Mean Business on North Ganson Street

by S. Craig Zahler

  White fire boomed.

  The window shattered.

  Glass covered Alyssa’s face, and the killer’s head snapped back on his neck. Together, they fell from view.

  The mattress squeaked, and a body thudded against the floor as Bettinger charged the window.

  He arrived, stabbing his gun through the opening. Ten feet away and facedown upon the bed were his children, bound, gagged, and naked, looking at the killer who had fallen across their legs. The man’s hands were empty.

  Bettinger scanned the room for other bad guys, saw none, and pointed his semiautomatic at the killer. A white indentation sat between the devil’s horns rather than a hole.

  The mask was bulletproof.

  Aiming at the killer’s heart, the detective fired twice. Lead slammed into a ballistic vest, cracking ribs.

  The devil groaned.

  Bettinger trained his firearm on the killer’s exposed neck, but Karen’s spine was right next to the target.

  A gun materialized in the devil’s right hand and touched the girl’s head.

  Bettinger’s stomach dropped.

  The world shrank.

  Gordon slammed his face into the killer’s arm, and the semiautomatic flashed. The shot punctured the bed directly beside Karen’s ear.

  Twisting around, the devil pointed his gun at the teenager.

  Bettinger fired.

  Bullets cracked the killer’s sacrum, knocking him to the far side of the mattress, where he grabbed Gordon by the neck and pulled him over the edge. Bodies thudded.

  Unable to see his son or the devil, the detective lunged. Glass bit into his hands and face and tore up his parka as he passed through the window. The floor pounded his chest, emptying his lungs.

  Bettinger saw Alyssa—nude and mutilated, but still breathing—as he staggered to his feet.

  Gordon yelled into his gag on the far side of the bed.

  The detective ran.

  A gun flashed.

  Bettinger’s stomach lurched, and an instant later, he saw the awful tableau. The devil was bent over the naked teenager’s twitching body. Smoke was in the air.

  Instantly, the detective put his gun to the back of the killer’s head and squeezed the trigger.

  White fire boomed. The devil mask flew into the air, smacked against the wall, and ricocheted.

  Gurgling posthumously, the killer collapsed. Next to him lay Gordon Bettinger, whose thoughts were spread across the carpet in dark red clumps.

  Karen screamed.

  “Don’t look,” said the detective.

  The girl’s white eyes turned into black creases.

  Slotting fresh cartridges into his clip, Bettinger asked, “Is there anybody else here?”

  Karen mumbled the word “No” into her gag.

  The detective set a pillow atop his son’s blasted head, but the soft white rectangle was not quite big enough to conceal the mess.

  An avalanche of despair threatened to overwhelm Bettinger, and thus, he focused his thoughts on the well-being of his wife and daughter. He locked the bedroom door, checked the bathroom, put a trash basket over the killer’s ruined face, grabbed a pair of scissors, sat on the bed, and cut the plastic ties from his daughter’s mouth, wrists, and ankles. The girl spat out a ball of underwear as the detective covered her shivering shoulders with a blanket.

  They hugged.

  Bettinger looked toward Alyssa, who lay unconscious upon the bedroom floor. “Let me go help Mommy.”

  Karen did not let go.

  Sitting between his battered wife and his dead son, the fifty-year-old man from Arizona held his daughter. He felt as insignificant as a flea.

  “I need to help Mommy.”

  “Is Gordon gonna be okay?”

  “He’ll be okay.”

  “Really?” The girl was smart enough to know that her brother was dead, but old enough to deceive herself. “He’ll be okay?”

  Bettinger squeezed his daughter and rubbed her back rather than maintain the sad charade. “Let me go help Mommy so we can go.”

  The girl nodded her head against her father’s parka. “Okay.”

  The detective wrapped up his daughter as if she were an infant, walked into the bathroom, and retrieved some medical supplies. His hands were shaking, and when he closed the cabinet mirror, he avoided his own reflection.

  Bettinger approached Alyssa. The nude woman’s nose and lips were smashed, and shards of glass protruded from her face. Panties dangled from her mouth and left eye socket.

  Food raced up the detective’s throat.

  Leaning through the window, he launched his insides at Missouri. Putrid steam rose from the puddle, and soon, the fellow withdrew his head, taking a deep breath.

  Bettinger kneeled beside Alyssa, pulled the underwear from her mouth, and cut through her plastic cuffs. Gently, he removed pieces of glass from her caramel face and applied butterfly bandages to the wounds, none of which appeared to be especially deep. The detective then laid a throw blanket over the woman’s shivering body and felt her wrist. Her pulse was slow, but steady.

  Leaning close, Bettinger examined the underwear that depended from Alyssa’s left eye socket. Fury claimed his senses, and for a moment, he was paralyzed.

  “Is she okay?” asked Karen.

  The detective cleared his throat. “She’s gonna be fine.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Just stay over there and keep warm.” His words were steam.

  Bettinger pinched the loose end of the underwear and held his breath. Slowly and gently, he pulled.

  The fabric tautened, and Alyssa’s head titled forward. Clear fluid trickled down her cheek, but the fabric did not come loose.

  The injured woman groaned.

  Bettinger cradled Alyssa’s head and laid it back down upon the carpet. Trembling, he reclaimed his scissors.

  The detective cut the underwear so that only the portion inside his wife’s eye socket remained. Her ripped eyelid flickered, trying to close over the fabric, and he had to look away.

  Bettinger then dressed Alyssa in underwear, a sweat suit, a wool jacket, socks, and sneakers. Afterward, he took Karen up the hall into her room, where she put on so many layers of clothing that she looked like a miniature football player.

  The two of them returned to the corridor, and there, he opened the linen closet, grabbed the darkest blanket that he could find, and looked at his daughter.

  “You need to close your eyes.”

  Terror shone upon the girl’s face. “Don’t leave me alone.”

  “I won’t. I promise. But there are some things you aren’t allowed to see.” Bettinger lifted the hem of his parka. “Grab my belt.”

  Two little hands clutched the band.

  It was already clear to the detective that this terrible night had changed his daughter. “Close your eyes, and keep them closed until I say.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Worried eyes became horizontal creases, and Bettinger towed Karen into his bedroom. There, he removed the pillow from atop Gordon’s head, took a breath, and unfurled the dark brown blanket. The shroud drifted down and covered the corpse.

  Fighting the avalanche of despair, the detective kneeled on the carpet, exhaled steam, and wrapped up his son’s body. His daughter never let go of his belt.

  “We’re going to the car.”

  “Okay.”

  Bettinger carried Gordon into the garage. There, he rested the body in the trunk of Alyssa’s blue compact, which he then closed.

  The detective looked over his shoulder. “You can open your eyes.”

  Dark creases were replaced by white ovals. The girl looked around the garage, disoriented and shivering.

  “Let’s get Mommy,” suggested Bettinger.

  Karen nodded.

  Together, they returned to the bedroom.

  Snowflakes drifted through the broken window and landed on the floor, the bed, and the dandelion array of short curls that sprouted from Alyssa’s
head.

  Bettinger pocketed his wife’s neon green cell phone and scooped her off of the floor. A weak moan issued from her mouth, and he cradled her to his chest, hoping that she would not regain consciousness before she was in a place where a doctor could provide both assistance and medication.

  The detective carried his wife to the garage and laid her across the rear bench of the compact.

  “I’m in,” announced Karen, buckling her seat belt in the front.

  The detective closed both doors, walked around the small blue car, and climbed behind the steering wheel. Exhaling steam, he looked at his daughter and said, “It’s all gonna be okay.”

  Karen nodded her head, desperately wanting to believe her father. Her eyes were wide, and her skin was beaded with sweat.

  Bettinger thumbed the garage opener. Chains rattled, and the automatic door rose from the ground, revealing the outermost edge of night. Flakes that looked like ashes fell toward the pavement.

  The detective shifted into reverse and pressed the gas, taking the dead and abused members of his family away from the little salmon house.

  XLI

  Ammonia

  Headlights turned falling snowflakes into bright white fireflies. Speeding toward the Stonesburg freeway, Bettinger glanced at his hatchback and the charcoal gray pickup truck, both of which were still sitting in front of the empty house. Orchestral hold music sounded in his earplug, clashing with the pop station that he had put on the car stereo to distract his daughter from his conversation.

  The symphony stopped.

  “Mr. Bettinger?” asked a man who had an especially clear tenor voice.

  “Yes. Is this the ophthalmologist?”

  “Optometrist. My name’s Dr. Edwards.”

  “Is there an ophthalmologist?”

  “I’m sorry, but Dr. Singh’s away on vacation. I promise I’ll consult her if I have any questions, but I’ve dealt with such things before.”

  This was said without resentment, displaying a level of professionalism that gave Bettinger more confidence in the eye specialist. “That’s fair.”

  “What happened?”

  “She’s unconscious, so I don’t know the exact details, but some fabric—underwear—is stuck in her left eye. Deep. Jammed in like a cork.”

  Snowflakes accumulated upon the windshield.

  “You can’t see the eye itself?” asked Dr. Edwards.

  “No.”

  The wiper cleared the glass.

  “What happened before the underwear was put in?”

  “Let me ask.” The detective drove onto the freeway and lowered the volume of the stereo. “Karen?”

  The girl flinched. “What?”

  “Did you see the man in the mask do something to Mommy’s eye?”

  Karen nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “When he told us to get naked, Mommy screamed at him, and he took out one of those clicky things they use at the post office.”

  Bettinger’s stomach sank. “A box cutter?”

  Karen nodded. “He went like this—” The girl stabbed the air with her right fist.

  The detective felt a phantom pain inside of his eye. “Okay, sweetie,” he said, raising the volume of the stereo. “Listen to the music.”

  Karen returned her gaze to the windshield wipers, which were busy erasing snow.

  “She was stabbed in the eye with a box cutter,” Bettinger told Dr. Edwards.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “How far from the hospital are you?” asked the optometrist.

  The detective glanced at the upcoming exit sign and made a calculation. “Less than fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m heading to the emergency room now. Is th—”

  “What’re the chances that you can save it? Her eye?”

  “I need to see her first.”

  The detective decided not to press the doctor for a bad prognosis. “Okay.”

  “Is there anything else that requires immediate attention?”

  “She’s lost some blood,” said Bettinger, glancing in the rearview mirror at Alyssa, whose chest continually rose and fell. “Her pulse is steady, but weak.”

  “Do you know what ty—”

  “O positive.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Is she allergic to antibiotics?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Please drive carefully in that snow—a few minutes probably won’t make any difference.”

  “I’ll drive safely,” the detective said as he switched lanes.

  “I’ll have a gurney ready—I’m an African American, shaved head, goatee.”

  “You sound white.”

  “Then the lessons paid off.”

  “I’m in a blue compact.”

  “I’ll look for you.”

  “Thanks.” The detective killed the connection and again lowered the volume of the radio. “Sweetie?”

  Karen looked over.

  Bettinger stomped on his terrible imaginings and forced himself to ask his daughter one of the most loathsome questions in existence. “What did the man do to you?”

  The girl looked down at her little fingers.

  “Karen?” prompted the detective, unable to breathe.

  “He told me to take off my clothes and get on the bed or he’d make Mommy go blind.”

  “Did he do anything else to you?”

  “He tied me up and put undies in my mouth.”

  “Anything else?”

  The girl shook her head. “No.”

  Relieved, Bettinger leaned over and put a kiss upon his precious daughter’s forehead. “You’re being very brave.”

  Karen watched snow gather on the windshield.

  A new song that sounded exactly like the previous cut began, and the detective raised the volume. “Do you like this one?”

  The excitable little girl who loved or hated most things shrugged.

  * * *

  Twelve minutes later, the blue compact landed in front of a big tan building that was the Salvation Hospital of Stonesburg. Bettinger killed the engine, and twenty feet away, the doors of the emergency room slid apart, admitting a white male nurse and a man who fit the description of Dr. Edwards. Directly between the hastening fellows was a steel gurney.

  “Stay here,” the detective said to his daughter as he stepped outside. “I’ll be close.”

  “Okay.”

  Bettinger walked to the back of the vehicle, scooped up his wife, and set her on the gurney. The optometrist glanced at the girl in the passenger seat.

  “She was there?”

  “Yeah. And my son is—”

  Bettinger’s throat constricted. Tears filled his eyes as everything that he had suppressed for the last thirty minutes rushed to the surface. Silently, he pointed a trembling finger at the trunk.

  “Your son…?” asked Dr. Edwards.

  The detective nodded his head.

  “I’m sorry,” said the optometrist, whose sympathy seemed genuine.

  Bettinger knew that he could not break down in front of his daughter, and so he dammed the powerful flood of emotions. “Can … I … leave my car here?” he asked, wiping his eyes with a fist.

  “It’s fine.”

  The detective retrieved his girl, and together, they followed the rolling gurney past the sliding doors into a bright beige waiting room that had five vinyl couches, some magazines, and a high-definition television.

  “Stay here for now,” Dr. Edwards said without slowing his progress toward the emergency-care area. “The receptionist has your paperwork.”

  Bettinger nodded his head.

  “He’ll send for the diener when you’re ready.”

  “Fine.” The detective was not yet ready to deal with a morgue attendant.

  “We’ll get you when we know something,” the optometrist added as he and the nurse rolled Alyssa Bright through a double door.

  “Thank you.”

 
Bettinger took Karen’s right hand and walked her toward the couches, where a Mexican woman who looked like a tall midget mopped the linoleum.

  “Smells like pee,” the girl said to her father.

  “It’s ammonia. Keeps things sanitary.”

  Karen avoided a collection of wet tiles and covered her nose. “Smells like pee.”

  “Agreed.”

  The girl sat on the couch that faced the television, which was showing a replay of the local news broadcast from the previous night. Suddenly, the anchorwoman’s solemn face was replaced by an obese cartoon cat who had an impressive mustache and a very snug vest.

  “Thank you,” Bettinger said to the janitor, who was holding a remote control in her right hand.

  “The news isn’t for kids.”

  “It isn’t.”

  The tiny woman employed her mop as if it were an oar and rowed herself to port.

  Bettinger faced Karen. “Want me to take off your jacket?”

  Staring at the television screen, the girl shook her head.

  “Need to go to the bathroom? It’s right here.”

  Again, his daughter declined his offer.

  “Do you want something to drink?”

  Karen shrugged.

  “Apple?” suggested Bettinger. “Cranberry?”

  “Cranberry.”

  “I’m going right there—” The detective pointed at the vending machine that was located on the other side of the waiting area. “Okay?”

  The obese cat fell off of his tricycle in an extraordinarily complicated manner, but Karen did not in any way respond to his antics. It looked like her trauma was turning into psychological shock.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Bettinger kissed the top of his daughter’s head and proceeded toward the vending machine. On his way over, he withdrew his cell phone, highlighted the name of his partner (who had called him four times during the last hour), and thumbed the connect button.

  Dominic picked up on the first ring. “You okay?”

  “Somebody was waiting for me at my house. I killed him, but my son’s dead and my wife’s in bad shape.”

  “Motherfucker.” The big fellow broke something. “How’s the little one?”

  “In shock, but physically okay.”

  Bettinger arrived at the vending machine.

  “You at the hospital?”

  “Yeah. What’s the situation in Victory?”

  “Bodies turnin’ up all over—missin’ cops and some people who’re probably witnesses.”