And there are hundreds of thousands of people watching to see what I do next.
Turning to my left, I pass through an oversized doorway into a kitchen just as sparse as the dining room. Bare wood countertops reveal only a few essential stainless-steel appliances. An oversized island in the middle of the space has nothing more than a roll of paper towels.
There is no fruit sitting out on the counter, no pieces of paper affixed to the fridge.
Again, the brief concern that I have the wrong address, that the house is actually empty, passes through me. I consider opening the fridge to see if there is anything at all present to indicate that someone might be living here, but opt against it.
There’s no way of knowing what message my peeking through the man’s fridge might send to people watching at home, but I’m reasonably certain I don’t want to find out.
My entire shirt clings to my skin as I pass through the kitchen and into a small laundry room. For the briefest of moments, I let out a sigh of relief at the sight of a dowel drying rack in the corner, a few plain white t-shirts and underwear hanging on it. On a shelf above the washer are two pairs of running shoes.
An audible exhalation passes from me as I get my first confirmation of habitation, stepping inside and moving to the door on the opposite end of the room. Parting two slats in the blinds hanging down, I glance out into a garage, a single car sitting silent on the opposite side.
Otherwise, it is completely empty.
My heart rate rises again at the thought that Weinberg could be tucked away in the house, though it seems unlikely. The car in front of me is a basic sedan, an Acura or some such model. Certainly not the kind of thing a famous agent drives every day.
My worries subside a tiny bit as I again focus on the empty spot closest to the door, reasoning with myself that he is in fact gone, having taken his preferred automobile out for the holiday.
This realization, and more importantly the follow-up that he could return at any moment, spur me back into action.
I release the blinds and move past Quasi, his sweaty visage tracking my every step. Moving fast, I head back through the kitchen and dining hall, taking the first doorway down a short hallway.
At the end of it is what we’ve been searching for.
Cathedral ceilings rise two stories around us as we step into the living room, the walls and ceiling all painted white. The carpet, furniture, and curtains in the room are done in the same color, the room managing to look both bright and ghostly even in the late hour.
On the opposite wall is the largest television I have ever seen, a plasma flat screen screwed right into the drywall. Enormous speakers sit on the floor to either side of it, a bevy of remote controls on the corner of the couch to operate them.
My mind registers and dismisses each of these items in rapid order. They are clearly high-end goods, but don’t fit what we’re looking for in the slightest. Too cumbersome for us to grab and make a clean getaway, far too expensive for us not to face an extended prison stay if caught.
The point is to solidify Chaz D as a badass, not to have him become another flunky in a cell somewhere.
Taking a few steps out into the room, I turn to face the wall behind us. Rising the length of it is a fireplace made from polished grey river stone, a wide base starting a few feet past the doorway we just entered through and rising into the ceiling above. A decorative arrangement of white birch logs sits inside it, the metal mesh screen left open for effect.
The details barely register with me. Instead, I focus in on the mantle running the length of it.
There, in the center of the thick wooden shelf, is a trio of crystal trophies.
A smile comes to my face as I cross over to the fireplace and stare up at them. Uniform in shape, all three are isosceles triangles, the center one rising two inches taller than the ones on either side.
Taken as a whole, they look like a new age rendition of the ancient pyramids.
Quasi tracks my movement as I place a boot on the hearth of the fireplace and hoist myself up, grabbing all three awards from the mantle. They are much heavier than anticipated, fighting to slip from my sweaty hands as I lower myself back to the floor and set them down where my foot had just been.
After ten minutes inside the house, I am reasonably certain that nobody is home. Seeing the empty spot in the garage, and the fact that not a sound was heard after we broke the rear window, both confirm this in my mind.
Picking up one of the smaller awards, I look down at the lettering emblazoned on it and read aloud, “Presented to Outstanding Management Rep for 2011, Terry Weinberg.”
Hearing the words, remembering back to our meeting months before, a surge of venom passes through me. My fingertips grow white as I squeeze the award, feeling its weight in my hands.
“For those of you that may have been wondering,” I say to the camera, watching as Quasi’s face turns to horror at my blatant disregard for whoever might hear.
“This man is the reason for Chaz D. He was the person who told me I didn’t have the requisite life experience to be a good writer, that I needed to get out and live a little before anybody would take me seriously.”
A smile crosses my face as I heft the award a couple of times, letting it rise and fall a few inches.
“Well, how seriously are you taking me now, Terry?”
Pivoting on the ball of my left foot, I whip the award against the back of the fireplace, the crystal shattering on impact. The sound erupts like a shotgun blast through the empty house, splinters of glass cascading over the birch logs and across the floor.
I can hear them slapping against my clothes, feel them pricking the exposed skin of my arms.
Glancing down, I notice a few errant streaks of blood forming atop my tattoos, the bright red color mixing with the menagerie of hues already present.
The sight of it seems to only give me renewed purpose as I reach down and take up the second smaller award.
“Outstanding Management Rep for 2009, Terry Weinberg.”
This one sounds even louder than the first as it explodes against the back wall, stray shards of glass spraying across the floor. Again, they splash against my pants and rip at my skin, so much adrenaline pulsing through me I don’t feel a thing, even as blood stripes my forearms.
Nearly five pounds of glass lies in granulated bits around me, covering the fireplace and the ground at my feet. It crunches beneath my boots as I step forward and take up the last of the three, holding it out for the camera to see.
“And that brings us to the big boy,” I say, turning it over to look upon the front of it, “2010 Manager of the Year, Terry Weinberg.”
I stare down at it a moment, pretending to be in awe, shaking my head just a bit.
“That really is impressive, Terry. Congratulations.”
Never in my life has my confidence been higher than at this very second, knowing that an enormous captive audience is watching my every move. Sometime later tonight or tomorrow, Terry Weinberg will return home to find his precious awards shattered, the only signs of personality in an otherwise barren home gone.
Just as he once took something from me, stripped away my hopes for paying homage to my father, made me doubt who I was as a man, I am doing the same thing to him.
Raising the award to my lips, I give it a parting kiss, fully relishing my final moments in front of the camera. I know it might be a month or more before I am back in this position and I want to make it count.
One of the truly beautiful things about the internet I have discovered is that things can last forever.
This video, this moment, will be one of those things. It will ensure that Chaz D lingers long after any repercussions for my actions have been served. It will be a lasting legacy for my own kids to one day look back at when contemplating the importance of my life.
I pull back the award and rotate at the waist, ready to send it hurtling toward the same fate as the other two, but am cut off halfway through by the last th
ing on earth I expect to hear.
The voice of Terry Weinberg.
Chapter Sixty-Three
“Who the hell are you?”
The question stops my arm mid-throw, the award held at an angle away from my body. All the bravado, the intense confidence, I felt just a moment before is now gone, draining from me as I turn to see Weinberg standing across from us.
Outlined against the curtains of the front wall, he is barely more than a silhouette. His previously coiffed hair stands in a misshapen tangle above his head and he is wearing only a pair of gym shorts.
Still, just from the sound of his voice, I know in an instant who it is.
My mouth drops open for a moment, no words finding their way out. The award lowers to my side as I stand there, the weight heavy against my thigh.
“What do you want?” Weinberg asks.
Beside me, I can sense the camera aimed directly at me, Quasi not daring to move an inch. I can’t see his face but know with reasonable certainty that if I glance his way right now, he will be on the verge of tears.
“I said, what do you want?”
The question is followed up by a sound I’ve only heard on television before.
The metallic click of a gun being cocked.
Palpitations erupt in my chest as he takes a step forward, his features becoming a little more recognizable.
“Easy now,” I manage, nothing more than a whisper.
“You should know I’ve already called the police,” he says. “They’ll be here any second.”
I was already prepared for the cops to show tonight, so this doesn’t come as a surprise to me. My entire focus is on the gun in his hand, the barrel just visible in the thin light. Held in his right hand, it is a few inches away from his leg, the outline of it clear against the curtains.
“Alright, now,” I say, turning my palms towards him, “we mean you no harm. We didn’t even know you were here.”
I take a step forward, trying to seem as unimposing as possible.
The moment I close the gap between us by even an inch, his arm raises, the gun extended in front of him.
“Don’t come any closer,” he says, his voice betraying the fear he feels. “I’ve already called the police.”
He adds the last part as a throwaway, as if their impending arrival might stop us if we had any further motives. Right now, I couldn’t care less about the police, my entire attention on the gun in his hand.
“Listen, Mr. Weinberg,” I say, remaining fixed in place, “we met a few months ago. My name is Chaz...”
I stop there, catching myself. “Charles Doyle, and this is my friend Abe. We came to see you, at your office.”
This seems to confuse him for a moment, his features twisting up.
“What? At my office?”
“Yes,” I say.
Any hint of the self-assurance my voice held just a few moments before is gone, trying now to sound as soothing as possible.
“We brought you a manuscript, back when the place was still under construction.”
A moment passes as he stares at me, incomprehension still on his face.
“Are you serious? That’s what this is about?”
A trace of the hostility is gone from his voice, confusion now moving in. He takes another half-step closer, the gun still outstretched before him.
“You’re here because of what I told you?”
Beside me, I sense movement, Quasi choosing this exact moment to turn towards Weinberg. In his hand is the camera, held out in front of him at chest height.
Long before I see the muzzle flash or hear the bark of the gun, already I know what’s coming. In my periphery, I see the outline of Quasi turning, realizing what it must look like to Weinberg in the dark.
I open my mouth to yell, but no sound comes from it. All there is is a gaping horrific look on my face as the gun bucks in Weinberg’s hand.
A flower of orange light sprouts from the end of it, met in the same instant by the sound of impact beside me.
The round catches Quasi in the left side of his chest, pushing his torso backwards as his arms extend before him. The camera skitters across the floor as he loses his grip on it, his body hanging suspended in the air.
My eyes widen in silent horror as he seems to levitate a moment before crashing to the ground, landing hard. The impact shakes the entire living room as he comes to a stop atop the shattered glass covering the floor, the tiny shards crunching beneath his weight.
He makes no attempt to catch himself as he falls, gives no effort to rise once he hits. Instead, he just lays there, his eyes looking to me, his mouth open and gasping like a fish pulled from water.
Only now does my mind fully compute what I am seeing.
“Quas!” I gasp, the award sliding from my hand as I drop to a knee by his side.
Bits of glass grind into my knee as I do so, ripping the leg of my pants, imbedding themselves in my skin. I pay them no mind as I peel my shirt off over my head and press it to the wound in his chest, blood saturating the dark cotton within seconds, staining my fingers red.
Despite the pressure I apply, it continues to bubble out of the wound, seeping through the shirt, dark red blood oozing up between my fingers.
“Quasi, stay with me buddy,” I say, my voice on the border of hysterics. “Look at me, right here.”
His eyes roll around in his head like ping pong balls in a lottery machine, his pupils all over the place, unable to focus. Breath comes to him in short, ragged gasps, the time between each of them growing longer.
“Quas,” I repeat, the hot sting of tears starting to form on the underside of my eyes.
No matter how hard I press down on him, no matter how tight I squeeze his hand, I can feel him slipping away from me.
Opposite me, Weinberg appears, his visage twisted with abject fear. The gun slides from his hand as he looks on in horror, his gaze shifting from Quasi to me and back again.
“Oh, my God,” he whispers.
“Don’t just sit there!” I hiss, the movement causing tears to stream down either cheek. “Call an ambulance!”
Neither one of us move as my friend takes the last few breaths of his life, the final one coming out as little more than a wheeze. With it comes a single bloody bubble, staining his lips red. His eyes fix themselves on the ceiling, never to move again.
“No,” I whisper, another pair of tears streaking south, “no, no, no.”
Using both hands, I give Quasi a good shake, hoping to jolt something awake inside of him despite knowing he’s already gone. Once, twice, I try to push some movement back through him, shaking his body, praying my hands will act as a defibrillator and bring him back.
“Quasi!” I say, every bit of pain, emotion, I feel pushed into the single name.
I extend the word almost five seconds in length, my teeth gritted together, snot, saliva, tears, all pouring from my face.
By the time I am done, every bit of air is gone from my lungs, my body fighting for breath. Raising my right arm, I pass my forearm across my face, wiping away the drool and mucus, replacing it with warm streaks of blood.
With my opposite hand, I reach to Quasi’s face and lower his eyelids, my fingers leaving twin trails of red down his cheeks as his brown eyes disappear from view.
I am barely aware of the presence across from me, nothing more than a shadow as it rises and retreats. It is not until he speaks that my attention is pulled towards him, for the first time since he fired do I register I am not alone.
“What have I done?” he whispers.
Of everything in the world he could have said, nothing would have hit me harder. In just four words, he has managed to vocalize every thought, every emotion I am feeling. Disgust, revulsion, acrimony, settle across my features as I watch him continue to back away, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and us.
It is more than I can bear.
I see the gun lying on the floor beside Quasi’s hip, the hot tip having s
inged the carpet beneath it. For a moment, the thought of snatching it up enters my mind, dismissed just as fast as my gaze continues to scour the floor, settling on something far better.
The crystal award by my side.
My fingers are still wet with blood as I wrap them around it, squeezing it tight to make sure it doesn’t slide from my grasp. Specks of glass fall to the ground as I rise, crunching under my boots as I take a step forward across the room.
There is no cognizance of my actions from Weinberg as he continues to stare down at Quasi, his mouth agape. It flaps several times in a poor attempt to formulate a response, but no sound comes out.
Watching him, seeing him stand there unable to say a word, intensifies every emotion within me. It forces its way out through every pore of my body. Tears, blood, saliva, sweat, all stream from my skin as I pace the floor.
Not until I am halfway there does Weinberg raise his gaze to me, realizing what is happening. The look on his face tells me he is about to plea for his life, but I don’t give him the chance.
Raising the makeshift weapon by my side, I smash the bottom of it against his temple, the massive weight dropping him on contact. Blood spurts from the corner of his eye as his body goes limp, crumpling to the floor.
Tears come faster as I straddle his inert form, pressing my left hand to his chest and grabbing a handful of flesh. Using it for leverage, I pull the award back and smash it down again, this time striking his nose, crushing it beneath the blow.
Blood spatter sprays across the white floor, coats the bottom of the award, as I raise it again and again. My lungs burn as I try to force air into my body, swinging the crystal bludgeon with everything I have.
There is no way to know how much times passes, my only thoughts the image of Quasi behind me, the look on Weinberg’s face at what he had done. By the time I am finished, lactic acid courses through my entire upper body, my arm too tired to even lift the weapon. My bare torso is splatter-painted red, the carpet around me striped with errant sprays of blood.
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 71
