The Kill Club

by Wendy Heard

  “First rule of murder club. Don’t talk about murder club. Got it.”

  A pause, and I think I hear them trying not to laugh. “Now, I need to know your schedule for the next week so I can plan your assignment. Can we go through that now?”

  I give them my work schedule, my rehearsal schedule. They want to know if I have any dates lined up, any “social engagements,” as they put it. They want to know if I have doctor’s appointments; a significant other; plans to go to the grocery store. To that, I say, “Why would I go to a grocery store? I literally work at a grocery store,” and the voice says that must be nice, and the total insanity of this comes crashing down on me again. “Hey,” I say. I try to find the right words for this. “Joaquin—he doesn’t have a lot of time. If he stops taking his insulin now, he might only have a week before ketoacidosis kicks in.”

  “I fully understand. I’m hoping to send you on your assignment tomorrow or the day after, which means Carol would be taken care of within a few days of that. We’re looking at a full resolution within the week.”

  I don’t know if I feel afraid or relieved. The skull and crossbones on the yellow sharps container stares me down. “How bad is that poison? What does it feel like to die that way?”

  “It’s similar to the lethal injection that is used by correctional facilities. It immediately incapacitates, and the target passes on within a few minutes. It’s very humane.”

  I open and close my mouth, choosing from a thousand questions, and eventually say, “You said you know where Joaquin is. Is he in LA?”

  “Yes, they’re local enough for us to make a move very quickly when it’s time.”

  “I bet they’re staying with some people she met at that church.”

  “Possibly,” the voice says, and I feel like I’ve hit the nail on the head.

  “Okay,” I say, and in that one word is contained an ocean of acceptance. This is where I am. This is what I’m doing. I’ve already made my decision, and now all that’s left is to walk it out.

  When we get off the phone, I sit with the sharps container in my hand. It’s quiet in here.

  Where will Carol be when they kill her? Church? The grocery store?

  I think about what the reporter said, that the people who have been killed have had records of stalking, domestic violence. It actually sounds like the voice on the phone is who they say they are.

  They invented a serial killer. The police are searching LA for a murderer that doesn’t exist.

  I don’t know how I feel about this, morally. Is it bad to kill someone like Carol? Does she deserve the death sentence? Do I have any feelings about her being dead?

  I pick up the yellow container and peer through the clear plastic at the syringe. The liquid inside is a bright, sickening yellow, and the outside of the syringe is stamped with another skull and crossbones. The plunger is bright yellow, too; everything about it is designed to look dangerous.

  Down on the table, the four of spades sits inside its Ziploc bag. I flip it over. The back is decorated with tiny antique-looking blackbirds nestled in flowering vines and a maze of paisleys.

  I realize they never answered my question about what it feels like. I remember the guy I saw die at Villains. I heard him scream. It’s definitely not painless.

  But then I remember Carol with her baseball bat crunching through my bones like glass, and I think, Good.

  THURSDAY

  15

  SOFIA

  HERE IN THE bathroom stall, Sofia wills herself into calm. The wig clings to her head like an itchy vise, trying to distract her, but she has years of experience maintaining a state of calm in the middle of a hurricane of distractions. She taught middle school English for five years.

  She closes her eyes.

  She summons an image of Charles from Olive’s baby days. He’d come home from work late, still on the phone. Olive crawled up to him and tried to pull herself to a standing position on his leg. He looked for the source of the interruption and kicked Olive off his leg, then took his phone to the patio. Olive lay there on her back, eyes wide and stricken. Sofia threw the lettuce she was washing aside and scooped Olive into her arms. Their hearts beat together, and Olive cried quietly into Sofia’s neck. “There, baby girl,” Sofia crooned. “You’re so good. You’re so pretty.” And then, “I’m going to get us out of here, okay, sweetie? Mama’s going to find us a way out.”

  Sofia opens her eyes. She is the mother bear, the terrifying maternal beast. Today, she is not the victim. Today, she is the thing to be feared.

  She pulls a mirror out of her fanny pack and checks her disguise. It consists of big ugly glasses, a gray-haired wig underneath a pink sun visor to hide her face from surveillance cameras, and a false stomach under a velour jogging suit. She looks like a retired PE teacher.

  In the spirit of the character she’s playing, Sofia has a bundle of canvas tote bags. She loops the handles over her shoulder and conceals the syringe in her hand behind them.

  It’s time. He should be here soon. She lets herself out of the bathroom.

  She’s instantly engulfed in the chaos of Costco. Children in carts crying; a woman on a motor scooter; a couple lugging a giant color television. Sofia makes her way through the crowded aisles to the front of the store, where she pretends to study a display of cereal and keeps an eye on the front door.

  Her target walks in ten minutes later. She recognizes him right away from the photos she was sent this morning. He’s six feet tall, with a messy head of bright red hair and a hideous collage of brightly colored dragon tattoos all down his left arm. His companion is an older woman, perhaps an aunt or family friend given the age difference. As Sofia watches, the woman leads him past the dry goods aisle straight for the deli and meat section at the back of the store.

  Sofia doesn’t want to be seen on camera following or watching them, so she goes the opposite way, looping slowly around an aisle full of wineglasses, toasters and space heaters before coming to the deli aisle from the opposite side. She weaves between families and old people, passes a couple arguing about shrimp, and spots her target and the woman in deep conversation over a case full of smoked salmon. Sofia edges nearer. She casts a furtive glance around. No one is looking at her. She reaches into her fanny pack, withdraws the playing card from its little Ziploc baggie and walks it over to the salami case. She pretends to search for the perfect salami and drops the card down the side onto the floor. Nobody notices. She moves toward her target.

  The man is in line for a sample. His red hair is clearly visible above the other heads around him. Sofia joins the crowd. Someone jostles her from behind, pushing her forward. Her target is just ahead of her in line. This is her chance.

  Her heart is pounding, a wild staccato rhythm.

  She flicks the rubber tip off the syringe with a latex-gloved thumb. The needle is naked now, dangerous.

  She pretends to stumble into him, getting as close as she can. Quick and calm, she stabs him in the waist and depresses the plunger.

  He cries out, but nobody notices. She withdraws the syringe as he spins to search for the source of the pain. She looks straight ahead and drops the syringe into the bag on her shoulder. He cries out again and grabs his back like he’s been stung by a bee.

  “This is ridiculous,” Sofia hisses in her best angry grandma voice, and she turns and pushes her way out of line. She moves toward the front exit. She’s passing the clothing and candy when she hears shouts from the other side of the store. The kids working the doors are unimpressed; they glance lazily over their shoulders and then resume checking receipts. Sofia slips past the lines of shopping carts and out into the parking lot. She doesn’t want to hear the screams. She can’t let herself think about that part of it.

  The evening sky is a deep, rich indigo. A quick, cool breeze dances forward and whips the bangs of the wig around her face.

  I di
d it!

  She picks up her pace, crosses the lot toward the side street she’d parked on. She inhales the ocean-scented air. The houses on this street are quaint and well kept, their midcentury facades newly painted, low-water gardens planted in the front yards. An airplane roars faintly overhead, released into the atmosphere by the nearby LAX.

  It’s a beautiful evening. It’s a great moment to be alive.

  Charles will be dead within a week.

  Already, she’s mentally rearranging her apartment to make a spot for a toddler bed, organizing closet space, planning a new day care closer to work. She imagines Olive at the dinner table with her, Olive on hikes in Griffith Park, Olive at the beach and the movies and snuggling in front of cartoons on Saturday mornings.

  I did it!

  Twin tears course down her cheeks, and a sob escapes Sofia’s throat. It’s been a long, hard road, and it’s finally almost over.

  16

  JAZZ

  LEAVING LOS ANGELES feels like a balloon deflating in my chest. As the snarl of the city unfolds into the wide-stretched streets of Orange County, I roll down a window to combat the car sickness generated by two hours on the 5 surrounded by 18-wheelers.

  The directions have me get off the freeway in Fullerton, which is a city in north Orange County I’ve seen on maps but never visited. It turns out to be a bubble of idyllic suburbia, and I pass at least five frozen yogurt shops on my way through the winding streets lined with eucalyptus trees instead of the palm trees I’m used to.

  Why would they send me here? They said they were glad to have me because my assignment was impossible for most of their members to do, but now I can’t help but wonder what they were thinking. They didn’t give me a disguise or anything.

  I have to use paper directions I’d scrawled on a napkin; I can’t use Google Maps and have this trip on my Google history, and anyway, my iPhone is powered off lest it ping a nearby cell tower.

  I turn off a six-lane boulevard onto a smaller street lined with warehouses, an animal shelter, a liquor store and at last a dive bar. I think I’ve found the rough side of Fullerton, if that is even possible. I bump into a cracked asphalt parking lot lit red by a neon sign declaring the dive bar to be the Last Stop Roadhouse. Strains of “Hotel California” drift into my truck like a toxic gas. I turn the engine off.

  I sit here in my safe, cozy truck, eyes on the crooked neon sign, hands clamped on the steering wheel.

  I don’t know if I can do this.

  I wonder if the other people feel this way, the others who have done these murders. At work today, I read an article that said the killings are up to eight. That’s eight people who have been successful. If they can do it, I can do it. Tomorrow, there will be a ninth murder on the news, and then Carol will die and that will make ten, and then more murders will happen, and mine will be lost in the jumble. With Carol dead, I’ll be Joaquin’s next of kin. He’ll be mine, like he always should have been.

  I’ll need to find a bigger apartment.

  I laugh, a brief, choked sound. It feels so real when I think about it like that, and suddenly I’m full of confidence. How many times have I given Joaquin injections while he squirmed and thrashed? I’m sure the other eight people didn’t have this much experience with needles.

  I dig the flip phone out of my purse along with my little piece of paper. I type in the 800 number, wait for the beep and then press the six-digit code I was given, which they say identifies me. It’s kind of like a pager, I guess. I try to remember the last time I paged anyone.

  The flip phone rings a minute later, and I open it. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Jasmine,” the voice greets me. “Where are you?”

  “In Fullerton at this roadhouse place.” I survey the bank of motorcycles parked in front of the entrance. “This is a biker bar, I assume.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I was wondering why you were sending me, of all people, to Fullerton. This makes more sense.”

  A chuckle. “All right. Well. It’s time to give you information on your target. I’ve sent you a photograph. Please confirm when you’ve received it.”

  The phone buzzes at my ear. I open the picture message, which comes through old-school on SMS. It’s a worn-out white lady in her fifties or sixties. She has a dirty blond mullet and reminds me of Carol a little bit. “She looks like a tweaker,” I say.

  “Good guess! She actually deals methamphetamines out of this bar. She’s quite the mastermind and has proven a very difficult target to catch. She stays away from crowds except for this bar, which she frequents nightly.”

  I take another look at the photo. The woman’s eyes are cold and hard. This might be a mug shot, actually.

  The voice says, “We’re so glad we found you. We’ve struggled to find someone who could infiltrate a venue like this without sticking out like a sore thumb.”

  “I mean...thanks? I guess?”

  “I suppose that didn’t sound very complimentary. Sorry about that. Now, can you verify that you have what you need?”

  I check my purse. There’s the yellow syringe in its plastic container alongside the baggie containing the skin-toned latex gloves. Another little baggie contains the blackbird playing card, the four of spades. “I have everything,” I confirm.

  “And you know what to do with the card, when to put the gloves on, how to handle the syringe? Do you have any questions?”

  I run through all the things I was told to do, which is hard with my heart pounding its way outside of my chest. “I remember everything. To be honest, I’m just nervous as fuck.”

  “That’s very normal.”

  “Have you ever had anyone panic at the last minute? Like, chicken out?”

  “Everyone feels nervous, but if you hold fast to your motivation, you’ll find you’re stronger than you know. Plus, we’ve made it very, very easy.”

  I try to quiet the pounding of my heart. “Okay,” I say.

  “Jasmine, have you ever heard the song ‘Blackbird’ by The Beatles?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you remember the lyrics?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “I’m sure you’ve wondered why we do what we do. You can imagine that this organization doesn’t run itself. It’s expensive, and it requires a significant investment of time on my part.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess it must.”

  “I do this because I want to help people take power back. I want you to be that blackbird singing in the dead of night. I want to empower you to take your broken wings and learn to fly. That’s why I do this. To give you what no one could give me when I was in your position.”

  It’s so cheesy; it makes me cringe and squirm. I want to make a joke. But the voice is so earnest, so solemn and warped.

  “Now, let’s talk logistics,” the voice says, businesslike again. “I’d like you to go inside without your items to make sure the doormen won’t be searching your purse and to make sure she’s here tonight. She travels with an entourage. Getting to her will be no easy task. It may be a matter of ambushing her in the bathroom.”

  “Got it.” I pull my wallet out of my purse and stash the purse under the seat.

  “Why don’t you call to check in after you’ve done a little reconnaissance? When you come back to your truck for your purse. Good luck!”

  “Thanks.” I close the phone and put it in my pocket. I flip the sun visor down and look at myself in the mirror. I straighten my bangs so they hide my Band-Aid.

  I let myself out of the truck. The roadhouse is long and low, like a warehouse-sized mobile home. A group of men in black leather jackets and vests stands around a bank of motorcycles, and I feel their eyes on me as I walk past them to the entrance. I show my ID to a giant bouncer with a long, scraggly beard, and he nods me through the door.

  “Caught in a Dream” by Alic
e Cooper blasts from the ceiling speakers. It’s packed full and even more biker on the inside than the outside. It has a familiar stale-beer, old-carpet smell that reminds me of pool halls and pubs. The women wear low-necked tank tops and Levi’s; the men wear leather jackets. Some of them have patches sewn onto their jackets that tell me they’re more than hobby riders. The room is centered around two pool tables with a bar along the longer wall. No bar stools are open, so I tack myself onto a corner and wave my hand to get the bartender’s attention.

  She’s in her forties and has seen better days. Her hair is teased into a style similar to that of the target in the photo, and when she smiles a silver canine twinkles blue in the black light. I order a Budweiser and sip it while I let my eyes wander around the room. I wonder how I’ll be able to find this lady in here.

  I take my beer with me to search the pool table areas. Women scatter themselves around like decorations; she could be among them. They laugh and chat while their biker boyfriends get way too serious with the cues. I make accidental eye contact with one of the dudes who’s shooting, a bearded Hispanic man with long, stringy hair and a black leather jacket. Immediately, a heavyset woman in her forties detaches herself from her group and approaches me. “The fuck you looking at? What’re you tryna stare at my man for?”

  I keep my voice neutral. “I’m just looking for my boyfriend. I’m not trying to look at your man.”

  “Well, you ain’t gonna find your man here, bitch, so move on.”

  I walk away, resisting the urge to make a smart-ass comment. Why women get so possessive over these tired-ass gangsters will be forever beyond me.

  I follow a hallway that I assume leads to the restrooms, and I discover a whole outdoor patio. People surround a row of firepits like moths, their faces glowing orange with reflected firelight. I let my eyes travel from one firepit to the next, and then I see her.