by Ellis, T. W.
‘He hasn’t tried to kill me,’ I say back. ‘So he’s on my side a hell of a lot more than you and Messer.’
Wilks asks, ‘Where is Messer?’
Carlson says, ‘Shoot her.’
His voice is low, weak. He must have taken a hell of a beating. I’m not sure I hear him correctly.
‘What?’
‘Shoot her,’ Carlson says again.
I’m shocked. I glance at him in surprise, for confirmation. Reassurance. I don’t notice Wilks edging closer.
‘She’s a killer,’ Carlson says. ‘She’ll kill you the second you lower your guard.’
Wilks says nothing. We’ve gone past the point where she could argue otherwise. She fooled me before. She’s fooled me twice in fact. She knows she can’t again.
I don’t shoot her.
I can’t. I knew I wouldn’t be able to from the moment I picked up the gun. Upstairs and fighting for my life there was no time to think about what I was doing. Now I have too much time to think. I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t want to be a murderer. And I would be. Right now, it’s not self-defence. At this moment, I’m not fighting for my life. I kill Wilks, I’m as bad as her.
Rusty can deal with her. She can stand trial. I’ll happily testify against her.
‘Shoot her,’ Carlson says for a third time.
He’s getting up now, using the island for support. My few seconds of thought have given him time to get his breath back. He has several red marks on his face, plus cuts to one eyebrow and his lip. Blood leaks from his head too. There’s a wound on the top of his skull.
‘Call the police,’ I tell him.
‘Give me the gun,’ he says when he’s fully standing.
I want him to have the gun because I don’t want the responsibility of it, of deciding whether to use it or not. But I hesitate. Doubt creeps in. I don’t want to give up the only means I have of defending myself.
Besides, I know he’s going to use it to kill Wilks. I hand the gun to Carlson and I’m complicit in Wilks’ execution.
‘Please,’ Carlson says.
Wilks says, ‘You can’t trust him.’
‘That’s right,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t trust anyone right now, myself included. So the answer is no, I’m keeping the gun.’
‘Then shoot her,’ Carlson demands.
I shake my head. ‘No one’s getting shot.’
Wilks is relieved. ‘You made the right decision, Jem.’
‘Only because I’d rather see you rot behind bars, you piece of shit.’
The intensity in my voice surprises me as well as the two others. Wilks keeps her hands up, palms facing me.
I say, ‘Why won’t you call the police, Carlson?’
Wilks says, ‘Yeah, why won’t you call the police, Carlson?’
Carlson says, ‘If you’re not going to shoot her, Mrs Talhoffer, we need to get going.’
‘Answer the question,’ I insist. ‘Or I’m going nowhere.’
He doesn’t answer because we’ve taken too long to reach this point. I’ve only been in the kitchen a few minutes but it’s been long enough. I get a second’s warning because Wilks’ eyes widen and she makes a move, grabbing Carlson.
She makes a move because behind me in the hallway is Messer.
He must have shaken off his shock a lot sooner than I expected or perhaps he was imitating me and faking passivity in the first place. Either way, he’s made it down the stairs. His broken right hand hangs useless at his side. The scissors are still in his neck. In Messer’s left hand is his gun.
The gun is pointing my way.
4:39 p.m.
I shoot first.
I’m no gunslinger but Messer is wounded and unsteady on his feet and there is a colleague in close proximity he doesn’t want to hit. He has the same slow, shuffling gait as I have. Mine from blunt force trauma to the head, his because of the scissors sticking out of his neck.
I shoot first and nothing happens.
Just a click.
Safety, of course. Guns have safeties. Where is it? I run my fingers over the weapon, searching for a catch or a lever or something. I find one, I work it.
The magazine comes free.
Thankfully, it doesn’t fall to the floor because my other hand is right there and it drops into my palm and I push it back inside the grip without delay.
‘It’s a Glock,’ Carlson says through gritted teeth, fighting with Wilks.
He says this as if it explains the problem I’m having and also solves it at the same time. It does neither.
Wilks has Carlson around the throat, choking him, trying to drag him further into the kitchen, away from me so they’re both out of the line of fire.
Messer is shuffling closer, gun raised and pointed at me, trying to get a shot. Wilks and Carlson are still close, still in the vicinity, but for how much longer?
Carlson, his face beet red as Wilks chokes him, is trying to speak, trying to tell me what to do to make the gun work. He can’t get enough air through his constricted throat to make words.
‘What do I do?’ I yell at him.
Messer, closer and closer.
Carlson releases his hands from Wilks’ arm around his neck and makes a pistol shape with his fingers. With his other hand, he grips the top of that imaginary gun and slides that hand back towards his wrist. He does this several times in rapid succession and I get the message.
I grab the top of the pistol and slide it back. Something happens.
Something clicks.
A gunshot.
So incredibly loud, terrifying.
I gasp. Splinters of wood from the doorframe pepper me. I jolt behind the interior wall before the next bullet comes my way.
Metal pings as the round goes into the refrigerator.
I’m shielded from Messer but that doesn’t stop him shooting, maybe hoping for a bullet to go through the wall I’m hiding behind.
Several shots sound in rapid succession. I’m frozen, cowering, as glass breaks and plaster clouds in the air.
Wilks and Carlson are on the floor now, still fighting, still wrestling. Carlson is on his back and Wilks is on top of him. Carlson is losing, weakening. Wilks has him where she wants him, where she can choke him better, easier.
‘What about the safety?’ I shout to Carlson. ‘Where is it? What do I do?’
Carlson, his hands now back on Wilks’ forearm, shakes his head. His face is no longer red, but purple.
I don’t understand why I don’t have to work a safety but I have to trust Carlson knows what he’s talking about. What other choice do I have?
I summon every iota of courage, of desperation, and step out of cover.
I point the gun at Messer and pull the trigger.
The noise is incredible, frightening, shocking. The recoil jerks my hand upwards. I’m weak anyway and unprepared to resist such force.
Messer’s still coming. I missed him. I aimed too high.
I adjust my aim and pull the trigger again.
This bullet hits.
His right shoulder jerks and I see a hole in his shirt, blood.
The realisation I’ve shot a man hits me with almost physical power. I’m stunned by what I’ve done. A slight adjustment to where I pointed and he could be dead.
Messer shoots back but he has a pair of scissors in his neck, a broken right hand, and now a bullet in his left shoulder. He can’t keep the gun steady, let alone pointed my way. The bullet hits the floorboards at my feet instead of me. It still makes me jump.
Messer is coming closer and I miss again because he’s swaying as he stumbles forward, rebounding off each wall in the hallway, from one to the other.
I try to track him as he goes back and forth, missing once more.
He shoots at me mid-sway, the bullet striking the ceiling above me.
I feel debris in my hair.
I take a breath, this time not trying to track him but keeping my aim steady at the midpoint of the hallway, waiting for him to
sway into the line of fire, and I squeeze the trigger.
I don’t see where the bullet hits, but the reaction is instantaneous.
Messer drops to his knees and tips over backwards.
‘I got him,’ I call out to Carlson.
No response, and I spin round to see Carlson is blue-faced and almost unconscious. He’s lying on his back on top of Wilks, who has Carlson tight and immobile in a chokehold.
No doubt that position aids its effectiveness but it also means that Wilks has trapped herself beneath Carlson.
‘That’s enough,’ I say, stepping into Wilks’ view and pointing the Glock at her.
Wilks needs no further convincing. She releases the chokehold and Carlson takes an almighty lungful of air. The blue begins to fade from his skin. He coughs and splutters for a long time.
‘Get up,’ I tell Wilks.
She rises. She’s slow, tired from her fight with Carlson.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask Carlson, who is still on the floor.
He doesn’t speak – maybe he can’t – but he answers with a raised thumb.
Messer groans behind me. It’s a quiet, wheezing sound. There’s enough distance between me and Wilks to risk a glance over my shoulder. Messer is prostrate on the hallway floor, wriggling in small, slow movements.
I gesture with the gun to the house phone.
‘Take the receiver,’ I order Wilks.
She makes no move to do so.
‘Do it.’
She just stands there as if she hasn’t heard me or can’t understand me.
‘Call Rusty or I’ll put a bullet in you.’
‘No, you won’t.’
‘Messer’s hurt,’ I tell her. ‘He’s hurt bad and he needs medical attention.’
Wilks doesn’t react.
She’s called my bluff. We both know I’m not going to shoot her. I wish I were a stronger person. I wish I could just pull the trigger and kill her. But I can’t. I’m not a killer.
I’ll never be a killer.
Wilks says, ‘You need to let me go, Jem.’
‘And why exactly would I even consider doing that?’
‘Because I’m the only one who can get you out of this.’
‘How does that work?’
She says, ‘I’m the only one who knows who Leo really is.’
‘What does that mean? I know who Leo is.’
‘Do you?’ she asks me.
I don’t answer. I’m silent. I tell myself not to listen to her, that this is another deception, another trick. Yet … something tells me there’s some truth in what she says. Today has already proved I don’t know my husband as well as I thought. There’s a side to him he’s kept hidden from me and I had absolutely no idea. How long has he been keeping secrets from me? How many years?
Since I’ve known him?
I say, ‘Who is he? Who is Leo?’
Wilks’ mouth forms a small, tight smile. Pleased to have hooked me.
I’m staring at her so hard, so eager for the answer, that I don’t notice how close she’s come to me.
‘Leo is not who you think he is,’ Wilks tells me, inching closer.
I’m desperate to know more, to know who my husband is.
‘His name isn’t even Leo.’
I’m overwhelmed with surprise, with loss. My eyes moisten.
Wilks launches herself at me.
I can’t react in time. The gun goes off as she collides with me but the muzzle has already been pushed away. She’s so close, so strong, and grabs the housing of the Glock.
She tears it from my grip and smiles, triumphant, because it’s over. But, like me, she’s been ignoring Carlson, figuring him out of action. He’s not.
Carlson, having used the island for a second time to pull himself from the floor, charges into Wilks from behind, who drops the gun.
Carlson is still weak and his attempt to wrestle Wilks fails. Wilks deflects him away and turns for me because I’m going for the Glock.
She tries to grab me and overreaches, slips.
She loses balance.
I shove her. Hard.
She falls and hits her head on the island on her way down.
Wilks lies motionless on the floor tiles. Blood trickles from her scalp, bright on the white tiles, glistening on the black. She’s still and silent.
God, what have I done?
I realise I’m panting and shaking yet I’m fixed to the spot. Wilks looks almost peaceful. She looks as though she’s sleeping. I want to touch her and see if she’s still breathing but I can’t bring myself to risk shattering the illusion and face what I’ve done.
‘I … I think I might have killed her.’
‘Hopefully,’ Carlson says, his voice a rasping croak.
‘I didn’t mean to. I …’
Carlson retrieves the gun. ‘I know, but also you really need to just shoot people when you have the chance.’
I’m about to respond when I notice movement behind Carlson, in the hallway.
‘Watch out.’
Messer, gun back in hand, shoots from the floor.
I wrench Carlson out of the line of fire as bullets come our way, hitting the table, the wall, the window.
Wild shots, fired blind.
Then nothing.
Maybe Messer has run out of bullets?
I don’t find out because Carlson leans out to return fire. Two quick shots and Messer doesn’t shoot again. He doesn’t do anything again.
‘Is he—?’
‘Yes,’ Carlson says. ‘Let’s go.’
4:43 p.m.
I grab Carlson and he grabs hold of me. We’re both injured, both weak and exhausted. He needs my help and I need his. We head along the hallway, stepping over and around Messer, and I do everything possible not to look at the corpse on my flooring. I don’t know if this is guilt or squeamishness and I’m not going to hang around to analyse myself right now.
‘Here,’ Carlson says, pushing car keys into my hand. ‘You’ll have to drive. I can barely stay conscious.’
I have my own keys, my own car is on the drive, but Carlson’s sedan is blocking it. I see as we near that the doors are unlocked and I open up the back and help Carlson on to the seat. He flops down on it like it’s a bed and he’s had a heavy night. I slam the door shut and get behind the wheel.
‘Don’t go to the police,’ Carlson says from the back seat.
‘What? Why?’
‘We can’t trust law enforcement.’
‘Why not?’
‘Someone’s been working with Wilks and Messer.’ It takes him several breaths to get the words out. ‘Right now, I don’t know who that person is. There could be many people involved. We can’t trust anyone right now.’
I try not to think of what that means because I will slip into despair. Instead I take a breath and insert the key. The starter motor whines and the engine comes to life. I work the transmission into reverse, accelerate backwards off the driveway. I manage a fast three-point turn and I drive us away.
To where, I have no idea, because it’s kind of hard to know where to go when you have nowhere to go.
My head throbs. There’s a persistent ache that permeates my entire skull, interrupted every so often by waves of nauseating agony. Those waves are brief, but they rock my whole being and leave a high-pitched tinnitus whine in my ears that is its own kind of hell.
I want all the aspirin in the world.
I’m glad to be alive, I realise. It’s maybe the first time I’ve ever considered the inherent benefit of existing over not. It’s hard to admit it but I feel okay, almost good. Like I’ve won … I don’t know what. Something.
Life. I’ve won life.
I can’t rationalise that thought, that idea. I’ve been through hell today. I should be balling my eyes out right now. I should be shaking. Instead, am I happy?
At the intersection, instead of going right towards town, I go left. I never go left. Left is the country, the interstate, the rest of America. Le
ft is the unknown. Left is fear.
The road seems to stretch for ever. The forests either side are infinite. I feel small and insignificant and vulnerable. Carlson is silent in the back, massaging his throat.
I see flashes of the bathroom, stabbing Messer, shooting him, thinking I’m going to die. I feel both disembodied to that experience and trapped inside it.
I roar at the top of my lungs and thump the horn, letting the dual assault of sound overwhelm those thoughts, those flashbacks, and force them away through sheer violence of noise.
For a brief moment, I’m at peace. In that peace, I need answers.
‘What the hell is going on?’ I shout over my shoulder at Carlson.
He’s wide-eyed from the roaring, the banging of the horn. He thinks I’m nuts. I don’t care. I have every right to be a little nuts.
‘People have tried to kill me. I want to know why.’
My voice is a bullhorn in a library. I’m surprised by my own ferocity. Where did that come from?
Who is this person?
Carlson says, ‘Calm down.’
‘Don’t you dare tell me to calm down, buddy. Don’t you dare tell me to calm down when I’ve stabbed and shot a man.’ I’m glaring at him in the rear-view. ‘When I’ve been shot at.’
Carlson’s voice is a raspy whisper. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot, Mrs Talhoffer. I know you’re confused. I promise, I’m going to do my best to help you understand.’
‘Jem,’ I hiss. ‘My name is Jem.’
‘Okay,’ Carlson says, ‘Jem.’
I thump the horn again. I roar again.
It feels good to unleash some of the incredible tension inside me.
Carlson grimaces at the noise. ‘Please, try and remain … relaxed.’
‘I’m not very relaxed on my best days,’ I say back. ‘And this is pretty far from one of those. So start talking, Carlson. Start talking or I’ll stop this car and leave you at the side of the road before going to Rusty. I’m not kidding.’
‘I believe you.’ He sits up, struggling to do so, but he grabs hold of the passenger seat to assist. ‘I do.’
‘I hear words but I don’t hear answers.’
Carlson says, ‘I’ll tell you what I know, which I’m afraid won’t give you all the answers you want because I don’t know all the answers. This has accelerated so fast that I’m still working things out myself. Wilks and Messer were clearly one step ahead of me, which is why they knocked on your door before I was able to reach out to you first. As you already know, this is about Leo.’
