Come Join The Murder

by Holly Rae Garcia

  ***

  James knocked on the green door of Martin’s house. A chain rattled off its lock before the door opened a few inches and small brown eyes stared at him through the gap. Recognition flashed, and the door opened wider.

  “Hey, aren’t you Sandra Porter’s boy? You here to deliver more rent checks? What, did she go and break her ankle again?”

  “Yeah I’m her boy and no, I’m not delivering the rent.” James crossed the threshold.

  Martin took a step back, away from James. “Well I told her I wasn’t gonna wait around all month. You tell her I’m serious about her paying.”

  James looked around the living room, “Where’s your bitch? Out spending your money?”

  “Now wait a damn minute, you can’t just come in here like that! Get the hell out of my house before I call the cops.”

  “It’s all right, I already saw her down at Boudreaux’s on my way here. I know you’re all alone.” James grinned.

  Martin stepped back with his hands raised in front of him, towards the kitchen and away from James. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. You want an extension for your mama? No problem. Tell her she can have another week.”

  James chuckled “I don’t believe you. As soon as I leave here you’re going to have her evicted and you know it.” He slowly moved his hand around to the back of his waistband and rested his fingertips on the cold handle of his dad’s old Beretta M9.

  “Look, just leave, okay? She can take all the time she needs.” Martin glanced around nervously.

  James pulled the gun out from behind his back and held it loosely at his side.

  Martin’s eyes widened as he saw the gun. “Oh whoa, what are you doing? Seriously, man? Come on, we can talk about it.”

  “Oh, but I don’t think we can. I think we’re done here. I think you’re done giving my mom a hard time.”

  James got a shot off before Martin ever saw him raise the gun.

  Blood poured from between his fingers as he clutched his stomach. He looked up at James in disbelief. “You fucking SHOT me!? What the hell?” He stumbled into the kitchen, bloody hands grasping at drawer handles, leaving red swipes on everything he touched.

  James shot two more rounds off into Martin’s back, one after the other like he was pinning a tail on a donkey. The stench of copper and gun powder filled the space between them.

  Blood gurgled up, blocking whatever words Martin was trying to form as he slumped onto the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. His mouth opened and closed like a guppy, hands still feeling around for some sort of weapon. James knelt beside him and touched the barrel of the gun to Martin’s chin, forcing him to look up. He met Martin’s eyes as he said, “I never did like you.” He pulled the trigger one last time. Smoke curled from Martin’s open mouth, his nose, and the jagged hole in his neck as pieces of his scalp and thinning hair spread out onto the cabinets behind him.

  James carefully wiped down everything he had touched and let himself out, marveling at how easily it had all come back to him. He hadn’t fired his gun since he killed that man down by the canal, and before that hadn’t fired it since that night with his dad. It’s funny how easy things get, once you get some practice in.

  He drove home, wondering if Martin’s bitch liked cleaning up as much as she liked shopping.

  13

  Rebecca sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the walk-in closet she used to share with Jon. Rows of clothing surrounded her, his on the right and hers on the left. Shoe boxes half full of receipts, old pictures, and random papers lay scattered around her like confetti. It had to be there somewhere. She knew Jon like the back of her hand. Even after insisting he get rid of the thing, she knew the sentimental value would weigh on him heavier than her anger.

  When his dad died, and his mother still had all of her faculties about her, Claire had given Jon his dad’s pistol. The same pistol that they would take to the gun range when he was younger. He talked about how much he loved those days with his dad, where he didn’t answer work calls, or watch football games over Jon’s little head. It was the only quality time they had together. When he died, and his mother asked if he wanted it, he wouldn’t have hesitated before saying ‘of course’, regardless of how Rebecca felt about guns in their home. It was months before he even mentioned it, letting it slip one night during one of their heated arguments about something stupid. Oliver was a baby, only six months old, and nowhere near the age of walking around and getting into things, but Rebecca adamantly refused to have a gun in their home. Rebecca knew Jon had grown up around guns and knew how to handle them safely. They did live in Texas, after all, where everyone had a gun in their nightstand and boots in their closet. But she hadn’t grown up comfortable with them, and the thought of Oliver coming into contact with one of the things terrified her. There was that one kid in a Houston suburb who shot and killed his brother with his dad’s gun. They were playing around, neither one understanding the danger. The bullet had hit the younger brother in the neck, killing him instantly. Just like that, he was gone. A mother left without a son, a boy without his brother. Not that Oliver would ever have a brother, or a brother would ever have Oliver... not anymore.

  She was down to the last shoe box on the top shelf, the one marked ‘2015 receipts’. When she picked it up, it was much heavier than a box of papers had any right to be. She carried it with her back to the floor, removed the lid, and started pulling out papers. There it was, at the bottom next to a box of ammunition.

  Rebecca sat in the middle of the closet holding the gun in her hands. The cold weight of it surprised her; she had never held one before. She had never needed to hold one before her world shattered and left her with nothing but a quiet house, an unused side of the bed, and dust-covered toys. Before the man who took everything from her was allowed to walk around like nothing had happened. Before the police decided to do nothing about it.

  It took her a few days of watching videos online before she could load and unload the weapon. She learned how to check if a round was in the chamber, and how to cock it. But she didn’t learn how to be comfortable with it, the heavy thing in her hands. It was still so foreign to her, and she wasn’t sure she’d even know what to do with it when the time came. But it was something. She had to do something. She couldn’t just keep sitting there waiting for police to find an invisible man. She would have to find her own justice. She knew he drove a van, and with no one at home, and a boss who still wouldn’t let her return to work, she had nothing but time. She had to find that van.

  ***

  She set out in her car the next day to look for answers.

  Morrison crooned from her radio as she drove down the highway. With the windows down, the wind rushed across her face and each breath brought the taste of salty sea air. A flicker of movement from the backseat caught her eye. It was Oliver, grinning at her and reaching his little hand as far out the window as he could reach. His small fingers waved in the bit of air he was able to catch. Tears sprang into her eyes as she stared at his reflection. The car came to a stop in the middle of the highway.

  Rebecca turned around to face the seat behind her, but Oliver was gone. An eighteen wheeler careened around her, laying on its horn. Startled, she turned back to the road, took a deep breath, and pressed on the gas again.

  “I’ll get him, Ollie,” she promised. “I’ll get him, and everything will be fine again.”

  She scanned the feeders and side roads. The sun beat down on everything with harsh, unrelenting rays. Heat shimmered off the road in iridescent waves, and even the birds had taken a sabbatical from flying. She could see them resting in the shade along the roadside.

  Her console suddenly flashed, an incoming call from Detective Barnes. She pressed a button on the screen to accept his call.

  “Hello detective, any news?” Rebecca started off every call from him with the same greeting.

  His sigh echoed around her as it came through the car’s speakers. “I’m sorry Mrs Crow, we’re doin
g everything we can. Just wanted to touch base and let you know I’m still working on finding your husband. We’re running down every van in the area, but so far they all check out.”

  “I understand,” she replied, irritated. “Please call me if you find anything”

  “Of course I will.”

  She jammed her finger against the button, ending the call. She missed the days of being able to slam down a receiver in anger. It seemed to Rebecca that she was right when she stopped putting her faith in the police, since there didn’t appear to be any progress in the weeks since Oliver was killed, and Jon had gone missing. Plus it gave her a reason to get off the couch every day and out of that house. Otherwise, she would lay there thinking of Oliver and Jon and feeling sorry for herself, and that wouldn’t help anyone. It sure wasn’t helping her find Jon. But this… this she could do. Maybe.

  She pulled to the side of the road, on the other side of the bridge from where Jon’s car went into the water. She hoped the killer took this road to work, or it was a regular route for him. She was counting on it, anyway. She turned the car just enough underneath the bridge to have shade but not so much that she wasn’t visible from the road. Rebecca shifted into park and turned the car off with a click. She left the windows down so it wouldn’t get too hot inside, and popped the trunk. She moved jackets and blankets to the side and found the latch for the compartment holding her spare. It seemed easy enough, she thought, feeling a pang of guilt at the sight of the spare tire. If she had only replaced Jon’s, he and Ollie might still be alive. Shaking off the thought, she tried to focus. She removed the tire wrench from its slot and left the trunk open. She hoped that would make her car a little easier to see from the highway. She leaned against the rear of the car as she held the tire iron, swatted mosquitoes, and watched cars as they sped by.

  It was late afternoon, around the same time of day Jon and Oliver had pulled off the highway. It was Tuesday instead of Friday, but she hoped that didn’t matter. Rebecca watched as the cars and trucks rolled by, heading to their families or homes or activities. There were a lot of trucks, but it was Texas so that wasn’t unusual. She listened to the tires on the pavement, and the faint groans from the bridge as they passed over her. Thirty minutes passed before she saw a car exit the freeway and head in her direction. Frustrated, she waited for it to pull up. It was a small yellow Kia, not a van. A well-dressed young man stepped out, tall and trim.

  “Hey there, need some help?”

  Rebecca waved her hand and put on her best smile, “No thanks, I’ve got it.”

  “You sure? I don’t mind” He pulled at his suit jacket, whipping it off with a practiced flourish.

  “No, really, I’m okay. I don’t need you.” Her smile faltered.

  He paused at the directness in her voice, still holding his jacket. “Okay, well... good luck then.”

  He pulled his jacket back on and returned to his car, reversing until he was back on the highway. She wondered how long she would have to stand there before the man in the van showed up, if he did at all. She knew she was grasping at straws, but it was the only thing she could think of to do.

  A silver Cougar, a white Escort, a black F150, and a Blue Ram all showed up, in that order. Each time they offered to help her, and each time she insisted she was okay. All four had driven off confused. Her plan wasn’t working. She knew the chances were slim that the man in the van would risk stopping there again. Her stomach growled and she touched it in surprise. It was the first day since the accident, that she actually felt hungry. Standing in the heat all afternoon and most of the evening had left her parched and famished. And with nothing to show for it. She tossed the tire wrench back in the trunk with a clang and slammed the lid closed before heading around to the driver’s side door.

  “Need help?”

  Rebecca turned towards the voice, startled. She hadn’t heard tires on the gravel, or the van’s motor at all. And it was definitely a van. Right in front of her, a clunky avocado-green van. Well, mostly green. A few panels were still primer gray. The man in front of her was tall, with wavy black hair, and a devious smile. Dressed in jeans, work boots, and a long-sleeved button-up, Rebecca realized he could be anyone. He could be a pipe fitter at one of the plants out there, or a mechanic, or... a killer.

  Rebecca took a deep breath and hoped the man didn’t see her heart threatening to break through her chest. She forced a smile and replied, “Yes, that would be great!”

  “I’m Leon.” He reached out a hand to shake hers. “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “Ah... just a flat. I have a spare in the trunk.” She shook his hand and her stomach rose in her throat at his touch. She jerked her arm back to her side.

  “Oh good, that’s an easy fix.” He winked at her as he knelt to look at the closest tire. “Which tire is it?”

  Of course he would wink, he was going to take advantage of her, or rob her, or whatever his sick mind had decided to do. Disgusted, she turned away from him and scrambled for an answer. She hadn’t thought this far into her obviously flawed plan. Her tires were all clearly full of air. She scratched at a mosquito bite on her arm to buy some time.

  “Damn mosquitos, you don’t happen to have any spray, do you? I left mine at home.”

  “Sure! I don’t leave home without it. Hold on, I’ll go grab it.”

  She realized, too late, that she had given him the perfect excuse to go to his van and grab a weapon. Or to get one out of his pocket, or wherever he kept it.

  It was the man, she was sure of it. He was smooth enough to disguise his motives. Jon would have trusted him since he was being so helpful. Until he revealed himself to be the monster he really was.

  It was the man who had attacked her Ollie and Jon.

  14

  FRIDAY, JUNE 8TH

  “Hey, are you still in town? Looks like the AAA guy is here already, we’ll just ride with him. You can meet us at the mechanic shop, it’s closer to home anyway.”

  “I’m not, but I can turn around. They got there fast.”

  “Yeah, I thought so too. But he’s not in a tow truck. This is probably the car service so we don’t have to ride with the tow guy. Either way, they really need to invest in nicer vehicles. This van looks like it’s about to fall apart. I’ll call you back when we’re on the road again. Love you.”

  As the old green van pulled in closer, Jon turned to his open trunk and scowled at a gaping round hole where the spare tire should have been. He slammed the trunk lid shut as the man stepped out of the van. Wearing dusty work boots, worn jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt, he certainly looked the part of an auto repairman. Or was it tow man? Jon didn’t know how they categorized themselves. He was tall, with almost curly black hair and a friendly smile.

  The man reeked of mosquito spray as he held his hand out to shake Jon’s. “I’m Leon, looks like you’re having a bit of trouble, need some help?”

  Jon looked at him, confused, as he lifted his arm to shake his outstretched hand. The weight of his hand surprised him and he looked down to see he was still holding the tire iron. He shifted it to his other hand, and shook. Of course he needed help, that’s why he called them. “Um, yeah. You sure got here fast; I just hung up about fifteen minutes ago.”

  Leon’s thick eyebrows drew together. “What’s that?” As Jon began explaining his call to AAA, the man interrupted him. “Oh, that makes sense now. No, I’m not with them. I was just driving by and saw you stopped here. Looked like you could use a hand.”

  “Thanks, but they really should be here any minute.”

  “It’s okay,” Leon insisted, smiling. He took the tire iron from Jon’s grasp. “I don’t mind.”

  Jon studied the other man’s face. “No, it’s really okay, but thank you.”

  Jon reached for the tire iron, but Leon swung it out of reach and his grin widened. “What’s wrong, man? I’m helping you here!”

  Jon took a step sideways, putting himself between Oliver and the man, and held his palms
out. “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”

  Jon glanced towards the car, thankful that Oliver was finally being quiet. It was humid and scorching outside, so the air conditioner in the Chevy was on full blast. Oliver had protested when Jon rolled the windows up, but he wanted to keep the cold air in as much as possible. Praying he stayed that quiet, Jon took a deep breath and reminded himself to stay calm. He was about eighty percent sure the guy was not a good Samaritan, stopping to aid a troubled traveler. But that twenty percent. That twenty percent is what worried him. What if he was overreacting? What if he just let him help and then he would be on his way? He watched Jon, as Jon watched him, both men hoping to figure out the puzzle but having very different ideas of what a good outcome would be.

  Oliver picked that moment to call out from the backseat of the car, breaking the tension. “Daaaaadd!”

  Leon glanced towards the car, looked back at Jon, and laughed as he handed the tire iron back to him. “Hey relax, I’m just messin’ with ya!”

  Jon forced a chuckle and held the tool at his side, hoping the man would leave soon.

  Leon moved towards his van as if to go, turning to face Jon when he opened the driver’s side door. “Hope you get on the road okay, good luck to you.” He leaned into the van as if to pull himself up into the driver’s seat. Jon exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and turned towards the car to answer Oliver. “I’m here buddy, shouldn’t be much longer and we’ll be ho…”

  A white heat exploded in Jon’s back before his ears could register the shot.

  He dropped to the ground. Gravel dug into his knees and he gasped as blood gurgled from his mouth onto hands that seemed to be someone else’s. Blood rolled between his fingers to the dust below. Jon pulled his hands in, trying to get a grasp of what was happening. Oliver cried out for him, his voice shaking with fear. Jon tried to respond, but all that he could get out was a wet cough, sputtering blood onto the front of his shirt and the dirt below him.