by Tim Kizer
#
So far so good: he emptied his bladder without an incident. And Ron did exactly what he had planned to do--put on a fresh shirt. Watching his new friend out of the corner of his eye, David let out a small puddle of soap from the dispenser on his left palm and began to turn on the water.
“I know who you are, David,” Ron said, combing his hair and peeking at David’s reflection in the mirror.
Without any pause, David continued turning the faucet handle until he was satisfied with the stream of water and started washing his hands.
“What do you mean?” he asked, rubbing the lather on his palms.
“I called my friend and asked him to check the registration plate number.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Have you ever heard of the Net Detective software? For thirty bucks you can search DMV’s databases in all states. My friend checked your car’s registration number. It’s not your car. It belongs to Kevin Conway. And he doesn’t live in Oceanside.”
David cracked a gentle smile as he unhurriedly turned off the water.
“Well, seems like you only know who I am not,” he said, dawdling over the paper towel dispenser. “You don’t really know who I am.”
“I figure you not only stole that car, but also killed its owner.” Ron took a small plastic sack out of his bag.
“Why do you think so?”
David observed Ron open the sack and was surprised to see a fake moustache that Ron extracted out of it.
“Because I believe you want to kill me too, okay.”
David shook his head and asked:
“What makes you think I want to kill you?”
“You put something in my Pepsi while I was away. Some sleeping drug, right?” Ron spread a little glue over his upper lip and then carefully attached the moustache.
Now David was surprised. Ron was correct: David had actually put a sedative into Ron’s bottle of Pepsi. And as a matter of fact, he was deeply puzzled at the fact that Ron had not fallen asleep yet.
“But you’re not asleep, are you?” said David.
“No, I’m not. When I started feeling sleepy, I took Modafinil. I use it to stay awake for several days straight. It’s a legal drug, okay. They use it in the Army, too.”
“You’re not an angel yourself. I saw a sketch of your face on TV two hours ago.”
“Really?” Ron frowned. “Seems like our hopes didn’t come true. That’s sad. Fortunately, I was prepared for such a twist.” He pointed at his moustache. “Now we will go out of the restroom, sit at the table, and wait for my friend Zack. Are you okay with that?”
David cast an inquiring look at Ron and muttered:
“Wait?”
“Yes. And so that you won’t die of boredom I’ll tell you a riveting story about a guy who once upon a time sold auto parts in Southern California. You will like it. And we’ll also discuss how you can save yourself.” Ron zipped the bag. “Before I forgot, here’s an incentive for you to cooperate.” Ron whipped a .22 caliber revolver out of his pants pocket. “It’s small but it works fine. Please be reasonable and don’t try and pull any tricks.”
“All right.” David marched to the door.
They left the restroom and, after Ron phoned his friend, occupied a table in the corner furthest from the counter.
“So what do you think about it?” asked Ron when he was done telling his riveting story. He spoke in a low voice, even though the diner was empty and there was no one to eavesdrop on them.
“I think that guy got a raw deal,” answered David. “By the way, you said we would discuss my future.” He peered into Ron’s eyes.
“Yeah, we need to talk about it.” Ron nodded. “All that crap about a wife and a kid and a mother-in-law--was it true?”
David knitted his eyebrows and answered:
“Not really. I have a girlfriend. Her name’s Jane.”
“Where does she live?”
“In Glendale.”
“Do you live there too?” asked Ron.
“I live near Glendale, in Pasadena.”
“You understand that I’ll verify that information, don’t you?”
“I have no doubt you will.”
“Okay. Here’s the deal: you give us your girlfriend and I forget I ever met you.”
“Really?” David made sure he did not sound sarcastic. “Is there any guarantee?”
“No. All I can say to convince you is: we prefer doing it to women, okay. I’m sure you’re not prone to self-sacrifice. You will give her to us, right?”
After a short pause David answered: “Yes. I’ll do it.”
“Good. One more thing: why the hell did you steal that car? It’s too dangerous. What if the car was reported stolen?”
“They are not going to find that guy any time soon.”
“What about his relatives? They could report him missing by tomorrow morning. Why take an unnecessary risk?”
“I needed a car. That’s it.” David looked in Ron’s emotionless eyes. “I don’t ask you why you and your friend killed that pregnant woman, do I?”
“Fair enough. I’m just curious. I would never drive a stolen car for several hours.”
“I was going to dump it in Sacramento.”
They were speaking in amiable tones and behaved so courteously that a distant spectator could mistake them for very good friends.
“After you were done with me?” asked Ron.
“Let’s not talk about it, okay?”
Ron flashed a soft smile.
“I just wanted to explain why we shouldn’t use that Malibu anymore,” he said. “Do you have anything in there that can lead the police to you?”
“Don’t worry. I never leave traces. By the way, what about that sketch of your face they’re showing on TV? You’re not cautious enough after all.”
“That was just a ridiculous accident. A glitch. I guess she was just a very lucky girl. But her luck isn’t going to last for ever if you know what I mean.”
#
They heard the door open and both turned their heads to see who came in. It was the fourth customer in the thirty five minutes that had passed since Ron had called Zack. David was relieved to see the client was a deputy sheriff: a fit man, probably in his early forties, in aviator sunglasses with dark lenses. He took off his uniform hat, approached the counter, ordered a soda drink and a hamburger, and then parked himself at the nearby table. The rescuing idea exploded in David’s head as he peeked at the deputy chewing the burger. Certainly there was a hope these bastards would let him go after they had laid their hands on Jane, but he hated to gamble with his life. He realized he should hurry.
“Listen, Ron,” he almost whispered. “I’m too tired of all that. I’ve got nothing to lose anyhow. You will kill me sooner or later, I know it.”
“What are you talking about?” Ron whispered too.
“Now I’m going to get up and walk out of that door,” said David. “If you want to take a chance you may shoot me, but then you’ll have to shoot the deputy as well.”
“Don’t be stupid, David. We have an agreement.” Ron’s eyes glared with agitation.
“He is armed, and there is a probability that he’ll manage to draw his gun and kill you before you kill him. I guess you hate taking unnecessary risks. Good bye and good luck, Ron.”
David rose from the table and headed for the exit. As he moved he strained his ears to figure out if Ron went after him or released the safety on his gun--he believed his looking back would degrade his newly acquired authority. Fortunately, David did not catch any suspicious sounds from behind his back. As he touched the door handle he heard the deputy sheriff stand up and stride towards the exit. When David put his foot down on the porch, he finally made up his mind. He stepped to the left, waited for the deputy to come out of the doorway, and grabbed him by the elbow.
“Officer, there is a killer inside the diner,” he said in a low voice.
“What?” replied the deputy, kn
itting his eyebrows.
“He’s wearing blue jeans and a cream shirt. I saw his face on TV this morning. You’ve got to arrest him. Please be careful: he has a gun.”
The deputy’s right hand pounced on the holster.
“Wait here,” the deputy said, drawing his pistol. “I’ll go check on him.” He covered the gun with his hat and stepped inside the diner.
David peered through the door, wasted a few seconds locating the table where he had left Ron, then turned around and jogged towards the Malibu. He figured it would take the deputy at least a couple of minutes to apprehend Ron, so he had time to get in the car and leave. The Malibu had not been reported stolen yet, and if anyone inquired about the car he could always claim that he had borrowed it from Kevin Conway. So he would drive it to the next town, where he would get on a bus or train after thoroughly wiping all his fingerprints from the car’s interior. Yes, the deputy had asked him to wait, but he was not obliged to do so. David fished the car keys out of his pocket. Ron should have confiscated the keys from him.
Big mistake.
Could Ron overpower and/or outwit the deputy? He sure could, but David did not care. All he needed was a few minutes to get the heck out of here.
In the car, David had tried to insert the key into ignition several times before he discovered that there was something inside the key hole that did not let the key in. Then he realized that one detail was missing from the picture outside the diner: there was no sheriff’s office vehicle in the parking lot. Of course, that deputy could be driving his own car on the job today, David would not pay much attention to this fact under different circumstances. He just felt very uncomfortable with the idea that someone had intruded into the Malibu and tampered with the ignition, and suspicions began to rapidly build up in his brain. He lifted his face as he saw out of the corner of his eye somebody stood near the driver’s door. It was the deputy--or should he call him Zack?--who was swinging a pair of handcuffs in the air. David darted a glance to his right and saw a smiling Ron.
He breathed a heavy sigh. Well, he tried and he lost. Such was life.
#
Quite an amazing coincidence, wasn’t it? What were the odds that two serial killers will meet and have a ride in a car? Okay, with any probability, even a tiny one, it was only a matter of time. A while ago he read about a woman in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, who had won one million bucks on a scratch-off ticket two times in one year. There were only five one-million-dollar tickets in that lottery game, and the lady from Bethlehem won two of them. What are the odds of that? Astronomical. He had never won ten bucks on a scratch-off, let alone a million. God works in mysterious ways, folks. Mysterious indeed. The probability existed, and today the number came up. Nothing special.
Okay, enough talking: he and Zack had some work to do.
The End
After becoming friends with a mysterious entity named Jeremy, Zack, a skinny fifteen-year-old nerd suffering from polydactyly, acquires a taste for killing.
Sixtus
1.
“Are you going to just lie there and waste the precious time?” Jeremy asked. “Get up and get the fuck out of here, man.”
And Zack did get up and jump off the gurney and walk out of the room, which meant that this was not the end of his life’s voyage. That’s right, it was not his time to fade away and his best days were still ahead of him.
Right now, Zack was in the middle of his journey to greatness. He suspected he was the youngest serial killer in American history, but he didn’t really care if this record belonged to someone else.
When did he make the first step? How did it all happen? How in the world did a fifteen-year-old boy end up killing half a dozen people, which included his own parents? And mind you, they were his biological mother and father, not some stepparent bullshit.
It was a unique story. Unique and amazing.
2.
If you look into the root of things, Zack’s journey to glory probably began the day he was born as that was the time when he first got to know Jeremy. You see, the whole reason he murdered his parents was their desire to take Jeremy, his best friend forever, away from him. They wanted Jeremy to disappear from Zack’s life just because they didn’t like the way he looked, which Zack found outrageous. He had tried to get his folks to change their minds, but they wouldn’t listen, perhaps because a kid’s opinion didn’t matter. And the fact that he allegedly talked to himself didn’t help at all.
Zack cherished his best buddy since he didn’t have that many friends to begin with. Unpopular kids tend to suffer from lack of friends, you know, and Zack, unfortunately, was one of those kids. In addition, he was a peculiar kid: he had six fingers on his right hand, which didn’t help things at all.
The extra digit was located on Zack’s right hand between the pinkie and the ring finger and would probably prove useful to a person with a penchant for jewelry. The good news was the finger blended pretty smoothly with the rest of the gang and didn’t look repulsive unlike most cases of polydactyly—yes, they have a scientific term for this—in which additional fingers are misshapen and stick out from the sides of the hand at weird angles. Speaking of congenital disorders, a sixth toe would have definitely been more tolerable since no one would have seen it most of the time, but Mother Nature didn’t let you choose when she set out to play a joke on you. Interestingly, had he been born in some backwater village in India, he would have probably been considered sacred, just like that girl with four legs and four arms he had read about on the internet.
Zack’s parents were not big fans of the sixth finger and had started talking about corrective surgery the day they had first seen it. They must have realized that such a defect would surely turn their son into a social outcast, a target of mockery and, possibly, abuse. Or maybe they simply didn’t want to be known as parents of a six-fingered freak. Anyway, his folks were so motivated that they went through with the plan without dragging their feet.
3.
Zack remembered very well the day he had finally given up on Mom and Dad. He was chatting with Jeremy about the upcoming surgery when his mother dropped by his room to check on him.
“Are you talking to your imaginary friend, honey?” she asked after realizing she had again caught her son speaking to himself (it must have been the fifth or sixth time it had happened in the preceding two months).
“I’m talking to Jeremy. And he’s not imaginary, I’ve already told you that.”
“Oh, okay,” she replied, stretching the words out. There was a tinge of panic in her voice, as if she was afraid she would cause him to explode by saying something insensitive. Yeah, you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that his mother took him for a mentally unstable lunatic who heard voices: you see, for some reason, Zack was the only person Jeremy could—or would—communicate with, so he had no way of proving Jeremy’s existence to her (or anyone else for that matter). But Zack didn’t care what she or Dad thought of him as long as they left him alone.
A week later, he woke up at five in the morning, sweaty, tired, and extremely thirsty, and headed to the kitchen to grab a soda from the fridge. As he walked to the door, it suddenly occurred to him that he had somehow fallen asleep in his parents’ bedroom. Then he glanced at the bed and saw his mother: her stomach appeared to have been ripped open and there was no chance in hell the woman could have survived a wound like this. His father was lying on the floor between the bed and the window, with a slit throat—also dead.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Zack looked at his hands and froze: they were both covered in blood. For a moment, he considered the possibility that he had stained his hands while trying to staunch the bleeding from his parents’ wounds. Then he heard Jeremy’s voice, “Are you going to stand there like a pole and waste the precious time? You have to get rid of the evidence ASAP.”
“What evidence?” Zack asked.
“Evidence of you murdering your parents, silly. You need to clean it up unless you wa
nt to end up in jail or, God forbid, on the death row. They still have death penalty in Connecticut, you know.”
“What do I do?”
“Well, you could move the bodies out of the house and dump them on the other side of the town. However, it’s going to be really tough to get rid of all the blood in the room, and chances are the cops will figure out that something fishy is going on.”
“All right. Tell me what I should do.”
“First, you have to wipe your fingerprints off the knife.”
As Zack carried out his command, Jeremy went on, “Now go wash your hands with hair bleach.”
“I don’t think we have hair bleach in the house. My Mom doesn’t use it.”
“I already took care of that, buddy. The bleach is under your bed; you bought it two days ago, you just don’t remember that.”
“Oh, cool.”
Jeremy was right: Zack indeed found a can of hair bleach under his bed.
“What about the knife?” Zack asked Jeremy while washing his hands in the bathroom. “Shouldn’t I throw it out or hide?”
“That’s too risky and not particularly helpful, Zack. Just leave it in your parents’ bedroom. Police find murder weapons at the crime scenes all the time, there’s nothing unusual about it. Your fingerprints are not on the knife, so you should be okay. Besides, this knife is not from your kitchen, I hope you noticed that. It’s a brand new knife, you bought it three days ago.”
“Did you tell me to do that?”
“I just gave you the idea, buddy. And you obviously liked it.”
“Okay, cool.”
“Now let’s talk about the story you tell the cops. You were asleep all night. You saw nothing, you heard nothing. And try to blame it on burglars. It’s a perfectly plausible theory. Burglars, especially junkies, have been known to kill. Meth heads would rape their own mothers to get the money to buy drugs, Zack. Please don’t forget to mess the house up so it will look like it just got robbed.”
