The Killing Kind

by Bryan Smith

  The barkeep didn’t look amused. “Something funny?”

  The laughter boomed out of him then, making his whole body quake as the stool rattled beneath him. He laid his head on the bar and kept laughing until at last the fit began to release him, winding down to a last few quiet giggles and snorts. Then he raised his head and saw the murderous glare the barkeep was leveling at him.

  “I think you’re done, son.”

  Chuck reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He peeled off a hundred in twenties, placed the bills on the bar, and pushed them across. “I’m sorry, man. Seriously. I can behave. I’ve just had a rough night. That there’s a bonus on top of whatever booze I might buy from you tonight. Yours to keep. What do you say?”

  The barkeep picked up the bills, leafed through them, and looked at Chuck again. His expression was a little less malevolent now. “One more.”

  “Just for spite, right?”

  A corner of the man’s mouth twitched, a near smile. “Yeah.”

  Chuck pulled out the wad again and peeled off two more twenties. “You drive a hard bargain, man, but I’m willing to pay top dollar for the privilege of drinking myself blind in this fine establishment.”

  He dropped the extra bills on the bar and the barkeep snatched them up. He filled the shot glass again and set the bottle in front of Chuck. “That one’s yours.”

  Chuck grinned. “Appreciate it. Could you get me a pitcher of Bud, too? And maybe a plate of those nachos? But don’t spit in my food, bro.”

  The barkeep shook his head. “You’re gonna feel like warmed-over shit in the morning, kid. And it won’t be ’cause of any spit in your nachos.”

  Yet another shot of tequila hit the back of his throat and sizzled. “That’s sort of the idea, man. Wanna hurt so hard I can’t think.”

  The barkeep chuckled. “Well…you’re on the right path, then. I may have to take your keys, though.”

  Chuck squinted at him through bleary eyes. “Not necessary, bro.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m at the joint across the street. I’m a fucking pedestrian.”

  The barkeep shrugged and served up the pitcher of draft Bud and a frosty pint glass. A plate of nachos showed up soon after. Chuck sat there and drank and ate the gloriously unhealthy food, which consisted of warm tortilla chips piled high with melted cheese and hot peppers. Time ticked by. He got woozier and woozier. He was aware of people coming into the bar and leaving again. He glanced at the clock on the wall now and again. It progressed from eleven p.m. to a shade beyond two a.m. in seemingly the blink of an eye.

  He thought about Zoe a lot during that time. Thought about their years together and the impending end of their relationship. More than once tears welled in his eyes, but he never let them spill. Couldn’t let these redneck fucks see him as weak. But keeping the mask in place wasn’t easy. His feelings for Zoe were deeper and more complicated than he’d ever suspected. He didn’t want to lose her. Not even in light of the impromptu tryst with Emily.

  And holy fucking Jesus, how fucked-up was that? The bitch was supposed to be Zoe’s best friend. He couldn’t figure her out at all. Until tonight she’d never shown anything but total contempt for him. Then all of a sudden, she’s practically raping him. Yeah, nothing that happened was against his will, but she was so aggressive, and so blatantly taking advantage of his vulnerable state. Thinking about it made him angry, but he had a hard time seeing how it could have turned out any other way. He’d been in need of comfort and there she was. And it’d been good. Very, very good. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking of the way she’d laughed as he cried in her arms.

  That was just…sick.

  Evil.

  The world went blurry. His head felt thick, almost like he was underwater. He was slumped over the bar, his face inches from the wood, close enough to make out the swirls in the grain. He shook his head and sat up straight. The clock on the wall behind the bar now read 3:17 A.M. More than a quarter hour after last call. Chuck swiveled on the stool and took a look around.

  Holy shit…

  He was the only person in the bar. The neon open sign in the main window had been turned off. Chairs were upside down on the tables. The overhead lights had been dimmed.

  He frowned. “Where did everybody—?”

  The words were cut off when someone behind him slapped something around his neck and cinched it tight. It felt like a strap of leather. A belt, maybe. Chuck gagged and clawed at the belt with fingers rendered sloppy by drink. His assailant yanked him off the stool, drawing the loop around his throat even tighter. His face flushed and his temples throbbed. His eyes felt like they would pop out of their sockets as he was dragged backward. He dropped to his knees in an effort to halt the journey to wherever his attacker was taking him, but the guy was just too strong and kept pulling him backward. Chuck craned his head back and saw the leering face of the barkeep. The scar beneath his eye looked bright red in the dim light.

  Pure terror and adrenaline cut through the booze haze.

  Oh, shit! I’m about to die.

  Part of him knew it was his fault for being so careless. Shouldn’t have flashed all that green around.

  Also shouldn’t have been such a dick.

  These things he knew to be true. He also was pretty damn sure he’d never have a chance to benefit from these valuable life lessons.

  I’m about to die! OH FUCK!

  The barkeep dragged him through a door into a back room. The lighting here was brighter. He saw stacks of beer and liquor cases. He saw kegs and other bar supplies. There were two other people in the room. One was a sleazy-looking bottle blonde in a miniskirt and a black halter. And there was another burly guy cut from the same redneck cloth as Pedro or whatever his fucking name was.

  He was dragged into the center of the room. The barkeep removed the belt from Chuck’s neck and tossed it aside. He had only a second to suck air into his lungs before Joe Bob slammed a powerful fist into his gut, sending him to the floor in an awkward heap. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the trio of ugly faces leering down at him.

  He found his breath and uttered a helpless whimper. “Please…I’ve got money. Lots of money. You…you can…have it…all of it.”

  Joe Bob grinned. “That’s mighty generous of you, Hoss. And we’ll be taking your money. But you ain’t getting off that easy.”

  The other man grinned, too. “Hear you need a lesson in manners, boy.”

  The woman placed the sole of a high-heeled shoe on his throat and pressed down hard. There was hate in her eyes. He sort of knew why Joe Bob was pissed at him, but what had he done to these other people?

  He tried to think back over the night.

  The long hours of drinking at the bar. Drinking and occasionally making snide comments to anyone who tried to strike up conversation. A blur of venom and negativity.

  Fuck.

  The woman sneered. “Gonna fuck you up, pretty boy.”

  The men laughed.

  “Got that right,” said Joe Bob. “And you ain’t gonna tell a soul how it happened, unless you want some of my biker buddies to kill your whole fuckin’ family. You want that, motherfucker?”

  Chuck gulped. He didn’t doubt the threat. “No.”

  After that, Chuck didn’t care.

  They weren’t going to kill him, and that was all he needed to know.

  They were true to their word, though.

  They fucked him up.

  But they were wrong about the other thing. A time would come when he would tell the truth about this night.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  March 22

  “What’s your fucking problem?”

  Roxie had stripped down to T-shirt and black thong panties. Rob could see a tattoo of some sort on an inner thigh. There was another tattoo on her right foot. Words in Latin. He didn’t ask for a translation. He’d seen her bend over a time or two and knew there was yet another tattoo on her lower back. The T-shirt hid other illustrations he’
d glimpsed in that gas-station bathroom. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor now, with the overstuffed tote bag in her lap, staring up at him with an expression betraying irritation and impatience.

  Rob sat on the edge of the bed. He hadn’t moved from the position in well over an hour, ever since…

  Oh, God…

  A blood-stained vision filled his head and he felt sick all over again. At least she’d hauled the body into the bathroom. He hoped he wouldn’t have to see it again. Looking at what she’d done to the poor fuck made him want to tear his eyes out.

  “Goddammit.” Roxie set the tote bag aside and came out of the cross-legged position to lean toward him on her knees. “I asked you a question. Answer me right now or…”

  Rob frowned. He waited a beat. Then he said, “Or…what?”

  Her expression went blank. “Or I’ll cut your face off, too.”

  Rob nodded. “Yeah. That’s it, I think. My fucking problem, as you put it, has a lot to do with you cutting that kid’s face off. What kind of sick bitch are you?”

  Roxie continued to stare at him blankly for several moments, that dead expression unsettling him nearly as much as any of the atrocities he’d witnessed today. Then her eyes opened a bit wider, a reflected glint of light from the overhead bulb hinting at a twisted playfulness. “You know what’s really interesting, Robin?”

  “I really don’t want to know.”

  She laughed. “What’s really interesting is the way you sat right where you are now the whole time I was in the bathroom. That was, what…at least fifteen minutes? Yeah. At least fifteen, between dragging that dead boy in there and showering off. And you just sat here. Didn’t budge an inch, far as I can tell. You’re not cuffed or tied up. You could have slipped out and gotten away, no problem. Now why is that, Robin? Why did you stay?”

  Oh, shit. She’s right…

  Rob groaned. “I was…I don’t know…numb. Out of it. In shock. Scared to death. I didn’t know what was happening. I just…I…”

  Roxie leaned closer to him and crossed her forearms over his knees. The playful, twisted gleam in her eyes sparkled brighter as she stared up at him. “Bullshit. You stayed because you wanted to. Because this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to you in your whole life. Because I’m the most exciting thing that’s happened to you.” The small smile that curved the corners of her mouth stirred a maddening desire to kiss her. “Admit it, you’re enjoying the ride. You don’t want it to end.”

  Rob shook his head. “Bullshit. You’re crazy. This…” He looked helplessly around the room, eyes darting about, taking in the large, sticky stain behind Roxie, the bloody scalpel propped atop the glass ashtray on the table, and the hideous thing stretched tight over the cover of the Gideon Bible on the dresser. The face mask. He looked Roxie in the eye again. That playful quality hadn’t diminished an iota, had only amped up as she watched him mentally cataloging the horrors. “This is insanity. Pure insanity. I don’t want to be here. I don’t think I was…conscious of being left alone or I wouldn’t be here now. You’re evil. Pure fucking evil.”

  A shuddery sigh escaped trembling lips.

  His eyes began to water.

  Roxie tossed her head back and laughed with gusto. “Oh, Robin…and you wonder why I call you that? You’re such a scared little girl.” More laughter. “But no, that’s not right. A girl would be smarter. A girl would’ve run. I think a better word for you would be…let’s see…” She rolled her eyes around a bit, pursed her lips, and tapped her chin with a forefinger. “Got it!” She snapped her fingers. “The word for you is…pansy.“

  She giggled. “Robin the sissy-wissy pansy.”

  The words stung. Mostly because her accusation seemed to be sort of true. Never in his life had he felt so physically cowed by another human being. No schoolyard bully could ever have done this to him, nor any badass biker or street thug. The helplessness he felt in the presence of this girl made him feel like a piece of shit. Weak. Useless. Pathetic.

  In other words…not like a real man.

  He realized he was shaking again and this only intensified the self-loathing.

  Robin, he thought. She’s right. It fits.

  Roxie uncrossed her arms and ran a hand up his thigh. “You need to calm down. I think I know a way I can help you relax.”

  Rob pushed her hand away from his crotch. “No.”

  Her smile slipped some. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Roxie’s expression turned smoldering, just shy of murderous. “Bitch, you don’t get to say no to anything I want.” Her hand slid up his thigh again and roughly cupped his crotch. “You really think this is gonna stay limp when I start working on it?”

  The answer to that was already obvious. Rob tried to twist away from Roxie, but she pressed a hand against his chest and shoved him backward. She climbed onto the bed and straddled him, writhed against him, rubbing her pubis against the hard bulge straining the fabric of his jeans with raw, unbridled enthusiasm. She braced her hands on the mattress and leaned close to him, sneering as she continued to grind her pelvis. “What about it, Rob? You want me to stop that?”

  Rob’s helpless whimper was the only answer necessary. She kept at it for a while, driving him mad with the need for physical release. A cascade of emotions swirled through his head. Hate, lust, shame, and anger. Then she climbed off him and left Rob panting there as she picked up her tote bag and took a seat at the little table by the window. He stared up at the ceiling through a mist of fresh tears. Some time passed and a little of the unfulfilled need began to dissipate, a greater swelling of fresh shame rushing in to take its place.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? How did that happen?

  It hardly mattered how it had happened, really. She had proven a point and there was no way to refute it. He wanted her. Even now, after bearing witness to the awful things she’d done, the most primitive part of him looked at Roxie and responded first with consuming lust. But the feelings her near-perfect body stirred didn’t negate the horror of her heinous acts. That lust was totally apart from everything else he felt about her. And one way or another, he swore, he would not allow himself to become a prisoner to those baser feelings.

  I’m still me, he thought. I‘m not the monster.

  A fucking pansy, maybe, but nope, not a monster.

  The thought triggered a helpless laugh.

  “What’s funny?”

  Rob stifled another laugh. “Nothing.”

  “I don’t like not being in on the joke. Maybe I should come over there and be mean to you. And I mean really mean, Robin. Not like a few minutes ago.”

  Rob knew she meant it. So he told her.

  “That’s not funny.”

  Rob sat up and shrugged. “I’m sorry. It just made me laugh.”

  Roxie grunted and her attention went back to a magazine spread open on the table. She had one leg crossed over the other, foot jiggling as she slowly turned the pages. Her toenails were painted black, like her fingernails. The polish was beginning to fleck away. The sole of her foot looked soft and free of calluses. She had the kind of slender ankles that always looked good in high heels.

  Roxie chuckled.

  Rob flinched and lifted his eyes. “Huh? What?”

  Another chuckle. “Foot fetish, Rob?”

  He felt heat in his cheeks. “I guess I was staring.”

  “Yeah. I don’t mind. I do have nice feet.” She laughed. “The rest of me ain’t bad, either.”

  Rob swallowed a lump. “Yeah…”

  Roxie turned another page, appeared to read a few paragraphs, and then directed a cool, level gaze at him. “So…this sex thing. It’s gonna happen.”

  Rob lowered his eyes. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Look at me.”

  He looked at her. Waited.

  She turned yet another page of the magazine, but this time didn’t even glance at it. “Ain’t no guessing involved. Rob.” She smiled. “Question is, we go for it
right now or draw out the anticipation a little longer?”

  “I don’t know, Roxie. It’s whatever you say, obviously.”

  “No shit.”

  “But before it happens…I have a question or two for you…if that’s okay.”

  Roxie shrugged. She flipped the magazine shut, the bright and garish cover drawing Rob’s attention for a moment. It was an old issue of Rue Morgue, the one with Lux Interior on the cover. She laced her fingers over her knees and leaned back in her chair. “Ask away.”

  “You’ve killed six people today.”

  She smiled. “Impressive. Little Robbie can count.”

  “Is this…a normal day for you? Because I don’t see how you could still be walking around…”

  She shook her head. “No, Rob. Duh.” She put special emphasis on the last word and rolled her eyes. “I’d be, like, the most prolific serial killer fucking ever if I were doing that.”

  “So…what’s the deal?”

  She shrugged again. “I don’t kill people all the time. Hell, I go months without doing it sometimes. Then something happens, some kind of trigger, like this morning, and I go off on a fucking spree. It’s just something I have to get out of my system and then I’m back to normal for a while. Well…normal for me.”

  “How many times have you done this? How many people have you killed?”

  She made her head swivel around on her slender neck, pulled her features into an expression of exasperation. “Christ, Rob, I don’t know.” She unlaced her fingers, moved the digits up and down and silently mouthed numbers as she pretended to count. “Let’s see…first time I killed a dude I was sixteen. That was my dad.”

  “Jesus.”

  Roxie ignored the comment and went on. “I’m twenty now. I’ve had a bit more than a half dozen of these…explosions. And in between I’ve offed a few random fucks when it was convenient for me. Needed money, a car, or something. Shit, I don’t know. I’d say I’m up to at least thirty, maybe forty.”

  “Holy fucking shit.”

  Rob felt dizzy. He gripped the edge of the mattress to keep from pitching over. The enormity of the number rocked him, forcefully reminded him this wasn’t just some cute girl he was having a flirty conversation with in a bar. Based on all he’d seen today, he had no reason to doubt her or suspect exaggeration. If anything, the number she’d come up with was probably a conservative estimate.