by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 24: BOBBY
Wish I’d said something cool to that. “Help me kill you,” is too obvious and not very badass, but that’s all I could think of. All I can think of.
I pulled the utility knife from my pocket and pushed up the blade.
His hands shot up. One held a paper bag, car keys in the other.
“What’s happening?” His chest fluttered.
I jabbed the knife. He flinched. I lowered the knife and his face relaxed. I raised the knife and his face scrunched again. I pointed to the car. “Open the door.” He pressed his thumb and a beep rang out. I could’ve made him strip and do a handstand if I wanted.
“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re gonna get in the car and I’m gonna tell you where to go. You drive. See how easy it is? But if you scream, if you turn left when I say right, if you go too slow or too fast, if you do anything I don’t like, then I’ll stab your eyes and slit your throat. Got it?”
He nodded. I did a dramatic “one...two...three” and we climbed in, me quick, him awkward and slow.
The soft leather seats massaged my muscles which had been sore so long, I was almost used to the discomfort. The genius engineers at the car company had turned the simple act of sitting into a luxury. Adam Sutler had no idea what a privilege it was to drive from A to B in such comfort.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now drive.”
He started the car. “Where?”
“Backwards, dumbfuck.”
He reversed. Thunder rolled on the roof. He gave a little yelp. A mug tumbled down the windshield, a trail of coffee behind it. The mug bounced off the hood and crashed on the driveway. He waited for my instructions on how to deal with the accident. I had to tell him to turn on the windshield wipers and continue driving.
At the stop sign, he asked which way to go. A muted melody came from his pants. He handed me his cell phone. I read the name.
“Who’s ‘Don’? A cop?”
“No.”
I lowered the window and dropped the phone. “Any other surprises?”
He stammered. I cut him off and told him to head down 77.
Passing the mall bummed me. I don’t know why I didn’t buy more last night. For one thing, boarding the bus without luggage might’ve seemed suspicious. Plus, I dreaded the long drive with nothing to do. I read the clock on the dash. No time to execute my plan, buy more stuff, and make it to the station.
When we entered the highway, I told him to drive perfectly and if we were pulled over for any foolishness, I’d slice his neck. He looked at me in the rearview mirror like I was crazy. I decided to play along, and told him that I didn’t give a fuck. I might go to jail but he’d be fucking dead, so he better do what I say.
All those morons on the road with sour faces, speeding to their worthless jobs. Every single commuter was serious and miserable. Okay, maybe some of them might’ve been important members of society, but most of them weren’t. I wasn’t impressed or jealous of their nice cars. My day was going to be better than theirs. I was getting justice and then going to Florida. I wished I could’ve let them know and piss them off even more than they were already.
One driver on the right was a bald fifty-something in a brown suit, and worked up like a beehive. His scalp was dark pink. He was yelling, but no one else was in the car. Maybe he was yelling into a speaker phone, or maybe his drive to work was his only opportunity to unleash the true hatred he held for his life and he was yelling at the universe. For the rest of the day, he’d be calm and kind to his co-workers and his family, the rage building up all the while till it would gush out during his next commute. He mouthed, “Fuck you,” it looked like, before he sped ahead of us into his hateful life.
A police cruiser’s nose jutted from the left, waiting to make someone’s bad day worse.
“Be cool, man.”
I’m not sure what I feared he could’ve done to flag down the cop, but I wasn’t going to take the chance that he had a swifter imagination than me. We passed the cop without a problem.
“Yo, turn on the radio.”
He did. “What station?”
“Change till I tell you stop.”
My nexts came quick. The airwaves were cluttered with jokers and clowns. I wasn’t in the mood. He finally landed on a beat I liked.
“Turn that shit up.”
He did. I told him to turn up the bass. He pressed some buttons but the sound didn’t change. He had no idea what he was doing. I didn’t complain.
The song was new to me, but even if I had listened to it a million times, I doubt I could’ve deciphered the words the chorus sang. I recognized a few scattered words, so at least I could tell it was in English. I got by some strange means of communication that the song was about happiness. Happiness from what, I don’t know, but the specifics didn’t matter. When someone says they’re happy, that’s usually enough for me. It’s when they’re sad that I’ve sometimes gotten into long talks. At least I would’ve if I’d had a girlfriend who wasn’t so thoughtless. I wondered if the tune was having an effect on Adam Sutler. I hoped he couldn’t pay attention to the music because of the crazy kid in the back seat to, but maybe just for a second he let his guard down and succumbed to the joy that surrounded him.
The next song was slower and sadder. Probably about the loss of happiness. We approached our exit. I told him to turn it off. I warned him if he tried to hightail it at a red light, I’d be sure to catch him and slice his vertebrae in half.
Miracle of miracles, the parking space closest to the front door was empty. Again I sensed the hand of a benevolent God was clearing my way and urging me on.
I made Adam Sutler turn off the car and hand me the keys. It was probably getting old by now, but I reminded him that I had a knife and wasn’t afraid to use it, that I was out of my skull, and that testing my sprinting abilities would be a fatal mistake. And the counting to three was probably getting silly, but I did it anyway. We climbed out of the car. I put away the knife and told him to walk. He put his hands up.
“What are you doing? Shit man. We’re just two dudes walking into this apartment building. Right?”
He put them down.
I wasn’t sure what to do with the car keys. On the one hand, I thought I should use the car to get to the bus station. On the other hand, after the deed was done, the cops would be on the lookout for his car. Discovering it at the bus station would give them one hell of a clue. So many details and questions I hadn't anticipated jumped in my path and demanded a decision. Stressful. I tossed the keys into a bush, thinking maybe they’d be there later if I wanted them. If not, if someone saw them and took the car, I’d make their day. Karma. I’d deal with getting to the station some other way when the time came.
At the top of the stairs, Adam almost knocked over an old lady coming around the corner. Either he was too afraid to talk or else he was rude, so I apologized for him and explained that my friend had too much to drink last night. Even though he was the one at fault, the woman looked at me real nasty look for some reason. I politely smiled. She went, “Garump.” I gave Adam a nudge.
Inside the apartment, with the knife out, I made Adam sit at that table. I gave him a roll of duct tape from a kitchen drawer.
“Tape your legs to the chair. Make it real tight.”
He held the roll like it was toxic.
“Or I’ll--”
I didn’t know how to finish but I didn’t need to. He taped his left arm. I took care of his right arm, and then went over his arms and legs in case he’d gone easy on himself. I know I would’ve.
“What’s going to--?”
I cracked him across his cheek. I don’t know why. I didn’t mean to. I think I figured that’s what Sampson would’ve done. The way he looked at me, it was like I told him he wasn’t invited to my birthday party or something. It nearly apologized.
But I stopped myself. One more detail I hadn’t foreseen: this was going to be difficult. But I wasn’t going to unti
e hi and send him home. I still saw him as responsible in some way for Darryl.
I covered his mouth with a few layers of tape. I’m not sure I needed to. He wasn’t going to scream for help any time soon. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
