Lucky Day

by Barry Lyga

  He caught sight of his own eyes in the rearview mirror. They were bloodshot and haunted and wide, sunk deep into wrinkled, sallow flesh.

  You’re not thinking straight these days. Your head’s all messed up. Do you really think Hand-in-Glove drives the damn FoodMobile? Are you really gonna end your career accusing the Nod’s most solid citizen of rape and murder? Just get off your enormous ass, get in there, and go straighten it out. And then you and Billy can have a laugh at it.

  He heaved himself out of the car and lumbered to the front door. He pushed the doorbell. The mat before the door said WELCOME!—with an exclamation point and everything. G. William felt freshly ridiculous. This was Billy Dent, for God’s sake! Hanson worked with Billy on the Christmas parade every year. Could a deputy work side by side with a serial killer—coordinate the PBA pledge drives, even—and not realize…?

  He turned to go, but the door opened. Within stood not Billy Dent, but rather what could have been a smaller-scale model of him—same general build, same chiseled face, same sandy-brown hair that threatened to go blond at any moment.

  But the eyes. Hazel, not blue.

  “Hello there,” G. William said. “It’s Jasper, right?”

  The kid nodded with the solemnity only the young can muster. The kid was thirteen careening to fourteen, and had the curse of all teens: He thought he was an adult, but he was just a child.

  “Is your dad in?” G. William asked. He was here. He would ask Billy about the absences from Little League and such. And that would be that.

  Jasper shrugged with the insouciance of youth and shouted over his shoulder, “Hey, Dad! Sheriff’s here!” Then he stepped aside and let G. William in.

  G. William had been to Billy’s for the barbecues, of course, but never for anything else. Somehow, he was not surprised to find it neat and clean, as though dusted and vacuumed right before he’d rung the bell. He’d always been impressed by the cleanliness of Billy’s house. Apparently it wasn’t just for company.

  It was cramped, though—Billy kept a tidy house, but he clearly couldn’t bear to throw away anything.

  And the man himself wandered in from an archway that led to the kitchen, a cell phone to his ear. “Uh-huh. Well, thank you very much. I surely do appreciate that.” He broke the call and slipped the phone into his jeans pocket. “Evenin’, Sheriff.”

  “Billy.”

  “Jasper, didn’t I give you some chores to do?”

  Jasper rolled his eyes. “The doorbell—”

  “Get along and do as I said. Now.”

  The boy wandered away, leaving Billy and G. William together in the living room, separated by a sofa and fifteen feet of decent shag carpet.

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  And that’s when G. William knew. More important, he knew that Billy knew he knew.

  Those eyes. Those broken-ice-floe eyes.

  How many times had he stood in a room with Billy Dent? This close or closer? How many conversations at the supermarket, in the school parking lot, at the town hall?

  How many times had he gazed into those eyes and not realized there was nothing in them?

  “So,” G. William said. I’m standing in Hand-in-Glove’s living room. This is insane.

  First order of business: Get Billy out of here. Down to the sheriff’s office. Safe ground. Coax him, make him slip up, admit something. Can’t just arrest the man because of his eyes.

  “You been callin’ around about me, Tanner.” Billy’s voice was as light and as jovial as ever. Aw-shucks, good-ol’-boy converted to sound. It disoriented G. William. This couldn’t be Hand-in-Glove. What the hell had he been thinking?

  You’ve been thinking anything and everything. Joyce’s voice, for the first time in a while. Trying not to think of me, in that hospice bed.

  “Callin’ around,” Billy went on, “and people started callin’ me, saying things like, ‘Why’s the sheriff asking about you, Billy?’” He shook his head. “I don’t like that, Gareth. Hurts my feelings, it does.”

  “I’m sorry,” G. William said automatically. He wondered if he should put a hand on his sidearm, but he was mesmerized by Billy, by his stance, his eyes, by the mellow, redneck music of his speech.

  “Ain’t a thing.” Billy shrugged and came a step closer. “You’re a good man. Just doin’ your job. But I ain’t your job, Sheriff. Your job—for the next few days, I guess—is to catch bad people. I ain’t one of them. You know that.”

  G. William swallowed. “Just a couple of things to clear up, Billy. That’s all. It’s foolishness, I guess, but I gotta be thorough.”

  “You’ve been very thorough.” And Billy was within arm’s reach. When the hell had that happened? G. William was keenly aware of the tensed, taut muscles exposed by Billy’s rolled-up shirtsleeves. His forearms were corded with veins. “You’ve done your job well. I’m proud of you.”

  That hit, for some reason. G. William fumbled for words. “Look, Billy, you gotta talk to me. Let me handle this. I know you. You don’t want that jackass from Calverton coming in here with a SWAT team in a week, do you? Make some mistake, maybe hurt you or your boy?”

  At the mention of harm to Jasper, something flickered in Billy’s eyes and the set of his lips changed ever so subtly. G. William realized he was getting through. It was working.

  Hand-in-Glove or not, he’s still a father.

  “So, look, Billy, whyn’t you get your mother to come look after the boy, and you and me, we’ll go down to my office and clear this all up?”

  “Clear what up?”

  G. William fidgeted. He’d hoped that he wouldn’t have to accuse Billy in his own home. That he could get Billy to come down to the office, get nice and settled in where he had home-field advantage. A man’s home wasn’t his castle—not really—but it was his turf. Billy would be well within his rights to throw G. William out at any moment.

  “We shouldn’t talk about such things. Not here.”

  Billy just shook his head. “You’ll have to be more specific. I ain’t sure what you’re driving at.”

  You know. You know, you dead-eyed bastard. You’re just stringing me along. Toying with me.

  “‘Sometimes the fight itself is worthwhile, even if the prize at the end ain’t.’ You said that to me last night. I thought you were talking about the election.”

  “I was.”

  “No. I think you were talking about the girls, Billy.” There. It was out there now. G. William realized his mouth had gone dry. “The girls. They weren’t worth it in the end, were they?”

  “I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about, G. William.” Billy’s tone was concerned, solicitous even. “You look a little pale, you don’t mind me sayin’. You been sleeping?” But his eyes were anything but concerned. His eyes told the story.

  G. William cleared his throat and put a hand on his belt, near the handcuffs. Just enough to make them jangle. “Billy, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He’d never actually said that in his life. And right then, he wondered if there even was an easy way. He dropped his voice. “Don’t make me cuff you here and haul you away in front of your boy.”

  Billy’s jaw tightened. “That ain’t how this ends,” he said lightly. “You’re mistaken. And I forgive you, but—”

  “I ain’t mistaken. Now really—get your boy to go to your mother’s. Or tell him you’re going to get a drink with me or something.” He hesitated. “That’s my best offer, Billy. Take it or leave it.”

  Billy nodded. “Jasper!” he shouted, never taking his eyes from G. William.

  “Yeah?” Bored call from elsewhere in the house.

  “Get moving! Now! Now!”

  Before G. William could process Billy’s scream, Billy Dent transformed before him. The lazy, charmed quirk of his lips became a peeled-back wolf’s baring of teeth, and his eyes went cold and dead.

  The metamorphosis so shocked G. William that it took him a moment to realize Billy already had his hands around his
throat.

  “The pisser about all this, Sheriff,” Billy hissed through gritted teeth as his impossibly strong hands crushed G. William’s throat, “is that I actually. Fucking. Liked. You!” He punctuated each word with a shake that bobbled G. William’s head.

  G. William flailed for a moment, grabbing Billy’s wrists, but the man had hands of pure steel. He couldn’t budge them. Already, he was running out of air, running out of blood to the brain, cut off by the pressure of Dent’s fingers, expertly placed along the side of his neck.

  This is how he killed them. He did this to them. Hand-in-Glove.

  Delirious, he didn’t even think of the gun at his hip. He flailed and flapped his hands like a rookie, stunned and choking.

  His spasming hand found something on his belt, and he brought it up. Not out of instinct—there was no instinct for this situation but to gasp and flail, instincts that had to be overridden as they led to burning precious oxygen—but rather years of training so ingrained and repeated that they became akin to instinct.

  As his vision blurred to near-black, he depressed the button on his canister of pepper spray.

  His aim was off—of course—but Billy got enough of a whiff to loosen his hold. G. William sprayed again, then brought both hands up together between Billy’s and spread them, knocking Billy’s arms aside.

  Blessed air flowed down into his sore, mangled, open windpipe.

  Billy Dent stepped back, one hand held up as if to say, Hang on a sec, man—something in my eye. One eye was swollen shut and weeping. The other glared out at him with an animalistic hatred G. William had witnessed only—

  No, scratch that. He’d never witnessed it before.

  He finally managed to get his gun out of his holster, swinging it up in a tight arc, now leveling the gun and the pepper spray at Dent. At the sight of the gun, Billy’s entire expression changed, reverting back to good ol’ boy. Hell, you can’t blame a guy for tryin’, right? he seemed to be thinking.

  “Guess this is your lucky day,” Billy drawled, and grinned a sardonic grin.

  “Shut up!” G. William’s voice was raw, abraded, and his body had flooded with so much adrenaline that both hands shook. At this range, he couldn’t miss hitting Dent, and he was half-afraid, half-hopeful that his vibrating trigger finger would do what his civilized brain couldn’t allow him to do. Images of Dead Girl One and Dead Girl Two floated before him like motes in the air, and the ViCAP report of Hand-in-Glove’s depredations scrolled along in his mind, as if narrated by a perverse voiceover.

  “Shut up and lie the hell down! On your stomach! Do it! Now!” He didn’t recognize his own voice. He’d been a cop his entire adult life, but he’d never been so close to death before. It spun in his gut like bad food, raced his blood, left a metallic burn on his tongue. “Now, goddammit, Dent, I swear to holy Christ I will put a bullet in you!”

  Billy wiped tears from his peppered eye and shrugged. “No need to get all excited, Tanner.” He knelt slowly. G. William—suddenly aware that Billy was in prime position to tackle him—backed up a few steps, hating the satisfied smile that his action prompted from Dent.

  “I said on your belly!” G. William yelled. “I ain’t countin’ to three, Billy. I will shoot you on one, you understand?”

  Billy lay on his stomach, somehow managing to do so with an air of forbearance, as though he were humoring G. William, not obeying him.

  Once Billy was on the floor, G. William allowed himself a long, relieved intake of breath. His throat burned, and would burn for days, he figured. Sweat caught in his eyebrows, dripped into his vision. His hands were slick.

  Replacing the pepper spray on his belt, he wiped the now-empty hand on his thigh to dry it. He was afraid to transfer the gun, afraid Billy would take advantage.

  He was on me in nothing flat. I didn’t even realize it. Jesus, what is he?

  “Gettin’ bored here, Sheriff,” Billy said quietly.

  “Shut your goddamned mouth!”

  “Just sayin’. A real cop, hell, a real cop’d had me cuffed and in the car by now. Maybe you are slowin’ down.”

  “Shut the hell up!” He fumbled for his handcuffs, making a hell of a racket as his hands shook them into ghost chains.

  Get it right. Don’t come this far and get killed. This guy, he’ll kill you and bury you so deep, they’ll never find you.

  He went to cuff Billy, then stopped. He pictured himself standing athwart Billy Dent, leaning down to slap the cuffs on, and Billy rearing up, knocking the gun away.

  Hell, no.

  “Put these on.” He tossed the cuffs to Billy. “Your right wrist.”

  Billy stared at the cuffs, lying on the floor a few inches from him.

  “Do it!” G. William coughed at the strain on his poor throat. “Now!”

  With slow, creeping hands, Billy reached out for the handcuffs. G. William almost stomped in impatience. He was caught. There was no point dragging this out.

  And then he heard a sound. From elsewhere in the house.

  The boy. Jasper. The Billy look-alike.

  Oh, Christ. The sweat—just beginning to dry along his hairline—began again. He didn’t want to imagine the kid was involved, but thirteen…G. William knew of kids younger than that who’d begun lives of crime, and most of them hadn’t had a dad around to show them the ropes.

  He’s stalling. Stalling for the kid.

  “Cuff yourself. Now. Right hand.”

  It took Billy forever. G. William backed into a corner so that he could watch Billy and also keep an eye out for Jasper. What the hell kind of house of horrors had he blithely walked into?

  “Now what?” Billy asked, clearly amused at G. William’s panic.

  “Now the other cuff to the table leg.”

  Billy considered the table leg. “I can do that, Sheriff, but I gotta tell you—it ain’t terribly secure. Might be better if—”

  “Do it!” G. William shrieked. There was a footfall from some other part of the house, and he imagined the kid coming at him with a shotgun.

  Billy eventually managed to lock the other cuff around the table leg. He was right—it wasn’t very secure, but G. William just needed Billy relatively immobilized for the most dangerous part of this process.

  He sidled over to Billy, wishing he could split his eyes so that he could watch two things at once. But he had to focus on Billy now, which meant Jasper could get the drop on him.

  At Billy’s side, he kept the gun pointed at Dent’s head. “Stay still,” he ordered, and then had Billy—still prone—put both hands at the small of his back.

  With a quick motion, he knelt down on top of Billy, pinning him with his bulk. All those cheesers and fries finally paid off.

  In short order, he managed to get the cuff off the table leg and onto Billy’s left hand. Then, just to be extra safe, he used a zip-tie to bind Billy’s ankles.

  “Ain’t no call for that,” Dent complained mildly.

  “Shut up.” His head throbbed, and he realized he was grinning like a damn fool. Almost giddy in triumph. “Who’s the better man now, Billy?”

  “This ain’t over.”

  “Looks like it from where I am.”

  As G. William stood, the room tilted as he went dizzy again. Hyperventilating? Panic attack? Who the hell knew. Spots flew before his eyes. His heart thudded, and his arms were going numb.

  He wanted nothing more than to leave this place. Now. But Dent’s kid was still somewhere in the house. Doing God knew what.

  G. William double-checked Billy’s manacles, then went off in search of the noise he’d heard before. Through the kitchen, he found a door leading down into a basement laundry room, and then—surreal—a pull-down attic-type ladder leading to some sort of hatch, a makeshift trapdoor cut into the ceiling.

  His heart trip-hammered. His mouth, dry, tasted like old blood and shit.

  Steadying himself with one hand, his gun still filling the other, he climbed the three or four rungs that put his upper
body in the room above. It was a small space, maybe an old closet or pantry, now closed off from the rest of the house, accessible only by this hidden ladder.

  There were tables and some lights, but the room was murky. Objects lay scattered on the tables, and in the middle of it all was Jasper Dent, holding a bulging backpack and frozen there, staring at something in his hand.

  G. William aimed at Jasper’s center of mass and heard himself scream—in a voice high and piercing and crazy—“Drop it! Drop all of it! I swear to Christ I’ll shoot you!”

  He’s just a kid! a voice within him cried.

  Just Dent’s kid. Who knows what he’s done?

  You’re not going to shoot a child!

  “I will shoot you!” G. William said again. “Drop everything. Now.”

  Jasper turned slowly, his eyes wide. Hazel eyes. It was like looking at Billy in miniature, but for the eyes, and G. William’s panic almost pulled the trigger for him.

  “Drop it!”

  Jasper dropped the backpack. It rattled and jostled. Something spilled out, and G. William recognized the image of Cara Swinton, Dead Girl One. A mock Vogue cover on an iPhone case.

  The kid still had something in his hand.

  “Everything!”

  Don’t shoot this boy!

  I will kill him if I have to.

  The eyes. Wide. Unblinking.

  Terrified.

  He’s frozen. He’s—

  He’s faking. Like Billy. He won’t—

  And then Jasper dropped the thing in his hands. It bounced on its side and skittered closer to G. William.

  It was a driver’s license. A pretty blond girl.

  Of course.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Jasper said in a confused voice. “I don’t think I did anything.”

  G. William found the space and the time to let himself breathe again.

  “I’m sure that’s true,” he said.

  He figured he would never forget the look in Jasper Dent’s eyes. He didn’t know what the kid had done or witnessed, but he knew none of the answers were good. They were the kind of answers that would take years to unpack, and even then there would always be another box tucked away somewhere, with a secret inside that moaned and thumped and demanded to be let out, no matter how much you tried not to think about it.