by Paul Seiple
“Do you believe in destiny?” she asked.
“I think with all the shit we’ve been through we were destined to end up together.”
“Then don’t doubt me when I tell you this is my destiny.”
“I never doubt you. But remember what Shakespeare said, ‘It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.’”
She smiled. “It makes you feel smart to quote Shakespeare, doesn’t it?”
He laughed. “No, it makes me feel smart to break into the FBI’s computers within two minutes. Quoting Shakespeare makes me feel sophisticated.”
She took his hand and squeezed. “I have to do this. It’s inside me. And then we are free to start this little club you keep talking about.”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Then go do it, Chelle.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Take your time,” Jessie said, holding up a paperback book. “I’ll read a little.”
“Twist the Blade? That sounds cheery.”
“It’s by this new writer, Ben Graham. He’s got a sick mind.”
“Don’t get any ideas?”
“Me? Never? I’m reading it so I’ll have something to talk about with you.”
Chelle smiled and got out of the car. She walked over to the driver’s side. “One last thing. How does the hair look?”
“Blonde works for you. I mean, you’re a little pale. But I can see myself shacking up with the blonde you.”
“Pale, huh?” Chelle smiled and headed for the employee entrance. An uneasy feeling clung to her like a shadow. She wasn’t questioning what she was about to do. For years, Chelle knew this was something she would have to face. The uneasiness came because she didn’t feel bad about doing it. Maybe her grandfather was right. Maybe this was in her blood. She swiped the employee card, entered the access code, and the door unlocked.
Chelle walked by a group of nurses who didn’t acknowledge her existence. Helping Hands was a small place, only twenty patients. He couldn’t be hard to find. She walked down the east wing and nodded as two orderlies walked by. They weren’t quiet when they expressed how hot the new nurse was, it was almost as if they wanted her to hear them. Chelle smirked and shook her head.
The east wing came to an end at a window that overlooked an open field flanked by trees. It was probably a beautiful picture in the fall, but during winter everything looked dead. Chelle gazed out the window, unable to ignore the comparisons of dead leaves to the atmosphere in the hospice. This would be the last place most of these people saw. Sadness washed over her. She shook it off as fast as it came on. Chelle had a job to do. Today she was the Grim Reaper.
Chelle turned to walk back down the hallway when she saw him sitting there in a sparse room. His back was to her. He was confined to a wheelchair, but she knew that it was him. To the world, Norman Wallace died seven years ago. By name he did. Chelle knew different. He bought his way out of jail with a shitload of money and a promise to never be heard from again. Monahan’s experimental treatment was only supposed to bide Norman a few months, a year if he was lucky. Whatever Monahan did for Norman was a miracle. Death stabbed him in the gut with cancer, but it would take more than that to end him. Norman never let Death forget Evil is one tough bastard to kill. Death never let Norman forget it was persistent. The cancer moved to Norman’s lungs. Death always gets the last laugh.
Norman spent the last seven years of his life as Walter Hayes, living in a small one story house in rural Carolina until he could no longer take care of himself. In his mind, he won the war with the death of Reid Hoffman. Sure, he never made his son pay for unmasking the monster, but Norman had to pick his battles. He no longer needed to create death. Death was now his companion. Every breath he took reminded him that his soulmate would never leave his side. It was the only satisfying relationship Norman ever had.
Chelle pressed her back against the wall and let years of rage assault her. Norman took the aunt she never got to meet. He destroyed her family. Norman was the reason she hadn’t seen her mother in seven years. The reason she hadn’t spoken to her father in nearly fifteen years. Norman took everything from her. Now, she would take it back. Looking at it one way, killing Norman would give him peace and happiness with knowing she turned out like him. Chelle didn’t care. Letting Death continue to court him would ensure his suffering, but she couldn’t allow it to rob her of the satisfaction of seeing Norman take his last breath. When the rage neared an eruption point, Chelle entered the room.
“All Right, Mr. Hayes, it’s time to take your medication.”
Wallace turned his chair. “I took it….haven’t seen you before.” His tone was frail matching his slouched over body.
Chelle smiled, keeping the hate hidden behind clenched teeth. “It’s my first day.” She shut the door.
“Why did you do that? There’s an open door policy.”
“I like to get to know my patients a little and since this is my first day, I thought this would be a good place to start.” Chelle smiled. “And I’m not really all that big on rules.”
Norman backed his wheelchair away from the small table that sat against the back wall. “Me neither, my dear, I welcome the company.”
Chelle took a seat at the table and faced Norman. “So, Mr. Hayes, tell me what did you do before you ended up here?”
Without hesitation, Norman said, “I used to sell insurance.”
“Is that right? What about a family?”
“My wife died a few years ago. I had two sons, but I outlived them both.”
“That’s such a shame. Holidays must be a bitch. If you don’t mind me asking, how did your family die? I mean, this is hospice and all. Death can’t be the elephant in the room. Am I right?”
Norman sat in silence. He squinted. “Do I know you?”
“People say I have a familiar face. We have a lot in common, Mr. Hayes. I lost my mother and father too. I didn’t have siblings. I did have an aunt and an uncle, but they’re gone too. My uncle murdered my aunt. Can you believe that?”
“The world is a cruel place,” Norman said, noticing the bottom of the tattoo on Chelle’s arm. “You better keep that covered or your employment here will not last long.”
“What? This?” Chelle pulled the sleeve of her shirt up to her shoulder. “Do you like it?”
“Forgive me, dear; my eyesight has failed me too.”
“It’s the archangel Michael defeating Satan in the war of heaven.”
“I see. I never was much of a religious man.”
“Aren’t you worried that you won’t go to Heaven when you die?” Chelle asked.
“I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell, or God and Satan.”
Chelle chuckled. “I have a hard time believing sometimes. This represents something else to me.” Chelle traced the outline of the tattoo. “My name is Michelle. I like to think I’m the archangel.”
Norman recognized his granddaughter. He smiled. “And who is Satan?”
Chelle grinned. “Well, we both know who Satan is, now don’t we, Grandpa?”
“You truly have grown into a beautiful woman,” Norman said.
“Like the ones you used to murder? Do I look like Ashley? I never got the chance to meet her, since, well you know, you had her murdered. But I hear she had a bright personality.” Chelle flashed a half-smirk, half-smile.
“It’s unfortunate she had to die. But George…”
“Spare me the details. I’m not here to for a family reunion.”
Norman smiled. “You’re here to kill me, aren’t you? I saw it in your eyes many years ago, sweet child. You have the urge. You’re going to carry on the legacy.”
Chelle pulled a syringe from her pocket. “I’m here to take back everything you’ve stolen from me.”
“I knew you had the desire in you.”
“The only thing in me is hate. Hate for you that will disappear when I watch you take your last breath. Your death will exorcise my demons.”
“Oh, dear child, my death will not make your demons disappear. My blood runs through you. Killing me will make them hungrier.”
“That sounds a bit cowardly, Grandpa.”
Norman laughed. “I’m not scared to die. I’ve been holding on this long hoping one day you’d find me and carry on the legacy.”
“You’re getting your wish.”
“What’s in the syringe?”
Chelle smiled. “It’s called Apollyon. A little birdie sent it to me many years ago. I’ve been holding onto it for a special occasion. I hope it’s aged well.”
Norman flashed a grin. “So, you did get the package Cagney sent you. I was worried you wouldn’t since you live like a gypsy.”
Chelle held the syringe to the light. “I heard this stuff hurts like hell.”
“I would be disappointed if it didn’t. But remember this, once you murder someone, it’s something you can never come back from,” Norman said.
“Now, that is cowardly. Don’t worry, Grandpa, thanks to you there is a lot I cannot come back from. I’ll be just fine.”
“You mistake my grooming for cowardice.” Norman held out his arm. “Kill me. Take my legacy. Make me proud.”
Chelle stood up and kissed Norman’s forehead. She whispered, “Fuck your legacy.” She jammed the needle into his neck. For a moment, she cradled Norman’s head; feeling short warm gasps of air pelt her flesh. The rapid breaths became less frequent. Chelle let go. As she sat back in the chair, Norman’s head wilted to his shoulder like a dying flower. Norman took his final breath as he closed his eyes for the last time, he saw his granddaughter mouth the words, and “I’m nothing like you.”
Chelle sat in silence for a few minutes staring at the frail, lifeless body of the monster that ruined her life. The rage inside eased, but didn’t leave. She felt it. It was subtle, but still there, almost hibernating. The haunting thought that maybe she was like Norman after all planted itself in her mind. She plucked the syringe from Norman’s neck and tossed it in the trash. She reached into the pocket of her scrubs and grabbed a piece of paper. It was the note George wrote to Michael. She read it again. The bad guy wins.
Chelle thought about her father. She still had hurt that couldn’t heal, but she no longer hated him. Chelle understood why things happened way they did. Wallace was a monster. She looked at the note again, scrunched it into a ball, and tossed it into the trash.
“At least the good guy didn’t die.”
Chelle took her phone from her pocket. She sent a text.
I’m fine, Mom. Like always, tell Dad you heard from me, and you’ll never hear from me again.
Every month, Chelle sent Rebecca a text to let her know she was alive. She never replied to Rebecca’s texts and to her knowledge Rebecca honored her wishes. Chelle took one last look at her grandfather before leaving the room. She passed the orderlies who called her hot and winked at them. Chelle turned the corner and walked down the employee entrance corridor. She pulled her shirt over her head, exposing a Slayer T-shirt. She kicked off her multi-colored clogs and ran down the hall in her bare feet. Before opening the door, she slipped out of the scrubs.
Fresh winter air hit her. The newfound freeness she felt numbed her from the cold. She waved her arms in the air as she ran toward the Camaro ignoring the wind whipping at her legs beneath her cutoff jean shorts. She ripped the blonde wig from her head and flung it to the asphalt. Chelle stroked her jet black hair marked with blue streaks. No more hiding. No more worrying that Norman was watching. She could finally be herself.
“Feel better?” Jessie asked as she got in the car.
“Like a new woman. There’s one more thing I have to do, then we can blow this town.”
Jessie started the Camaro and pulled out of the parking lot.
“Oh, I love this song too.” Chelle turned up the radio, blasting “Gypsy” by Fleetwood Mac.
Jessie and Michelle were too busy singing to notice the black Cadillac ease out after them. Jessie turned right. The Cadillac went left. Its license plate read ISPOTU.
Cagney turned down John Coltrane to a whisper. “Now is not the time. But one day I will get you.” He rubbed the gunshot scar on his shoulder and turned right. Cagney stopped in the middle of the road and watched the Camaro fade away. He smiled thinking about all the ways he planned to torture Jessie. A metallic blue BMW turned onto the road behind him. The honking horn pulled Cagney from his daydream. He looked in the rear view mirror. A man dressed in a suit and hair caked with enough gel to bring the ’80s back was screaming and flipping Cagney off. Cagney popped the trunk and stepped out of the car.
“What the hell are you doing, man? I have a house to show 10 minutes ago.”
Cagney didn’t answer. He took a machete from the trunk and faced the BMW.
“Jesus Christ,” the driver said. He put the car in reverse and hit the gas. The car swerved and slammed into a street sign. The driver locked the door and rolled the window up.
“Don’t you hate when Jesus doesn’t listen,” Cagney said, stabbing the front driver’s side tire with the machete. He walked to the passenger side and jammed the blade into the tires. Then he moved behind the car. He sliced the last tire and headed toward the driver. Cagney tapped on the driver’s window with the butt of the machete.
The driver unhooked his seatbelt and slide over to the passenger seat. Cagney smiled and walked around the front of the BMW and tapped the passenger window.
“Leave me alone, you fucking psycho.”
Cagney frowned before smashing the window with the blade. He leaned into the car. “I was just going to give you some advice. Next time, leave the house a little early. You never know what kind of delay you’ll find on the road.” Cagney swung the machete over his shoulder and hummed John Coltrane’s “Blue Train” as he walked back to the Cadillac.
“Anyone ever say you sound like cats in heat when you sing?”
Pipes cut the chorus of “Fire in the Hole” by Steely Dan. He turned down the volume on small radio next to his chair. “Anyone ever say you look like the bastard child of a warthog and a mole?”
“Only my ex-wife. It’s a blessing she kicked me out.” The chubby man took the last swig from a beer bottle?
“Where the hell did you get that, Stubbs?” Pipes asked.
“Next to the trash at 7-11.”
“People pee in those bottles.”
“No shit? It did taste a little funny. I just thought it was one of those trendy German beers.” Stubbs eyed the bottle opening. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’d do it again.”
“You got a drinking problem, Stubbs.”
“And you got a pitch problem, Pipes. For a second, I begged for my ex-wife’s bitching to drown you out.”
A red Camaro rounded the corner and slowed in front of Stubbs and Pipes. Stubbs walked over to the driver’s door. It was impossible to see through the tint covering the window. Rock music bellowed through the sliver of an opening.
“I’m taking donations to help my friend over there get a hearing aid.”
The window rolled all the way down.
“Get away from the car, Stubbs,” Pipes said. “You know better.”
“Hearing aid? Why does he need a hearing aid? Sounds like he can hear just fine.”
“Wait till he sings. Tone deaf. There is no other explanation.”
The driver laughed.
The passenger door opened.
“Back up, Stubbs,” Pipes said, wheeling himself backwards.
A woman stepped into the street. Her black hair glistened in the sunlight. Blue streaks flickered like a neon sign. She looked to be over six feet tall in shiny black heels with blue skulls just above the open toes. The shoes matched her hair. Cut-off denim shorts and a skintight Slayer T-shirt left little to the imagination.
“My…my…oh my…Mother told me I’d meet girls like this one. She also told me stay away cause there is no telling what I’d catch.” Stubbs turned to Pipes. “Cheap Trick? ‘Surr
ender’? You know that one, Pipes?”
Pipes didn’t answer.
“Do I look dirty?” the woman asked.
“Depends on your definition of dirty,” Stubbs said.
She laughed.
The trunk of the Camaro popped open. Stubbs backed up. Pipes picked up his radio, put it on his lap, and wheeled away.
“Wait,” the woman said. “I’m here to see you.” She took an acoustic Gibson guitar from the trunk. There was a red bow around the neck. She walked toward Pipes.
“Who are you?” Pipes asked.
“I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me. I don’t even recognize myself these days.” She placed the guitar against a wall beside Pipes’s chair. “I’m Michelle Callahan.”
“Mike’s daughter?”
Chelle smiled. “Haven’t seen the bastard in fifteen years.”
“Watch your mouth.” Pipes said, smiling back.
Chelle wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed. “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find you.”
“Where else can I go? I’m a homeless man in a wheelchair. My options are limited.”
“You could come with us. We have enough money to take care of you.”
“Got enough money to take care of me too?” Stubbs asked
“Go get a beer, Stubbs,” Pipes said.
“But I don’t have any mone…”
Before Stubbs could finish, Jessie handed him a hundred dollar bill.
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” Pipes said.
“I ain’t too proud to beg,” Stubs said, holding the money to the sun as if he were inspecting its authenticity.
“This is my home,” Pipes said. “I have to make sure idiots like that one don’t get killed.”
Chelle laughed. “One day I’m going to make you come with me.” She handed Pipes the guitar. “Here.”
“I can’t take this.” Pipes flipped the guitar and marveled at the sunburst design. “This is a Gibson. You shouldn’t have spent so much money.”
“It’s my fault Cold Ethyl got destroyed. By the way that’s a sick song. Necrophilia?” Chelle laughed. “Besides, if it wasn’t for you, who knows what would have happened to me. Maybe I’d be Cold Michelle.”
