Grave Mistakes_A Deadly Vigilante Crime Thriller

by Brian Spangler

  “I want my sexy back,” I told Carlos, repeating the words I’d said two decades earlier when it was Garrett Williams I’d lured with a similar plan. But unlike the first time, Carlos saw the terror on my face and put his small hands on my shoulders.

  “Girl, what is it you’ve done?” he asked, leading me into his salon. While his floor plants had grown clear to the ceiling, the rest of the salon hadn’t changed at all. And selfishly, I liked that it was the same. The parlor was empty, save for a rack of formal gowns, jewelry stands and a collection of dress shoes he’d prepared for me to select from. For my last night, I would get my sexy back, and I’d wow everyone, including the man I loved.

  The sight of the gowns gave me a flutter, waking the butterflies in my gut. Carlos had delivered on his promise, setting up the salon like a fitting room for the rich and famous. He’d said all he needed was my size, and he’d take care of the rest. Of course, he’d already guessed my size and probably had everything on the ready by the time our phone conversation had ended. It was good to have money—and his was the first crazily expensive splurge I’d ventured. It’d likely be my last too. I bought Carlos’ entire week, giving him five times the cost of every appointment, ensuring he’d be on the ready for me. I spent the rest of the car ride setting up a trust for Snacks and Michael, leaving them everything. I wasn’t sure if they’d take it though, especially considering what I was going to do.

  “I see you have my things?” I said under my breath, letting go of Carlos’ hands. I saw the disappointment on his face, but ignored it. There was no time to waste, and I went to the gowns and to the shoes, uncertain of which to wear. He’d gone overboard, picking every color, every shade, every fabric imaginable. And magically, everything matched. From the shoes to the gown, and even to the jewelry. I shook my head in awe and a bit of embarrassment, “I don’t know which to pick.”

  “Steve?” he asked as he mussed with my hair, teasing the side, pushing and pulling until I answered.

  “Steve?”

  “Do you know the color of his suit? His tie?”

  “Of course not,” I answered, trying not to sound snarky. I felt frustrated with the selection and needed to concentrate on my plans. “Carlos, you pick for me. My fashion sense has been limited the last two decades.”

  “Really?” he asked, sounding shocked and pleased. “Oh girl, I’ll make you look so good!” As I took to my phone, Carlos made a kissing sound and seemed to glide around the rack of gowns, holding them up, pairing them with shoes, making a face and then moving on to the next. He repeated the process with an enjoyment I couldn’t understand.

  “Have to make this fast,” I told him. “I to be on the road in the next two hours.”

  Carlos was back at my side before I could check in with Brian—the amusement on his face had been replaced with concern. He took hold of my hand as he’d done earlier and wiped a tear from my cheek that had come unexpectedly. I couldn’t speak. Emotion welled inside me, killing me. He said nothing as I fell into his small frame and cried like a wife in mourning. Was that what I was? Who I’d become?

  “Get it out, girl,” he whispered.

  “It’s just so impossible,” I said.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shook my head, “Can’t, but thank you for doing all this.”

  “It’s good to have you back.” His words made me cry some more, and he added, “If we’re going to get your sexy back, then we need to get started.”

  “I look horrible,” I said, finding my reflection in one of the wall mirrors.

  “When I’m done, you’ll look so good, you won’t be able to cry.”

  FORTY

  CARLOS WAS A MIRACLE WORKER, a magician, a mad scientist. He was all the above and more. I couldn’t stop staring at the mirrors that lined the entrance to the fund-raiser. I barely recognized the woman in the reflection: tall and slender, auburn hair, straightened and touching my bare shoulders, with makeup around my eyes and cheeks like a model—nothing I could have done myself. And the gown he picked out, a slate blue color that reached my feet and flowed like a serene stream. And it was fitting for the evening, not too tight, giving me room to move in case I needed to run. Like my shoulders, the back of the dress was open, leaving my skin bare. I had a small chill and felt a little awkward, naked, but Carlos said it looked fabulous. I trusted him, especially when he showed me the diamond earrings—stranded braids that sparkled like dangling rain drops and matched an equally beautiful necklace—they were perfect. And to top off the ensemble, the bag, a clutch bag I’d specifically asked for. It was just the right size to hold Tommy Wilts’ gun. I kept the Gucci bag tucked beneath my arm with its thin gold chain around my shoulder. I was ready.

  As Steve promised, there was a ticket and a stage pass waiting for me at the door. I held my bag tight, noticing the metal detectors and braced for the possibility of being searched, being discovered. The attendant who’d given me the pass talked into a small radio, announcing himself with a handle that told he was working Steve’s security detail. My mouth went dry when he took me by the arm, his fingers pinching my elbow, leading me away from the people in line to go through security. For a moment, I thought I’d run, find my way inside, find my way behind the stage, finish what I came here to do.

  “Ma’am,” he said. “Keep the stage pass on you.”

  “Yes sir,” I said, addressing his instructions as he led me around the security checkpoint and passed the metal detectors.

  His face cramped with a look of concern when noticing a second crowd forming along the side of the first. The people drifted together like a flock of birds and made their way around the building’s entrance. The security guard lifted his radio, asking, “Do we have coverage at the East side entrance?”

  “I can take it from here,” I told him, seeing the crowd double and then triple. I put the stage pass around my neck, wearing the badge in front. “I’ll find my way from here.”

  He gave an appreciative nod, leaving me alone. “I need bodies at the side entrances,” he said, his voice fading as he disappeared into a crowd holding banners with Steve’s name on it. I knew my husband’s popularity had grown, but seeing it first hand was amazing.

  When I was alone and sure there were no other security guards, I passed though another set of doors—the lobby opening to the auditorium, the walls of the entrance lined with gold-flecked mirrors, the floor crowded with round tables like an open field overgrown with dandelions. Waiters and waitresses peppered the main floor, shuffling trays full of drinks and bus-pans with half-emptied plates. I felt more scared than ever and eased my toe over the lobby’s threshold, stepping into the auditorium and to where Steve and I would die in a few minutes.

  A gust of air took hold of my gown, sending it in a swirl. I made my way forward, the gown draping behind me, flowing, liquid. I saw men turn their heads, a few women too—some with smiles, and some with a jealous glare. The auditorium lights dimmed, flickered and then dimmed again, giving the attendants a cue that Steve would take the stage soon. I held the clutch bag, getting it ready, wanting to finish this without hesitation, get it over with and die before the full brunt of my actions hit me. I felt a knife twisting in my chest, but pushed through it, knowing it for what it was: reservations.

  The stage lit up suddenly as if someone had turned on the sun, the rear wall filling with colorful animations, the characters prancing from left to right, spelling Steve’s name in giant-sized letters. The men and woman at the tables let out a roar as did the crowds in the stands along the surrounding balconies. They cheered my husband and shouted his name as banners with his likeness lifted high into the air. It was a sight to see, and it took my breath with a giddy laugh. But the sentiment was short-lived as I got back to why I was here.

  The stage remained brightly lit and the banners with Steve’s name and face continued to parade around me as I set my eyes on the empty podium, wincing at the flash of animation and the numbers counting down from ten
to one. An attendee working the room, touched my arm, the soft feel of his glove on my elbow, leading me to a table near the front. From the corner of the stage, the security guard who’d issued me the badge motioned to the empty seat, instructing on where I was to sit. With sickening disgust, I realized I had a clear shot at my husband and took care to carry my clutch close to my chest, pinching it safely beneath my arm, the gun jabbing like a broken rib. I wasted no time once I was at the table and picked up a glass of wine, pouring it down my throat in one gulp, trying to rid my body of the anxious feelings. My head and arms were becoming numb, and my fingers trembled. I grabbed a second glass, stealing it from the empty seat next to me and drank that one too. The auditorium exploded with roaring cheers, the lights dimming as a spotlight erupted on the stage, shining on Steve as he entered and made his way to the podium. A flood of pride and sorrow hit me all at once and I took hold of the seat to help steady me.

  “You have to do this,” I told myself, but couldn’t hear my voice over the deafening roar. He was a rockstar. Steve took to the stage amidst the cheers and applause, waving a hand in the air, covering his eyes with his other, searching beyond the spotlight. “He’s looking for me, for Michael.” I quickly searched around me and was thankful to see my son had decided not to come. I couldn’t stomach the thought of him witnessing this.

  People jumped to their feet, clapping, shouting Steve’s name as I escaped into the darkness unnoticed and followed my husband across the stage. I let go of every emotion, every feeling and slid my hand into my bag and wrapped my fingers around the gun. A woman bumped my elbow as she jumped up and down, nearly causing me to pull the trigger by accident.

  “Pardon,” she yelled, but I ignored her and pressed on, following my husband until we reached the edge of the spotlight. Sweat stung beneath my arms and across my brow, the heat suddenly becoming unbearable. Steve continued to search the audience, but I stayed in the shadows, placing my finger on the trigger as I cocked the gun’s hammer and got it ready. If I was right, I’d get off two rounds, shooting through my small handbag and could then turn the gun on myself. My insides felt like a volcano spitting hot lava as I considered his security detail tackling me before I could use the third bullet on myself. I couldn’t live with the thought of having killed Steve.

  “For the kids,” I told myself and raised the handbag, my arm rock steady, but my hand shaking when the trigger froze beneath my finger. I scolded beneath my breath, “Do it, Amy. Do it!”

  The crowd quieted as Steve began his speech, but then he abruptly stopped and I felt the spotlight fall onto me. There was a moment of silence as he focused beyond the teleprompter and gave me a smile. I dropped my handbag and tried to take a step into the shadow, take another step and hide. But more eyes had turned in my direction, falling on me, smothering me. The backward letters and words on the glassy teleprompter slowed, stopped and waited for him to continue his speech. The moment was awkward, and I heard the audience mumbled while Steve just stood at the podium.

  “Forgive me. This wasn’t scheduled, but I want to introduce you all to someone special,” he told the crowd. A couple cheered from the back and then quickly hushed. My heart sank when the attendant who’d showed me to my seat returned and took my arm and lead me toward the stage. My stomach pitched and rolled, and for a moment I was convinced I’d puke or pass out. Before we took another step, I carefully released the gun’s hammer and freed my fingers of my handbag. Another spotlight fell on me then as I followed the attendant. That’s when I heard the first mumbles—a low chatter that began like an earthquake, a quiet shimmer, almost unnoticeable, but filled with danger. I heard words like murderer and prison and questions—the hateful comments stinging like angry bees. I glanced up at Steve, thankful to see he couldn’t hear them too. I stepped up onto the stage, painting a smile where one shouldn’t be and extended my hand as Steve reached out to take mine, “I want to introduce you to—”

  Steve flinched, grimacing as the sound of firecrackers rang out before our fingers touched. The animated display behind us exploded then and spewed electric sparks.

  Gunshots I questioned, clenching my hands, my fingers, making sure my handbag was still beneath my arm.

  “Framed!” a voice hollered just beyond the lights of the stage. “He put that on my computer. He’s a fraud!”

  Derek Robbins, I thought impossibly, knowing the man’s voice, knowing his tone, and recalling the threat he’d made against Steve and proclaimed to Tommy Wilts. But it was possible.

  The Wilts must have planted him as insurance in the event I couldn’t go through with the hit on Steve. Beyond the lights, I heard Derek Robbins crying, the same blubbering sounds I heard at the White Bear. Instinctively I shoved my hand back into my handbag and took hold of the gun.

  A third shot pierced the air, whizzing by my head, the metal plug striking Steve in the arm and pinwheeling him around in one swift motion. I reacted without thinking and grabbed my husband’s hand, pulling him behind me. A fourth shot exploded with light and smoke, showing me exactly where Derek Robbins stood. I’d raised my gun by then, but Robbins’ bullet found me, entering my body, cursing my insides with a hot piece of metal. The fiery bullet probed my guts, and I doubled over instantly. I raised the gun, the tip of it wavering as I emptied three bullets in Robbins’ direction. The auditorium lights flicked on with an electric thump and showed the exit doors clogged by a sea of people trying to escape the mayhem. There were screams and cries and bodies flying across the room, but I found Derek Robbins, his round frame crumpled over and laying on a table with a red pool staining the white cloth. He was still alive and raised his gun toward the podium, aiming it at Steve. The smell of copper, of old pennies and of gunpowder filled my mouth and nose, choking me. I fought to steady the gun and fired twice more. The second bullet entered Derek Robbins’ eye and exploded out the back of his head. There were no more gunshots after that, no more bullets to dodge. The room tipped sideways, and my belly turned warm and wet. My blood spilled onto the stage and I dropped the gun, falling onto my side.

  “Did someone turn off the lights?” I mumbled, questioning nonsensically. The auditorium was dark, and I saw Steve hovering over me, his face wet and his eyes searching mine. A gush of blood was in my mouth, I coughed and gagged and blacked out briefly. The bloody taste was brief though as was the fiery pain that had taken my body. But the auditorium had suddenly become fiercely cold, and I shook with a violent shiver.

  “Amy? Listen, you hold on,” Steve pleaded, his eyes soft and filled with sorrow. He’d been shot, and I tried to check his arm, but couldn’t seem to move my hands. “Arm is fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “It’s Snacks,” I said, eager to tell him everything, and not knowing how long I had. “The Wilts. Our baby girl. They have her.”

  “Oh Amy. She’s safe. And Michael is safe too,” he revealed, surprising me. My heart filled. Relieved. “Anonymous text—got it this afternoon. Someone tipped us on everything.”

  “Brian?” I mouthed, my voice a breathy whisper, recalling his mentioning another angle, another plan.

  “Could be,” Steve said.

  “Wilts? Behind bars?”

  “I brought an army down on them. They’ll all be processed by morning,” he told me.

  The pain returned and I let out a moan, gagging, blood pooling at the back of my throat. Steve helped to turn my head, his fingers moving cautiously. “It’s hard to breathe,” I coughed.

  “You stay—” he began, his words fighting the emotion. I blinked and tried to focus on him. “Amy?”

  “Wilts, that’s good,” I said, his face becoming featureless as the pain drained from my body. “I’m so cold.” Another shiver took hold of me.

  “Amy, please!” he cried out.

  “It’s okay. We’re safe now,” I said in a shuddering breath. He took my hand and kissed it. And even with the numbness in my fingers, I could feel his soft lips and the warm tears on his face, “Steve—”

&nb
sp; “Can we get help here!” he screamed, his voice in agony. “Help!” Steve’s pleas echoed like thunder, distant and fading.

  “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” I said, not wanting him to worry. I couldn’t see my husband, see anything, but felt things would be fine.

  “Please,” he begged.

  “It’s okay, Steve. We’re okay. It doesn’t—”

  “Amy? Baby, please stay with me.”

  FORTY-ONE

  I SURVIVED THE BULLET to my gut, and having saved Steve’s life, I was regarded a hero in the public’s eye—a strange and peculiar irony. But for months, I lived in a mix of happiness and misery, my family visiting the hospital, formally meeting Michael’s son and his wife, and having Snacks become my constant companion. All the while, I struggled to heal, but ended up under the knife three more times.

  I didn’t complain though. I refused to complain. I would gladly have taken a few more bullets if it meant more time with my family. Stuck in the hospital bed, having everyone in my room, doing nothing but being together, one family. It made me happy. It made me whole. And there were the evenings alone with Steve. He’d recovered from the bullet in his arm and as expected, he’d won his election. It was a landslide. With the story breaking about the Wilts, and about Steve’s history with them, his was the only candidacy anyone cared for—he become wildly popular. Steve never asked why I had a gun that night why I’d brought it to the fundraise. And I decided I’d never tell him either. I’m sure he came to some conclusion that worked for him. I didn’t care. All I cared about now was the time I could get with my husband.

  A team of doctors said it would take six months or more before I could get back to where I was before the bullet found me. Proudly, I did it in two months. But, I should have listened to the doctors. Nobody would have ever questioned my recovery time. I cheated myself without realizing it. An ex-conn never really starts over. There is no clean slate when we leave prison. It was my previous conviction that’d win in the end, leading me back to the authorities, facing new charges for having a handgun in my possession. There’s that irony again. It also didn’t help to have a gun that had been marked, the serial numbers rubbed clean, making the weapon untraceable. Steve has become a powerful man. He could be President one day. Actually, he might be President one day. But even at his level, I still faced a minimum sentence of a year in prison. With good behavior, I could be out in six months, but I couldn’t count on it.