—For my own good, right?
—You have the right idea. Would you like to join her?
…
—Then I suggest you toddle on. You know what they say about finding good help, Veronica…
And then a noise, a whining. Something tearing the air. Shaking. Screaming.
Cutting.
Changing…
Erasing…
Part Three
Doctor Robert and Veronica
Chapter Thirty
I don’t need to go back to Joe’s, but I know I will. I can’t let anything go. Nothing will make sense until it’s all right. I have a list of ten people who must die. It’s all I have. My daughter is dead. My husband is dead. My daughter had something to do with Dr. Robert. These facts do not seem to be in dispute.
My current situation comes to me in segments. It was dark outside, now it’s light. I’m sitting down, a breeze on my face because my van has no windshield. I’m on the driver’s side. The van’s moving. The steering wheel jerks a little and my right hand slaps instinctively for the brake. I find it, and I get the van over to the curb as easily as I can.
Breathe. Focus and breathe. Selective blackouts. Madness. Bullshit, all of it. What do I remember?
I have to move and keep moving. I don’t know if Joe set me in here and sent me rolling or if I’ve been coming in and out. But I remember his chest-thumping, knuckle-dragger macho bullshit. Dogs on my heels. I have to drive. I feel like the whole city is after me, swarming me, pushing me towards the Doctor but I don’t know if I want to go.
My eyes feel like they’ve been smeared with Vaseline. Everything is blurry, bleeding, distorted. I should hide the van before I get pulled over. I can’t pull over because I might have a tail. The mirrors are all busted off the van from the chase through the city, so I have no way to tell who’s back there.
I have to keep the speed slow. Have to find more Clearwater. Have to find the Doctor. Veronica. Hooded Jack. Number one.
My chest is shaking. The blurry vision is because I’m crying. This is how detached I am. I feel like I’m in the passenger seat watching myself. I want my husband. Or my daughter. Someone to hold me. Something normal. It doesn’t have to be right, just normal. But I’m too far gone, destroyed, hacked, slashed, wilted and withered like a dead flower—
Frances!
I just need to talk to Frances. No research bullshit, nothing of the sort. A hug. A big, fat, greasy, sweaty hug. Bury me in his folds; smother me in his body odor. Contact. I just need one fucking piece of contact.
I roll out at a crawl and chance a look out the window. I stick my head out, waiting for a rifle crack, waiting to feel my head explode. The street is empty. There’s plenty of light, and I can tell there aren’t any cars back there. I’m alone.
I’m going to the library. I don’t want to be a murderer anymore. I don’t want to know anything, no more discoveries. I want to be in a place where everything is order, linear, numbered, safe, quiet. Where I have a friend. Sort of a friend. Well, I’m shitty to him, but it’s all innocent.
I blink, a half a mile gone, and I don’t remember any of it. Is it raining now, or am I crying again? I rub my thumb against my scarred jaw every few seconds, just for proof. Just so I know where I am.
The library is up ahead, parking lot empty. Yellow lights on the outside struggling against the encroaching night gloom. I pull the van into my favorite corner, a handicapped spot near the door, covered on one side by shrubbery and around a corner from the main entrance. If anyone’s left in there, they probably won’t pay my van any mind on the way out. I feel a couple of drops of rain on my shoulder as I make my way through the doors.
There he is, behind the counter. Frances. My Frances. This would be the part of the movie where they cue the music. My heart is melting. He’s got his broad back to me as he files away a couple of papers. I do my usual, sauntering up to the counter and tapping twice lightly with the palm of my hand.
He starts, that little jolt of tension running through his body like he’s trying hard not to wet his pants. I know Frances has been excited to see me before, but never like this. I can’t help it; I stretch my arms towards him. I think I’m crying. I must look slobbering drunk. He won’t look at me. Something’s up. He looks guilty.
“We’re closing up,” he says.
He spins on his heel and walks to the far side of the counter, pulling up the partition and trying to make his way to the back room. His cheeks glow bright red. I can feel the heat of embarrassment coming off of him.
“Hey,” I say, knowing it’s one of my best words, and since it’s one of the few I’ve ever said to him.
The sound of my voice is enough to get him to stop. His hands scramble in his pocket like a terrier chasing a rat down a hole. Racing for his keys. Eyes looking anywhere but at me.
“I wann you gee ngai frreeen. Fansss.”
“I can’t help you anymore,” he answers. “You should go.”
“I ngeee yah heeerlk. Yurrall I gah ngow. I wann all skahk.” I don’t care if I sound like a drooling maniac. My last friend in the world is turning his back on me. Well, close to friend. Whatever. This hurts.
“Clees.”
“I know who you are,” Frances says, finally finding his key. “I know what you did.”
He wrenches it in the doorknob, turning hard, trying to open the door repeatedly before the lock even trips. The glass vibrates with each attempted thrust, and finally, he coordinates key and knob and makes it through. I’ve had enough time to get over to him. He hears me coming and tries to shut the door, but I get my leg in the way. The door slams on my metal knee joint. I grab it and say, “Ow!”
Which is enough to make Frances feel like shit. He opens the door, and he’s stuck. Should he help me? Should he close the door while he has the chance? His chivalry wins out. He takes a hesitant step into the room, and I grab a fistful of his shirt, dragging him down to the floor.
—Who am I then, Frances, you fat fuck? Huh? Who? I’m your friend. I’m your only fucking friend in the world and I hate your guts because you can’t make anything work. You’re supposed to keep everything in order, facts, straight, sensible. Logic! Logic! You don’t know the first fucking thing about me!
Which comes out unintelligible, coating his face in spit.
—I’ll tell you who I am. I’m a woman at the end of her rope. I’m a woman who wants revenge for something, but I don’t know what, who wants to make amends with her daughter, but I don’t know if I can, who wants to die to be with her husband, but live to punish his killers. I’m also a woman, Frances you moron, with no knees. Thus, no knee joints, thus no ow!
Frances starts screaming for help. But, like he said, it’s close to closing. There’s maybe a couple of homeless people in here, nobody who will hear or care. I locked the door behind me on the way in, just like Frances showed me for my late-night study sessions. Good ol’ Mrs. Robinson, the hard-working student. Least Frances could do to help her out, right?
“You kill people. You kill people!”
Frances is hysterical. So I slap him. It’s enough to jolt me back to my senses. I’m losing it. It feels so strange to think it, even stranger to know it in my bones, but there it is. I am going crazy. It’s not a notion. Not drug related, not anything. I pull back, trying to raise up so I can get onto my feet. I feel a stiffening lump in Frances’s pants. So I rock forward and slap him again before rolling off.
Watching Frances try to stand up is like watching a baby horse take its first steps. A very large horse, but nonetheless…
—What do you know about it, Frances?
Frances isn’t talking. He’s going into shock. His eyes scrunch up, his body is tense, as if he’s expecting me to take him down on the spot.
It’s late, he’s been working hard, he’s tired. Jesus, how the hell could I get all of that across to him? I speak slowly, and I’m pretty proud, because the words come out coherently:
“I’m nah gunn her
r you.”
At this, Frances squeals a little and pushes further back into the wall, as if he hopes to somehow fade through the plaster.
“Fannssess,” I try again. “Errfnng’s fokk ukk. Donno wuss wonng wiff ngee.”
“I saw you on the news. Coming out of the garage.”
“Whukarajj?”
“You’re on the ten o’clock news because you were at the garage the night Susan Schrader got killed.”
I slump to the floor. “I wuzz in ngaygerhoog, reesrk, rikeoo seg.”
“One of the people you shot, she started talking in the hospital today. About someone with no legs. The cops think it’s a man…but it was you, wasn’t it?”
Rubber bullets. Like Joe said, the kind of thing that comes back to bite you in the ass. And they had surveillance on the sidewalk outside the building. Nothing I could do about it.
Frances’s bottom lip is moving like a jackhammer, and I don’t know what to say to make it better. How do I explain that I’m a hero? How do I tell him that I’m doing the right thing?
“Are you going to kill me?” Frances asks.
I stare at him. “Ngo. Why wuh I?”
“I always thought you were so nice. I used to take care of you when you fell asleep in here, made sure nobody bothered you.”
“I ngee yurr hewllk.” I’m kneading the front of Frances’s shirt with one fist, tugging at him. He’s got to make this right because I don’t know what to do anymore.
“You should go,” he whispers.
I start to cry. I try to hug him, dig my fingers into his fleshy shoulders, pull him close, but he scrambles away.
“911,” he says.
“Ngo, don’ goo dat, Fanns. I ngee you gee my frenn. I ngee you—”
“I called already because they were offering a reward. They were saying five thousand to any informant with valid information. They weren’t…I mean, it’s not that I think you’re guilty, but, if you were, I mean…please leave. Please just go before they get here.”
My knees go weak. What a fantastic sensation. I stumble back into a chair, the weight of my false legs jerking me around as they splay out before me. I don’t have the strength to stand anymore.
“Figh cowsn?” I whisper.
“I don’t want any trouble. Maybe they won’t find you…”
“Figh ffffousn gollrs. You gig ngee uk frr figh…”
My arms fold around my middle, and I feel a lump in my stomach. Hardened steel. For a moment I think my heart has turned to stone, sinking fast. But it’s my gun. I stay doubled over as my fingers close around the grip.
Frances is pacing in small circles, watching the windows, looking for flashing lights and sirens, and I know he’s going to have a long wait because I know this town. Informant calls get investigated during the day while the vermin sleep. Nobody’s coming for him.
I should leave. I have to leave. Get back to my van, put something into my body. Valium, Clearwater, a bullet. Take the edge off, why won’t anything take the fucking edge…?
And Joe sent his men after me. They may have trailed me here, waiting to make a move. Once I’m gone they’ll take Frances, pounce on him, try to get him to talk. Help him spill his guts. They’ll kill him and it would be my fault.
My arm goes up faster than a hockey goalie making a save. Gun leveled, right at Frances’s big water buffalo skull. I have to leave. Nobody else is going to get hurt on my account.
“No…oh no, what are you doing, why why why?” Frances’s face is blackberry jello, deep purple, quivering.
How can I explain this to him? Something much worse than me is coming, and he wouldn’t know how to deal with it. He shouldn’t have told anyone I was here. He shouldn’t talk to anyone else.
He’s an innocent. He sold me out for five thousand dollars. I hate him. I love him for helping me. These decisions can be so hard.
Looking at Frances, his eyes are big, black watery blobs. His face is flushed and his lip quivers. He’s already given up.
I take aim at the side of his head.
I hear a voice, and I know it’s me, saying “Frances wouldn’t say anything. He wouldn’t rat us out to anyone.”
And I reply, “You know it’s not true.”
Maybe he’ll die of a heart attack before I have to make the decision. I want to tell Frances that this will be okay. That this way, nothing will hurt him. This way, he’ll be safe, and there won’t be anything to worry about. Nobody to run from. People should have more control over who hurts them. Pain that comes from someone you know doesn’t really hurt as much, right?
Jesus, I can’t justify this to myself.
“Leave,” I hear myself say. “Leave him alone and run. Get out.”
But I’m not listening. My head is pulsing. Frances hasn’t done a damn thing wrong. Probably not in his entire life. As much of a slob as he is, being fat is not a crime. His heavy breathing hasn’t changed my life for the worse. And yet. And yet…
I leap over to him, jamming the barrel of the gun into the side of his head hard enough to draw blood. My hands are on the gun, steadying it. Rock solid. He’s shaking, crawling on the floor, looking for his glasses.
Please don’t try to put this moment in focus, Frances. Just close your eyes and resolve to try harder next time. Hold your breath like I’m doing. Exhale and let go. Exhale as I squeeze and don’t pull.
My eyes close and then open. Sight. Acquire. I feel the massive weight of the gun buck in my hands.
I’m somewhere out in the fields. My mind is at the edge of the ocean, and I only hear the breakers and the gulls. I did the right thing. He was scared, sure, but nobody can hurt him now. No pain or fear now. He can rest. He can be whatever he dreamed he would be. I’ve given him all the protection I could. I did everything I could. The right thing. And on the edge of consciousness, I hear my voice, laughing, saying, “Good girl…good girl.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Frances is dead.
By my hand.
I did the right thing. Ask me again in five minutes, in three hours, in a month, a year, whatever. I’ll say it again: I did the right thing. We should all be so lucky to meet Death and see a friendly face under the hood. He either spent his last minutes asking himself why I would do such a thing, or being glad that it was me and not some other guys that did it.
It has taken a few minutes. I’ve been too scared to move, sitting here, expecting the police, or Hooded Jack, or someone to come bursting through the door and pepper me with bullets. But it doesn’t happen, and I’m here laying across Frances’s body, rocking back and forth, looking at the ceiling. Like relaxing on a big, dying, bleeding cow waiting to become a leather sofa.
Truly, I am numb.
I want to feel something. I want to, but my veins are clean. I need Clearwater, a touch of something, just to get me through, push me over the edge. Something to help me find a tear to shed for Frances. It’s only when rigor mortis sets in and Frances does that twitchy wheezing thing that I get up.
I don’t remember how I got to the parking lot. I yank open the side of my van and crawl onto the back seat. Maybe I’m screaming, maybe I’m not. The gunshot is still echoing in my skull.
It was only fifteen minutes ago. Frances was alive. Always there for me, always ready to grab a map or a picture, anything for me. Delicate flower. I hit the window with my hand, shout, roll, open and slam the door. Eventually, my hand starts to hurt. Enough that I can hear myself, hear that I’m crying, asking why Frances had to die. None of it makes sense anymore. People get mixed up in things, and they don’t even realize it, and there’s only one way out. Getting up, going to work every day, doing the right thing, that’s not the kind of thing you do and live to tell about anyway.
Rolling over the armrest between the two front seats, I see something on the floor. At first, it looks like an old straw, chewed up and folded. But it’s salvation. A hypodermic. Used, obviously, but there’s something left in there, and anything is better than nothing. I
pull the needle from the floor, tendrils of congealed soda syrup and God knows what else trailing behind, primordial. The needle is blackened, sterilized over a lighter once, maybe more. The plunger seems to be in working order. The tube’s not bent up too bad.
But where to deliver?
Such a small portion, it needs to go into the bloodstream quickly, needs to go right to the heart or right to the head. I clench the syringe in my teeth as I loosen my belt, tasting old ashtray and rotten caramel, asphalt and beer. And then I realize I don’t need my belt.
I simply need to change direction. Turn the needle inward. Lift up what’s left of my tongue and probe in the dark, hope I find that fat juicy vein. I scrape under my tongue lightly, a certain tenderness will tell me I’ve reached the right spot.
The first two tries don’t feel right. Flaring pain, burning, but it doesn’t feel like a vein. But the third time, as they say…and when the plunger goes down, I forget what they say. My mouth is all spark and fire, my teeth are aluminum grinding together, my gums drip acid.
I feel the tissue of my tongue swelling, but that plunger isn’t in all the way yet. It hurts because I haven’t tried hard enough. It’s painful because I haven’t earned my salvation. And then it feels like there’s a marble under my tongue, an insect’s egg, a scarab. I fold in on myself, my brain exploding into nothingness. Everything is blue sky, crisp woods. There’s a sound outside, dim and distant like the call of birds in the treetops. A fluttering, like wings. Or is it clapping? Or is it three street soldiers slapping on the back window of the van, pulling the door open, shouting to one another?
Shadows rise above me like mountains, moving, jostling, reaching for me. Weaving in between them, like a ribbon of light, like an aurora, I see a girl. The way her hair is pulled back. The shape of her ear, her jawline. My jawline. Well, the one I used to have. She turns around to me, and says, “I’m not here.”
“Straighten up, you bitch. He took my heart,” she adds. “And thanks for trying to ‘save’ me.”
Miss Massacre's Guide to Murder and Vengeance Page 21
