seemed to be having a perfectly good time, and I felt no desire to point at her and bray with laughter.

"Dance," she said. It was not a request.

So I danced. Like Abigail, I just kind of swayed to the music. It wasn't so bad. I knew I was sweating (not a good look on me) but dancing wasn't the hell on earth that I'd anticipated. As the song progressed, I got more comfortable. Though I wasn't quite to the level of "fun," I did successfully convince myself that Abigail was not appalled by what she saw.

I made it through the entire song. Another one began.

The tempo picked up a bit. She moved closer to me, so that we were dancing together instead of simply in the same room, though we both kept our hands to ourselves. This was edging closer and closer to being fun. Had Abigail been right to pressure me into this? Did I enjoy dancing? No scenario existed in which I would shake my booty in front of strangers, but dancing in Abigail's apartment was just about to hit the level of—there it went, I was having fun now.

She picked up her phone as the second song ended and I assumed that our dancing experience was over, but she picked a new song and set it back down. A slow song. We were going to slow dance.

Abigail walked over to me. I knew that one hand went on her hip and one hand was supposed to take her hand, though I wasn't sure which of my hands went where, but it became irrelevant because she put both arms around me in a loose hug. Her head only came up to my chest. I put my arms around her, and we slow danced for the entire song.

She smelled great; I didn't know if it was perfume or a natural scent from handling flowers all day. I didn't step on her feet a single time, and I wasn't even hyper-focused on trying not to injure her. My feet just naturally avoided crushing hers.

The song ended. This felt like a natural moment for our first kiss. The problem was our height difference—I couldn't just gently lean forward and press my lips to hers. To kiss her, I'd have to do a pretty significant tilting of my head, which would mess with the whole "natural moment" thing.

She looked up at me. "We should kiss," she said.

I leaned down, and we kissed, gently.

Sorry to disappoint, but that didn't lead to a sloppy makeout session. (Or maybe you're relieved.) We both just kind of, I don't know, looked happy about what had happened, and then we went back into the kitchen and Abigail took the tiramisu out of the refrigerator.

Delicious.

After that, we sat on her couch and watched one of the worst horror movies I'd ever seen. It was bad on every possible level—even the font of the end credits was the wrong creative decision. I'm not going to name it because it's a fairly recent movie and as of right now everybody involved with it is still alive. Not that I think they're going to read this, but there's no reason to risk hurting somebody's feelings. The actual movie isn't important. What's important is that we sat right next to each other, legs touching, and about ten minutes into it I put my arm around her, and then she snuggled closer to me.

Her cat Queenie came out of hiding and joined us on the couch for a while, surprising Abigail, who said that the cat was terrified of strangers.

We made fun of the movie the entire time. We weren't nearly as good at it as the people who make fun of movies for a living—we mostly just pointed out the many flaws rather than making witty comments about them—but we laughed so hard that Abigail had a coughing fit and for a moment I legitimately believed she might end up in the hospital.

I haven't described my laugh. It's an awful cackle that sounds like the laugh you'd let out when you're throwing shovelfuls of dirt onto an enemy's shallow grave. Abigail didn't seem to mind it, because she kept saying things to make me laugh.

It was a weeknight and I had to work the next day, so I only stayed for the one movie. She didn't ask me to spend the night, or give any subtle hints that she wanted this to happen (unless they were so subtle that they flew right by me) but we did kiss at her doorway before I left.

That was it. I officially had a girlfriend. I was confident that my life was about to get a hell of a lot better. I was going to be so happy that my cheerful nature would annoy everybody around me.

But this is where I feel like I need to make something very clear.

This is not a love story.

seven

Abigail had made too much spaghetti sauce, so she asked if I wanted to come over the next night and have the same meal. Of course I did. This time she greeted me at the door with a kiss, and we snuggled closer during the movie (a good one this time—we didn't want to get into a rut), and we kissed when I left.

She said she wasn't a big fan of texting, but we exchanged quite a few lovey-dovey texts the next day. We probably would've exchanged more but my boss glared at me when he walked by my desk and caught me using my phone. None of these texts were "I love you" and we definitely weren't sexting, but I'm not going to lie, the word "snugglebunny" was used.

I asked if she wanted to come over to my place for pizza or Chinese take-out or something. She said she had some work to do but would take me up on that offer the following evening. That was cool. We didn't need to get together every single night.

Around six o'clock, while I was considering cleaning up my apartment but had not yet made any actual tidying progress, Abigail called.

"Hi," she said. "It's me."

We were at the point where she could say "It's me" instead of her name. I'd never been so delighted.

"How's your work going?"

"Good. So, I wasn't lying—I really do have a lot of work to do. But mostly I said no because I'm somebody who needs alone time. There are some nights when I just want to be by myself, and I thought that getting together every day would set a precedent where it was harder for me to do that. But that's stupid. I think it's just that Neal was so clingy, but you're not Neal, and, yes, I'd love to come over."

"That's great," I said, glancing around at an apartment that suddenly seemed three hundred percent messier.

"Is an hour from now okay?"

"An hour is perfect." That was a relief. I could get this place in shape in an hour.

I cleaned up some of the clutter, vacuumed, did the dishes, and was just about to head into my bedroom when there was a knock at the door. It wasn't even six-twenty. I'd assumed she'd be a little early, but I hadn't taken down the stories in the bedroom yet.

I glanced through the peephole. It was Marc.

There was blood on his face.

I hurriedly opened the door and he stepped inside. He was panting as if he'd run here, and he pushed the door closed and locked it before I could do it. The blood came from a cut on his cheek, but as his leather jacket spilled open (why was he wearing a jacket in this heat?) I could see blood all over his shirt, too.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Nothing, it's cool."

"It can't be."

"No, you're right, it's not cool. It's bad. You know what? It's not that bad. It's gonna be good. It's gonna be good." He wiped at his cheek then looked at the blood on his hand. "I didn't realize I was bleeding so much. Can I use your bathroom?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Thanks." Marc had never been in my apartment, but it was a small place and probably the same layout as his, so I didn't need to direct him. He quickly walked to the bathroom and closed the door.

There was no way in hell that him showing up here was a positive thing.

I had no idea what to do. I supposed that I just needed to wait and hear why he was here and what he wanted from me. Maybe he...no, there simply was not a scenario where a blood-covered drug dealer being in my apartment was an improvement over where I'd been before I answered the door.

I shouldn't have let him in.

Shit, shit, shit.

He was only in the bathroom for a moment. When he came out, he'd bandaged up the cut on his face (I didn't like that he'd gone through my medicine cabinet to find a Band-Aid) and was holding the wadded up bloody shirt in his hand.

"Do you have a garbage bag?" he asked.

I nodded and got him one from underneath the kitchen sink. He dropped the shirt into the bag and pulled it shut.

"It dripped on the floor," I told him.

"Oh, damn, I'm sorry."

I unspooled some toilet paper, wiped up the droplets, then flushed it.

"Thanks," Marc said. "You're a good friend."

I shook my head. "No."

"What?"

"We're not real friends. You know that."

"That's harsh. But I get it. I screwed up, okay? I'm not going to deny that I screwed up, and it's entirely my fault, and I deserve whatever happens to me. I tried to rip him off, and I knew how bad it would be if he caught me, but..."

"Wulfe?"

"Yeah."

"Whose blood is on the shirt?"

"Mine."

"No, it's not."

Marc looked like he was choking back a scream. "I got myself into some trouble and I needed cash right away. I would've made it up to him on the next delivery, I swear. I don't want to die."

"Whose blood?"

"One of Wulfe's men. I don't know his name. Nobody will miss him."

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing. Just hide me for a little bit."

"Absolutely not."

"For tonight. Hide me for tonight."

"Not a chance."

"I don't have anywhere else to go."

"How is that possible?" I asked. "We barely know each other. How can I be your only option?"

"That's how my life is going these days. Look, dude, I would never blackmail you, but you're not all shiny and innocent. All I want is a safe place to stay for the night. I'll be gone at sunrise. You have my word."

"Are you really threatening to report me to the cops?"

"No, no, that's not what I meant, I said I'd never blackmail you."

"Then what did you mean?"

Marc choked back another scream. "You want me to die? Is that it? You have so little compassion that you want to see me dead?"

"I don't want to get involved in you ripping off a psychopath and killing one of his men."

"He's not a psychopath."

"He acted like a psychopath when I saw him."

"And his man might've lived, I don't know."

"I can give you some cash. But I'm not going to get dragged into your mess."

Another knock at the door.

It could've been Abigail, arriving really early, but it was a violent knock. It was definitely less of a "girlfriend arriving for dinner" knock than an "angry psychopath" one.

"Hide under my bed," I told him. "Don't make a sound. I'll get rid of him, but you are gone as soon as the coast is clear, do you understand?"

Marc vigorously nodded. "Yeah, yeah. I appreciate this. You'll never know how much."

He went into the bedroom. The knocking continued. I gave him a few seconds to get underneath the bed, and then I looked through the peephole. Yep, it was Wulfe. I considered not answering, but I was pretty sure he wouldn't go away, and the longer I waited, the more difficult it would be to pretend I didn't know anything.

I could call the police and hope he didn't kick down the door before they got here...but I was involved in the criminal activity, even if all I did was act as a low-rent bodyguard. I didn't want to have to explain to the cops why Wulfe was trying to get into my apartment.

I opened the door.

Wulfe had another guy with him. It was the unfriendly looking one who'd let us into the restaurant. I guess I should've used a different adjective, since all of Wulfe's men looked unfriendly. I would've considered him a big guy if I weren't so big myself. He had a shaved head with enough stubble to show that he'd probably shaved it because he was losing his hair anyway. You could call him handsome if it weren't for the sheer meanness of his appearance.

"Hey, Lurch," said Wulfe.

"Hello."

"I'm sorry, that's disrespectful. What's your real name?"

"Lurch is fine."

"Okay, can't say I didn't fuckin' try. I just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I'd pay you a quick visit. Mind if Andy and I come inside?"

(I'm being as accurate as I can remember with everything that was said. So in the spirit of complete honesty, I'll admit that he only said "Mind if we come inside?" I never found out his associate's name and it's awkward to keep writing about him without one, so for the purposes of my book, he's Andy.)

"I'd rather you didn't," I said. "I have company on the way."

"I phrased that shit as a question to make you feel like you controlled your own destiny, but that's not actually how things are working right now. I'll bet that you don't want us standing out here in the hallway, making a fuss in front of your fuckin' neighbors."

I stepped out of the way. Wulfe and Andy walked into my apartment. Andy watched me shut the door, while Wulfe wandered around, checking out the place.

"Not bad, not bad. Kinda small, but there's room to get laid in here. Who's coming over? A hot skank? You cleaning up on Tinder?"

"It's nobody."

"She up for a gangbang, you think? The three of us taking turns, man oh man would that be intense. Or is it the four of us?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I hope that's true. It's not queer, you know. I mean, it's queer if you start gobbling each other's cocks, but if you're only doing the lady it's totally hetero. What do you think? Surprise her with a couple extra guys. Early birthday present."

I said nothing.

"Oh, fuck, it's your mom who's coming over, isn't it? I was making gangbang comments about your mother. That ain't right. I am so very sorry. We'd fuck her, but I'd never ask you to participate. Even if you wanted to we'd stop you. I'm sure your mom's hot, but in the morning you'd feel ashamed of what you'd done."

"What do you want?" I asked.

"What do you think I want?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't ask."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah. I'm not big on wasting time."

"Hmmm," said Wulfe. "I feel like my fuckin' time is being wasted at this very moment."

"Well, feel however you want, but I don't know why you're here."

"Then pretend it's a social visit. Don't you enjoy our company? It's not like we came in here and took a dump on your carpet. We're guests in your home. Where's the hospitality? Why not at least offer us a glass of tap water?"

"Because I didn't invite you in," I said. "And I don't want you to stay long enough to drink a glass of water."

Wulfe looked over at Andy. "Lurch is rude as fuck, isn't he?"

"Maybe we should get down to business," said Andy.

"Maybe we should. Hey, Lurch, where's that asshole Marc?"

"I don't know."

"You haven't talked to him?"

"No."

"Really?"

"I mean, I saw him yesterday when I was getting my mail. He didn't say he was going anywhere."

"So you haven't seen him in, say, the past half hour?"

"No."

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you? I have no fuckin' use for liars. I'll fuck a liar up, believe me."

"How about you watch your language while you're in my living room?"

I didn't care about Wulfe's profanity. I just didn't want him to think I was scared (though I was terrified), and asking him to watch his language seemed like a good way to accomplish that without sending him into a rage.

"Does my cursing offend your delicate sensibilities?"

"I just don't appreciate it in my home."

"Well, fudge. I'm so darn sorry about my potty mouth. Sometimes I can't flipping stop myself. I feel terrible. You must think I'm a bad, bad man. If there was a way I could take back all of those F-words, I'd do it in a heartbeat, but I can't, so you'll have to trust that I am so deeply, truly sorry for all of those naughty words that squirmed into your ears. I'm simply beside myself with shame. I'll try to become a better person, Lurch. For you. For the children. Now where is Marc?"

"I don't know."

"Now, now, I'm watching my language for you, so you could return the favor by not lying to me."

"I'm telling the truth."

"And I think you lack credibility."

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"No."

"How about a Moon Pie?"

"They still make those?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not hungry."

"Mind if I get myself one?" I asked.

"Yes, I do."

I should have done a better job trying to leave the room. I took my cell phone out of my pocket.

"What are you doing?" Wulfe asked.

"I need to tell my friend not to come over."

Wulfe walked over and snatched the phone out of my hand. I tried to snatch it back, which is when I realized that Andy had taken out a gun and was pointing it at me. That shouldn't have surprised me. He too was wearing a jacket that was inappropriate for the warm weather.

"I can't have you calling the cops," said Wulfe.

"I was just going to send a text."

"Well, I can send it for you. What's your passcode?"

"I use my fingerprint."

"But you have a passcode, too. I know how fuckin' phones work. Oh, fudge, there I go again with my cussing. Tell me your passcode or he'll shoot you in the head. And then after we search your place for Marc, we'll hang out until your vagina on legs arrives, and then he'll shoot her too."

"6-1-3-4-1-9."

Wulfe tapped the numbers on the screen. "What's it mean?"

"Nothing." I was telling the truth. I'd originally set it up with the date that my father killed those people, and then I was aghast at myself for being so morbid, so I switched it to numbers that had no meaning. I'd made up a little song in my head to help me remember them.

"Abigail?" Wulfe asked.

"Yeah."

Wulfe scrolled back through some messages. "Aw, isn't that sweet? You two are just so darn cute."

It's hard for me to describe how angry it made me to have him violating my privacy like that. I wanted to get my phone back by ripping off his entire hand. Since I was at gunpoint, I was able to keep my rage simmering below the surface.

"Dictate," said Wulfe.

"Have a migraine and have to cancel. Promise I'll make it up to you."

Wulfe typed that, then held the phone up. "That okay?"

"Sure."

He sent it. "Want me to send a dick pic?" he asked.

"No."

"I'll let you know what she says. I hope she's not too upset." He put my phone in his pocket. "Where's Marc?"

"I don't know."

"This is one tiny-ass apartment. It's not going to take us long to search it."

"I get that."

"If I find out he's here, I'm going to be just as mad at you as I am at him. And I'm homicidally mad at him. You two had better be really good friends, I mean fuckin' soulmates, if you're covering for him. Twin graves. I don't know how deep your friendship goes, but I sure wouldn't sacrifice myself for that piece of shit."

He was making a very good point.

Andy walked right up and pressed the gun against my forehead. He had to reach up a bit to do it, but I was no less intimidated.

"I'm going to ask you a question," said Wulfe, "and this is the last time I'm going to ask this particular question, so I encourage you to give an answer that isn't immediately proven to be a lie. Nobody will think less of you if you don't die for him. I'm not here to fuckin' torture you to death or any of that shit, but still, you don't want a bullet to the head, right? That's not fun for any of us. Are you ready for the question?"

"Yeah."

"Where's Marc?"

"He's under the bed."

eight

I felt like a cowardly douchebag, even though common sense says that if a madman is threatening to kill you unless you tell him something he'll discover for himself through a cursory search of your apartment, you tell him. It wasn't as if I'd sold out Abigail or somebody else who didn't deserve it. Marc had basically threatened to report me to the cops if I didn't help him, and though I didn't believe he'd have actually done it, it was still a dick move. There was no reason for me to get executed for him.

"Thank you for your honesty," said Wulfe. "I like you. You're an all right guy. If you're ever looking to move into a bigger place, I can hook you up with some extra rent money."

It was good to know that I had so many employment opportunities in the drug trade.

Andy lowered the gun.

"I guess we'll go collect Marc," said Wulfe. "You're coming too, Lurch."

The three of us walked into my bedroom, with Andy in the lead. Wulfe whistled as we entered.

"We know you're under there. It'd be nice if you crawled out on your own. Don't make us fuckin' drag you out."

Marc didn't make a sound.

Wulfe sighed and shook his head, amused. "He's gonna make us drag him out. I can't believe it. I can't believe he's hiding under a goddamn bed in the first place." Wulfe kicked the mattress. "What are you, twelve years old?"

I wondered if Marc had moved to the closet. I only had plastic hangers, so he couldn't straighten out a wire hanger to use as a weapon like in the movie Halloween.

Wulfe pointed to the photos and stories on my wall. "What's this?" he asked.

"Nothing. An art project."

"Looks like you're hunting a serial killer. Or you are a fuckin' serial killer. You look like one, I'm not gonna lie. I wonder if there are a couple of dead bodies under that bed along with our buddy Marc?"

He stepped over to the wall to get a closer look, then seemed to remember that he had more important issues to deal with. He returned to the bed.

"You got any nudie mags stashed under the mattress?" Wulfe asked me. "I'd hate to embarrass you."

"No."

"Of course not. No need for those when you've got a universe of online porn at your disposal. What're you into? I bet you're an interracial guy. You ever see medical porn? I don't mean sexy nurses, I mean medical procedure porn. That is some fucked up shit. Ever see that?"

"No."

"What kind do you like?"

"Amateur."

"Good man. You ever upload your own? I wouldn't pay to watch it, but if you sent me the link I'd watch it for free. Not you solo, obviously. If it was you and a hot chick I bet I could bust a nut, no problem." Wulfe kicked the mattress again. "Are you seriously still under there? What the fuck?"

"He might have gone out the window," I said.

"Third floor window? I didn't hear him scream when his fuckin' legs shattered. No, I think that dumb son of a bitch is still under the bed, praying we'll just go away. Maybe he hopes a neighbor will knock at the door and we'll have to leave before we look under the bed. Is that what you're praying for, Marc?"

Wulfe lifted the mattress. Marc was in the fetal position, eyes closed. I'd hoped he might have some kind of amazing plan to get out of this—perhaps he'd booby trapped the mattress or something—but no, he was just lying there.

"Come on out, dipshit."

Marc opened his eyes. Finally realizing that he had no choice, he scooted out from under the bed. Andy pulled him to his feet and pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of his head.

Wulfe gestured to him. "This, gentlemen, is what a very stupid man looks like. He thought he could screw me over, and then he thought he could get away from me by hiding under a fuckin' bed. That's almost at the level of being legitimately mentally retarded. What were you thinking?"

Marc let out a sniffle. He looked like a sad and frightened child.

Wulfe slapped him in the face. "I asked you a question. But I guess it was rhetorical, so no need to answer. In fact, I don't want to hear anything from you. Keep your fuckin' mouth closed until we get some duct tape over it."

Andy gave Marc a shove. They walked into the living room. Wulfe and I followed.

"You gonna give us any problems when we take you to the car?" Wulfe asked. "You gonna try to call attention to yourself?"

Marc shook his head.

"You don't make a sound, you got that? You walk calm and steady and you remember that my guy will still have his gun even if you can't see it. We're parked right outside, so there's not much time for you to fuck up. I'm sure you'll do fine."

Marc sniffled again.

"Go on, cry like a baby. Cry like a little girl who just got a spanking and doesn't know she's supposed to like it yet. There's no shame in it. I'd be bawling too if I was in your situation and I knew what was in store."

"What are you going to do to him?" I asked.

"Bad shit," said Wulfe. "Very, very bad shit."

"Are you going to kill him?"

"Sorry, no spoilers."

Andy kept Marc at gunpoint as they walked to my front door.

"So what was that up on your bedroom wall?" Wulfe asked me. "It's gonna give me nightmares. And when I say that, keep in mind that I'm going to do some nightmarish shit tonight."

"Art project. Like I said."

"Guess I just don't understand art."

"What am I supposed to do after you leave?" I asked. "Obviously I'm not allowed to call the police, but I don't know what else to do. I'm not used to any of this."

"You don't do a damn thing. If anybody asks if you've seen Marc, you say no. You say that the last time you saw him was when you were getting your mail. You say that you hope he's all right. That's it. That's all you say. We might come back and check on you."

I nodded.

Marc was going to die a slow, agonizing death.

I barely knew Marc.

He was a piece of garbage drug dealer who'd put my life in danger by coming here.

He was stupid enough to rip off Wulfe. He deserved whatever the maniac had in store, even if it was only to get him out of the gene pool.

I should not do anything.

I should let them take Marc away and pretend that his death was quick and painless.

I owed him nothing.

My life was going well. Why would I risk getting myself killed to save somebody like that?

You can probably see where I'm going with this.

On a scale of heroism from one to ten, I considered myself about a three. You wouldn't see me rushing into any burning buildings or diving into shark infested waters. But nor would I fling a baby into the mouth of a rampaging tiger to distract it from eating me.

I couldn't let them take him away.

There was an element of selfishness in my decision. I didn't want the sleepless nights of guilt. I didn't want to see them doing something horrific to him (with a hacksaw? Matches? A claw hammer?) every time I closed my eyes. I didn't want to hear his muffled screams running through my mind like an earworm song. I didn't want to battle with my conscience about whether or not there was anything I could have done.

Andy was going to put away the gun before they left my apartment. Wulfe was presumably unafraid that I'd take any action; he figured I'd let them walk out of here, and then I'd find someplace to cower for the rest of the night.

So I had the element of surprise along with the fact that it would take Andy a couple of extra seconds to pull the gun back out and shoot me.

This isn't my problem, I thought, in a last-ditch effort to convince myself not to get myself killed. Marc did this to himself. He's not my friend. He's scum.

I'm not very good at listening to my inner voice.

Andy tucked the gun into his inside jacket pocket.

"Can I have my phone back?" I asked Wulfe.

"Oh, shit, I forgot about that. You need it to tell your piece of ass that your headache's gone, don't you?" He reached into his pocket and handed it to me.

I punched him in the jaw as hard as I could.

I'd never punched anybody in my life—at least not in the face, and not to inflict actual injury—but I'm a big guy and he hadn't braced himself. If I didn't actually break his jaw, I sure as hell loosened it.

My phone hit the floor. Wulfe stayed upright.

I shoved him into Andy, who crashed into my door. It made a louder sound than I would have liked, but remember that I lived in the kind of apartment complex where a guy I barely knew had asked me to accompany him on a drug deal. As long as there was no shouting or gunshots, somebody bashing against a door wouldn't attract enough attention for a neighbor to call the cops.

I pushed Wulfe out of the way and grabbed Andy's arm as he reached into his jacket. I tugged hard with both hands. Not hard enough to wrench his arm out of his socket, but hard enough to spin him around.

I slammed the heel of my palm into his nose. I was trying to jettison a bone fragment into his brain. Blood spurted but he didn't die. I grabbed him by the same arm and yanked him to the floor. He landed facedown. If I'd taken even half a second to consider what I was about to do, I'm sure I would've lost my nerve, but I was in this scary zone where it didn't even feel like I was controlling my actions. This wasn't me. This was another guy.

The kind of guy who would jump into the air and bring both of his feet down on somebody's neck.

Some people take off their shoes at the front door. I was not one of those people.

The crunch left little doubt about the end result, but there wasn't time to gape in horror at my work. Wulfe had his hand inside his own jacket and was frantically fishing around for something. I assumed it was a gun. Even if he let Andy do all of the gun-waving, it didn't make sense that Wulfe would've come here without his own firearm. Though getting a gun out of his pocket shouldn't have been a challenge, he was kind of distracted by a broken jaw.

Marc opened the door and ran out of the apartment.

I twisted Wulfe around and channeled my inner wrestler. I pulled him off-balance, but before he fell I thrust my knee into his spine. This sound was less of a crunch than a crack. I dropped him to the floor, not intending for him to hit his head quite that hard. It might have fractured his skull.

No screaming. No gunfire. I'd done it.

I sensed that I might suddenly be on the verge of having a complete mental breakdown if I didn't make a concerted effort to keep myself under control.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Inspect the damage.

Andy was dead. I hadn't decapitated him, but if I repeated the jump, yeah, I genuinely believe that his head would come off, at least most of the way.

I rolled Wulfe onto his back. He was not dead. His eyes were wide with terror, and his mouth kept opening and closing like a goldfish, except with blood streaming out. You weren't supposed to move somebody with a broken spine, but whether or not he would ever walk again wasn't my primary concern. I wouldn't be calling an ambulance for him.

"I'm sorry," I told him. It was quite possibly the stupidest thing I'd said in my entire life; still, the words came out and maybe I even meant them. I wasn't sure he deserved this. He was an asshole, no question. And, yes, he was going to kill Marc in an awful way. He did deserve this. He totally deserved it. I wasn't thinking straight.

I tilted his head to the side so he wouldn't choke on his own blood.

Though I felt like I should put him out of his misery, he was a bargaining chip if any of his men came after me. They probably wouldn't even want him in this state, but I didn't see an advantage to killing him right now. He wasn't making any noise except for some gasping, and he certainly wasn't going anywhere without being carried. He'd be low maintenance.

I suddenly slapped my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream.

It took me almost a minute to feel comfortable removing it.

I definitely didn't want to scream. No neighbors had come over to tell me to keep the goddamn noise down, so I was in good shape, all things considered. I had a mess to clean up, and a corpse to get rid of—possibly two at some point—but my only injury was that my hand hurt from breaking Wulfe's jaw. I didn't think any of my own bones were broken, though. I could clench and unclench my fist. I was fine.

If the police showed up I'd throw myself at the mercy of the court, but otherwise I was confident in my ability to get out of this. My first step would be to go down to Marc's apartment to see if he was there. He'd have to be an idiot to stick around, but he'd already solidly established himself to be an idiot. I couldn't imagine that he wouldn't flee; still, he might be frantically packing a suitcase right now.

No, wait, my first step was to make positively sure that Abigail wasn't on her way. I picked up my cell phone.

Sorry to hear that, she'd texted with a frowny face. Tomorrow then.

I don't get full-on migraines but I do get really bad headaches sometimes, she'd continued. I've got this compress that you pop into the microwave to warm up, and then you lie down with it against your forehead. It works miracles.

I could bring it over...?

Sorry if that was pushy. Not trying to bother you when you're not feeling well. See you tomorrow!

Thank God. I wished we were at a point in our relationship where I could tell her that I'd just murdered one drug dealer and paralyzed another and could really use her assistance in disposing of the body, but I didn't think we were quite there yet.

Then I totally freaked the hell out.

I didn't shriek or look for a straight razor to slash my wrists, but I completely lost it. The realization of what I'd done hit me so hard that it literally doubled me over, as if a ghost had punched me in the gut. I started sobbing. I've had unkind things to say about my laughter and my dancing, but for true Frank Johnson ugliness, nothing compares to crying. And this was the full deal: red face, heaving shoulders, copious mucus.

I was probably going to be tortured to death by vengeance-seeking drug dealers or spend the next few decades in prison. I'd never see Abigail again. For Marc. I'd thrown my life away for Marc. When one of Wulfe's men shoved the rusty pliers into my mouth and clamped it over my molar, I'd have to accept that this was happening to me because I didn't want it to happen to Marc.

Marc was an idiot, but I was worse. At least he was concerned with self-preservation.

I wish I could say that my breakdown did not involve physically harming myself. I cannot say that. Nothing too bad. Just some slaps.

It didn't last very long, because I quickly realized that every second I was sitting on the floor blubbering put me one second closer to not catching up with Marc. If I needed to spend the entire night in the bathtub weeping, I'd do it, but first I had to take care of business.

I went into the bathroom and wiped away the snot and tears. Though this felt like a waste of precious time, it most definitely was not: me wandering the halls looking like I'd just been sobbing was the kind of thing that would stick out in the memory of my neighbors.

I got myself together. Meltdown later. Action now.

I returned to the living room and was unsuccessful in my attempt to not look at Wulfe. There was pleading in his eyes. I'm not sure if he wanted me to put him out of his misery or if he wanted me to make everything all right. Wave a magic wand and undo the last few minutes. Sorry, Wulfe. I would if I could.

After committing murder and paralyzing a guy, theft was a relatively minor crime. I took Wulfe's keys out of his pocket, which I assume pissed him off though I couldn't tell it from his face. Then I took the gun that he did indeed have in his inside jacket pocket. I took Andy's keys and gun as well. I didn't want to carry around two guns, and I had no idea whose was better. I did know that Andy's was a pistol and Wulfe's was a revolver, so I went with the pistol, thinking it might have more bullets. I didn't want to eject the cartridge and check because I might not be able to put it back in correctly. I stuck Wulfe's gun in a kitchen drawer and then, like the experienced criminals, I put on an unseasonably warm jacket and tucked Andy's gun into the inside pocket, where it joined a beef stick I'd forgotten about.

It seemed cruel to leave Wulfe in the dark, so I left the light on when I walked out of my apartment.

I could fix this.

nine

I knocked on Marc's door. I didn't want to draw attention to myself by saying anything, so I hoped that he'd look through the peephole and see that it was me. Of course, he might think it was me with a gun pointed at my head just out of peephole range.

I stared at the tiny circle of glass, waiting for it to darken to indicate that he was looking through the other side.

He'd know that I knew he was peeking out, which would be deadly if Wulfe and Andy were the ones on the other side of his door. So he might be in his apartment, unmoving, trying not to even breathe.

I knocked again. "Hey, Marc, it's me. Are you around? I've got that CD you wanted to borrow."

I did not have a CD in my hand, and I'm sure my line delivery made it sound like I was there for any possible reason except to return a CD. I suddenly felt like everybody in the hallway had simultaneously called 911.

He didn't answer. I could've kicked open the door, but that would not be the best way to continue my efforts to be discreet. Really, if he was hiding in there, that was fine. I could talk to him later.

Some slobs at the end of the hall had a pizza box and some beer cans outside of their door, as if they expected room service to show up and collect them. I walked over there and picked up a can, then returned to Marc's apartment and placed the can on the floor against his door. He wouldn't knock it over when he opened the door—the door swung into the apartment, not out—but would he leave a beer can sitting right there? He'd probably kick it out of the way, either accidentally or on purpose. And if he figured out what I was trying to do, he wouldn't know to put it back so that the P in Pabst Blue Ribbon was perfectly aligned with the center of the doorknob. It was far from an ingenious scheme, but I hadn't thought to bring any tape for the old "human hair snaps when the door opens" trick.

Then I went down the stairwell and out of the building. Though I didn't know what specific car I was looking for, Wulfe had said they'd parked close, and both his and Andy's keys had an unlock button, so it would be pretty easy to find. Before that, I'd take a quick walk around the building and see if Marc's car was parked anywhere.

It wasn't. Damn. That didn't mean for sure that he'd fled, but it wasn't a good sign. I wondered if I'd missed my window of opportunity to catch him while I was wallowing in mental anguish.

I pressed the unlock button on Andy's key and the headlights of a black sedan flashed. Not that great of a car. I would've expected much better from a successful drug dealer, although it might have been a decision made not to draw attention, or maybe Wulfe didn't pay Andy very well. I'd get rid of it completely later. For now I just didn't want it to be in the parking lot if somebody came looking for Wulfe.

I drove about a mile to a grocery store, which isn't where I was going to leave the car but which seemed like a safe place to search it and not worry about anybody going back to review security camera footage. I parked in the row furthest from the store, then opened the glove compartment. Just a random assortment of papers. The back seat was empty except for a candy bar wrapper on the floor. I pulled the lever to pop open the trunk and got out of the car.

I raised the lid and was pleased that there was not a dead body (or pieces of one) inside. There was a lot of random junk. And also a small blue duffel bag.

I unzipped it, hoping it would be full of money.

It was.

I zipped it back up. I had no idea how much was in there, but my quick glance was enough to make it clear that the answer was "a lot."

This might have solved my problem. A bag full of their money was a pretty good bargaining tool. I closed the trunk and got back in the car.

There were a few apartment complexes in the immediate vicinity. I decided to go with the one, four blocks from my own, that seemed the least likely to have security cameras. I didn't know for certain that there were no cameras, but if there were, they sure didn't do much to prevent vandalism. I didn't think the cops would be looking for the car. All I had to do was hide it from Wulfe's men, and I couldn't imagine that they'd do any kind of organized search that spanned several blocks.

I parked the car, got the bag out of the trunk, and then walked back home.

I stopped by Marc's apartment. The can hadn't moved.

I unlocked my door and walked inside. Wulfe and Andy were still on the floor. Obviously, Andy hadn't moved, but I was relieved to see that Wulfe was also just where I'd left him. There was a pretty big pool of blood next to his head. His eyes were closed.

"Hey," I said.

Wulfe's eyes snapped open. They'd gone bloodshot. He opened his mouth but there was no sound.

I didn't want to be a jerk and taunt him with the duffel bag, so I tossed it onto my couch without comment. I crouched down next to him. "Can you understand me?"

Wulfe didn't move his head.

"Blink if you understand me."

After about five seconds, he blinked. I wasn't sure if he was indicating his understanding or if it was just a normal blink.

"Blink twice if you understand me."

Wulfe blinked twice.

"I don't actually have any questions for you right now," I said. "I'm sure I'll have some soon."

The guy really liked to talk. I wondered if his forced silence was the worst part of this experience for him.

(I knew it wasn't, of course. The worst part was the agonizing pain or the paralysis or the fear that I was going to kill him. Not being able to use profanity was probably very low on his current list of woes.)

 I took out my cell phone. No new texts from Abigail. I should have replied to her latest one before I left the apartment. It would've been disastrous if she'd gotten worried and decided to come over.

Not pushy at all, I typed. I appreciate the offer. If I weren't already in bed I'd take you up on it.

I sent the text, then cursed myself. That sounded like a suggestive text. What if she sent something back equally suggestive? I couldn't have her thinking that I was trying to lure her into my bed. Not now.

I stared at my screen for about ten seconds until I decided that staring at my screen was unproductive and shoved the phone back into my pocket. I needed to check for Wulfe and Andy's phones. That's something I should have done right away. I felt like I was completing tasks in the wrong order.

Andy had a phone in his jacket pocket. But it was locked with a passcode, and I wasn't the kind of master interrogator who could get answers from a dead man. I could barely carry on a conversation with a live person.

I tried to be as gentle as possible as I searched Wulfe for his phone. There was some jostling but nothing that messed him up any worse than he already was. I got the phone out of his back pocket, and he too had a passcode.

I held the phone up to his face. "Here's what you're doing to do," I said. "You're going to blink the number of times as the first digit in your code. If it's three, you blink three times. If it's seven, you blink seven times. Do you understand?"

Wulfe did nothing to indicate whether or not he understood.

"Or maybe it would be easier if I just said numbers and you blink when I get to the right one. Yeah, that's definitely easier. I'll just go 1, 2, 3, and you blink when I say the first digit. Blink if you think that's a good idea."

Wulfe didn't blink.

I wasn't sure how I could intimidate him. The problem was that I didn't know if he was desperate to stay alive or if he wanted the release of death. So if I threatened to smother him with a pillow, that might be exactly what he wanted. I could break his fingers, maybe, but what if he didn't have any feeling in his extremities? I hated to resort to such sadism for nothing. Even if he wanted to die and couldn't feel it, he wouldn't be happy if I sawed off his limbs, but that was way too ghastly. I'd be haunted by that for sure. And I didn't have a saw.

Did it have to be intimidation? What about convincing him that we were working toward a mutual goal?

"I want to use your phone to contact your employees," I said. "Or at least somebody who cares about you. You're only hurting yourself if you don't cooperate."

Wulfe's tongue slipped out of his mouth, but it wasn't like he was sticking his tongue out at me. It pushed out a trickle of blood with it. This wasn't going to work. Time to move on to a new job: cleanup.

I didn't have a plastic tarp handy, and I didn't want to do a "body disposal supplies" shopping trip. But I did have garbage bags and tape, and if I wrapped Andy up enough that he didn't leak, I could drag him into the bathroom and store him in the tub.

I'm pretty efficient at these kinds of tasks (I mean manual labor, not stuff involving bodies) and it didn't take long. I picked him up by the legs and dragged him. As I did, I realized that a thin line of blood was trailing behind him, but compared to the large pool of blood on my living room floor, it would be no big deal to clean up. Again, if there was any kind of crime scene investigation, I was probably boned no matter how much bleach I used, so I wasn't trying to remove every trace of Andy's DNA.

I dragged him into the bathtub. His head hit the porcelain pretty hard. It didn't matter, of course, but it still made me wince. I was worried that when I eventually removed the garbage bag his eyeball would be bulging out of its socket or something.

Now for Wulfe.

I honestly couldn't think of a good place to put him except for the bathtub. I supposed I could leave him on the bathroom floor with some towels under his head to soak up the blood, but what if Abigail showed up unexpectedly? I couldn't say, "Don't look in the bathroom." But if I pulled the shower curtain, she wouldn't necessarily feel compelled to peek behind it.

Obviously I wouldn't let her use the toilet. She'd hear him breathing. It would just be good to have that extra layer of security behind the closed bathroom door, just in case.

I was probably being paranoid, but people hiding bodies in their bathroom should be paranoid.

"This is going to hurt," I told him. "I apologize for that."

Would he scream? The way he kept silently opening and closing his mouth made me think that he was incapable of sound, but what if he bellowed when I picked him up?

I returned to the bathroom and got a washcloth. Then I shoved it into his mouth. I didn't apologize for it; at some point I had to stop saying I was sorry.

Picking him up and carrying him to the bathroom could very well kill him. But leaving him out in the open could very well kill me, so Wulfe was getting carried. I kept reminding myself that he was a horror show of a human being who deserved no sympathy.

"I assume you're not a big God person," I said. "But if you wanted to make some kind of peace, now would be the time. I can't promise this isn't the end."

He just kept doing that creepy goldfish-mouth thing, so I picked him up as gently as I could, the way a groom would hold a bride when carrying her over the threshold. His mouth suddenly opened wide but he made no noise.

I moved as quickly as I could without jiggling him.

When we got into the bathroom, I very carefully lowered him into the bathtub, on top of Andy. I held on to him long enough to make sure that Andy's body didn't shift beneath him.

Yes, this was ghoulish.

Making somebody sleep on top of a corpse was an objectively awful thing to do. But I didn't want to have to keep cleaning up blood; here I could just turn on the shower and wash it all away, no matter how much they bled throughout the night. Andy was covered in garbage bags, so hopefully that made it seem a bit less like Wulfe was trapped on a dead body.

If he could talk, he probably would've said something about not wanting to sleep so close to another dude.

"If it gets too scary, signal to me somehow," I said. "Otherwise, this is where you're staying. You know you were going to do worse things to Marc."

I pulled the shower curtain closed.

Lights on or lights off? If I were paralyzed on top of a corpse, would I want to be in the dark? I decided that I would. I turned off the bathroom light and left, shutting the door behind me.

I might have to feed him at some point. I wasn't sure how that would work. I supposed I'd have to blend it up and pour it down his throat. Anyway, that was a problem for later. He could be dead the next time I checked on him.

Now it was time to clean up some blood.

I was glad that I didn't have carpeting. Wiping up blood from the linoleum was bad because it wouldn't come out of the cracks as easily as I hoped, but this was nowhere near as difficult as if I had to scrub a carpet. I just used Windex and a lot of paper towels.

Soon my apartment didn't look like the site of a recent atrocity.

Again, if a CSI team came around, it was all over for me. I wasn't trying to fool forensics experts. I went around with a flashlight, shining it everywhere on the floor that Andy or Wulfe might have leaked, and I didn't see any specks of blood that I'd missed. I'm sure there was at least one or two. But if Abigail came over, I believed that as long as she stayed out of the bathroom, I could sit with her in the living room without feeling the stomach-clenching anxiety that she might suspect something was wrong.

To be clear, I wasn't going to invite her over until this situation was resolved. But I felt I'd cleaned up enough that she could come over.

Now that I was done getting rid of the ghastly mess, I felt like I could sure use a shower, but...you know...

I got undressed, then washed up using the kitchen sink.

Though it felt like it should be after midnight, it wasn't even eight-thirty. It had been less than two hours since Marc showed up at my door and possibly destroyed my life.

I needed to hide the duffel bag. I should've done that sooner; again, I was doing things in the wrong order. It would've been more secure to hide it outside of my apartment, but I wanted to keep it easily accessible, so I slid it under my bed, right where Marc had been hiding. That spot hadn't worked out for him, yet the key difference was that I now had two guns, so I could do a better job protecting the money than I had protecting Marc.

Now what?

Truthfully, my plan was really to just sort of hang out and hope that nobody came after me. I wasn't sure how Wulfe and Andy had known to come to my door. Maybe nobody else knew where they were headed. Maybe I could ride this out. Tomorrow night I'd get rid of the bodies. Whether that meant "sneak them out of my apartment and pray there were no witnesses" or a long-term plan where nobody would be allowed to inspect the foil-wrapped packages in my freezer, I hadn't decided yet.

So for now I'd simply sit in my apartment, alone except for my victims, and obsess over what I'd done. An evening well spent.

I looked for lighthearted, stupid comedies on Netflix. I watched the first few minutes of several different movies, from black and white silent slapstick to modern stoner, but none of them amused me. I switched to cat videos on YouTube and couldn't elicit a single "Awww..."

Normally I went to bed around ten o'clock. Whenever I went to bed earlier, I'd just lie there and stare at the ceiling, and since tonight was already going to be a miserable night for sleep, I didn't want to compound the problem.

I wished I could talk to Abigail. Not about what happened. Just talk to her. Unfortunately, I wasn't convinced that I could carry on a normal-sounding conversation. We were in the very early stages of being boyfriend and girlfriend—perhaps too early to even use those terms—and I couldn’t risk weirding her out.

One plus: I wasn't hearing Andy's voice in my head or hallucinating images of him standing in my living room. That was good.

At exactly ten o'clock I went to bed.

When the alarm went off at six, I felt way less sane.

ten

You know those nights where you aren't sure if you fell asleep or not? You don't think you lost consciousness, and your thoughts never seemed to be interrupted, but it also seems like those eight hours passed a bit too quickly? Oh, it was a long, long hellish night—it just felt like it should be two in the morning instead of six when my alarm went off.

If I did fall asleep, there were no nightmares that I remembered. Just lots of spooky movement of shadows while I was awake. Lots of fantasies about how wonderful my life would be if I'd merely let Wulfe and Andy waltz out of there with Marc. What a glorious, stress-free existence.

I had a recurring image—not a dream, just an image—of me grabbing Andy by the hair and tearing his head off with my bare hands. His head didn't talk or anything, but it was still a freaky image.

During my unknown number of hours lying awake, I'd decided that I'd go to work. If the police showed up to investigate, it would probably be better for me to be home instead of having the landlord let them in, but I was still operating under the assumption that the cops weren't going to come looking for those guys. Maybe that was foolish. Surely they had families. Still, anybody who could link me to their disappearances wouldn't be the kind of person to involve the authorities. At least that's what I hoped.

If Wulfe's men showed up while I was gone, well, it was probably better if I wasn't home.

I picked out my clothes and went to take a...no, wait, no shower for me this morning. I didn't think that corpse germs were floating in the air, but I still didn't want to use my toothbrush, so I settled for taking my tube of toothpaste out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. I squirted some toothpaste onto my index finger and rubbed it onto my teeth. I washed up as best I could with just water and a cloth (my only bar of soap was in the shower), got dressed, and shoved the guns into the duffel bag with the money.

Then I reluctantly decided that I needed to check on Wulfe. I mean, I knew I'd have to do it before I left, but I was putting it off as long as possible.

I pulled back the shower curtain.

He was still lying there, not that I thought he'd gone anywhere. The lower half of his face was caked with blood, but it was all dried so it had stopped flowing at some point. He'd wet his pants. The smell wasn't bad, so I didn't think he'd done worse. His eyes were closed.

"Hey," I said.

Wulfe didn't open his eyes. I could see that he was breathing.

"Hey, Wulfe."

He still didn't react. I wasn't sure if he was a heavy sleeper or if he'd fallen into a coma. I reached out and poked his shoulder. It took a few pokes, but eventually he opened his eyes.

"I'm heading out," I told him. "I was going to let you sleep, but you've got blood and piss all over you. Do you want a shower before I go? Blink twice if you want a shower."

Wulfe blinked twice.

"I'm not taking off your clothes or anything. I'm just turning on the water. It's your responsibility to make sure that you don't drown. Okay?"

He blinked twice.

I turned on the faucet and waited a few moments for the water to warm up. Then I switched it to the shower spray. Most of the blood washed off his face fairly quickly. I wished I had one of those removable showerheads, but since I didn't, I used a washcloth to remove the rest of the blood. The water wasn't hitting his crotch very well, so I held the washcloth under the spray and wrung it out onto him a few times.

I turned off the shower. He wasn't ready to go out to a five-star restaurant, but he didn't look as crappy as he had a few minutes ago. I didn't think that getting Andy wet was accelerating the rotting process, though I was no science expert. As far as I knew, I had at least a couple of days before the maggots appeared.

Wulfe didn't look very comfortable, though that was to be expected. I wasn't sure if I should adjust his position, like a nurse would do to a bedridden patient, or leave him alone.

"Your call," I said. "I can turn you a little, which might mess up your bones some more, or I can leave you the way you are. Blink twice if you want me to move you."

Wulfe didn't acknowledge my question, so I decided to leave him where he was. I closed the curtain, turned off the bathroom light, and shut the door behind me.

The can in front of Marc's door hadn't moved.

Work was a challenge. It made the day that I was twitching with rage over Abigail's black eye seem stress-free by comparison. A few times I considered telling my supervisor that I was sick and needed to leave early, but no, I'd stick it out. I hoped these particular calls weren't being monitored for quality assurance because I wasn't providing excellent customer service.

Around eleven o'clock, I got a text from Abigail.

Feeling any better?

Yes, thanks, I responded, after making sure nobody was watching me.

Did you to go work?

Yep. Dragged myself out of bed.

Want company for lunch?

I'd love that. I have to run a couple of errands, but we could meet at Kenner Park at noon.

Great! I'll bring sandwiches!

Do you know where it is?

I can Google it.

See you then!

I didn't have any errands to run. I just wanted an excuse for us not to walk to the park together. Why risk Wulfe's men seeing me with Abigail if I could take a simple precaution? I couldn't imagine that I was part of some elaborate criminal conspiracy where they were tracking my every move, but that didn't mean they weren't hanging out by the place I worked.

Though Kenner Park was only three blocks away, I drove and took the long route. Again, I had no reason to believe that anybody was following me in a car (and my frequent glances at the rearview mirror seemed to confirm that) but driving a few extra minutes was no big deal. This wouldn't last forever.

Abigail was already there, sitting on a bench. She had a foot-long submarine sandwich and two cans of soda. I loved her.

"Is turkey okay?" she asked, handing me half as I sat down next to her.

"It's perfect, thanks."

"Sorry about last night."

"Why?"

"You know, being pushy about coming over. I swear I'm not a stalker chick."

"No, no, no, that's totally fine. I'm sorry I cancelled. When I get these migraines, I can barely function. I would've been terrible company."

"Glad you're feeling better."

"Me too." I hoped she wouldn't ask if we could get together tonight. I needed to get ahead of that. "Are you busy on Saturday?"

"Saturday is when I sit at home and reflect upon the poor decisions I've made in my life, but I could change my plans for you."

"Dinner and a movie?" I asked. I needed to eventually come up with something more inventive. When I got back to work maybe I'd try to write out a list of more creative date ideas.

"We could do that," said Abigail. "Or we could explore nature. Do you like nature?"

"Sometimes."

"I know a great place for hiking. It's beautiful and none of it is uphill. The trail ends at a waterfall."

"Really?"

Abigail nodded. "I don't mean a Niagara Falls waterfall, but it's absolutely gorgeous. Sometimes I'll go out there and spend hours just sitting there and drawing. I've never brought anybody out there before. If you aren't impressed, I'll invent time travel and give you your two hours back."

"Then can we go kill Hitler?"

"If you'd like."

"That sounds like a lot of fun. It's been a while since I've done anything in nature, and who knows how much longer we'll have it around? Do I need good hiking boots?"

Abigail glanced at my feet. "You need something better than what you've got on."

"I wear dress shoes to work. I've got sneakers at home."

"Those would be fine. Again, it's not a treacherous hike. We'll save the danger for our next one."

"It's a deal."

We sat in silence for a moment as we ate our sandwiches.

"What's wrong?" Abigail asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You look really upset all of a sudden."

"No, I'm totally fine," I insisted. "Everything's..."

And then I lost it.

It wasn't a meltdown at the level of yesterday's when I was alone in my apartment, but it was much worse than any emotions you'd want to display in front of a brand-new girlfriend without giving her any warning that they were about to spew out.

There were tears and quaking shoulders and, of course, snot. I kept wiping it up with napkins but there was an endless supply. Abigail would have been well within her moral right to stand up, say, "Sorry, Frank, not what I signed up for!" and make a hasty retreat, but instead she just sat on the bench, waiting for me to compose myself. She didn't offer a hug or extra napkins. She just watched and waited.

There were plenty of other people in the park and I'm sure a lot of them were staring at me, but Abigail never looked around. If she was mortified, she didn't show it.

Finally I started to get myself under control. I blew my nose with one napkin and dried my eyes with another. I took a few deep breaths. The meltdown had passed. Now I just had to deal with the aftereffects.

"I didn't mean to do that," I told her.

"That goes without saying."

I forced myself to look her in the eye. Her expression was a mixture of concern and anger that she was clearly trying very hard to control. A tear trickled down her cheek.

"It's all right," she said. "I won't tell your wife."

"What? No, no, no, that's not it at all. Nothing like that, I promise."

"But it's something bad. Did somebody die?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"You're thinking 'favorite aunt' or something and that's not it either. Okay, so, I'm going to tell you everything, and I'm not asking you to understand, or to forgive me, or to even hear me out until the end. You have the right to just get up and leave anytime you want and I won't hold it against you. I'll never bother you again."

"Frank, you're kind of scaring me."

"It's a scary story."

"Tell me."

And I did. From beginning to end. I didn't leave anything out, and I made no effort to paint myself in a positive light. I was ninety-nine percent certain she'd leave me after this—and true to my word, I'd never bother her again—but if by some miracle she didn't flee, I wasn't going to leave any dark secrets for her to discover later.

To clarify: what I mean is that I told her the whole story about Marc and Wulfe. I told her how I accompanied Marc on a few drug deliveries and how this ultimately led to two bodies in my bathtub. I did not tell her that I spied on her abusive ex-boyfriend at a bar. She didn't need to know that. It wasn't relevant to my current predicament.

Abigail mostly kept a poker face. There were no new tears.

"And that's what happened," I said.

Abigail nodded. "Thank you for telling me."

"No problem."

"I don't usually need a lot of time to work things out, but I'd like ten minutes to myself. Is that okay? Ten minutes?"

"Yes, yes, absolutely. Take as long as you need."

"Do you need to get back to work?"

"No, it's fine."

"I'm going to take a walk around the park. You'll see me the whole time. I promise you I won't run off."

"I already said you could," I reminded her. "Not that you need my permission."

"What I mean is that you'll see that I'm not making a call, or running off to get help. For ten minutes, all I'm going to do is think, so you don't have to worry."

"All right. I'll wait here."

"You can finish your sandwich without me."

"I will. Thank you."

Abigail walked away from the bench.

I felt a very tiny bit better. She could have slapped me in the face, or even spat in it. She could have pointed at me and screamed "Murderer! Murderer!" I didn't expect her to come back waving an axe and say, "All right, partner, let's go hack us up some drug dealers!" but I'd honestly expected a much worse initial reaction.

Obviously, she could be lying to me. As soon as she was a safe distance from me, she could break into a sprint. I wouldn't try to stop her. I mean, I wouldn't just sit on the bench and wait to be arrested, but I wouldn't stop Abigail from doing whatever she thought was necessary.

I couldn't see her face. She was walking like somebody deep in thought, although I may simply have been projecting that. I'm not sure how people walk when they're deep in thought. Slowly, I guess. She was walking slowly.

I wasn't hungry, but I ate more of the turkey sub, just to give myself something to do.

I had a prediction for how this was going to turn out, which I'd classify as "bad, but not as bad as it could've been." She would, I expected, tell me that she was not going to report me to the police, but that she never wanted to see me again. It would be a heartbreaking end to our far-too-short relationship, yet not as bad as going to prison.

I wondered how much time had elapsed. Not much, probably. This ten minutes was going to feel as long as the hours I spent staring at my ceiling last night.

Each bite of the sandwich required a drink of soda to wash it down. My throat wasn't working right.

If I'd let them take Marc away, Abigail and I would be having a fun lunch right now. We'd be laughing and talking about how our days were going and enjoying whatever inside jokes we'd generated when she came over to my apartment last night. I wouldn't be sitting on a park bench trying to choke down a turkey sandwich while my girlfriend (ex-girlfriend) determined my fate.

She stayed within sight, basically just walking in a big circle. I would've understood if she was talking out loud to herself, but she wasn't, at least not when I could see her face.

I finished up the sandwich. It was the first submarine sandwich I'd shared with Abigail and should have been the best submarine sandwich of my entire life, not the worst. If she dumped me, which she most likely would, I'd probably get food poisoning on top of it.

Abigail walked back over to the bench.

"I need ten more minutes," she informed me.

"Okay."

"Should we talk after work?"

"No, I can be late." I never came back from lunch late, but the threat of getting scolded by my supervisor felt pretty insignificant as of today.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Abigail returned to her soul-searching walk.

I was getting twitchy. She hadn't told me to wait on the bench. I felt like I should, though.

At least I didn't feel another breakdown coming on, although anything could happen when she finally came back and told me to stay the hell away from her.

On the other side of the park, a young woman was playing with a dog. I wished I had a dog to distract me right now. I'd much rather be spending ten minutes throwing a Frisbee to a Mastiff than sitting here sweating.

I don't think it was a full ten minutes before Abigail returned. She sat down on the bench next to me, close but not snuggly close.

"I'm going to help you," she said.

eleven

This answer surprised me so much that I truly believed she was going to follow it by shouting "Psyche!" and then making a citizen's arrest.

"I should clarify," Abigail said. "I'm not going to help you hide bodies or anything. I'm not going to do anything that's illegal or puts me in danger. What I will do is help you talk through what needs to be done to fix this."

What the hell more could I ask for? I could feel tears starting to form, but no, I fought them back. She'd seen me cry enough for one day.

"Thank you," I said.

"Thank me when the problem is solved."

"I don't want to seem needy, but why do you want to help me?"

"Because I like you. You're a good guy. You saved Marc's life. Was it the smart thing to do? No. You should have let them take him away and then called the police. But you did it to rescue him. You were thinking about somebody else. I'm not going to let you hang for that."

I wanted to give her a hug. But she seemed kind of tense and this didn't feel like it would be mutually seen as a hug moment.

"If I called the police, they'd find out that I was with Marc those other times," I said.

"Right. But what was the worst-case scenario there? Maybe some jail time? Maybe not. You didn't sell any drugs. Sounds more like probation, if you were even charged with anything."

"So I made a mistake." I sighed. "Too late now."

"Is it?"

"I've got two bodies in my bathtub. I'd assume so."

"It was to save Marc, and self-defense. You panicked afterward. Obviously, it would be much better if you'd called the police as soon as it happened, but it doesn't change your motive. You can turn the money over to the police to show that you're completely willing to cooperate."

"Wouldn't I be charged with murder?"

"Maybe. Or manslaughter."

"I don't like that."

"We're trying to dig you out of a terrible situation. Not every outcome is going to be good."

"I'd prefer one where I'm not charged with murder."

"If you can find Marc, maybe you can work out a story where you were never involved in his business. You saved his life—surely he'd be willing to say that he came to you as a friendly neighbor."

"I thought about that," I said. "But he wouldn't want me to go to the cops. I assume he's grateful, but not enough to encourage me to turn him in."

"All right, that's reasonable."

"I'm not saying that I won't go to the cops. I'd just like to come up with an idea that doesn't involve me doing prison time."

"So, something along the lines of hiding the bodies and hoping for the best?" Abigail asked.

"That's where I was headed, yeah."  

"One of the bodies is still alive."

"I know. It's a complication."

"Are you willing to kill him?"

"No."

Was that one hundred percent the truth? If Abigail suggested that she thought I should kill Wulfe, I'd be willing to put him out of his misery in a compassionate manner. But I sure as hell wasn't going to come right out and tell her that I'd murder the guy.

"Then are you planning to keep him in your bathtub forever?"

"I thought I might drop him off in front of a hospital. Or in front of the seafood place."

"Good. That's two options for Wulfe. We're making progress. Let's talk about the money. If you don't want to involve the authorities, I guess your options are, one, keep the money, and two, give the money back."

"Right."

"How much do you think is in there?"

I shrugged. "Tens of thousands, maybe?"

"When you get some privacy, you should figure out exactly how much you have. If you've got tens of thousands of dollars, that's 'run away' money."

"I don't want to run away."

"And I don't want you to run away. But as we've established, not every outcome is going to be good. If you've got, say, fifty grand in a bag, and you don't think the police will consider you a suspect, you may want to consider hiding the bodies, quitting your job, and driving across the country."

If she'd added "...and I'll come with you," I would've done that in a heartbeat.

Abigail didn't add that part, and I couldn't imagine asking her.

She also hadn't said whether or not the romantic part of our relationship was officially over. Was she helping me just as a friend? Did she have any intention of us staying together—not that we were necessarily "together" yet anyway—after this? I had no idea.

"Okay," I said. "That's something I could do."

"And the other option is to give the money back. Make things right. Quote unquote right, I mean," she said, holding up her fingers to denote quotation marks. "Do you know the guys who work with Wulfe at all?"

"No. I never said a word to any of them. Wulfe did all the talking."

"So maybe they're perfectly happy to have him gone. You said he was an asshole. If it's two less shares to divide between them, they might be thrilled to take back the money in exchange for calling it even."

"They might."

"Which of those ideas sounds better to you?"

It would be entirely inappropriate to ask Abigail if she'd run away with me. Of course she wouldn't. That would be ridiculous. I shouldn't even ask. Only a psychopath would ask something like that. Asking would be a really bad idea.

On the other hand, if she did say yes...

Which she wouldn't.

But if she did...

No.

If she did, I'm not saying it would've been worth the horrific acts I'd committed, but it would certainly be a silver lining to them.

I didn't want to flee on my own. So if I went with that plan of action, I needed to know if she was willing to flee with me. Maybe she would be. This wasn't the only city where she could set up a flower stand. Perhaps business would be better a few states away.

She shouldn't be interested in me in the first place. Even before I'd killed somebody I was no prize. With that additional baggage—giant-sized hard shell baggage—she'd have to be completely out of her mind to agree that we should have a life together.

Screw it. I was going to ask. You only live once.

"If I leave with the money, would you come with me?" I asked.

Abigail did not immediately answer.

I should not have asked.

"No," she finally said.

"Okay."

"I can't look over my shoulder for the rest of my life."

"I understand."

"But if you give back the cash, if you work out a deal where they are satisfied with the arrangement, I will leave with you. We use our own money to start over. I don't have much, but I've got a little, and I don't mind finances being tight for a while."

Holy shit. Had she said yes?

"I...I don't mind finances being tight, either."

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

Abigail smiled. She hadn't done this since my breakdown. It wasn't a wide, beaming smile, but I'd take anything.

"I guess you just have to not let them kill you," she said. Her smile disappeared. "I'm sorry. That was insensitive."

"Be as insensitive as you want," I told her. "I'm going to take care of this. By this time tomorrow, my bathtub is going to be empty, and I'll be rid of the bag of money. I'm not asking for any more help. I don't want you to be involved. I'll let you know when it's done."

She leaned over and kissed me on the lips.

"I..." she began. "Good luck."

Had she been on the verge of saying "I love you?" It seemed like it, but that might also have been desperate wishful thinking. It didn't matter. I was going to solve the problem. We'd have plenty of time to fall in love later.

"Thank you for the advice and the sandwich," I said.

"Anytime."

"I'll be in touch."

* * *

I was late getting back to work and my supervisor gave me a disapproving look but didn't actually tap his watch or anything. I took a couple more calls and then said that I had a migraine and needed to leave, which earned me another disapproving look. But he let me go.

I returned to my apartment complex, took the duffel bag out of my trunk, and did another check at Marc's door. The can was knocked over.

It was still basically in the same spot, though. This wasn't proof that anybody had gone into his apartment. If Marc came home and saw an empty beer can in front of his door, he'd either pick it up and throw it away or, if he suspected something, he'd make sure it was exactly as he'd found it.

I knocked on his door.

No answer.

I called out his name a few times and listened carefully for any signs of motion inside. Nothing. He was either not home or was hiding from me. I wished I had his phone number but there'd never been a reason for us to exchange contact information. I put the can back as I'd left it last night, and then returned to my own apartment.

When I walked inside, I wasn't sure if I detected the faint scent of rot, or if it was my imagination. I'd just assume it was my imagination unless I was given reason to believe otherwise.

I went into the bathroom, and, yeah, the scent was stronger in there. Not gag-worthy, just not lemony fresh. To postpone opening the shower curtain for a moment, I retrieved a can of generic brand air freshener and sprayed it around.

"I'm opening the curtain, so I hope you're decent," I said. I was feeling better about the whole situation and could make a joke.

I pulled open the curtain. Oh, yeah, the smell was bad in there. I didn't have nearly as much time as I'd thought to get rid of them. If the smell continued to accelerate at this pace, the neighbors would complain soon.

Wulfe had been bleeding again. It was all over his face and shirt. His eyes and mouth were wide open. His eyes were glazed over and had yellow crust beneath them. I was pretty sure he was dead, but then he closed his mouth a bit.

"I'm going to rinse you off again," I said.

This time I didn't warm up the water. I wanted him as alert as possible, so a blast of cold water was in order. I ran the shower for a minute, and he squirmed a little—not a lot, but enough to show that he was alive and uncomfortable.

After I turned off the shower, I patted him with a towel to get the water off his face.

"Are you hungry?" I asked. "Do you want something to eat?"

He couldn't eat very well with a broken jaw, but if he indicated that he was hungry, I'd mush something up in a Ziploc bag, cut out the corner, and squirt it down his throat. Otherwise, I wouldn't worry about it. It hadn't even been a full day, so he wasn't going to starve to death.

Wulfe blinked twice.

I went into the kitchen to find something to feed him. I wished I had some frozen fruit that I could blend into a smoothie. The softest thing I could find was a package of pre-made cookie dough. It was a fantastic invention: you basically just broke it along the scored lines, put it in the oven, and eleven minutes later you had freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

I opened the package and put four cookie chunks into a plastic bag. This would be way too thick—he'd choke on it for sure. I added some warm water and then kneaded the bag with my hands until I had a very thin cookie dough mixture that wouldn't get stuck in his throat. I'm sure it was kind of gross, but it was the best I could do for now.

I clipped off the corner with a pair of scissors, returned to the bathroom, and shoved the bag into his mouth. I squeezed it gently. Every couple of seconds I'd stop to make sure that the fluid had gone down and that he wasn't choking. Finally there were some larger blobs remaining but he'd drank most of the mixture, and I tossed the bag into the sink.

"Feel better?"

Wulfe did not indicate whether or not he felt better. I used the towel to wipe up some of the tan liquid that was dribbling out of both sides of his mouth.

"I'd like the passcode for your phone," I told him. "That's the only way you're going to get out of this. Otherwise you're staying in that tub until the guy beneath you turns to soup."

Wulfe smiled. Or he accidentally contorted his mouth in the shape of a smile. I wasn't sure. He didn't look like he was actually amused.

"I don't want to be a monster about this," I insisted. "But I need you to cooperate with me. I'm not putting you out of your misery. It'll be a long, slow death. I'll put in a damn feeding tube to make sure you stay alive. Help me out here. Blink twice if you want to go home tonight."

Wulfe didn't blink.

"Fine," I said. "Hope you enjoyed your cookie dough."

I shut the curtain. I might have to step up the pressure later (hopefully not moving into "enhanced interrogation" territory) but for now I'd assume there was another solution.

I didn't like the idea of just showing up at the seafood restaurant. First, there was no guarantee that Wulfe's men hung out there when they weren't actively engaged in drug deals, and second, I didn't want to give them the home team advantage. I wanted to keep control as much as possible. But if I couldn't figure out how else to contact them, I might have no choice.

There was a knock at the door.

I looked through the peephole. It was Marc.

twelve

I quickly let him in.

"Where've you been?" I asked.

"Where do you think? I've been hiding!"

Marc looked pretty bad. I didn't think he'd slept or bathed since I last saw him. Granted, I saw him last night, so it wasn't an extreme amount of time to go without bathing, but he'd done a lot of sweating and getting dirty since then. If he said he'd been on the run for a couple of weeks instead of just one day, I would've believed him.

"Why didn't you try to get in touch with me sooner?" I asked. "I needed to talk to you."

"I said that I've been hiding. You're lucky I'm here now. I'm surprised that you're here. What happened? Did you kill both of them?"

"Just one. Wulfe's still alive."

"Did he get away?"

I shook my head. "He's still here."

"In your apartment?"

"Yes."

"What, you've got him tied up in your bedroom or something?"

"Do you want to see him?"

"I wouldn't mind punching him in the face."

"You can't do that," I said. "He might have a broken neck. I risked his life just by carrying him around."

"Then no, I don't need to see that piece of shit. Did you move his car?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"A grocery store."

"Which one?"

I wasn't sure why Marc needed to know that, though I had a pretty good guess.

"The Publix on 4th."

The car was not at the Publix grocery store on 4th Avenue. If it turned out there was a legitimate reason I should tell him where the car was located, I'd come clean. For now, I had reasons to believe that Marc might not be one hundred percent entirely trustworthy.

"You lying?" he asked me.

"No."

"You're a bad liar."

"Why would I lie about where I moved the car?"

"Did you find anything in it?"

"If you have a question, just ask it. You might've screwed up my entire life, so I don't have time for you to be vague."

"I thought my question was nice and straightforward." There was a sinister edge to Marc's voice. He seemed to suddenly realize this, and also to realize that a sinister tone was not his best choice in this particular conversation, so he cleared his throat. "Sorry. It's been stressful."

"Believe me, I understand."

"I'm in a lot of trouble. I mean, a lot of trouble."

"Right there with you."

"Do you have the duffel bag here?"

I considered saying "What duffel bag?" but Marc was correct when he observed that I was a bad liar. However, telling the truth seemed much worse. I decided to continue lying but not to play dumb. "No."

"Did you look inside?"

"Yes."

"That's my money, Frank."

"I believe you."

"Good. So this will be easy. Give me my money, and you'll never have to hear from me again."

"Um, I want to hear from you. I was freaking out because I didn't know where you were."

"Where's the bag?"

"It's safe."

"Where the hell is the bag?"

"I said, it's safe. If it truly belongs to you, you'll get it back."

Marc clearly didn't like this answer. And I realized that I'd made a monumental blunder by not grabbing one of the guns before I opened the door. It simply hadn't occurred to me that he might pose a threat. Idiot.

"Look, I need to get out of town as soon as possible," he said. "How about we split it? Fifty-fifty. That's a good haul for each of us, don't you think?"

I pretended to mull that over for a moment. "All right," I said. This would give me the opportunity to open the kitchen drawer and then force him to leave at gunpoint. I sure as hell didn't want to add a third person to the bathtub.

I walked toward the kitchen.

"Hey," said Marc.

I turned back around. He was pointing a gun at me.

Surprisingly, I wasn't scared. I was pissed. Pissed at him for pointing the gun at me, and pissed at myself for letting it happen. I was suddenly so angry that, quite honestly, if I could have guaranteed that his bullet would create a flesh wound instead of a fatal shot, I would have walked over there, yanked the smoking gun out of his hand, and beaten him into a bloody mess with it.

He actually took a step back.

"I didn't want to do this," he said. "It's not my fault."

"Pretty sure it is," I told him.

"Just get the bag."

I started to walk toward the bedroom.

"Where the fuck are you going?" Marc demanded.

"To get the bag."

"Then where were you going before?"

"To get a gun."

Marc seemed unsure of how to respond to that. "Tell me where the bag is. I'll get it."

"I'll give you a hint."

"No, I don't want a goddamn hint, I want to know where the bag is."

"Think about where you were cowering yesterday, like a total chickenshit."

I really should have been more concerned that he was going to shoot me. But I didn't think he'd do it out of anger, not when the sound of the gunshot would attract unwanted attention.

Marc walked toward my bedroom but stopped at the doorway. "You go in first," he said.

I walked into the bedroom. He followed.

"Do you want me to get it?" I asked, gesturing to the bed. "Do you want to get it? Your call."

I think he was worried that I'd tricked him with a clever scheme where he'd force me to crawl under the bed yet I was one step ahead and had planted a gun there, which I'd use to shoot him through the mattress. He needn't have concerned himself with me having any kind of plan, clever or otherwise.

"Lift up the mattress," he said.

"Sure, why not do a complete replay of last night? What did you think was gonna happen? Did you think they wouldn't see you as long as you kept your eyes closed?"

"Are you trying to get shot?"

"I don't think you're dumb enough to shoot me over a few insults."

"Oh, yeah?"

Marc immediately realized what he'd said. There was a split second where he seemed to be flustered and trying to figure out how to salvage his dignity, but the moment passed.

I decided that I might be taking the smart-ass attitude too far. Shooting me was not in Marc's best self-interest, but I didn't want to become yet another one of his poor decisions. I lifted the mattress.

"All right, all right, that's good," said Marc. "Put the mattress back down, then reach under there and get the bag."

I lowered the mattress. He kept the gun pointed at me as I lay on the floor. I reached under the bed, grabbed the duffel bag, and pulled it out. I stood back up, dusted off my jeans, and then politely handed him the bag.

"Thanks," he said. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

He left the bedroom. I followed him as he walked toward my front door.

"Aren't we splitting the money?" I asked.

Marc turned and pointed the gun at me. "What do you think?"

"We had a deal."

"You didn't cooperate."

I decided not to tell him that he was a piece of shit. I'm sure he already knew.

He backed toward the door, keeping the gun pointed at me as if I were going to rush him. I wasn't, of course. His reflexes or aim would have to be astoundingly bad for him not to successfully shoot me.

He opened the door, then peeked outside. "Sorry about all of this," he said, stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door behind him.

I didn't follow him.

I was so furious that I wanted to start destroying furniture, but I wasn't going to let that son of a bitch make me break my own property. If I had to replace stuff, I'd be even madder later. I sat down on my couch, closed my eyes, and took deep breaths, a tactic that rarely worked in the past and didn't work now. I was tempted to go into the bathroom and take my frustration out on Andy's corpse, but no, beating the crap out of a dead body was something I was sure I'd regret later.

I settled for screaming into a couch cushion.

I'd had a shitty plan, and now I had no plan. I couldn't just wait around and hope that nobody was coming after me, at least not if I wanted to keep Abigail in my life. My only bargaining chip was a half-dead guy in the bathtub.

Well, no, I also had the truth. Marc had stolen the money. If I could find Wulfe's men and tell them what happened, I might be able to convince them to focus their attention on reclaiming the bag of cash. I'd tell them everything I knew in exchange for them leaving me alone, like a federal witness giving testimony for immunity.

The smarter play would be to forget about Abigail and get the hell out of town, but I didn't want to make the smarter play.

I walked into the bathroom. Though Wulfe was unlikely to be any more helpful this time, I didn't want to rush off into a deadly situation without giving it another try.

I tapped him on the forehead. "Wake up," I said.

He opened one eye.

"Marc just stole the money. Do you want it back?"

Wulfe closed his eye. I tapped him on the forehead a few more times until he opened it again. No way was I going to get his phone passcode out of him.

"All I need is a yes or no," I said. "Do your men work out of that restaurant all the time? Will I be able to find them there?"

Once again, Wulfe closed his eye. I kind of wanted to pluck it out of the socket. Actually, it probably did make sense to bring something of Wulfe's to prove that I had him, though I doubted his men could identify a specific eyeball as belonging to him. Instead, I got some scissors and cut off a piece of his jacket.

I put on my own unseasonably warm jacket to give myself a place to hide the guns, and then I drove to the restaurant. There were no cars in the parking lot and the lights were out. Unless Wulfe's men had walked there and were conducting their meeting by candlelight, they weren't in there. It had been a long shot anyway.

I could break in and lie in wait for their return, but there was no guarantee that they would return. Most likely I'd be lying in wait for an innocent seafood chef. And the restaurant probably had a security system. This had been a waste of time, but they could have been in here, so I'd needed to check.

Now what?

I wasn't a criminal mastermind. If you needed somebody to provide halfhearted customer service over the phone, I was your guy, but figuring out how to get back on the good side of drug dealers whose boss I'd paralyzed was not part of my skill set. I just didn't know what to do. And I was scared that if I called Abigail and told her that the money was gone, she'd say, "You're screwed. Leave me out of this."

I wished I were a skilled liar. I could go home, break Wulfe's neck, chop up a couple of bodies, tell Abigail that the duffel bag return had gone delightfully well and that everything was A-okay, and then we'd leave town together. The drug dealers weren't going to pursue us across the country. One lie, told properly, might end this.

But no. I'd have to be a complete monster to lie to Abigail about potential danger.

I drove back to my apartment building, talking to myself out loud in an attempt to work out a solution. I never talked to myself, because the last thing people needed to see was a scary-looking guy who appeared to be hearing voices, but a new technique seemed appropriate. It didn't do much except further convince me that I didn't have a good plan of action.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a couple of men hanging out by the front door to the building. I recognized both of them from the seafood restaurant drug deal.

I didn't like that they felt comfortable enough to just stand right there. Shouldn't they be trying to be more discreet?

Yes, I was on my way back from trying to meet with them, but that had been on my terms. If they were lurking outside of my apartment building, this would be on their terms, and they might just pull guns on me and force me into the trunk of an automobile.

At least they hadn't seen...no, wait, they both looked over at me.

It was dark and presumably they didn't know what kind of car I drove, so I wasn't sure if they recognized me or not. But they didn't look away.

I was armed. I was sure that they were too, but I had a slight advantage in that I had two guns. I could comply with an order to drop my weapon and still have a second one hidden in my jacket. Though this wasn't the kind of advantage that filled me with intense confidence, it was better than nothing.

I parked the car.

It would've been nice to just say "Screw this!" and drive away. But if I wanted a resolution to the problem, I had to talk with these guys, and this might be my only chance. At least there were only two of them.

When I got out of the car, they were still looking at me. They weren't even pretending otherwise. Fortunately, they were unlikely to simply gun me down as I walked over there—at least that's what I told myself as I approached them.

I'm not good at calculating people's ages, so when I say they both looked like they were in their mid-thirties, that might not be accurate. One of them was blond and movie star handsome; with a face like that, surely he could've found a better career choice than "lowlife criminal." He could've done white-collar crime at least. The other one was quite a bit less handsome. No hair stuck out from under his ball cap so I didn't know what color it was. His thick mustache looked ridiculous, and you can control having a mustache, so I had no sympathy for any ridicule he might have received because of it.

"That's close enough," said the one with the mustache, when I was about ten feet away.

"Are you here to talk?" I asked. "Because I'd really like to talk to you guys."

The blond shook his head. "You're welcome to talk all you want, but do it while you're getting the money."

"I don't have it."

"Is it up in your apartment?"

"Marc took it."

"Marc told us that you stole it from him."

"No, that's not what happened."

"He says that you have two dead men in your bathtub, and that you have our duffel bag of money under your bed. Would you like to keep denying that?"

"Yes! I had the money, but he took it. And it's only one dead body in the bathtub. Wulfe is still alive."

"For real?" asked the man with the mustache.

I nodded.

The man stroked his mustache. "Interesting."

"Then let's go on up to your place," said the blond. "We'll check on Wulfe and get the money back."

"I don't have the money. I told you."

"Uh-huh."

"Marc took it at gunpoint. The longer it takes you to believe me, the further away he's going to get."

"Or we could just persuade you to tell the truth." The blond glanced over at the man with the mustache. "Do you want to break the news to him or should I?"

"Go for it."

"Our buddies are making a video right now. I was hoping it would be done before you got here, but apparently your girlfriend wasn't as easy to kidnap as we hoped. Once it's done and I play it for you, I'm pretty sure we'll get your full cooperation."

thirteen

"I swear I don't have the money," I told them, feeling like I was going to vomit up the contents of my stomach, and then my stomach itself. "Marc stole it from me. You have to know that he can't be trusted. You have to know that."

"We know that," said the blond. "But we have no reason to believe you can be trusted, either."

"He's getting away. We need to go after him."

"Any idea where he went?"

"I..."

"We're going to focus on you right now," said the mustached man. "Once we get the video, we'll be able to sort out the truth pretty quickly."

"Don't hurt her."

"We don't have her. We're here talking to you. Try not to be a fucking idiot, okay?"

"She had nothing to do with this. Tell your associates to let her go. I'll help you track down the money. I'll convince the landlord to let us into Marc's apartment. I'm sure he left a clue behind. We'll find him." I sounded desperate and pathetic and I didn't care.

Maybe they were faking it. Maybe they hadn't actually kidnapped her yet. After all, how long did it take to make a video? All they needed was to point a cell phone at her, press record, and send it over. This could be a bluff. No need for me to completely panic quite yet.

Too late. I was completely panicked.

The mustached man snickered. "Associates. Makes it sound all fancy. How about you take us up to your place and show us what's under the bed?"

"Maybe he's got a monster under there," said the blond.

"Yes, let's go," I said. If they thought the cash was under the bed, I could show them that it wasn't. It obviously wouldn't prove that I wasn't the one ripping them off, but it would be one point in favor of my story being the truth.

"Hold up," said the blond, reaching into his pocket. He took out his cell phone and looked at the display. "Looks like I just got a special video delivery."

"Let me see it," I told him.

"Nah. I'm not sure you'll be able to keep a poker face, and somebody might walk by. You can watch it upstairs. Let's go."

He didn't care about my lack of a poker face. He was making me wait to be a sadistic asshole. But I didn't protest. I was going to do whatever these guys wanted.

I took them up the stairs to my apartment. I was surprised that I could even walk, but I was actually going too fast because halfway up the first flight the blond told me to slow the hell down.

Once we were inside my apartment, the blond held up his cell phone and touched the screen to press play.

It was Abigail with the barrel of a gun pressed against the side of her head. She wasn't wearing the makeup over her black eye, but I didn't see any new marks.

"Recording now," said a male voice off-screen.

"Talk," said another man off-screen. After a couple of seconds, the gun tapped against her head. "Talk!"

"Go to hell."

"Tell him what we'll do to you if he doesn't return the money."

"I said, go to hell."

"You want us to shoot you right now?"

Abigail looked into the camera. "Frank, these shitheads say they're going to kill me if you don't give them back the money. So give them back the money. That's what you were going to do anyway, which I tried to tell them, but these assholes didn't want to have a conversation like adults."

"You got that?" asked the off-screen man. "Do the right thing, and your girlfriend will be released unharmed. Keep being greedy, and we blow her brains out. Your choice."

The video ended. The blond put the phone back in his pocket. "What do you think?"

"Marc has the money," I said, doing everything I could not to reach out and try to strangle him. "I don't know how many more times I can say it."

"It will sure suck for you if he does," said the mustached man.

"He does! I don't understand why you'd doubt that! We're talking about the same Marc, right? Is there anything about him that makes you think he wouldn't steal the money and blame it on me?"

"Well, why don't we take a peek in your bathroom and see if he was telling the truth about that?"

"Be my guest."

This could work out in my favor. It was a pretty gruesome, shocking sight in there, and if both of the men were distracted for just a couple of seconds, maybe I could whip out one of the guns.

"You first," said the mustached man.

I walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. The smell was getting worse, but I didn't want to give it a blast of air freshener quite yet. I pulled the curtain aside.

"Oh my God," said the blond, going right up to the bathtub.

"Is he dead?" asked the mustached man.

"No, he's alive," I said.

"I wasn't asking you."

The blond poked at Wulfe's face. "Seems pretty dead."

"Then it just happened," I said.

"This is some morbid shit," said the blond. "You some kind of necrophile?"

"If I was a necrophile, I wouldn't be stacking them in the bathtub."

"Why not?"

"There's no room to get in there with them."

The blond shrugged. "I don't know about that."

"It was self-defense," I said. "If I didn't kill them, they would've killed me."

"Maybe. Maybe not. I wasn't there."

Wulfe slowly opened one eye.

"Oh, wait, I guess he is still alive," said the blond. "Barely, though. What the hell did you do to him?"

"Broke his spine, I think."

"You broke more than that."

"He tried to kill me."

"Then kill him back. You don't keep a vegetable in your tub. That's mentally ill."

"It's deviant," said the mustached man.

"Where was I supposed to keep him?" I asked.

"You either take him to the hospital, or you put him out of his misery," said the blond. "I'm not gonna lie—I'm creeped out being in this bathroom with you right now. You have some dark, dark issues." He gestured to the mustached man. "Got a knife?"

"I'll get you a knife," I said.

"I didn't ask you."

"Just a pocketknife," said the mustached man.

"That's fine."

The mustached man took out a pocketknife. My bathroom was tiny and I was between the two men, so I was almost positive that one of them would've been able to tackle me before I took out a gun. I could probably fight one of them but not both.

After the mustached man tossed him the knife, the blond snapped out the blade. He pressed it against Wulfe's ear. "Goodnight, you fuckhead," he said, jamming the blade in all the way to the hilt.

I winced.

"Did that disturb you?" asked the blond, sliding the bloody blade out of Wulfe's head and wiping it clean on Wulfe's shirt. "I'd think you'd be desensitized."

I almost responded by puking into the sink, but managed to choke down the vomit in time.

"He had good connections, but he was a hard man to like," said the mustached man. "You did us a favor."

"Then let Abigail go," I said.

"Stop saying that," the blond told me. "I'm sick of you asking. She'll be released when we're ready to do it. Not earlier." He took out his phone, took a picture of Wulfe's corpse, then typed a message to somebody and sent it off with a whoosh sound effect.

"Show us under the bed," said the mustached man.

How could they possibly think the bag of money was still under my bed?

My stomach clenched up even more as I realized that they didn't. They knew Marc had stolen the money. They were just toying with me.

I could subdue two men who weren't expecting it, but there wasn't anything I could do to these two guys except follow their orders. I led them into my bedroom and lifted the mattress.

"Nope, nothing there," said the blond.

"I'm not gonna lie, this is pretty bad for you," said the mustached man.

"It confirms my story," I said.

"Yeah, but it's a bad story. In a good story, the cash would be there, and everybody would be happy. I'm not happy. Are you happy?"

I shook my head.

"So I hate to say it, but this is bad, bad, bad. I'm not saying things can't get worse; I'm just saying that they're pretty terrible right now. Damn. I wish that money had been there. I really do."

"Let's talk to each other like adults," I said. "You knew the money wasn't going to be there, right? You have no intention of letting me live."

The mustached man grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. "I can see why you might think that, but no, you're not on death row quite yet. You might still be useful. Here's what I can promise you: if you stop being useful, I'll give you a moment to gather your thoughts, and your death will be very quick. No torture. Nobody's going to shoot you in the stomach and let you slowly bleed out. Bullet to the head and you keep your dignity. Sound all right?"

"What do you want me to say?" I asked.

The mustached man shrugged. "I don't care what you say. Just keep doing what you're doing. Don't cause any problems. Don't stop being useful."

"Also," said the blond, pointing a gun at me that I hadn't seen him take out, "get rid of any weapons you've got on you. And your cell phone. You're not calling anybody for help."

I tried to figure out how well I'd do as an action movie star at this moment, and decided that I'd do poorly. Now that I'd had multiple guns pointed at me, I can report that it didn't get less scary. I took each of the guns out of my jacket pockets and dropped them onto the floor, along with my phone.

"Wow, two guns," said the mustached man. "I'm surprised you even had one."

"You could've had the element of surprise on your side," said the blond.

"Yep," said the mustached man. "Put your arms up so he can frisk you."

I put my arms in the air so the blond could give me a thorough patting-down. The idea of slamming my elbow down on his cranium was appealing but too risky.

The blond stepped away, satisfied that the two guns had comprised my entire arsenal. "You're coming with us."

"Okay."

"Gonna be a pain in the ass?"

"No."

"Good."

We left my apartment and walked out of the building to their car. The mustached man got in the driver's seat, the blond got in the passenger seat, and I got in the back. I wished I'd thought to bring a bucket or a bowl or a plastic bag or something, since I still felt like I might vomit at any moment, and I didn't think they'd respond well to that.

After we drove in silence for a few minutes, the blond turned around to look at me. "I don't think you look that much like Lurch."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment. Just an observation."

I tried to reassure myself that Abigail would be fine, that they weren't mistreating her beyond having kidnapped her. She hadn't cut off Neal's testicles after he hit her, but these guys would be wise not to press their luck. It honestly wouldn't surprise me to get to wherever we were going and find drug dealer body parts strewn around the floor.

For the rest of the trip, I listened to the blond talk about the things he was going to do to his bitch of an ex-wife if she didn't shut up about the child support. None of them involved buying her flowers. At one point he called her Tasha, and my stomach clenched up, because somebody who intended to let me live would probably offer as few details about his private life as possible.

About twenty minutes later, we pulled into a trailer park. Some trailer parks are perfectly nice places where lower-income retirees live. Some trailer parks look like every unit is a meth den. This was the latter. I could almost feel the "what happens here, stays here" vibe as we drove past several trailers. Most of them had people sitting or standing out front, looking beaten down by life.

At the far rear corner, the blond parked in front of a yellowish-brown trailer. It was slightly nicer than some of the others we'd passed, but not by much. Three other cars were parked out front.

The blond pointed his gun at me. This was the kind of place where you could point a gun at somebody in a car parked outside and not worry that a neighbor might be concerned.

"You gonna behave?" he asked me.

"Of course."

He lowered the gun and we got out of the car. Everything was going to be okay. I'd convince them that Marc had the money and that they had a greater chance of getting it back if they let me help them. I wasn't good at talking eloquently but I felt like I could successfully plead my case.

We went into the trailer.

It smelled like pizza. I'd expected a horrific reek, but there were three guys sitting inside, eating pizza, so our timing was probably good, smell-wise. I recognized one of the guys from the seafood place. Another was a middle-aged guy, older than everybody else on Wulfe's crew. The last one, stuffing pizza into his mouth with one hand while tapping away at his phone with the other, was a kid, maybe fourteen or fifteen.

I didn't see Abigail.

They all looked very surprised to see us.

The blond shut the door behind us. "Where'd you order from?"

"D.T.'s," said the guy I recognized from the seafood restaurant.

The blond sighed. "Why?"

"Because it's good."

"It's not good. It's shitty pizza. I'm not kicking in for that."

"Then you're not eating any."

"I don't want any."

"Why did you bring him?" asked the older man.

The blond glanced at me. "We were supposed to bring him. That's why we went out."

"Didn't you read my text?"

"I didn't get a text." The blond took his cell phone out of his pocket and tapped at the screen. "Nothing. Hold on, wait, it just came through." He frowned. "Oh."

fourteen

I stared at the blond, trying to read into his reaction.

He looked at the floor. "Well, shit."

"Where's Abigail?" I asked. I kept my voice calm and polite. No reason to lose it quite yet. They might have let her go.

The blond didn't answer. I glanced around the room. The others didn't look away from me the way the blond had, but it was definitely awkward, and not in an "I was kidding about being mad that you bought the movie tickets" way.

"Where is she?" I was less calm and polite this time.

Then I noticed a blue duffel bag resting on the couch.

There were no stains or marks to prove that it was Marc's bag, but it sure looked like it. And if they'd already gotten the money back, it would explain why the whole crew was hanging out in this crappy trailer, instead of out trying to capture Marc.

They'd caught Marc. This meant they'd had no reason to keep Abigail. They'd let her go, texted the blond to forget about me, and then he'd screwed everything up by bringing me here. Now I knew where they worked when they weren't at the seafood restaurant. I could bring the police here. I was a liability.

"I won't say a word to anyone," I assured them. "I don't care about any of this. As long as Abigail is safe, I will happily walk away and you'll never hear from me again."

The older man let out an incredulous laugh. "Are you stoned? She's not safe. She's dead. We didn't need her anymore."

I heard him, but I didn't quite hear him. They didn't need her anymore. Of course they didn't. Not if they got the money back from Marc. They didn't need either of us. That was good. They could let us go. Abigail and I could hit the road. Maybe move up north. Maybe she could start selling candy again.

The "she's dead" part felt wrong. He'd misspoken. Or I wasn't listening correctly. It simply didn't make any logical sense that she was dead. It was a ridiculous idea. My brain had just messed up what he'd actually said. I was under a lot of stress. It was reasonable that I'd hear things wrong.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Could you repeat that?"

This is when I noticed that a couple of the guys were staring at a drawn curtain in the back of the trailer. It was something you'd pull over the bedroom area, to give people privacy while they were changing or sleeping. I'm not sure why I didn't immediately think that she might be behind there.

That whole thing in moments like these where you feel like you're not controlling your own body is absolutely true. I just started walking across the trailer toward the curtain.

I knew exactly what I'd see. Abigail, lying on the bed, hands tied behind her back. A gag in her mouth. I'd have to think fast to rescue her. Steal somebody's gun. Break a window. It was going to be difficult, but if I could save Marc's life, I could surely save Abigail's.

The men in the trailer looked like they wanted to stop me, but nobody stood up.

"Heads up, Jamie," the older man said.

I pulled the curtain.

The first person I saw was, I assume, Jamie. Maybe a bit older than me, late-twenties. Short black hair. Glasses. Apron. Rubber gloves. Covered in blood.

Abigail was also there. The older man had not lied about her being dead.

To preserve her dignity, I'm not going to describe much of what I saw. I will say that all of her clothes were still on; Jamie wasn't violating her in that way. Beyond that, there were two possible scenarios for what I saw: he wanted to make it easier to dispose of the body, or he was having fun. This was quite clearly the latter.

I remained calm.

Some part of my brain took over: You do not have time to deal with the grief and horror right now. These men are going to kill you. You do not want to die. When you are out of danger, you can shriek at the top of your lungs or sob in the fetal position or go catatonic, but for now, do not think about Abigail. She will matter later. She does not matter now.

I grabbed Jamie and pulled him in front of me, like a human shield. I shoved him forward, getting blood on my hand, but kept him close.

Suddenly at least three guns were pointed at me.

We were in a crowded trailer park. These men were clearly not concerned about other people getting into their business, but did that extend to actual gunshots? Surely somebody would call the police if they opened fire on me, and they couldn't possibly clean up the mess in time.

"I'll kill him," I announced. "I'll break his neck if any of you try anything."

Nobody tried anything, but I doubted they cared much about the life of this psychopath. The risk of harm coming to Jamie was not enough to keep me alive. I needed a better hostage.

After we moved forward a few steps, I shoved Jamie out of the way and grabbed the kid. He was less effective as a shield, since I was a full head taller than him, but I suspected that they wouldn't be quite as inclined to write him off as collateral damage.

"Let him go!" the older man shouted.

"It's okay," I insisted. "I'm not taking him with me. All I want to do is get out of this trailer. As soon as I step out the door I'll let him go."

I put my hand over the kid's neck, not actually squeezing his throat but making it clear that I could.

"Somebody just shoot him!" said Jamie.

"You shut the hell up!" the older man told him. To me, he said: "If you hurt my son, we'll make it look like a bomb went off inside your body."

"One of you open the door," I said.

The kid tried to tug away from me, but I pulled him in closer. He let out a choking sound.

"Don't you fucking hurt him!" the older man shouted.

"I won't unless you make me," I informed him, proud of how steady I was keeping my voice. "I don't want a hostage. If you open the door this can be over in a few seconds."

The mustached man kept his gun pointed at me with one hand, while opening the trailer door with the other.

"Thank you," I said. I moved forward, bringing the kid with me. He was frightened and weeping. But he was a teenager, not a six-year-old, and he hadn't seemed particularly upset that a dead woman was being mutilated behind a curtain a few feet away, so I wasn't going to worry too much about traumatizing him.

It was a small trailer and there were five people inside of it who wanted to kill me, not counting the kid. It wasn't going to be easy to make it to the other side without one of them trying something. I didn't want to hurt the kid, but I would squeeze his throat harder if I didn't think these guys were taking my threat seriously.

We moved slowly through the trailer. The blond adjusted the aim of his gun, making me think he might be preparing to take a shot. I couldn't have that.

"Put your guns down," I said. "Everybody. Drop your weapons on the floor or I'll tear his throat out." I curled my fingers and dug my fingernails into his flesh, not breaking the skin.

"Screw that," said the blond.

"You saw what I did to Wulfe. And then I kept him in my bathtub for a couple of days. Do you think I'm too squeamish to open this kid's neck?"

"Put your guns down," said the kid's father.

The blond shook his head. "Nope."

"I said, put your goddamn guns down!"

"Not gonna happen. If he does something stupid, he's going to have shredded kneecaps. Remember what we did to Vincent? Remember how long that took? If he hurts your son, we'll give him the Vincent treatment times ten."

The kid's father set his gun on the floor. "I'm not going to do anything," he assured me. "Nobody's going to do anything."

Nobody else dropped their guns or even lowered them.

"Everybody away from the door," I said.

The mustached man and the blond stepped away from the open door, though they still didn't lower their weapons. I twisted myself around, keeping the kid in front of me and my back to the wall. I reached the doorway. I was almost out of this mess. The big problem was that there were three or four steps behind me, so I had to either take my eyes off of the men who wanted to shoot me, or risk losing my balance.

If I lost my balance I was dead. I glanced back at the stairs.

The blond fired a shot.

I knew it hit me because I saw the torn shirt and the red streak on my shoulder. I didn't actually feel it. Based on a split-second self-diagnosis, I didn't think it was that bad; no gunshot wound is good, of course, but it wasn't spurting blood and no meat had torn off.

I wanted to crush the kid's windpipe in response. I didn't. I shoved him forward as hard as I could, just as the kid's father punched the blond in the face. Though the trailer didn't explode into pure chaos, things were crazy enough that I was able to turn and run through the doorway and down the steps without anybody shooting me in the back.

I took a sharp left turn so that they couldn't see me from inside the trailer and kept running. I ran around the back of a different trailer, one that still had Christmas decorations up in the summer. Would they try to hunt me down, or would they get the hell away from the scene of the crime? Was the gunshot and commotion enough for somebody to call the police?

Now my shoulder was starting to hurt. Blood was trickling down my arm and chest, but the bullet had definitely just grazed me. Some gauze and antiseptic and I'd be fine. I didn't care if I had an ugly scar.

This wasn't a good enough hiding spot. They could find me here even if they just did a cursory search of the nearby trailers. I ran off, putting five or six trailers between me and them. I stopped next to a trailer that looked like it had been painted pink a few decades ago but now was mostly rust colored. It had no outside lighting—the only illumination was from the trailer next to it. A long-dead garden along the side was decorated by a tacky smiling gnome. The trailer might've been abandoned, though I didn't want to risk going inside to make sure.

I thought about Abigail, the way her body was splayed out on the plastic tarp that had been placed on the bed, and then forced her out of my mind. She wasn't important now.

It was dark and there were lots of places for me to hide. They wouldn't bother coming after me. They'd get the hell out of here. I was safe.

I crouched there and waited. It felt like my heart was beating so loud that it might give away my position, but obviously that wasn't true. My breathing, meanwhile, was definitely too loud. I couldn't get it under control. I put my hand over my mouth and tried to breathe slowly and deeply through my nose.

Footsteps. Somebody moving quickly.

It wasn't necessarily one of the murderers. Could be anybody at the trailer park.

If they took pity on me and let me inside, I'd be safe. Wulfe's crew wouldn't go door-to-door searching for me, and I wasn't bleeding enough to leave a trail. All I needed was one resident to realize that I was the good guy.

Two trailers away, I saw Jamie hurry past.

He looked over and saw me.

I should've been terrified.

I wasn't.

As we locked eyes, I realized that while I wanted to get away from these men and live through the night, it was even more important to me that all of them die.

PART TWO

a revenge story

fifteen

I didn't know anything about Jamie. So I made it up.

The other kids at school always made fun of his name. Said it was a girl's name. Called him Jamie Lee Curtis. He would insist that the name was for boys as much as girls, if not more. There was nothing feminine about Jamie Foxx. Jamie Bell, Jamie Farr, Jamie Kennedy...there were plenty of examples of male Jamie's in popular culture. It wasn't as if his parents had named him Melissa.

He tried going by his full name, Jamison, but the kids weren't having it. Nope, they called him Jamie Lee Curtis every chance they got and demanded to see his boobs. If he'd had any friends to commiserate with, he might not have been in such a foul mood one afternoon after walking home from fifth grade.

He went into the kitchen and got a root beer out of the refrigerator. He wasn't allowed to have one without permission (and that permission was rarely granted) but maybe his mom and dad wouldn't notice. They usually did.

Jamie opened the can of soda, and then his dog Farley, a German Shepherd, raced into the kitchen and jumped up against him, as the excitable dog often did. The can fell to the tile floor and rolled away, root beer spraying everywhere. Root beer that Jamie was probably going to be punished for taking.

He kicked his beloved pet as hard as he could. Then he chased the whimpering animal down into the basement and swung his book bag at it. He hit it again and again. When he finally wanted to stop, he decided that he couldn't stop, because Farley needed to be put out of his misery. When that was done, Jamie felt something that he didn't know at the time was self-loathing...but he was also no longer angry with the kids who'd made fun of his name.

He cleaned up the mess. Fortunately, he had three hours to do it, and all of the blood was on tile and cement. He triple-bagged the dog, dragged it upstairs without spilling anything, and got it into the plastic garbage bin by tipping the bin on its side first.

When Mom and Dad got home, Jamie told them that Farley had gotten out, and that he'd run all over the neighborhood trying to find him. He didn't have to fake his crying; he was genuinely sad that Farley was gone, though he didn't regret what he'd done. He wished they had another dog so he could do it again.

Garbage collection wasn't until two days later, but Jamie wasn't too worried. His parents were frantically searching for Farley but they weren't going to look for the dog in the trash bin. The truck came and took Farley away, and Jamie knew that he'd gotten away with it.

He didn't go out and start killing dogs left and right, of course, but in rare circumstances, when he knew he wouldn't get caught, when he had complete privacy, he'd do it again, and it would get him through the next few months of torment.

When he turned eighteen, he decided he wanted to upgrade to humans.

Jamie froze as he saw me. Even in the poor light, his expression was pretty easy to read: I'm out here hunting for you because I have to be, but I was hoping somebody else would find you, and I'd be just as happy if we pretended we didn't see each other.

I ran at him.

He looked shocked, because if anything, he would've expected me to run away from him. By the time he started to flee I'd already caught up to him. I dragged him back to the relative darkness of where I'd been hiding, not caring that he was biting the hell out of my hand as it covered his mouth. I threw him to the ground.

"I didn't kill her," he insisted.

"I saw what you did."

He vigorously shook his head. "No, she was already dead. It wasn't a bad death. They smothered her with a pillow. It was quick. It didn't hurt."

"Suffocation is a horrible way to go," I informed him.

Jamie shook his head so violently that I thought it might pop off. "She didn't suffer. I promise you. I swear."

"Liar."

"It was her fault. She wasn't cooperating. All she had to do was take it easy, just like we asked."

I slammed his head into the side of the trailer to get him to stop lying.

This was probably a mistake. If somebody was asleep in there this might have woken them up. I waited for a few seconds, expecting a light to turn on, but the trailer remained dark inside.

Some blood ran down the side of his face, but it wasn't too bad. His face was bleeding less than my shoulder. He'd be okay if for some reason I changed my mind about killing him.

"Why are you acting like I'm stupid?" I asked him. "I saw the man behind the curtain." I was surprised at myself for being able to make a Wizard of Oz reference under these conditions.

"I told you, she was already dead! I—I—I, yes, it's fucked up what I was doing, but she didn't feel anything. It was already over."

"The world is better off without you," I said.

He punched me in the face. Hard enough to split my lip. Possibly hard enough to loosen a tooth. I didn't flinch. It didn't make me angrier. I didn't care what he did to me; I cared what he did to Abigail.

Jamie looked terrified by my complete lack of a reaction, as if he'd hit somebody who felt no pain and might not even be human.

"I didn't kill her," he whispered.

"You were there."

Jamie opened his mouth as if to scream for help. I couldn't let that happen, so I slammed my hand over his mouth again, while holding the back of his head with my other hand, pushing against his jaw so tightly that he couldn't bite me.

"You never should have hurt those dogs," I told him.

Jamie looked baffled by the statement, but he couldn't speak to question it.

I was human, and thus I didn't have the physical strength to simply crush his skull with my bare hands. Instead, I dragged him a few feet away from where we were crouched, and I slammed him face-first against the garden gnome's pointed hat.

The first blow may or may not have killed him. I didn't check.

The second blow sounded wetter than the first. His arms and legs began to twitch. The gnome toppled onto its side.

I continued to bash him against the gnome, shattering the gnome on the fifth or sixth slam. I went far beyond that. I wasn't the kind of morbid person who would count the number of times I smashed somebody into sharp chunks of hardened clay (I think that's what it was made out of) but it was far into the double digits.

I didn't purposely let go of him; at some point there just wasn't enough of his head intact for me to keep a grip.

I wiped the gunk off my hands onto his pants.

How did I feel? Not good. Not bad. Not numb. It was like when you're moving and you carry in those first few heavy boxes, and you're glad those boxes are in the right spot but there's a whole U-Haul worth of boxes left to go, so you don't get to rest quite yet. That's actually a terrible comparison. What I'm saying is that I wasn't horrified by what I'd done, but I wasn't celebrating. There was a lot of work left to do before I'd made things right for Abigail.

My lower lip began to tremble, and I bit down on it. It was bleeding and swollen from Jamie's punch, so this was a regrettable way to keep myself from crying. Still, it was not yet time to mourn Abigail.

I sat next to the practically headless body of Jamie and listened. No sirens, but I did hear automobiles. Could be anybody. Also could be Wulfe's men getting the hell out.

How long had it been since I was shot? It was really difficult to keep accurate track of time. I honestly couldn't tell you how long I'd been smashing Jamie's skull. However, it was my belief—possibly wrong—that the gun had fired long enough ago that if somebody had called the cops to report it, I would've heard sirens by now.

So the important questions were...

Was anybody else actively trying to find me?

Was anybody watching the entrance to the trailer park in case I tried to leave?

Was anybody still in the trailer where Abigail had been murdered?

There was probably more than one way to get out of this trailer park, especially on foot. If I focused all of my attention on surviving the night, I'd most likely get out of here alive. The worst decision, from a personal safety perspective, would be to return to the trailer.

I decided that I was going to return to the trailer. I was not making the types of decisions where one would ruminate for several hours and arrive at the conclusion of "Yes, this is a swell choice!" And I was okay with that.

I crept back toward the trailer. There was less blood on me than you might expect considering how I'd spent my time recently, but there was more than enough to raise an eyebrow if somebody saw me creeping between the trailers. I'd have to be quick and stealthy.

There was only one car still parked out front. Though that didn't reveal how many of them were still inside, if any, it was fewer than before. Probably only one or two. I could kill one or two.

I walked around the trailer, hoping that I could look through a window. No luck—the curtains were all drawn. I hadn't actually thought they'd be dumb enough to let me see what was happening inside by peeking through a window, but it would've been nice.

I went up to the front door. I assumed it was locked. Maybe not. If I tested it, I'd give away that I was trying to get in. And so, what the hell, I just knocked.

Footsteps inside. Just one set.

The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door. I imagined somebody either readying their gun to blow my head off, or taking a deep breath and smoothing out their hair to give the impression of a cool exterior when assuring the police officer at the door that everything was just fine.

The door opened.

It was the guy I'd seen at the seafood restaurant. Handsome guy, even with several moles on his face. He'd given himself the nickname Moles and tried to encourage others to use it, figuring that people couldn't make fun of him if he embraced the nickname himself. Unlike poor Jamie, Moles couldn't get the nickname to stick. People either called him Charlie or, more often, they forgot his name altogether.

Moles had never used an illegal drug in his life. "Drug dealer" was the last possible profession he could have ever imagined for himself. He hated people who sold drugs. Despised the people who made them. Was disgusted by the people who used them. On the other hand, he loved gambling, especially high-stakes (by his standards) poker. Nothing compared to that high. In a dark, smoky room, he laid down a straight flush and couldn't stop grinning...at least until the guy next to him laid down a royal flush.

He had, quite reasonably, believed that he was going to win this hand for sure, and he'd wagered accordingly. He didn't know that the guy next to him had cheated, and it didn't matter: Moles was given a generous twenty-four hours to come up with the cash, or his arms and legs would be broken, but he wouldn't suffer long because he'd be killed right after that. Moles wept when his cousin Wulfe offered to settle his debt in exchange for, say, five years of labor.

So now Moles worked with drug dealers. And they treated him like crap. When somebody needed to stay behind to clean up a blood-covered bed in a trailer, he knew it was going to be him and he didn't even bother to protest. He wasn't sure how the death of Wulfe impacted the three years he still had left; presumably he was free now, but he honestly didn't trust Wulfe not to fake a picture of himself lying dead in a bathtub just to test loyalties.

Moles seemed very surprised to see me.

I shoved my way into the trailer and slammed the door behind me. Moles didn't reach for a gun so they must not have left him with one. He was a small, slender guy, and if it came down to a weaponless fight between the two of us, he was screwed.

"Why are you here?" he asked, incredulous.

"Why do you think?"

"I don't know! That's why I asked! There's nothing for you to rescue!"

"They took her?"

"Of course! They weren't just going to leave her body here."

"Where did they take her?"

"To a shallow grave somewhere! Why didn't you run? Are you insane?"

I nodded.

Moles backed away. He was moving toward the sink, which seemed like a good place to grab a knife from a drawer, so I had to put a stop to that.

"Stop moving," I said.

He stopped.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"I'm going to kill you."

"They'll never stop looking for you if you do."

"I don't care. That will make it easier for me to find the others."

"Just run," said Moles. "Get out of here while you can. Flee town like Marc did. Being here with me is suicide. Killing me isn't worth it."

"Marc's alive?"

"Yeah. We got the money back, made sure he'd never do it again, and sent him on his way. He'll be fine. You can be fine, too."

I took a step toward him. "Are you the one who murdered Abigail?"

"No! I had nothing to do with it."

"Why didn't you stop them?"

"I did! I mean, I tried to!"

"What did you do?"

"What?"

"How did you try to stop them?"

I could see Moles frantically trying to figure out how to answer the question. What answer would make me sympathetic toward him, yet seem credible?

"I told them we might still need her."

Credit where it's due: it was a good answer.

"I don't believe you," I told him.

"It's the truth!"

"What did they say when you told them they might still need her?"

"They—they told me to shut up."

"So then what else did you to do try to save Abigail's life?"

"Look, I did everything I could! I swear to you! I didn't lay a hand on her! Ask any of them! They'll tell you!"

"I believe that you didn't lay a hand on her. I don't believe that you did anything to try to save her. And I'd kill you anyway."

Moles glanced around, as if trying to find a weapon. Nothing was within reach, so he reluctantly raised his fists.

"Put your fists down, Moles."

"Moles. Funny. Real mature. Gotta get in an insult before you kill me, huh?"

I ran at him. I wasn't sure if he'd throw a punch or try to run, but he didn't seem sure either, so he kind of twisted around as if he wanted to run, while staying in place. I grabbed him and threw him against the wall. He didn't hit all that hard, but he flopped onto the floor as if all of his bones were broken.

I grabbed him by the back of the collar and pulled him to his feet, then I dragged him over to the table where they'd been sitting. It was a square table. Sharp corners.

I didn't want to create a modus operandi where I killed people by bashing them against pointed or jagged objects, but I didn't have any weapons and the corner of the table was the most dangerous thing available to me. I was surprised by how little struggle Moles was putting up. Maybe he agreed that he deserved to die. Maybe he had some sort of plan—a knife strapped to his leg that he was going to whip out at the last second.

I grabbed him by the ears, one hand on each, and then slammed his face into the corner of the table.

He did not whip out a knife.

I did it twice more.

Then I let him go. His body crumpled to the floor. As blood from the corner of the table dripped onto his chest, I walked over and got a knife out of the drawer he'd been eyeing. It hadn't been washed properly before somebody put it away.

I wasn't sure if Moles was dead or not. There was no good reason to waste time checking to see if he was breathing or if he had a pulse when I could simply slash his throat and eliminate the doubt.

In movies when people cut somebody's throat, they just slide the blade across their neck in a smooth motion. I slit his throat like I was cutting a piece of steak.

When I was done, I slammed the knife into his chest. Then I immediately regretted it—he was dead. No reason to mutilate the body further. I was better than them.

I stood up and went over to wash my hands in the sink.

I happened to glance over at the bed, and then I completely fucking lost it.

sixteen

When you have committed two gruesome murders in the same trailer park, and the second corpse is still only a couple of feet away from you, and you don't know if the police are on the way or if the bad guys are coming back, it's best not to succumb to primal rage and sorrow. I knew this. I knew this while I was kicking furniture and flinging objects against the walls. I couldn't stop myself.

They'd murdered Abigail. She was a good person and we were going to run away together. We were going to have a blissful goddamn life and they'd stolen it away from us. Abigail deserved far more pity than I did—she was the one who was dead—but I was allowed to feel sorry for myself, too. Abigail actually liked me. No women liked me. This may have literally been my only chance to be with somebody who truly cared about me.

Maybe she didn't care about me. Maybe she had no intention of us running away together. Maybe she'd only said that because she was frightened of me. She was scared that if she broke things off with me, I might try to strangle her right there in the park.

No. Not true. Stop it.

They'd killed Abigail, who'd done nothing, but they'd let Marc go. How was that fair?

I didn't hurt myself while I trashed the trailer. That is, I didn't shatter my hands or anything while punching immobile objects—I certainly didn't do the wound on my shoulder any good. I resisted the temptation to do further damage to Moles' body. But I made a lot of noise and I'm sure I left fingerprints and DNA evidence a-plenty.

I think my tantrum lasted less than a minute, though I crammed a lot of destruction and poor decision-making into that minute. When I was done, I sat down in one of the unbroken chairs and gasped for breath. Even if nobody called the police, somebody would've called animal control to report that a bear was destroying somebody's trailer.

After I could breathe again, I went back outside. A few people were standing outside their own trailers, staring at me. I gave them a light wave. "Everything's fine, folks," I said. I hoped they'd be amused by this, since I had a lot of blood on me and things were quite obviously not fine. Nobody smiled, though.

I hurried out of the trailer park. I was a twenty-minute drive from my apartment, so at least ten to fifteen miles. More than I wanted to walk tonight. Since my abductors had made me give up my cell phone along with my guns, I couldn't call an Uber. I'd have to walk until I found a pay phone, if those things existed anymore, or somebody kind and dumb enough to give a ride to a big creepy looking guy in bloody clothes.

I could've ditched the bloody clothes, of course, but then I'd be a big creepy naked guy, which I suspected was a bigger stumbling block in getting a ride. Another stumbling block was that Wulfe's crew might still be actively searching for me. So I had to stay off the road until I was at least a couple of miles away from the trailer park.

This meant that I got to spend a lot of time in my own head.

It was not a pretty place to be.

I tried not to wallow in misery over what had happened to Abigail (unsuccessfully) and I questioned whether I'd made wise choices today (obviously I had not). I replayed the head-smashings in my mind and wished I'd felt guiltier about them. I felt some guilt, and a lot of disgust, but I had to accept that I was the kind of person who could bash in not one but two heads until the brain was visible and only feel mild regret.

I also thought about a minor pet peeve of mine: the use of "brains," plural, as in "I bashed in his head until his brains leaked out." Unless you're an alien, you only have one brain. I did not think about this for very long.

The most important question that I asked myself as I walked was: are you willing to let this be the end? Wulfe, Andy, Jamie, and Moles were dead. Was that enough? Could I switch my focus to getting out of town?

No. It was not enough.

It should have been. I hadn't known Abigail that long. We hadn't even made love. Neither of us had said "I love you" to the other. Continuing to murder drug dealers one by one would eventually work out badly for me. Would I even feel better after they were all dead?

I might. I might not. I needed to find out for sure.

I walked for a couple of hours, which was probably further than necessary to distance myself from wherever Wulfe's men might be searching, and then reluctantly decided to try hitchhiking. I stuck out my thumb at each car that drove past. Wisely, none of them stopped.

Finally, about an hour later, one did. The driver leaned over and opened the passenger door for me. As I climbed into the car, I hoped he wouldn't say "Gas, grass, or ass—nobody rides for free!" because all I had to offer was ass.

"You okay, dude?" the driver asked. He looked at least five decades too old to be saying "dude."

"Yeah," I said, leaning forward to make sure my bloody shirt didn't touch his seat.

"Want me to take you to the hospital?"

I shook my head. "Just to my apartment, if you're headed that way."

"You sure? That's a nasty cut."

"I don't have insurance."

"All right."

I think the driver understood that I wasn't in a chatty mood, and he didn't even try to make small talk beyond asking me for directions. I'm sure he was going out of his way, but he drove me all the way to the apartment complex that I said was mine, which was actually a few blocks away from mine. At some point, he'd probably see me on the news and regale his friends with the story of how he had a psycho killer in his car and lived to tell the tale.

As I got close to home, I saw several police cars in the parking lot.

It was possible that somebody else in my apartment complex did something naughty. But using moderate deductive skills I could make a wild and crazy guess that the authorities were parked out front of where I lived because somebody had alerted them to the two corpses in my bathtub. Was it Marc? Was it insufficient air freshener? It didn't matter right now. I couldn't go home, and I had to assume that I was being hunted by the Atlanta Police Department and not just a few scumbags.

I wanted to cry.

I'd have to get closer to see if my car was still there, but it would most likely be towed away to wherever they kept the automobiles of murderers, so even if I wanted to ditch my plan of bloody vengeance and flee town, I didn't have transportation.

I walked away. I did have a Plan B, though it sucked.

It took me an hour to find a pay phone. It took me another hour to find a pay phone that had a phone book. (The phone itself had been ripped from the cord.) I looked up the address for Neal Miller. There were lots of Neal Millers, of course, but I picked the one closest to the bar where I'd watched him have a miserable, guilt-ridden drink after hitting Abigail.

God, I wished I had my cell phone or my wallet. I was going to have to rely on the kindness of my fellow human beings again, and hope that none of them were watching the news.

This time I lucked out, getting a ride in less than ten minutes. Granted, this guy was even scarier than I was. He was on whatever combination of drugs makes you constantly lick your lips and ignore stoplights. But he did get me to Neal's place and wished me luck in rescuing him from the suicide cult.

It was a small but nice house in a decent area. Neal was doing all right for himself.

I didn't have a mirror to check out my appearance. Unless I stole somebody's clean shirt and had a complete makeover, I was going to be an unwelcome sight at his front door after dark. I'd just have to use my powers of charm and persuasion.

I rang the doorbell.

Nobody answered.

I knocked.

Still no answer.

If I'd gone through all of this and he wasn't home, I was literally going to plop down on his front porch and weep.

Finally, the door opened. Neal stood there in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, hair sticking up, a bit of dried drool on the side of his mouth; I'd obviously woken him up.

"Can I help you?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. I couldn't tell if he recognized me from the bar or not.

"I'm a friend of Abigail's."

Now he seemed to actually see me. When you've struck a woman, and a large man shows up at night covered in blood saying he's a friend of hers, it's not unreasonable to assume that your personal safety is at risk. I held up my hands and took a step back to show that I wasn't trying to be menacing.

"She's in trouble," I told him. "We need your help."

"Where is she?"

"May I come in?"

"No."

"Please. I just need to talk to you."

"We can talk here."

Now I had to be a dick. "I can press charges against you, but I'd rather not do that. I'd rather just come in and talk to you. I swear to God I'm not going to hurt you. This is your chance to make it up to her."

Neal sighed. "What happened to your shoulder?"

"I got shot."

"And that's related to Abigail's trouble?"

"Yes."

Neal sighed again and stepped out of the way. "All right. Come on in."

I walked into his house. It was more tastefully decorated than I would've expected from somebody who slapped women around.

"Can I get you a drink?" Neal asked.

"I'd love some water."

Neal nodded and went into the kitchen. I checked to make sure I wasn't dripping any blood on his carpet. He returned a moment later and handed me a warm bottle of water. I twisted off the cap and downed the entire thing. Neal didn't offer me another one.

"What kind of trouble has Abigail gotten herself into?" he asked.

I hesitated, trying to figure out how to cushion the blow. Then I decided that I didn't need to cushion the blow to the stalker who gave her a black eye. "She was murdered."

"What?"

"Because of me, she got mixed up with some terrible people and they killed her. I'm going to make them pay. All I want from you is to use your shower and sleep on your couch. And to use your computer. And to borrow maybe twenty bucks."

"Is this a joke?"

"You knew her a lot longer than I did," I said. "Does that sound like her sense of humor?"

Neal walked over and collapsed onto his couch. "Holy Christ."

"You owe me absolutely nothing. But you owe her. I think that a houseguest and twenty bucks—let's say thirty to be safe—isn't that big of a price for what you did."

"I didn't lay a hand on her," he said.

"Please don't lie to me."

Neal dabbed at his eyes. "Okay. Okay. Shit. Will I get in trouble for helping you?"

"Not if the police think you helped me because you were scared I'd hurt you."

"Should I be scared?"

"No. But we can pretend."

Neal stood up. "All right. All right. You can take a shower, at least. I don't have any clothes that would fit you, but I've got a washer and dryer, so I'll wash what you're wearing. We'll discuss having you crash here after that. Is that reasonable?"

"Yes. Thank you. I can't stop you from calling the cops on me, but if you do, you'll continue to be one of the villains in Abigail's story."

"I'm not a..." Neal trailed off. "C'mon, the bathroom is down the hall."

Many, many things had gone wrong today, but the shower was amazing. I hadn't realized just how shitty the shower in my apartment was until I had this one for comparison. The water pressure was exquisite. I'm a bar soap kind of guy, not fruity/flowery scented gels that you squeeze from a dispenser, but I thoroughly enjoyed his selection and I stayed in the shower until all of the hot water was gone.

When I got out of the shower, a robe was hanging on the back of the door as were some bandages, gauze, and tape. I dressed my wound, awkwardly, and then put on the robe. It wasn't a great fit, but it was perfectly adequate. I walked into the living room. Neal was seated on the couch, next to a pillow and a folded blanket. His eyes were red and he had a wadded up tissue in his hand.

"Good shower?" he asked.

"Yes. Very good."

Neal sniffed. "It haunts me, what I did. I will never forgive myself. I don't know, I just, I was so mad in that moment that I stepped outside of myself for a second. But I know now that I'm capable of that kind of thing—I understand this about myself. I can make sure it never happens again. Not that it changes anything, and not that I expect you to care."

He was right. I didn't care.

"Who killed her?" he asked.

"Drug dealers."

"She didn't use drugs."

"I know."

"Are you a drug dealer?"

"No. But I helped one of them. It was a huge mistake."

"So you got her killed?"

"Yeah," I admitted. "One hundred percent."

"We're both pretty shitty friends."

"I guess so."

"Do you think you'll need stitches?"

I shrugged. "Probably."

"Do you want me to do it?"

"Have you stitched somebody up before?"

"Nope. And I'll probably get lightheaded while I'm doing it. Still better than doing it yourself."

"I'll be fine," I said.

"It's already soaking through the gauze."

"Shit."

"I'll just get some more sheets so you don't stain the sofa."

A few minutes later, I lay on the couch.

"In the morning, I'll make you breakfast and give you some money," said Neal. "Then, if it's okay, I'd like to not see you again."

"That should be okay."

"Good night." Neal shut off the light and went to his bedroom.

I lay there for a while, so exhausted that I could barely keep awake but not willing to lose consciousness until I was confident that Neal hadn't called the police. After about fifteen minutes, I assumed I was safe. I drifted off to sleep, thinking about the people I still needed to kill.

seventeen

Neal's blueberry waffles weren't all that great, though of course I didn't tell him that. We didn't talk much during breakfast. I took another extremely long shower and then inspected my bullet wound. Oh, yeah, I was going to have a nasty scar. One step closer to looking like Frankenstein. However, I hadn't gotten all that much blood on Neal's sheets and none soaked through to his couch, so I was confident that I wouldn't bleed to death.

I bandaged and gauzed it up, put on yesterday's clothes (still torn, obviously, but all of the gore had come out in the wash), and left the bathroom to see my face on the television screen.

We didn't watch very long. Neal could see that I was getting twitchy. There was nothing about the trailer park massacre, but they had indeed discovered the bodies in my bathtub, thanks to my landlord responding to an aroma complaint from the lady next door.

The newscasters were currently talking about my father.

Fine. Whatever. At least they weren't talking about the other two guys I'd brutally murdered.

They weren't talking about Abigail, either. I suddenly felt deeply sad, thinking that she probably had not yet been reported as a missing person. Nobody walked along the sidewalk and said, "Oh, the flower lady hasn't set up her shop today. She must be in trouble!" Did anybody miss her but me?

Her cat. Queenie missed her. Was she out of food and water? Did her kitty litter need changed?

Neal looked very uncomfortable after he turned off the television. I suppose that what we briefly saw on the news didn't really match up to what I'd shared with him, even though I told the truth.

"It's time for you to leave," he said.

"I agree."

"I'm going to give you a hundred dollars. After this, I don't expect to see you again. Ever. For any reason. If I see you anywhere, if we happen to be shopping at the same grocery store, I'm calling the cops. Or worse. Consider this a restraining order. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but I ask two more favors?"

"You can ask."

"Will you give me a ride?"

"No." He was silent for a moment. "I'll give you a bicycle. It's in the garage—I never use it."

"Thanks."

"What's the other favor?"

"Abigail had a cat."

"Queenie?"

"Yes. Could you go over there and make sure the cat's okay? Abigail isn't coming back, so I guess what I mean is could you find a good home for it? You don't have to adopt it yourself. Just don't take it to the pound."

"Yeah, I can do that. Do you have her key?"

I shook my head. "We weren't anywhere close to that point in our relationship."

Neal seemed pleased by this. "It's all right. Somebody will let me in to save the cat. I'll bring her here until I find somebody to take her."

"I appreciate it."

"Now let's get you the bike so you can go."

* * *

He also had a bicycle helmet, which was great because though it didn't cover my face it made me slightly less recognizable to somebody who might've seen me on TV. Maybe this fell into the category of Clark Kent's glasses making him unidentifiable as Superman, but I wasn't going to worry about it too much—I'd keep my head down and keep moving.

My plan was not pure brilliance. It wasn't even a little bit brilliant.

Here was my plan: I would ride to the trailer park, and if the trailer wasn't surrounded by cops, I'd wait inside for one of Wulfe's men to show up. One of them would eventually, right?

Nobody recognized me during my bike ride (or at least they didn't point and let out a shriek like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers). The most dangerous part was when I stopped at a convenience store and bought a $5 phone card, but the clerk barely even looked up.

When I got to the trailer park, Jamie's corpse was not still lying outside, though some shards of the garden gnome remained on the ground. I wondered who took it. The trailer was locked. I'd figured this could be the case, but though I'd never picked a lock, I couldn't imagine that a run-down trailer like this would pose too much of a problem. And I was right—wiggling the plastic phone card down the gap between the door and doorframe popped the lock.

I went inside. The mess remained but Moles' body was gone.

Time to wait.

I honestly have no idea if you're still on Team Frank. I've written about doing some weird, weird things. And this is another part where you'll know that I'm not making up this story, because if I was, I would've explained how I hung out in the trailer for a few hours before somebody came along. Maybe overnight. A reasonable amount of time that a sane person might wait in a disgusting trailer.

That's not what happened. I stayed in the trailer for three days.

I didn't have a cell phone, there were no books, and I'd broken the TV, so there wasn't much available to keep myself occupied. I spent some time cleaning up the place. Tried to work out fancy meals using the extremely non-gourmet ingredients in the cupboard. (The refrigerator contained a twelve-pack of beer with one can left and three half-full bottles of ketchup.)

Mostly I just sat there and thought about stuff.

It wasn't all awful stuff, but most of it was. Again, the inside of my head was not a cheery place to be. I wasn't hallucinating, at least not as far as I could tell, but the waking nightmares came fast and furious. I didn't believe I was actually seeing wet tentacled creatures dangling from the ceiling, but I couldn't stop thinking about them.

No claws were scraping against the windows.

The floor was not moving.

I did not legitimately see shadows darting away every time I turned my head.

A possible visit by the police, which should have been a major concern, occupied very little of my headspace. Similarly, when I went to sleep on the bed where Abigail had been hacked up, I didn't worry that I'd open my eyes and see angry drug dealers pointing guns at me.

The time did not pass quickly.

I'm pleased to report that I was still able to identify that it was the third day (technically night—it was dark out) before something happened. I opened my eyes as I heard somebody unlock the trailer door. I was on the bed with the curtain closed. I decided to stay there for now. No matter who the intruder was, and no matter how paranoid they were, I very seriously doubted that they'd expect to see somebody lying there when they pulled the curtain aside. I had a steak knife under the pillow.

It sounded like only one person came inside. I tried to figure out who it was based on the sounds of footsteps, but all I could ascertain was that it was not a petite ballerina nor a clumsy giant. I'm no Sherlock Holmes.

The person walked around for a moment. Then he spoke: "Hey."

He wasn't talking to me. He was probably on his cell phone.

"Somebody's been in here. They cleaned it up. No, I mean like they literally tidied the place up. How the hell should I know who it was? If you want me to, yeah. All right. I said, all right. Jeez."

I hadn't actually heard the teenager speak while I was squeezing his throat, but I assumed he was the one inside the trailer. That was good. He seemed the least likely to have a gun or to put up much of a fight.

I quietly lifted my feet into the air. I figured he'd pull the curtain at some point, and when he did, if he was in the right spot, I'd bash my feet into his chest. Then I'd get some information out of him. Later, I'd kill him.

I decided that his name was Mike. A smart kid but, as his teachers said at every parent/teacher conference, "he didn't apply himself." Straight C's. It bugged him to get a C+ because it meant that he squandered some effort on school stuff that he could've used elsewhere. Not that he put effort into anything else. He had no hobbies, no aspirations, no dreams.

His dad, Robert, had never planned to bring him into a life of crime, even to provide Mike with something to do and some spending money. Mike found out purely by accident, on a day that Robert didn't know his son had skipped school and was upstairs in his bedroom, able to hear what was supposed to be an extremely private phone conversation.

Buying Mike's silence (his mom didn't know about her husband's side career) was expensive. But the kid was useful, doing some low-risk odd jobs. Robert planned to break away from that lunatic Wulfe at some point, so he liked the idea of having somebody he could trust working with him.

When a non-paying client was beaten almost to death in the back room of the seafood restaurant, Mike didn't look up from his cell phone. Jamie asked if Mike wanted to break the last pinkie. Mike shrugged, pulled the finger backwards until the bone snapped, and returned to whatever game he was playing.

Robert decided that his son was a sociopath. He didn't think that was such a bad thing.

Mike kept walking around the trailer. Just as my legs were getting tired and I was beginning to regret my decision, the curtain opened. The kid was perfectly placed. I slammed both of my feet into his chest and he staggered backwards, coughing.

I snatched the knife from under the pillow and got out of bed. I grabbed Mike and slammed him against the table—not the corner, because I wasn't trying to splatter his head. I just wanted to discourage him from fighting back. He dropped his phone.

"Don't make any noise," I told him.

He let out a pained whimper, but I didn't count that as a noise.

"I'm not going to kill you," I said. This was not entirely accurate. "You're going to take me back to your house."

Mike spat some blood onto the table, along with what looked like a piece of tooth. I'd slammed him harder than I realized. "I'm not taking you anywhere," he said.

I slammed him against the table again, and then I jabbed the tip of the knife against the back of his neck. "When I said I wasn't going to kill you, I meant that I wouldn't do it if you helped me out. Otherwise I have to gouge out pieces of your neck. Will you help me?"

Mike didn't answer. I pushed the knife in a bit.

"All right, all right!"

I pulled the knife out. He wasn't bleeding very much. "You try anything, and I'll slice you up. Got it?"

"I've got it!"

"Don't talk unless I ask you a question. Don't make a sound. How did you get here?"

"I drove."

"You have a driver's license?"

"Yeah."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Oh. You look younger. Nobody came with you?"

"No."

"Then you're driving," I told him.

I led him to the door, keeping my hand tightly on his shoulder to send the message that I'd break his neck if he tried anything stupid. (Since I intended to kill him, going along with me was technically "stupid," but he didn't know that.) I didn't know for sure that he'd really come alone, or that he wouldn't start screaming for help as soon as we stepped out of the trailer, so it was possible that I was being stupid as well.

I realized that it was a bad idea to leave his phone on the floor, so I led him back to where he'd dropped it. I let go of him long enough for me to crouch down, pick up the phone, and stick it in my pocket, and then I stood back up and put my hand on his shoulder again.

We went outside. He did not immediately shriek for help. His dad's car (presumably) was parked right in front of the trailer, and I didn't see anybody else inside.

"Pop the trunk," I told him.

Mike shook his head. "I'm not riding in the trunk."

"I know you're not. I'm putting my bike in there."

Mike raised the lid. He had a decent opportunity to flee while I picked up the bicycle and wedged it inside, but he didn't take it, saving me the need to beat him to death with the two-wheeler. The trunk didn't close all the way but it was good enough.

"Drive me to your house," I told Mike, after we got into the car. He reached for the seatbelt but hesitated. I felt as if he might be considering making a run for it, so I made sure he could see that I was still holding the knife. He put the seatbelt on, started the engine, and drove away from the trailer.

He looked terrified. Good.

"How far away do you live?" I asked.

Mike shrugged.

"Don't screw with me," I told him.

"Fifteen minutes."

"Who killed Abigail?"

"I don't know."

"You were there."

"I wasn't paying attention."

"Are you kidding me?"

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"I want you to tell the truth."

"I don't know who killed her."

"I've narrowed it down to you or your dad. Pretty sure it was your dad."

Mike looked away.

"Am I right?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"Was it you?"

"No."

"Then it was your dad."

Mike didn't answer.

"Answer my question."

"What do you want to know?"

I resisted the urge to slam the knife into his side. "Did your dad murder Abigail?"

"Yes, okay? Yes. He smothered that fat bitch with a pillow. She got off easy. I wish he'd done worse."

"Thank you for your honesty."

We didn't talk the rest of the way. I stayed on high alert, ready for him to suddenly leap out of the automobile or swerve into oncoming traffic to distract me, but he behaved himself. Finally we pulled in front of a nice two-story home in a quiet suburban neighborhood.

"Turn off the car," I told him.

"I was going to," said Mike, shutting off the engine.

"If you've got a place like this, why would you hang out in that filthy trailer?"

"We don't live in the trailer. We didn't choose it. That was Wulfe."

"Makes sense."

Mike unfastened his seatbelt.

"Don't open the door," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because you're not leaving the car."

I suppose I could have used him as a hostage again, but I didn't want to overcomplicate matters. Mike had taken me where I wanted to go, and now I had no more use for the little shit. I unfastened my seat belt, but I wasn't leaving the car quite yet.

eighteen

I wanted to crack my knuckles, but that might have telegraphed my intention.

I lunged across the seat and slammed my hands around his neck. I squeezed as hard as I could as Mike gasped for breath and desperately struggled to pull away.

Yes, I was murdering a boy who was barely old enough to get his driver's license. I'm sure that I've lost the sympathy of many readers, if not all of them, but at the time I didn't care how this would reflect upon me when telling the tale. I didn't have anybody to share this with. What did it matter if I couldn't justify my actions?

I squeezed and squeezed.

He continued to gasp for breath.

If Mike could gasp, he was getting some air, and I wasn't doing my job. If he would've remained still, I'm sure I could have choked the life out of him without much effort, but he kept thrashing around. I couldn't keep a solid enough grip on his neck. Not to mention that I was awkwardly twisted around because there wasn't enough room in the front seat for an easy strangulation. And my injured shoulder wasn't helping.

It was dark out, but not so dark that somebody wouldn't notice what was happening if they were out for a walk or happened to look out their window at the wrong time.

"Knock it off," I told him.

Mike continued to struggle. Though I could have continued my trend of bashing people's skulls against hard objects, that would have made too much noise. I needed him to die quietly. I tried to push my thumbs directly into his throat but I couldn't keep him still enough to do it.

"Knock it off or you'll be sorry," I said. I doubt that this was literally the stupidest thing I'd ever said in my entire life, but it had to be close.

He raked his fingernails across my face, missing my eye but leaving what I assume were four bloody lines. I let go of him with one hand, intending to punch him. (I'd like to say that my intention was strategic, but no, I wanted to punch him out of rage.) That was a mistake. He popped free of my other hand as well.

Mike started to scream for help and got halfway through the word before I clamped my hand over his mouth. I tried to give his neck a violent twist to snap it. Didn't work. Again, it was too cramped in the car. 

He pushed against the steering wheel with his elbow, clearly going for the horn. I kept one hand over his mouth and used the other to yank his arm away from the wheel. I twisted it, sort of, but even in perfect laboratory conditions I doubt I could have broken his arm just by twisting it with one hand.

This wasn't working.

I was going to have to get messy.

I let go of him and took out the knife. He knocked it out of my hand. I hurriedly scooped it up and jabbed it at his chest. Mike deflected it—the blade slashed his palm wide open but didn't come close to his heart. I stabbed again and missed the mark by a couple of inches, hitting his solar plexus and bouncing off the bone.

Mike tried to punch me but it was more of a slap. Flecks of blood sprayed onto the windshield.

I stabbed at his heart once more. He blocked this one as well, but I jammed the blade deep into his upper arm, going in one side and out the other. He pulled away, probably doing more damage when the blade came out than when it went in. More blood.

He deflected my next stab attempt completely. Then I stabbed him in the chest twice, two quick jabs that didn't penetrate deep and nicked a lung at best.

He punched me in the stomach. Unlike our previous floundering attempts to inflict violence upon each other, this was a direct hit to the gut, one that felt like my stomach lining collided with my spinal column. I didn't actually throw up but I sure made a sound like somebody vomiting. I was not nearly enough of a fierce warrior to just shake that off and leap back into action, and as I groaned and tried to recover, I realized with horror that Mike was trying to open the car door.

My effort to stop him from doing that was so inept that I won't describe it here.

He pulled up on the door handle and pushed the door open. As he tried to scramble out of the vehicle, I forced myself to focus enough to stab him in the back. I got in three or four stabs before he spilled out of the car onto the pavement.

Shit. This was really, really bad. The car had offered some soundproofing. I couldn't stab a kid to death out in the open and not have anybody notice. The world was apathetic but not that apathetic.

Instead of trying to crawl over the gearshift, I opened my own door and got out of the car. I was still feeling the impact of the stomach punch in a big way, so it was a clumsy process. I staggered over to where Mike was trying to crawl away. He was making gurgling sounds but thankfully not screaming.

I glanced around the area. I didn't see anybody outside. If somebody was watching, well, I was fucked no matter what I did, so I stabbed Mike again, right between the shoulder blades. Then I dragged him back to the car. I might have to speed away, so I dragged him around the front over to the passenger's side.

He was still alive and fighting, but with significantly less energy than before.

"Cooperate and I won't kill you," I lied in a whisper.

I held him under the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. He wasn't really cooperating (I wasn't sure if that was on purpose or if it was simply because he'd been stabbed too many times) but he wasn't fighting back, either. I lowered him onto the seat, pushed his legs inside, and then shut the car door.

I glanced around as I walked over to the driver's side. Still no obvious witnesses. This didn't mean that a dozen people weren't dialing 911 right now, but at least nobody was standing on their front porch pointing at me and shrieking.

I got back in the car, shut the door, then stabbed him again in the chest. Mike grunted with pain but didn't try to block it.

He was getting blood everywhere.

I fastened his seat belt to make it more difficult for him to escape again before I killed him.

He said something to me that I couldn't quite hear.

"What?"

"I didn't do anything."

"You were there."

"But I didn't do anything."

"You were complicit."

Maybe there wasn't a goddamn thing Mike could've done to save Abigail, but he'd sat in a trailer casually tapping away at his cell phone while Jamie butchered her dead body. I had quite clearly crossed a line here, but I was fine with that. No tears for poor Mikey.

I stabbed him in the chest, over and over, until he slumped forward as far as the seatbelt would allow and stopped breathing. I didn't poke out his eyes or anything ghoulish; just chest wounds.

Now I had blood all over me and no change of clothes.

What next? The prudent thing to do, since there'd been complications, would be to drive away and save the next revenge murder for another time. But the whole front seat of the car was covered with blood and I didn't have any blankets or Windex. Driving away might be equally dangerous.

I would've loved to go the "killer in a slasher flick" route and leave Mike's body where his father would find it. He'd open the front door and see his son's bloodstained corpse splayed out in the center of the driveway with the word "Abigail" spray-painted hundreds of times in different colors and sizes. But that wasn't really the kind of thing I was going for, and I didn't want Robert to be on high alert.

My best bet was to sit in the car for a few minutes and listen for sirens. If the police were on their way, I'd drive away and find a place to hide. Otherwise, I'd assume that nobody had seen me stab a teenaged boy to death and stick to the plan of killing Robert in his home tonight.

I just sat there. I wished I could turn on some music to keep my mind occupied—low volume, not enough to drown out the sirens—but if it meant that I heard the police even a couple of seconds later than I would without the music, that could mean the difference between escape and (presumably) life in prison.

I didn't plan to go down in a hail of bullets. If I were trapped, I'd surrender.

So I just waited in silence.

Well, not complete silence. Mike was dripping blood. I could hear it going pat, pat, pat on the seat. I wondered if I'd snuffed out a promising young life that might have gone on to do amazing things, or if I'd saved the world from somebody who'd become a murderous criminal. I thought it was probably the latter. This kid wasn't going to reverse climate change.

I should've brought a towel when we left the trailer. It wasn't as if I didn't know that I was going to kill Mike. I mean, I'd planned to do it in a manner that didn't involve spurting blood, but I should've considered the possibility that it could work out like this. I still had several more people to kill and I had to do a better job of thinking about ways it could go wrong.

Mike raised his head.

My first thought was, "Zombie!" My second thought, more reasonable, was that I'd been wrong about him not breathing. I hadn't held a mirror up to his mouth or anything.

What should I do? Mike wasn't going to pull through. Was it necessary to stab him again, or just let things take their course?

Now he was moving his hand. I think he was trying to unfasten his seatbelt.

"Just die," I told him. "Be at frickin' peace."

He got his hand on the seatbelt, smearing it with blood. I obviously wasn't concerned that he was going to make a daring escape, but I couldn't leave him alone in the car if he was still alive.

"Seriously, stop it," I said.

Mike slowly turned his head and looked at me. There was terror in his eyes.

I held up the knife. Though I'm the one who put him in that condition, it felt inexplicably unfair to stab somebody who was so helpless. Like I should give him a fighting chance. I wasn't going to, of course; there was just this irony that delivering a final fatal wound seemed like a dick move.

I pressed the tip of the knife against his chest, right where his heart was. That had been my problem before: I'd stabbed him repeatedly in the chest but not the heart.

Suddenly I felt like I wanted to apologize to him before I stuck in the blade. But that would imply that I was in the wrong. I owed him nothing.

I slid the knife into his chest, all the way to the handle. His eyes went wide.

Then, keeping the blade buried in his flesh, I pushed the knife upward. At least, I tried to. It wouldn't move very much. It wasn't a very good knife and the heart is a thick muscle, so I sat there straining for a few moments before I gave up. I withdrew the blade, then stabbed him in the heart six or seven more times.

Mike's head slumped forward again. Some blood poured out of his mouth.

Now I'd successfully murdered a teenaged boy.

I hadn't heard any sirens, so it was safe to assume that I'd gotten away with it. I took the keys out of the ignition. There were only two keys on the ring, so I wouldn't have to waste time and make noise testing various keys as I tried to get into the house, assuming the door was even locked.

I unfastened the seatbelt, causing Mike to flop over and be less visible, then got out of the car. I couldn’t believe how much blood had gotten on me. If somebody saw me, they'd probably assume that it was my blood, so I'd shout for them to call an ambulance, which would give me some time to flee.

I walked around to the back of the house, hoping there'd be a back door. There was. There was also a doghouse, but no Rottweiler came out of it.

Perhaps a better weapon was in order than this flimsy steak knife. They had a shed. There had to be something in there I could use. I walked over to it, but unfortunately there was a combination padlock on the door, and I didn't have any way to break it except through brute force, which wouldn't be particularly stealthy.

However, there was a rake leaning against the side wall, which somebody had apparently been too lazy to put away. My money was on the teenager. The rake had metal tines, not plastic ones, so it could do some serious damage to a human body. Perfect. I grabbed the rake and returned to the back door of the house.

I very gently tested the doorknob. Locked. I unlocked it with the key, then very, very slowly opened it. The door clearly believed in my mission because it opened without a creak.

I stepped into the kitchen. The house was dark and quiet except for the sound of a television upstairs. I wasn't sure if I should close the door behind me, risking a possible creak, or leave it open, which could cause a problem if Robert was noisy when he died. I decided to close the door. Thankfully, it closed as quietly as it had opened.

The house remained silent. Nobody knew I was in here. I'm sure I could've opened a drawer and found a nice big sturdy knife, but I didn't know which was the knife drawer and I didn't want Robert to hear me. Also—I'll be honest—the idea of savaging him with a rake held great appeal.

I walked across the kitchen floor, dripping blood on the tile.

Then I dripped blood on the living room carpet.

Then I dripped blood in the upstairs hallway.

I could clearly hear the television. Robert was watching that show where people pitched products they'd invented to billionaires. A door was ajar and some light spilled out into the hallway.

"Matthew...?" called out a voice—Robert—from the bedroom. The teenager's name must've been Matthew and not Mike. At least I guessed right with the "M" part. He was still Mike to me.

I froze.

The door didn't open and Robert didn't call out his son's name again.

After a couple of minutes, I resumed creeping toward the bedroom.

I stood outside the door, hoping he couldn't hear my breathing. I held the rake tightly with both hands. It was a long, unwieldy weapon, but I was confident that I could make it work.

I took a few slow, deep breaths.

Then I kicked open the door and burst into the bedroom, where Robert and his wife were sitting up in bed.

nineteen

You could argue that I shouldn't have been surprised that Robert wasn't alone, and I'd concede that you'd made a valid point. I suppose I'd just assumed that Mike came from a single parent household. More importantly, as I've said before, I was not entirely sane.

I didn't know for sure that this was Robert's wife. She looked about his age, and she was wearing the kind of nightgown that implied that they were in a comfortable long-term relationship with no need to impress each other. Her expression was about what you might expect when a large blood-covered man burst into her bedroom brandishing a rake.

"Don't scream!" I shouted, louder than I intended. "I mean it! Don't scream, either of you!"

Neither of them made a sound or moved. There was a nightstand on Robert's side of the bed, and it was certainly possible that there was a gun inside the drawer, but I was sure I could slash him with the rake before he opened it.

The woman, who looked like a Bernice, pointed behind me. "There's a safe in the closet. We'll give you the combination. Take what you want and leave. Please."

"I'm not here to rob you."

Bernice pulled the covers up over her chest, as if to hide breasts that hadn't been exposed in the first place. "Just leave us alone. Our son will be home any minute. He'll call the police."

I was conflicted on how to respond. The proper vengeful reaction would be to gesture to my clothing and say, "This is your son's blood." But Bernice had not, to the best of my knowledge, played a role in Abigail's death. She'd married a terrible spouse and raised a shitty kid, but she was not one of my targets.

Don't get me wrong. I intended to massacre her husband while he sat in bed next to her, but I didn't feel right about being cold and cruel when revealing that I'd killed her son.

"I'm not worried about that," I said, hoping I was sending the message.

I could tell by Robert's face that he had a pretty good idea whose blood was all over me. I kept watching for his eyes to dart over to the nightstand, but they didn't, so perhaps there wasn't a gun in there.

"What do you want?" Bernice asked.

"Do you want to tell her?" I asked Robert.

"Tell her what? I have no idea who the hell you are."

"That's the angle you're going to play? Really?"

"We have a silent alarm that you would have tripped when you broke into our house. I'd advise you to leave right now."

"I used Matthew's key to get in." I still thought of him as Mike, but figured I should use his real name to avoid confusion.

Now it seemed to sink in for Bernice where the blood came from. Her face twisted in anguish.

"You need to leave," Robert said. He was trying to sound calm and commanding but his voice was trembling.

I didn't have anything worthwhile to say ("And you need to die!") so I stepped forward and started to bring the rake down upon him.

Bernice scooted in front of him before I could do so.

I lifted the rake again. "Get out of the way."

"Don't hurt him."

"Get out of the way."

"No!"

I was holding a rake with metal teeth. It would have been pretty easy to whack her on the side of the head and make this situation less complicated. But she hadn't done anything. That wasn't really an option.

Robert, piece of crap that he was, seemed perfectly willing to let his wife be in front of him as a human shield, even though I was clearly homicidal.

"Move," I told her.

She didn't budge, even as tears streamed down her face.

Maybe she was complicit in Abigail's death. Maybe she'd laughed about it when Robert and Mike came home and told her the gory details. Maybe she'd asked them to repeat the best parts. Maybe, while relaxing in a warm bubble bath, she'd pleasured herself to mental images of Robert smothering Abigail with a pillow.

I had no evidence that she knew anything about it. She was innocent. I was not going to kill an innocent person.

I didn't have to kill her. I could knock her unconscious with the flat side of the rake.

No. That could still seriously hurt her.

Even if it only gave her a nasty gash on the side of the head, that was too much. This was about revenge. That meant only harming people who deserved it. Until I knew for sure that Bernice was complicit, there would be no violence against her.

However, she didn't need to know that.

"Get out of the way or I'll tear off your face with this," I said, waving the rake.

"I'm not going to let you hurt him."

"You don't have a choice."

Bernice shook her head. "You have to come through me to get him."

As a reminder, I was creepy looking even when wearing clean clothes and neatly groomed. Right now I looked like a feral spree killer. To protect Robert like this, she had to really be in love with him. This was even stronger than "you float on the plank while I drown in the icy waters" love. Could Robert truly be that bad of a guy if she was this devoted to him?

Yeah. He could.

"My girlfriend's name was Abigail. She was going to run away with me. We talked about how we were going to spend the rest of our lives together." That last part wasn't true, but it didn't matter. I nodded at Robert. "Do you want to tell your wife why I'm here?"

"I have no fucking clue why you're here," said Robert.

"Your husband murdered Abigail. He and his gang kidnapped her to get me to turn over some drug money that I didn't have, and then he killed her while your son sat there and played games on his cell phone."

"You're lying," said Bernice.

"Nope."

"You've got the wrong person."

"I was in the trailer with them. I saw her body. I wish this was a case of mistaken identity, because you seem like a very nice lady, but it's not."

"I don't believe you."

"I'm not asking you to believe me. I'm asking you to move out of the way."

"Did you kill our son?" Bernice asked, her voice breaking.

"Yes."

She let out a sob that was so loud and sudden that I flinched.

I was starting to get nervous. There was a dead body in the front seat of the car parked outside, so it wasn't as if I had unlimited time to complete my task. And, let's be realistic, a rake wasn't all that great of a weapon. If Robert and Bernice chose to take the offensive, I wasn't positive that I could fend both of them off.

"What excuse do they give you when they leave the house?" I asked. "Does it ring false?"

Bernice continued sobbing and didn't answer.

"Get out of here," said Robert, still not moving from behind Bernice. "Go or you'll spend the rest of your life behind bars."

"I'll go when you're dead."

I moved around the bed, trying to get a better angle to reach Robert, but Bernice kept herself in front of him. Unless Robert had a sudden moment of nobility, there was no way I was getting Bernice out of the way without doing it by force.

Could I use the rake to just sort of pry her away from him? I didn't have to actually strike her with it.

Nah, then they'd try to pull it out of my hands and it would become a tug-of-war.  

I couldn't believe how badly this was going. I mean, Jesus Christ.

Would it really be so bad if I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her off the bed? She'd be okay. She wouldn't be gushing blood from her head. I'd drag her out of the way, slam the pointed ends of the rake into Robert a few times, and then get out of here.

That seemed reasonable.

But I couldn't do it.

Bernice had to be a bad person. She had to know that her husband was up to something criminal. She had to at least notice that they were living outside of their means from whatever day jobs they held, right? She had to question the extra spending money.

She could even be a drug dealer, too. Why was I assuming that she was clueless about this? It might be a family business.

For all I knew, she could've given the order to terminate Abigail by phone. "If you let her go, she'll squeal. Kill that bitch."

I didn't think so. She seemed to be genuinely shocked by my presence, and she wouldn't be if she'd known that I was on the loose.

That didn't mean she didn't know about the other crimes. She might have been kept in the dark about Abigail's murder yet still been well aware of the types of activities Robert and Mike were involved in when they left the house together.

It really wasn't hard to come up with a scenario where Bernice deserved to be injured with a rake, but I'd be rationalizing it without any facts. I still had absolutely no evidence that she wasn't simply a loving wife and mother who was protecting her husband from a home invading maniac.

I couldn't harm her. No collateral damage. It might have been a fucked up code of ethics, but I had to have some kind of moral code, right? I couldn't go around hurting innocent people in my thirst for vengeance.

I held the rake as if it was a baseball bat and I was going for a home run. "I'm giving you one last chance to move out of the way," I told her.

Bernice didn't move. She looked me in the eye with defiance.

I swung the rake.

I stopped a couple of feet before it would've plunged a half-dozen metal tines into her skull. She hadn't ducked or scooted out of the way. She was indeed serious that if I wanted to get to Robert, I was going to have to go through her. And now that I'd halted in mid-swing, she knew that I had no intention of following through on my threat. She'd called my bluff.

If there weren't the ticking clock of somebody noticing Mike's corpse, I suppose I could've figured out a way to overcome this problem. She couldn't protect her husband forever. But since I had to get the hell out of here, my only choices were to abandon my hastily constructed moral code, or save Robert's death for another time.

His death could wait.

I turned and ran.

I fled the house. The car had plenty of visual evidence that a violent stabbing had taken place inside of it, so it would be reckless and flat-out insane to use it as my getaway vehicle. Instead, I tossed the rake on the ground, then unlocked the trunk and took out the bicycle. I kept waiting for Robert to emerge from the house with a shotgun, but he was probably still cowering behind his wife.

I climbed on the bike and pedaled away.

twenty

I rode for about six blocks, until I saw a house with no garage and no vehicles in the driveway. I pedaled into their backyard, then lay the bicycle on the ground and sat against the back of the house. I wasn't positive that the house was empty, but I felt safe enough to take the chance.

I sat there and listened for sirens.

After about ten minutes, I still hadn't heard any.

This meant that Robert had convinced his wife not to call the police, even though their son was a bloody dead mess in the car. Or I was wrong about her innocence, but I suspected that he'd simply convinced her there was a better way to handle this. Maybe he'd made a full confession.

The police would use their sirens, right? They'd want to get to a murder scene as soon as possible. Did I have the procedure wrong? Would they just use flashing lights when responding to a crime that was no longer in progress?

Shit. Going back didn't seem like an intelligent idea. But surely I could get close enough to see red and blue flashing lights without any cops noticing me.

It was worth the risk.

Yes, the authorities were already after me, but it was important to know if Wulfe's men were cooperating with them. My plan—and let me be clear in stating that I knew it wasn't an awesome plan—was to return to the trailer and wait for the bad guys again. I couldn't do that if the cops might be showing up there.

I rode back toward Robert's house. If I got the angle right, I could be safely two or three blocks away and see the flashing lights.

No lights.

I decided to get closer. I didn't ride right in front of the house, obviously, but I got close enough to see that the car was no longer in the driveway.

They wouldn't have moved the car if they'd called the police. They were hiding Mike's death for now.

Good.

I made one last stop before I left the neighborhood. I found a house with a coiled garden hose on the side, and I rinsed myself off with extremely cold water. It was too dark to tell if all of the blood came out of my clothes, but I no longer looked like I'd been sleeping inside a deer carcass.

I rode back to the trailer and went inside.

More time with my thoughts. Oh goody.

I was not proud of what I'd done. I hope you understand that I'm not writing this book to brag about what a badass I am. I know that I suck. When all of the bloodshed was over, I didn't expect to say, "Okay, well, the balance of the universe has been restored, and now everything is just peachy!" I fully anticipated that I would be permanently fucked up from this experience.

I boiled some water, both so that I could have macaroni (it was a box of macaroni and cheese, but it had been opened and the cheese powder packet was nowhere to be found) for dinner, and to potentially fling in the face of Wulfe's men if they showed up. I'd enjoy watching their skin blister. You couldn't really throw boiling water into somebody's face and expect them to suffer quietly, but it would be worth waking the neighbors.

I ate my plain macaroni without company arriving.

Was it possible that anybody would show up? Would Robert, the blond, or the mustached man ever say, "Should we check the trailer?" It was hard to imagine that they'd look for me here.

Would Robert expect me to come back to his house so soon?

I knew that he was on high alert, and he'd know that I knew he was on high alert, but what if I didn't care? Going back tonight was such a bad idea that he'd never expect it.

Maybe he wasn't home anymore. If I could hang around in this grotesque trailer for three days, I could surely spend some quality time in his house, and be hiding in his closet when he finally did return home.

They wouldn't come back to the trailer. That seemed ridiculous.

It might be good to get some sleep, but I wasn't looking forward to the nightmares and wanted to postpone them for a while longer. I'd return to Robert's house. Maybe I'd grab the same rake when I got there.

I rode back to his neighborhood. Still no signs of the police. I was happy to see this, though at the same time it wasn't reassuring to know that you could get stabbed to death in a parked car without anybody noticing.

I stopped on the other side of the street, a couple of houses away, and watched Robert's home. There didn't seem to be any lights on inside. Had they driven the car away, or hidden it in the garage?

I watched the house for about half an hour, switching my vantage point every once in a while so that nobody got suspicious of the dude staring at a house. A woman did jog past me, but all she did was give me a polite nod.

It was unthinkable that they'd simply gone to bed, so Robert and Bernice were almost certainly not home. They wouldn't have had time to change the locks. I could sneak inside, find a secure hiding space (maybe even up in the attic, if they had one) and wait for my chance to give Robert his proper fate.

The rake was no longer there, disappointingly. I unlocked the back door—it had been relocked, so they knew I'd come in this way the first time—and crept into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator door, hoping to provide enough light to see but not enough light to alert anybody watching from outside that I was in the house. Then I opened one of the drawers and took out the biggest knife I could find. I closed the refrigerator door without succumbing to the desire to steal the plate of leftover fried chicken.

Maybe the attic was a bad choice. I should stick to the first floor, in case I needed to make a hasty escape. And hiding in the closet, though it would be a wonderfully scary surprise, really only worked if Robert was the one who opened the door. It was a big enough house; I'd find a decent place to lurk.

I walked into the living room. Was somebody sitting in the recliner...?

"Don't move," said Robert.

He turned on a lamp, which allowed me to see that he had a gun pointed at me.

"Set the knife on the floor very slowly," he told me.

Even if Robert didn't have a gun pointed at me, I didn't think I could fling the knife with enough accuracy to hit him in the heart or throat. As per his instructions, I very slowly crouched down and set the knife on the floor.

"Stand back up," he said.

I stood back up. It simply hadn't occurred to me that Robert might be sitting in a dark house waiting for me to come back. It was absurd that I was here. Somehow he'd anticipated my lack of sanity.

"You've destroyed my life," Robert said, and he did indeed look like somebody whose life had been destroyed. I suspected that he'd spent much of his time in the dark weeping. "You took my son away from me. Can you even imagine what it's like to lose a child?"

"No."

"He was a good kid. He didn't do anything wrong."

"Okay."

"Of course, my wife didn't believe that you were some random nut, so I had to tell her almost everything. I'm sure I've lost her, too."

"Did you tell her that you killed Abigail?"

"No, Frank. I did not tell her that."

"Are you going to tell her that you killed me?"

Robert shook his head. "No. Because she'll want to see a body. And it's going to be a long time before there's a body to show her."

I was pretty sure I understood where this discussion was headed, but I felt I should clarify it to be sure. "So you're going to torture me?"

"Yeah, Frank, that was my plan."

"So why shouldn't I just let you shoot me?"

"I don't care what you do, quite fucking honestly," said Robert. "If you want to attack me, attack me. See what happens. I don't give a shit."

I suspected that what would happen is that he'd shoot me in the leg. I could manage the situation better if I weren't shot in the leg, so for now I decided to go along with him. "I'm not going to attack you."

Robert shrugged. "Saves me a bullet."

"What happens now?"

"What I'd love to have happen is you take that goddamn rake you threatened my wife with and you use it to bash yourself in the skull until you knock yourself out. But I don't think that's practical. So you're going to inject yourself with some stuff that'll put you to sleep."

He picked up a hypodermic needle that rested next to the lamp.

It wasn't relevant to the narrative thus far, so I've felt no need to share that I have a major needle phobia. Given the choice between being buried alive for a week in a snake-filled coffin or getting a shot, I'd take the week of being buried alive.

Robert seemed to notice my intense discomfort. He grinned, though it was more of a pained grin than a sadistic grin—he was still grieving the loss of his son, after all. "Sorry. Couldn't get any chloroform on short notice. I don't even know for sure that the shit they said is in the needle is actually the shit that's in the needle. It's not like I got it from a licensed doctor. It might kill you. Might burn holes through your veins."

My stomach hurt and I was sweating. It was the worst I'd felt since gazing upon Abigail's dead body.

"Heads up, don't get poked," said Robert, tossing the needle to me. I caught it. "Inject yourself."

"Where?"

"Arm, ass, it doesn't matter. Jam it in your eyeball for all I care."

I desperately tried to think of a way to fake the injection, but he'd see the fluid running down my arm. My choices seemed to be limited to refusing to do it and getting shot, or injecting myself and hoping for the best when I woke up.

Better to do it myself than to get shot and have him do it. He might very well stick it in my eye. I picked up the needle with a quivering hand. If I didn't do this quickly, I might lose my nerve and decide that it was better to take a bullet, so I jabbed the needle into my upper arm, quickly depressed the plunger, and injected an unidentified substance into my body.

It didn't burn. It felt warm and soothing.

I withdrew the needle and dropped it onto the floor.

Robert stood up. "You really are an idiot, you know that? You should've picked up that knife and slashed your own throat. I'm not sure I can convey just how bad this is going to be for you, but you'll find out soon enough."

I was getting really dizzy. I fell to my knees. I didn't believe I'd made a mistake. I couldn't avenge Abigail if I was dead, right?

I closed my eyes, and then woke up immediately.

No, it couldn't have been immediately, because I was somewhere else. A small room. The walls had blankets over them, as if to muffle the sound. I was strapped to a wooden table that wasn't quite long enough for me; my feet dangled over the edge. There was duct tape over my mouth.

I was naked except for my boxer shorts, which were streaked with blood. My body was swollen and covered with bruises, as if they'd been beating the crap out of me while I was unconscious. And it was "they," because Robert, the mustached man, and the blond were in the room with me.

Robert took a small bottle out from under my nose. "Good morning, Sunshine," he said. The words were obviously meant to be mocking but there was no joy in his voice. "This is going to be your new home for a really long time."

I was so sore that it outweighed the fear, but only momentarily.

PART THREE

a horror story

[Transcript of call between Maynard Devon and Debbie White.]

DW: SWC Publishing, this is Debbie White, how may I help you?

MD: Do I really not show up on caller ID?

DW: I try to be professional when I answer the phone. It's a lost art. [laughs] What's going on?

MD: This guy is killing me.

DW: Frank Johnson?

MD: Who else would I be calling you about?

DW: Well, if Frank Johnson is killing you, that's appropriate, don't you think? [laughs]

MD: Funny.

DW: What's the problem this time?

MD: I can't get him to talk anymore.

DW: About anything?

MD: He'll talk about other stuff, but I've already told you what that's like. This whole project has been a nightmare. Trying to drag anything out of him is like pulling teeth. I can barely understand him even when he's focused, but he's usually all over the place. You promised I'd get used to looking at him. I assure you, Debbie, I am not getting used to looking at him.

DW: I get it. It's a shitty ghostwriting gig and you deserve more money. Do you need me to fly out there and give you a hug?

MD: No, I'm just saying that we've hit a wall. He won't talk about what happened next.

DW: Not at all?

MD: He'll close his eyes and you can tell he's thinking about it—which is creepy as hell, by the way—but that doesn't do me any good, since I failed all of my mind-reading classes in college.

DW: Well, just keep trying, I guess.

MD: What if I just made up the ending?

DW: Excuse me?

MD: Back in the stone ages I was a real writer, with self-respect and stuff. I'll make up the rest of his story.

DW: No. Hell no. We'll get sued.

MD: Who's going to sue us? Him?

DW: Absolutely not. I'm sorry that it's not as pleasant as ghostwriting the autobiography of a wife-beating rapper, but he agreed to tell you the whole story. He has a contract. Make him tell it.

MD: You make him tell it. I've spent weeks working through his scary-ass gibberish trying to turn it into something people might actually want to read. I'm sick of this.

DW: What do you expect me to do?

MD: I don't know. Give him a blowjob or something.

DW: Pretty sure you just crossed a line, Maynard.

MD: I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm just calling to vent. I never imagined it would be this frustrating. I feel like I'm going to end up as bonkers as he is.

DW: Just remind him that he has a legally binding agreement to tell his story. His whole story. If you need another extension on the deadline, we can work that out.

MD: Will you move me to an even cheaper motel?

DW: Probably.

MD: I'll let you know how it goes. Maybe I'll get the rest of the story out of him at gunpoint.

DW: Whatever works! [laughs] Seriously, though, don't do that.

MD: I promise nothing.

DW: Anything else?

MD: If you find a porn star who wants to write her autobiography, I get first dibs.

DW: What about a porn star who went on a bloody murder spree?

MD: Bitch.

DW: Crossing that line again!

MD: Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just keep me in your thoughts while you eat bon-bons or do yoga or whatever it is you do when you're not the one stuck trying to decipher a lunatic's ranting.

DW: I'll take a bubble bath in your honor.

MD: I hope you spill your champagne?

DW: I do have work to do, so...

MD: Talk to you later.

DW: Bye-bye.

twenty-one

The blond, Lucas, had spent his eighteenth birthday raping and murdering his former babysitter. He'd lusted after her every Friday night when he was twelve and she was sixteen, and one evening after she told him it was time for bed he'd finally worked up the courage to make a pass at her. (Technically, "worked up the courage" was a lie he told himself; he'd actually lost control and grabbed her breast.) To diffuse the tension, Lily had fake-laughed and told him they'd revisit the issue when he turned eighteen.

Lucas wasn't stupid. He knew that when he showed up at her house six years later she wasn't going to say, "The time is finally right! Take me now, birthday boy!" Her shocked reaction was exactly what he'd anticipated, especially because he'd had to drive almost four hundred miles to see her. This wasn't about sex anymore. He'd had sex with three girls by then—two attractive, one not so much—and if she had willingly spread her legs for him, he would have been disappointed.

She was a good girl. She behaved herself. She didn't make noise when she cried.

When Lucas was finished, he didn't really want to kill her. He preferred the idea that she was permanently traumatized by the experience, never able to let a lover touch her again. Unfortunately, she knew exactly who he was, so unless he wanted to go into hiding for the rest of his life, Lily had to die. She was relatively comatose after the rape anyway, so it wasn't all that difficult to get her into the bathtub, run some water, then slash her wrists. Investigators quickly figured out that it was a murder and not a suicide, but never traced it back to Lucas, who was back home before her body was discovered.

It was the only time Lucas ever raped somebody, and he took pride in that.

Marty thought he had an oddly shaped mouth, and the mustache disguised it. His girlfriend (which is how she saw herself—he considered her a friend with benefits, but was worried that the benefits would disappear if he corrected her) hated the mustache.

"Don't you like being tickled?" he'd ask.

"It doesn't tickle. It scratches. At least put conditioner in it."

She didn't complain about it when he went down on her, because he never went down on her. Disgusting. He could understand guys who did it if there was no other way to get women to reciprocate, but...blecch.

Marty had never killed anybody. He'd talked a friend into killing somebody once. His best friend Xavier's wallet had been stolen, and though Marty had no idea who'd stolen it, he told Xavier that he'd seen the mentally retarded boy who lived at the end of the street playing with it. Xavier marched over there to get his wallet back, and Marty eagerly followed, because he'd never seen a mentally retarded kid get his ass kicked. He was sure it would be hilarious.

Dwayne was playing in his backyard. Xavier confronted him about the wallet. Dwayne was unequipped to plead his own innocence, and Xavier proceeded with the glorious pummeling. The kid let out hysterically funny high-pitched squeaks with each punch, and Marty laughed so hard he farted, which made him laugh even louder, and then Xavier started laughing too.

Marty realized that this wasn't just funny, it was exciting, and he kept urging Xavier on, even when in the back of his mind he sort of knew that this was getting a little out of hand. Dwayne lay on the ground, still squeaking, and Marty kept saying, "Stomp on him! Break his ribs!" Xavier was happy to oblige.

Dwayne didn't die in his backyard, but he did die in the hospital.

Xavier was tried as an adult and remained in prison to this day, where he bragged about his crime but left out the "mentally retarded" part because he was kind of embarrassed by that. Marty claimed to have played no role in the tragedy, and in fact insisted that he'd tried to stop Xavier from committing this horrific, inexcusable act, but a jury believed otherwise and he was sent to a juvenile detention center.

He'd be nostalgic for his time in the detention center when he spent a few months in prison (a different one than Xavier's) for stealing a car. His cellmate was not a peaceful man. Upon his release, Marty vowed to himself that he'd go straight, a promise that lasted exactly seventeen hours and three minutes.

Over the next few years he did many things that his beloved grandmother would describe as "not very nice at all," but he'd never expected to find himself in a soundproofed room in a basement, thinking of ways to torture a guy who'd murdered some of his associates.

Marty, Lucas, and Robert had the "anticipation" part down. I spent a lot of time lying there in the dark, waiting for something terrible to happen. Sometimes one of them would come in, sometimes two, and sometimes all three. They'd pour some water into my mouth, or let me sit up and eat a bowl of congealed oatmeal at gunpoint. (I assumed that they purposely let it sit out until it was unappetizing.) Every once in a while they'd bring me a bedpan. I was uncomfortable relieving myself in a public restroom when there was somebody at the next urinal, so you can imagine my performance anxiety when trying to pee with three guns aimed at me. I didn't even bother trying to defecate, but they weren't feeding me much so it wasn't an issue.

What I mean by anticipation is that they would come in, looking intimidating, and one of them would be holding, for example, a pair of garden shears. They'd snap them closed a couple of inches from my ear, and then over my nose, maybe even close enough to nick the skin, and then down at my crotch. Then they'd file out of the room. Or Robert would come in with a meat tenderizer, and spend a few minutes lightly tapping various places on my body as if trying to determine which needed the most tenderizing, before leaving without actually hurting me.

It was difficult to calculate time (the room had no windows, of course) but my best estimate is that this happened every two or three hours, and they tried to frighten me with about twenty different torture devices, so I guess I was there for a couple of days before they decided to step up their game.

I should have expected what was going to happen because Robert changed the duct tape before he began the intimidation. He ran the tip of a hunting knife slowly down my leg, not breaking the skin, and then over each of the toes on my left foot, and then across the bottom of my foot, and just when I thought he'd remove the knife and leave me in the darkness, he jabbed the knife an inch deep into my sole.

It's a good thing my mouth was covered.

He bandaged up the wound and left.

The next two sessions he came in with the same knife, and he did the exact same thing except that he didn't stab me. My stress level was high. The only thing keeping me from begging him not to stick the knife in was the fact that I would've been too muffled for him to understand.

A couple of hours later, all three of them entered the room. Their faces were different. I knew before they said anything that the tease was over.

"You're going to lose a toe," said Robert. "I don't mean that we're going to cut off your toe. That's too easy. We're going to scrape away at your little toe, like getting old paint off wood, until there's nothing but bone left."

I don't feel like I need to offer a detailed description of what happened, except to say that Robert had not been bluffing. The pain was worse than anything I'd imagined during my time lying in the darkness imagining pain.

It was not a speedy process.

When they were done, they snipped off the bloody bone with a pair of bolt cutters, and left it on the table next to my head. They applied a generous amount of antiseptic, presumably both to keep infection away and because of the stinging sensation, then bandaged me up and departed.

They returned later to work on the little toe of my other foot. But as Marty clamped the pliers over my toenail, Robert suddenly lit up like a young child seeing presents under a Christmas tree. He began to frantically gesture at me.

"What?" Marty asked.

"Let's Frankenstein him!"

"Excuse me?"

"Frankenstein him! Replace body parts!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" asked Lucas.

"We should cut off his arm. Then we dig up his girlfriend, cut off her arm, and sew it onto his body. How great would that be?"

"We can't cut off his arm," said Marty. "He'd bleed to death."

Robert vigorously shook his head. "Not with a tourniquet. We'll just grab the hacksaw, saw off his arm at the shoulder, tourniquet that shit right up, and then do a little surgery. It's perfect."

Lucas sighed. "Look, you've got the most invested in making him pay for what he did. Personally, I think he'll bleed to death if we go that far. I don't know how to make a tourniquet."

"We'll watch a video."

"You're digging her up," said Marty.

"No, if he goes we all go," said Lucas. "If we decide to take that risk—which I don't agree with—we're all going."

"I didn't mean that I wouldn't go," said Marty. "I meant that he'd do the actual digging."

"Uh-uh. We all dig. We get in and out as fast as we can."

"You're right. That's fine. I shouldn't have said anything."

"Frankenstein him," said Robert, looking as if he was experiencing his first moment of true happiness since his son's death. The joyless Robert was gone.

"You okay with this?" Lucas asked Marty.

"I'm on board."

"I still think he's going to bleed to death before we get the arm sewn on."

"Let's put the tourniquet on first," said Robert. "Get it as tight as we can. Completely stop the flow of blood. Let his arm rot off."

Lucas and Marty seemed to mull that over for a moment. Finally, Lucas nodded, and Marty followed. "Yeah. That works."

They left the room for a while. I should've been grateful that my toe was still intact, but it was hard to feel any kind of relief.

They returned with a blue necktie and what looked like about two feet of a broken broom handle. Robert wrapped the necktie around my left shoulder.

"Let's do below the elbow to be safe," said Lucas. "If it works we can go higher on the other arm."

Robert scooted the tie down to just below my elbow, then tied it in a knot. He stuck the broom handle in it, and began to twist, tightening the tie. At least they were kind enough to use my left arm, which already had a bullet wound in the shoulder.

There was no way I could talk them out of this, so it's just as well that I couldn't speak. I tried to keep myself calm. I breathed slowly and deeply through my nose and tried to think peaceful thoughts. If I was a boring victim, they might lose interest and not go through with this.

He turned the handle until it refused to move any more. Marty put some large rubber bands around it, holding it in place. My arm was already numb.

They left again. This time they left the lights on, probably so I could watch my arm change color with no blood flowing into it.

I stared at the ceiling and tried to pretend that I had no emotions.

I still didn't wish I were dead. To be fair, all I really had so far were lots of bruises, a missing toe, and a numb arm (if you didn't count the gunshot wound, the split lip, and the fingernail marks across my face from before I was locked in this room) so I might change my mind later. For now, I felt that things could still work out in my favor. I was really, really, really fucked, but I wasn't necessarily really, really, really, really fucked.

Where had they buried her?

Somewhere in the woods, I assumed. Shallow grave.

How much of her had the insects eaten away by now? Would she be identifiable as Abigail? Even after all Jamie had done to her body, I could still tell it was Abigail. Would that still be the case? And would it be more or less horrific to see her again if her face was eaten away beyond recognition?

I supposed I'd find out soon enough.

I screamed for a while underneath the duct tape, which didn't make me feel any better. Not sure how long I screamed. I want to say that it was a few minutes, but it could have been significantly longer. I think the back of my throat began to bleed.

Escape was going to be much more difficult if they took my arm.

The wait was excruciating. I didn't want them to return, obviously, but I also wanted to get it over with, like when you're waiting in the dentist's office.

Finally the three of them returned. Marty and Lucas each held a garbage bag that looked bulky enough to contain half of a body. Robert held a hacksaw.

Robert made some sort of menacing comment to me, but my ears were ringing too much for me to understand what he said.

Marty and Lucas set their bags on the floor. They were shiny bags, so they'd obviously transferred the contents of the shallow grave into new containers. Marty untied the one he'd been carrying, and as Robert gestured with dramatic flourish, Marty and Lucas lifted the top half of Abigail out of the bag.

I could recognize her as Abigail. However, had we not spent extra time together, I don't think I would have recognized her as the lady with the flower stand.

They hoisted her body on top of me, facedown, because why wouldn't they want to inflict as much trauma on me as possible? Robert sawed off her arm, letting out a mad cackle that should have concerned his associates.

Marty and Lucas took her body off me (though the smell lingered) and set it on the floor.

And then it was my turn for the hacksaw.

I hadn't acquired much wisdom during my lifetime, but I'd briefly done outdoor work that involved some branch removal. My supervisor was a high school teacher during the week, and he carried that attitude into his weekend job, so he took pride in giving lessons about the various tools. I knew that a hacksaw blade (at least one meant to be used by hand) had anywhere from fourteen to thirty-two teeth per inch. Robert's hacksaw had thirty-two. My supervisor had never discussed what type of blade was best for sawing through bone, but I believed that Robert had chosen the right tool for the job.

My arm bled a little but not much. They'd done a good job with the tourniquet.

The blade broke halfway through. Robert didn't have a spare. He left the broken blade imbedded in my arm while he went to buy a new one.

When he was done, Robert slapped me with my own hand, trying to be funny.

My arm was a bit wider than Abigail's but not so much wider that Robert couldn't sew her arm onto my stump.

"Voila," said Robert. "Frankensteined!"

The three of them stood over me, admiring the work.

I just sort of lay there in shock.

Robert smiled at me. "We've done you a favor. Now she'll always be a part of you."

"At least until the arm rots and falls off," said Marty, "but I'm sure we'll have killed you before that happens."

"Don't be so sure," said Robert. He let out a giggle. Again, I personally would not be inclined to work with somebody who was letting out giggles like that.

I still didn't want to die. I wasn't sure if this was because of my intense strength of will or because I was an idiot.

"Enjoy your new arm," said Robert. "We'll give you some time alone to get used to it."

"If he whacks off with it, does that count as masturbation or a hand job?" asked Lucas. I think he was trying to channel Wulfe.

They left me in the room, lights on, taking the hacksaw with them.

twenty-two

I didn't speak to Abigail.

At least, not out loud.

I apologized to her in my mind, which would be just as effective as speaking to her dead body, without the worry that it reflected badly upon my mental state to be talking to a rotted corpse on the floor. I guess technically I couldn't have talked to her out loud because of the duct tape over my mouth, although I'm going to admit that while this occurs to me now, it didn't occur to me at the time.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. It was all my fault.

That was true. I hadn't smothered her with the pillow, but if you traced back the timeline that led to her kidnapping, the inarguable truth was that if she hadn't agreed to go on a date with me, she would still be alive today. She'd be selling her flowers right now.

I had no idea what time it was, so she might not be selling flowers. She might be asleep. Or having breakfast. Or watching television with Queenie on her lap.

I hoped that Neal had taken care of her cat like he promised.

God, my body hurt. I doubted it would ever stop.

Somehow I fell asleep.

When I woke up, I kept my eyes closed, because as long as I couldn't see my surroundings I could pretend that I wasn't in a soundproofed room and I still had my own arm and Abigail wasn't dead on the floor below me.

I couldn't actually pretend that. I could pretend to pretend. I was in physical agony, and I could smell the rot, and I knew that I was still strapped to a wooden table, so no amount of trying to go to a happy place in my mind could fool me into thinking I was somewhere else.

The door opened and Marty, Lucas, and Robert walked back into the room. This time Lucas held the hacksaw. Nobody had washed off the blood.

"What should we Frankenstein next?" asked Robert.

"Sew her tits onto him," said Marty.

Robert giggled. "Even I think that's depraved."

Marty waved his hands. "No, no, let's take it even further. Let's cut out his whole groin area. Total crotch swap. Do-it-yourself gender reassignment."

"I like that," said Robert.

"You guys want to spend that much time looking at his penis?" Lucas asked.

"There's nothing gay about cutting off somebody's junk with a hacksaw."

"You have to touch it."

"I'll wear gloves."

"You can't put a tourniquet on somebody's crotch," said Lucas. "We're back to him bleeding to death. What's the point of sewing a vagina onto him if he's dead?"

"Maybe you're right," Marty admitted.

"That's one step beyond where I want to take this. Let's cut off his foot. Is everybody okay with that?"

Marty and Robert indicated that they were.

They wrapped the necktie just above my right foot, twisted it tight with the broom handle, and held it in place with the rubber bands.

I'd been showing signs of raw panic through much of this whole experience, but I forced myself to calm down. Project an aura of serenity. Make them believe that I had something to say that was worth removing the duct tape. Let's face it, lying here and having them saw off body parts was eventually going to be fatal, and though I very much doubted my ability to talk my way out of this nightmare, I had to try something.

I spoke. It was muffled by the duct tape but I tried to make it clear from my inflection that it was a question.

Robert glanced over at me.

I repeated the question.

"What the fuck do you want?" he asked.

I repeated the question once more.

Robert ripped off the tape. I hadn't shaved in a while, so it took some hair with it, adding a bit of bonus pain to my situation.

I wanted to scream, but I choked it back as I looked him in the eye. I did everything I could to keep my voice steady and articulate. "Shouldn't you be consoling your wife?"

His expression went dark. "Go to hell."

"What would she think of this?" I asked. "She'd be disgusted by you. Horrified."

"She'd be happy that you got what you deserved."

"Bring her down here. See what she says."

This was not a brilliant attempt at psychological manipulation. My strategy was based on the idea that I, as somebody who had succumbed to madness, was making poor decisions and so perhaps Robert, who was quite clearly on the same path, might also do something that wasn't in his best interest, like bring his wife down here to witness the grisly fate of the man who'd murdered her son.

"Maybe I will," Robert said.

He didn't mean it. I could tell he didn't mean it. He was just toying with me.

"The hell you will," said Lucas.

I'd received a dark look, but Lucas got an expression of pure hate. Even if he had absolutely no intention of showing Bernice the torture room, Robert didn't seem to appreciate being told that he wasn't allowed to do so.

"Maybe she should see this," said Robert. "Give her some closure."

Again, I could tell that he would never bring her down here to see the ghastly sights within. This was barely-sane alpha male posturing.

"You told her we already killed him."

"This might be a pleasant surprise."

"She's mourning your son alone," I said.

Robert turned on me, immediately furious. "You shut the fuck up or I'll cut out your tongue." He waved the hacksaw at me. "I'll saw your teeth out. You think you're hurting now? Do you? I asked you a question!"

"Yes, I think I'm hurting now."

"I can make it hurt so much more. So. Much. More."

"While your wife cries for your loss."

"Tape his mouth back up before I do something I'll regret," said Robert. "I'll bring her down here. I'll hand her a drill and let her go crazy." He let out a giggle, though this one transitioned into a humorless cackle. "I bet she could come up with ideas that would make us puke up our guts. Oh, she'd make you pay. By the time she was done with you, you'd wish you ran the other way when we killed your girlfriend. You'd wish you helped me hold the pillow. They may have talked me out of cutting off your dick but they won't be able to stop her. Hell, I'll go pick her up right now."

Robert turned toward the door. I knew what he was doing. He was just trying to scare me. Make me believe that my feeble attempt at psychological warfare had backfired in a huge way. Make me think that my suffering was somehow, impossibly, going to get so very much worse.

I knew exactly what he was doing.

Marty, apparently, did not.

"Hey!" said Marty, grabbing Robert by the arm.

Robert tugged his arm free and punched him in the jaw. Marty staggered toward the closed door.

Lucas moved toward them to break up the fight. But he was still holding the hacksaw, which made his intentions less than clear to a man who, as has been established, did not have a friendly relationship with own mind at this point.

Robert pulled out a gun and shot him in the face.

Lucas hadn't even hit the floor before Marty pulled out his own gun and shot Robert in the back of the head.

Before you ask, no, that is not what I expected to happen when I asked if Robert should be consoling his wife. And I didn't feel cheated that I'd missed out on killing them myself. I was content with the way things had just played out.

Marty just stood there for several moments, taking in what had happened. Then he screamed some blasphemies. When he was done with that, he scooped up Robert's gun, took another gun from Lucas, opened the door, and stormed out of the room. Sadly, he shut the door behind him and I heard the lock click, followed by the sound of more locks sliding into place.

So...

Was the room soundproofed enough to cover the sound of gunshots? If we were down in a basement, I supposed the sound might have been muffled enough that nobody was rushing to call 911. I would happily accept whatever punishment might be in store for my actions if the cops could rescue me from this room, but I had to assume that I was on my own.

The table I was on was thick and sturdy—at least it felt that way. It certainly didn't wobble. I'd previously considered that with enough effort I could probably rock it enough to tip it over on its side, but it wouldn't actually break the wood, and then I'd just be strapped to the table in a much less comfortable position, and my captors would be pissed.

The difference now is that it was kind of irrelevant if Marty was pissed, and there was a hacksaw lying on the floor.

I rocked back and forth. At first it didn't do anything, but as I kept rocking, the table started to move a bit. It was crucial that it fall to the left and not the right, so hopefully I had the manual dexterity or the luck to get this correct.

It was working.

I kept shifting my weight back and forth with as much force as I could, and then I hit the tipping point. The table fell over, crashing onto its side.

I was now facing Abigail's corpse. I would have been staring directly into her dead eyes if the sockets weren't empty.

I had to ignore that. No time to be paralyzed with horror.

In a wackier scenario, the table would have completely broken apart and the straps would have fallen away, leaving me to sheepishly realize that I should have tried this sooner. But, no, as expected the table held firm, and I remained strapped to it.

The hacksaw was a couple of feet away.

My good arm was bound to the table.

Abigail's arm was not.

I discovered to my astonishment that the power of our love was so strong that the bones, muscles, and nerves had joined together, and I could use the arm like it was my own! It was my own. We had truly joined together.

I made that up, obviously. All I could do was move my upper arm to make Abigail's sewn-on arm flop around. This did not give me any kind of offensive advantage, so there'd been no reason to strap it to the table after they were done with the surgery, but if I was persistent I might be able to eventually drag the hacksaw over to my good hand.

I swung her arm over to the hacksaw. It landed right on the first try; however, when I twisted my arm to drag it back, Abigail's fingers didn't bring the hacksaw with them. I tried a few more times with no success. The big problem was that her hand kept landing palm-up, and I needed it to land palm-down if the fingers were going to curl around the blade.

After about fifteen tries, I got the hacksaw to move about a half-inch closer. I took this as a sign that it would eventually work.

I lost count of how many times I flopped Abigail's arm back and forth. It may not have quite reached triple digits, but it was close. Several of the stitches snapped before I was done, but finally I'd dragged the hacksaw close enough to grab it with my other hand.

It had taken so long that I'd given up on the idea of a SWAT team bursting in to save the day. But, on the plus side, Marty hadn't returned. I was pretty sure I wouldn't have been able to fend him off with a dead arm.

I couldn't move my right hand very well and the angle was bad, so the process of sawing through the first strap took forever. Once that was done, things sped up and I rolled away from the table, free.

Free except that I couldn't sit up, which I suppose is what happens when you've been strapped to a table for so long. I removed the tourniquet on my foot, hoping it hadn't done any permanent damage. After a bit, though, the blood was flowing well enough for me to stand.

I tested the door handle. Locked, as expected. I didn't have anything to pick it with, and even if I found something, the door had more than one lock. If they'd gone to the trouble of soundproofing the room they'd certainly gone to the trouble of ensuring that I couldn't get out. So while I probably couldn't open the door (though I intended to try), Marty was going to have a nasty surprise waiting when he came back to check on me.

I was correct. I couldn't get out.

And Marty was apparently in no hurry to get back.

I'm talking days.

I'm not sure if he fled the house before the police could arrive, and then didn't dare return, or if he was just trying to wait out my death. Waiting out my death was a good strategy—it wasn't as if I had any food or water.

Yes, there were two freshly dead humans, but no, I did not have food.

When thirst began to overtake me, I did not lick up any blood.

Being locked in a room with dead bodies—one of them the woman you loved and whose corpse you never expected to see again—does odd things to you. You see things that aren't really there. You begin to itch all over. You start crying for no reason, and then suddenly you're laughing, and then you're back to crying.

You lose it completely every once in a while, stomping on Robert and Lucas' bodies, smearing them across the floor. They come apart more easily the second day. You want to start cutting them up, but you're afraid you'll break the hacksaw blade, and you'll need that for Marty.

You're delirious. You can't sleep with rotting bodies in the room with you. Your vision blurs. You can't get that goddamn door open. More than once, you go completely berserk, trying to kick it down and not caring if Marty hears, but door remains solid, and Marty doesn't come to investigate. He's probably not in the house.

How long has it been? It can't be more than three days, because you die if you haven't had anything to drink in more than three days and you're not dead. It might be different if you'd slurped up blood but you didn't.

You left Abigail's arm sewn to yours. That might not be smart. Its decomposition might be seeping bad things into your bloodstream. But the arm saved your life and you don't want to get rid of it. You will eventually. Just not quite yet.

And then, one fine day, you hear the sound of a sliding lock.

You perk up.

You stand next to the door.

More locks open.

You tense up.

The door swings open.

You wait. You've gone through too much in this room for it to end with the irony of you killing somebody who was here to save you.

Nope. It's Marty.

He looks surprised to see you up and alive. He also looks surprised to see the severed arm still attached to you. His looks of surprise happen very quickly and you may be misinterpreting their meaning; either way, he's surprised.

He's even more surprised when the hacksaw blade comes down upon the top of his head.

You give it one really good pull, and as you know, the scalp bleeds a lot. It bleeds so easily that head wounds can look scary and serious even if they're minor. You want to make sure this isn't a minor wound, so you drag him down to the floor and hit him with the hacksaw blade, over and over as if it were a hammer.

He puts up his hand to defend himself, and the blade gets him right in the webbing between his index and middle fingers. You bet it hurt. Bad idea on his part.

Marty struggles, but you're the one with the hacksaw and the rage. You start to think that he might overpower you. Then you successfully open up his neck and know that everything will be okay.

Everything is going to be just fine.

twenty-three

I went upstairs.

I wasn't sure whose house I was in. It definitely belonged to a bachelor. I drank water until I threw it up, then I drank some more. I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and wolfed it down.

I went into the bedroom to find some fresh clothes. I put on clean underwear, socks, jeans, and a t-shirt—all way too tight, except the socks, but better than walking around in bloody boxers.

It was nighttime. A car was parked in the driveway, with a large suitcase in the back seat. Marty was going on vacation or skipping town. The car was locked, but there were keys hanging next to the door. I unlocked it and brought the suitcase back into the house.

The suitcase was filled with clothes, toiletries, and cash. Lots of cash. If this was from the blue duffel bag that had caused me so many problems, there was more than one person's share here.

I took the suitcase back out to the car. I popped open the trunk, figuring that was a better place to store it, but realized why Marty had put it in the back seat when I saw Bernice's dead body. Apparently she'd been able to protect her husband but not his share of the cash. She'd been willing to die for him, so I suppose it was poetic that they'd both met their end by being shot in the back of the head.

It was dark out and it wouldn't have taken long to carry her inside, but I'd probably used up all of my luck in not having witnesses, so I decided that I'd get rid of her body later. I'd be respectful.

I went back inside and had another peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Took a long shower and changed into a different set of clothes. I went with a long-sleeved shirt this time.

I found another suitcase in the closet and filled it with food. That went into the car next to the other one.

Things were looking promising.

The only problem was my face.

My face had been on the news. Surely the police hadn't stopped looking for me. If I now had the opportunity and the means to get out of town and hide away somewhere, I didn't want to lose it all by being identified.

I returned to the basement. The various implements that Robert, Marty, and Lucas had tried to scare me with were on a shelf outside of the room where I'd been a prisoner. Most of them were sharp. I could use them to make my face different, right?

I gathered up a few of them and took them back upstairs to the bathroom, so I could watch what I was doing in the mirror.

Just to be clear, I didn't fancy myself a skilled plastic surgeon. That's not what I was going for. I wasn't trying to make my face look like somebody else. I held absolutely no illusions of being able to perform anything delicate. I was trying to ruin my face.

I don't expect you to understand. I don't even want you to understand, because agreeing with my motivation reflects poorly on you.

Yes, it hurt.

Yes, I had to stop a few times. But each time, I worked up the courage to continue.

I didn't mess with my eyes.

I got rid of my nose almost completely. After the stench I'd endured while locked in the room, I was happy for it to be gone.

I cut into my mouth more than I should have.

I carved elaborate patterns into one cheek, and random slashes into the other. They went well with the scratches I'd already accumulated.

My face was bleeding too much for me to be sure if I'd done a thorough enough job. If I hadn't, I'd just have to fix the spots I'd missed. But once this scabbed over, nobody would see my face and connect it to the picture they saw on TV.

I bandaged it up, which was a pain in the ass with only one working hand. Then I retrieved the rest of the stuff I needed (including Abigail's body, and yes, I realize how morbid that sounds) went out to the car, and drove far out of town. Driving with only one hand was also a challenge, but sometimes you have to adapt.

* * *

As I drove, I wondered if I could have just worn the bandages instead of disfiguring myself. I had a nice little chuckle at my foolishness.

* * *

When I was incapable of driving anymore without falling asleep at the wheel, I checked into the seediest motel I could find. I removed the red bandages and checked myself out in the mirror. I'd done a pretty good job. I couldn't tell it was me.

* * *

I had no idea how to find Marc, but now that I had a suitcase full of cash I had the means to hire a professional.

The guy didn't even blink when I walked into his office. I'm not sure if he was good at hiding his revulsion, or if he'd seen so much in his many years on the job that my face was no big deal. I'd cut the stitches and removed Abigail's arm before I left the motel, because I simply couldn't expect a private investigator to conduct business with me when I had somebody else's decomposing arm sewn to my body.

He typed away at his computer. "Yep, got him."

I leaned forward. "Seriously?" I had to concentrate not to lisp.

"He's using his credit card in Nashville. A few random charges, but for the past three days he's bought coffee at the same place between 8:15 and 8:30."

I'd expected the P.I. to stretch this investigation out for a few days to boost my fee. I never imagined he could solve my problem with a couple of minutes of tapping on a keyboard. It was nice to know that there were still good people in the world.

"What if I wanted to talk to him privately?" I asked. "I mean, really privately."

"Is he the one who did that to your face?"

"Yes, sir." Marc had set the chain of events into motion, so, yes, he'd done this to my face. I wasn't lying.

The P.I. nodded. "I can set you up with a place in the area. You can talk to him as loud as you want."

So I drove to Nashville. I dropped Abigail's body off at the cabin the P.I. got for me, checked into a terrible motel so I wouldn't have to sleep in a cabin with her dead body, set the alarm for 7:00 am, and then slept for about fifteen hours. I'm not sure if I didn't have nightmares or simply didn't remember them when I woke up; either way, it was a restful night.

As I took a shower, it occurred to me that I'd never removed Bernice from the trunk. I chided myself for being forgetful. It would have to wait until later, though—I had work to do.

I parked across the street from the coffee shop at 7:45 and waited. At 8:17, Marc went inside. He'd bleached his hair and was growing a beard but it was still clearly him—he wasn't as skilled at the art of disguise as I was. A few minutes later he came back outside. The hand that wasn't holding a cup of coffee was completely bandaged up. I watched him get into his car, then started my engine and followed as he drove out of the parking lot.

After a few blocks, I lost him.

Oh well. I'd try again tomorrow.

I spent a while trying to find a suitable place to dispose of Bernice's body. With only one arm, digging a grave wasn't really an option. I mean, I could have done it if I wanted to be an inspiration to others, but I wasn't in the mood to do the work and I didn't want to spend money on a shovel. But I also didn't want to just chuck her in a Dumpster. Finally, I found a pond where nobody was watching and gave her a water burial.

I slept for another fifteen hours. Guess I was tired.

Marc bought his coffee at 8:21. I wondered if his consistency meant that he had a day job. This time I didn't lose him. I followed him for about a mile and a half to a small office building. He did look like he was dressed for a desk job. Maybe he'd decided to turn his life around and work his way up the corporate ladder.

He flashed his badge at a scanner on the door and went inside.

I supposed this meant I had eight or nine hours to wait.

Not a problem.

He came out around one, but he was with another guy. I didn't want to follow him to wherever he was having lunch; no sense taking the risk of getting caught. I didn't mind sitting in the car.

He returned around 1:45, laughing with his co-worker.

At 4:30, he left the building and went to his car.

I followed him to his apartment building.

I lost sight of him before he went into his apartment, but that was okay. I just had to keep narrowing it down. I sat in the car and stared at the entrance.

At 7:14, he walked out of the building.

At 7:16, he was in my trunk.

twenty-four

I suppose I could have done more to the cabin to make it scarier, but again, I wasn't trying to be the killer in a slasher flick.

The cabin was plenty scary on its own. This wasn't one of those cabins that's really just a rustic house. This was a "no electricity, no running water, one-room, cobweb-filled, kerosene-lantern-lit" cabin.

Marc was sobbing when I pulled him out of the trunk, and he kept sobbing as I dragged him inside and shoved him to the floor. "It's not my fault!" he shouted. "None of this was my fault!"

"I disagree," I informed him.

He held up his bandaged hand. "They broke all of my fingers! All five of them! I'm sorry that they messed up your face, but I've suffered too!"

 I tapped my mangled chin. "They didn't do this."

"They didn't?"

"No."

"Who did?"

"Me."

Marc stopped crying for a moment. He cocked his head as if he didn't believe me.

"Then you don't need to kill me," he said. "My fingers are never going to heal right. They broke every knuckle."

"They murdered Abigail."

Marc's mouth dropped open, the face of a man suddenly realizing just how dire his predicament truly was.

"I didn't tell them to do that," he said, scooting away from me. "I had nothing to do with it. I would never have hurt her. It's not my fault."

"Don't talk any more," I told him.

"What can I do? How can I make this up to you? I'll do anything."

"There's nothing..." I trailed off. I'd never considered it before, but maybe there was something he could do. "I'll let you live if you can do one thing for me."

"Yes! Whatever it is, I'll do it!"

"Bring her back."

Marc frowned. "What?"

I walked over to the sheet I'd draped over Abigail's body and pulled it away. You couldn't quite tell that her body had been in two halves, though it was obvious that her left arm was no longer attached. My plan had been to confront Marc with the horror of what he'd wrought.

"Bring her back," I repeated.

"I don't understand."

"What the hell is there to understand? Bring her back. Bring her back to life! Give me my Abigail back and I'll let you walk out of here!"

"This is a joke, right?"

"Why the fuck would you think that right now I'm in the mood to tell a joke?" I asked him. I was positively enraged that he would think I was kidding. I wouldn't have dragged him out to this cabin and splayed out my dead girlfriend's body for a goddamn sight gag.

"How—how would I—?"

"That's not my problem! It's yours! Bring her back to life, you piece of shit! I don't care how you do it! Fix this!"

Marc looked at me closely, as if still searching for signs that I was messing with him. There were no signs, because I wasn't.

"You can't bring a dead person back to life," he said. "This isn't a zombie movie."

"You'd better turn it into one."

"I've got money hidden away."

"I don't want your money."

"You can use it to—"

"I said, I don't want your money, and I also know that you most certainly do not have money hidden away, so you're lying to me."

"Please, Frank—"

"Bring her back."

Marc glanced over at Abigail. I assumed he was trying to figure out how he'd go about that task.

I winced in pain. I hadn't realized that tears were flowing down my cheeks, and the salt burned my wounds.

Marc very slowly got to his feet. He looked like he might be planning to make a run for it. I stepped in front of him and the door, then folded my one arm in front of my chest to make it clear that this would be a bad idea on his part.

"I can get you help, man."

"Bring her back. Bring Abigail back."

"It doesn't fucking work that way, Frank!"

"Then you have nothing to offer me."

Marc glanced at her corpse again. "Okay, okay, okay, I'll see what I can do. I'll talk to somebody."

"No. You're trying to trick me."

"I'm not, I swear."

"If I let you go, you'll never come back."

"You can come with me."

"We're not leaving this cabin."

Marc closed his eyes and took several quick deep breaths. "Okay, all right," he said, opening his eyes. "I can't just wave my hand and magically fix this. I need materials."

"What kind of materials?"

"Blood."

"What kind of blood."

"Virgin blood." Marc nodded and took another deep breath. "Virgin blood."

"I don't believe you."

"If you want me to bring her back, I have to get virgin blood! That's the only way!"

"What are you going to do with it?" I asked.

Marc hesitated. "Pour it into her mouth."

I just stared at him. It was probably difficult for him to interpret my expression, considering what I'd done to my face.

"I have to pour it into her mouth," Marc repeated. "It's the only way this will work. If you're not going to trust me, there's nothing I can do."

"Are you lying to me?"

"No."

He was lying to me. I knew in that moment that he couldn't really bring her back to life. He was just playing along, hoping for an opportunity to escape.

"I'm going to kill you for what you did," I told him.

"Will that make you feel better? It makes you just as bad as me!"

"I don't kill innocent people."

"You're killing a helpless person!"

"You're not helpless. You're able-bodied. You're just a chickenshit."

"This won't fix anything," said Marc.

Perhaps he was right. I was certainly willing to entertain that possibility. But I'd promised Abigail that I was going to give her the chance to get revenge—so, yes, I'll confess that I talked to her when I brought her into the cabin—and I wasn't going to go back on that.

I tackled Marc to the floor. I only had one arm, but he had five broken fingers, and it evened out.

And then, because this was Abigail's vengeance and not mine, I picked her up by the back of the neck and smashed her into him. Even with two arms I couldn't have done this if she had a full, fresh body, so things ironically had worked out for the best in that regard.

I did this again and again. It was hurting Abigail more than Marc, but I'd known that was going to happen. All that mattered was that Marc was not faring well.

He screamed and sputtered.

Marc lay on his back, dazed, as I continued to bash her into him. Her bones become more and more visible, and some of them cut deep.

"Please stop..." he said, through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth.

I did not stop.

When my arm got too tired to continue, I just pressed her against his face, putting my weight on her to grind the bones into him.

"Say uncle," I told him. He couldn't speak and I wouldn't have stopped even if he could—I was just trying to be funny. Abigail would've liked that.

After a while, he wasn't moving but I wasn't sure if he was dead or not. My arm wasn't tired any more, so I resumed bashing him with Abigail. She was getting all over the place.

Eventually, Marc was deceased. Not even the most incompetent of doctors would have proclaimed him to be otherwise. Nobody was going to bring him back.

All of the bad guys were dead.

I didn't feel a lot better, but I felt a little better, and I'd take that as a win.

* * *

I gathered Abigail up and took her outside. We'd never discussed whether we wanted to be buried or cremated. I assumed that she was the kind of person who'd want to be cremated and have her ashes scattered in a place that held special memories.

Obviously, you can't completely cremate somebody when all you have is lighter fluid and a pack of matches. I did the best I could. Got some ashes out of it. The rest of her I carried deep into the forest—a pretty part, with flowers that she'd like—and covered with brush.

As I gazed at her grave, I couldn't think of how to articulate what was in my heart.

"I'm sorry," is all I said. That was enough. She knew I wasn't a good talker.

* * *

I'm not going to tell you where I scattered her ashes. That's between us.

I will tell you that I chucked Marc in a Dumpster, because I was less concerned about treating his dead body with dignity.

I won't tell you where I went after that.

It was far from the scene of the deaths. It was cheap. I rarely had to see anybody.

I did some odd jobs. Nothing drug-related. Manual outdoor labor. The work was legal, even if my completely off the record cash salary was not. I was sort of like an undocumented immigrant.

Now, as you've figured out, I've decided that I wanted to tell my story. Why not share this crazy tale with the world, right?

I'm pretty sure that I'm not allowed to get paid for writing about my own crimes. I think that's true even if I served a prison sentence first. So a publisher will have to donate the money to charity or something. They can figure it out.

I'm not an expert on grammar. I'll get somebody to help me tweak it here and there.

And I guess that's it. Not the happiest story in the world, but don't feel sorry for me. Abigail and I had that one dance. We had delicious spaghetti. And though I can't give away my secrets, yes, I did verify that Neal was taking care of her cat.

If I creeped you out at any point during this narrative, I apologize. Just know that we live in a vast, sprawling world, and the chances that I'm anywhere near you are almost non-existent. You can sleep well at night.

As I told you earlier, when I wrote those stories about my father's victims and put them up on my wall, they never had endings. They just stopped mid-sentence. There was always more to their story.

That's how I'd planned to end this tale.

But then I decided that it might piss off my readers.

Instead, I bid you farewell, and wish you pleasant dreams. I'm going to pretend this is a happy ending.

The End

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Tod Clark, Donna Fitzpatrick, Paul Goblirsch, Lynne Hansen, Xtina Marie, Michael McBride, Jim Morey, Rhonda Rettig, and Paul Synuria II for their help with this lighthearted, cheery romp of a novel.

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Other Books by Jeff Strand

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For information on all of these books, visit Jeff Strand's more-or-less official website at http://www.jeffstrand.com