Jackpot

by David Bernstein

  But he’s my fucking millionaire psychopath.

  The other car Frank didn’t recognize. He wouldn’t put it past Booker to have some high dollar whore stop by for some expensive, top shelf pussy. But the car was old, beat up, not the kind of ride a high dollar hooker would be driving around in.

  Just because the kid is rich now, doesn’t mean he’s not still combing the internet for sloppy, stinky pussy. He’s not used to having money yet.

  Of course, Frank knew there was the possibility that whoever owned this car was also the owner of all that blood in the back of the van. And the very last thing Frank needed right now was for Booker to get busted, hauled off, all of his winnings seized by the fucking state.

  Frank had never been so close to his big payday, and he was damned if he would let some scumbag whore ruin it for him. He would help Booker get rid of her, that’s what he’d do. Then he’d sit the kid down, explain to him that he has to be more careful, that people will be watching him more closely now that he’s got money. And Frank would tell him that no matter what happens, Frank would have his back.

  “Fuck me,” Frank said, rubbing the back of his head and staring at the scene in front of him. He glanced at the house, and his jaw went slack when he saw the body. Or part of a body, bleeding and wide open right there on the front porch. The front door was hanging open, and from where Frank stood, he could still see blood smeared across it, more spilling out over the threshold. “Nobody ever said this shit was gonna be easy, did they, Frank?”

  The first thing he did was close the van’s back doors. Walked around it to make sure there were no more surprises. A few blood stains on the concrete, but nothing much. They could bleach that shit out later.

  He stuck his head into the Ford Tempo’s driver’s window, hoped the keys were still in it, but they weren’t. He could throw it in neutral and wheel the fucker out of sight, but he wasn’t sure if he could handle the thing on his own, so he figured he’d just secure the damn thing, then get Booker to help him with that when the time came.

  As he walked around the car, checking the body of it and the ground beneath it for any evidence, he thought he heard a soft thump coming from the trunk. Frank searched the ground for a weapon of some kind, but found nothing. He thrust his hand into his pocket, found the key to his rental, placed the metal between his fore and middle fingers to add some sting to his punch if he had to defend himself.

  “Someone in there? You don’t have to be scared… I’m here to help.”

  Just as Frank rounded the car, the trunk door swung open. A man covered in blood, his hands behind his back, fell out of the trunk and hit the pavement hard. He rolled around for a few seconds, baring his teeth, then his eyes burst open and locked with Frank’s.

  “Please,” the man said. “Please help me.”

  Inside of the trunk was another body. This one looked like a pack of wolves had gotten a hold of it.

  And is his face burnt? Jesus…

  Though the corpse was nothing more than a pile of beef, Frank recognized this man. He shuffled closer, leaned in, then pulled his head right back out when the smell hit him.

  Hamid. Why in the hell would Booker waste his money on a BMW if he was just going to kill the guy?

  “Jesus Christ.” Frank backed away from the trunk, the side of his hand pressed up against his nostrils. “Who in the fuck are you, mister?”

  “Harper. D-detective Eric Harper.” The man kicked his feet until he was able to prop himself up into a sitting position. “We have to get the fuck out of here. Now, right fucking now.”

  A cop, Booker? Really?

  “Let me ask you this, Detective. What do your people know about Booker?”

  Harper screwed up his face as he glared up at Frank. “Booker? What are you talking about, man? Some fucking bitch did this to me, her and her fucked up, Podunk family.”

  “Really…?”

  “What does it matter? We need to get gone fast before they come back out here.”

  “How many?”

  “What?”

  “How many Podunk, fucked up family members are we talking here? Did they go into the house?”

  Harper’s expression changed then, and he worked his back up against the Tempo so he could scoot himself to a standing position. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? Huh? Well let me tell you something, motherfucker. Even with my arms behind my back, I can kick your ass. You hear me? I’ll fucking fuck you up!”

  Frank couldn’t help but chuckle. He held up his hands and approached the hysterical detective. “Calm down. I’m not one of them. This house belongs to a friend of mine, so if these people brought you here, if they are inside right now, then my friend could be in trouble.”

  Harper seemed to relax some, but the panic exploded back onto his face in the next instant. “Either way, we have to go. Get me to a phone. I’ll have the whole fucking force down here quick, and they can help your friend.”

  “There’s no time for that.”

  “What are you…? Look, man. Those fuckers inside are batshit fucking nutbags, you got me? And I know for a fact that one of them’s got a shotgun. You got anything can outdo that?”

  Frank pulled his hand out of his pocket, his key sticking out from between his fingers.

  “That’s what I thought. Now we’re wasting time out here. We need—”

  Frank swung and hit Harper on the side of the face. The key jabbed him just under the ear at the jawline, and though it didn’t break skin, it caught the detective off guard. Harper stumbled backward, lost his footing, and hit the concrete ass first.

  “Sorry, Detective,” Frank said as he swung his foot and caught Harper just under the chin.

  Harper grunted, knocked the back of his head against the car’s bumper before falling to the blacktop.

  Frank stomped down on the back of Harper’s head before kneeling down beside him.

  Harper mumbled something incoherent, though Frank was pretty sure he made out the word motherfucker.

  Harper was a heavy bastard, but Frank was able to lift him far enough to get his head back into the trunk, the rest of his body still hanging out of it.

  “It’s nothing personal, Detective Eric Harper. But I earned this. And I’ve got to protect my investment.” Frank grabbed the trunk door with both hands, swung it down with everything he had.

  Harper’s body jumped and a splash of fresh blood sprayed into the trunk, some running down the bumper. He still made noise, though, sounded like he was chewing on lunch meat with an open mouth. So Frank slammed the trunk again, backed away from it, gasping, wiping the sweat from his face and brow.

  Harper didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Blood poured steadily from the trunk now. The trunk door slammed down far enough to catch and stay closed. Frank figured he damn near decapitated the man, probably nothing but crushed spine connecting Harper’s head with his neck.

  Frank took one more look toward the house, at the body leaking on the front porch. Not Booker’s body. Whoever these Podunk assholes were, it looked to Frank that they were losing the fight. And as much as Frank wanted to rush inside to help, he knew he had to clean up first.

  Shit, Frank, you sure made a mess of things.

  Frank popped the trunk, had to work at it some to get it open with Harper’s neck lodged into it. He tossed the rest of Harper inside with Hamid, slammed the trunk three times to get it to catch.

  He threw the car into neutral, and though he wasn’t sure where he would take it, he pressed his left shoulder up against the driver’s door while he steered. The street had a decline, thank God, and once he got some momentum going, Frank hopped in.

  Just got to get it away from Booker’s for now. We can take care of this later.

  As he coasted down the street, Frank realized for the first time that he hadn’t called his wife since arriving in Texas. Hadn’t checked in on the kids. He pulled his cell phone out, dialed the number, and pressed the phone to his ear.

  “Baby? Sorry I h
aven’t called… I’ve been a busy man. But honey? I got something to tell you. I think you better sit down.”

  Twelve

  Booker stared at himself in the mirror. As much fun as he was having, he couldn’t ignore the sadness building in his chest as he realized he would be leaving the house soon. He never realized how attached to it he had become over the years, and it wasn’t until now, until leaving had become a real possibility, that he wondered if he actually could.

  I grew up here. My mother died here. I became the man I am today right here. I fucking won the lottery inside these walls!

  But he knew he had to go. Had to leave his former life behind him. It was time for Booker to reach his full potential, and living in the past would only hold him back.

  A tear escaped his eye, crawled over the face pressed to his skin. Selena Gutierrez was far more beautiful in person than on TV, and after watching her call out the winning numbers for so many years, Booker had found himself obsessed with her, infatuated. When the day came that she finally called out his numbers, the digits sliding out from between her lips like globs of honey, he knew they were meant for each other. Destined to be together.

  Of course, once consciousness faded back in and she got a good look at Booker’s garage, she didn’t agree. She wouldn’t stop screaming and cussing and flailing. And she could scream louder than anyone Booker had ever seen in his life. Normally he didn’t mind the screams and begging and crying, but tonight he was a little on edge. Irritable.

  And he didn’t want to mess up that perfect, gorgeous face of hers.

  So he cut it off.

  He had hoped she would cooperate, hoped she would agree to host his own personal little lottery game tonight. But that’s okay, Booker thought. I only need her face.

  And as he looked in the mirror, at Selena’s face pressed up against his, he smiled. It would be perfect. He would host. And it was almost game time.

  He hadn’t expected so much company. If he would have known, he probably wouldn’t have snatched that jogger, who now hung in his garage all sealed up and pretty. Didn’t need her after all. Tonya seemed like a gift sent from God, a sort of ‘keep up the good work’ reward. And then he noticed the car following him, the nervous look in Tonya’s eyes as she watched her side mirror.

  So he pulled the jogger out of the back after giving Tonya enough voltage to power a football stadium. Left the van doors open, figured it would stall whoever was in that car long enough for Booker to get the girls inside, get himself prepared.

  He would get to use the alterations to his house after all.

  The upgrades he had made worked beautifully, and once this was all finished, he’d go upstairs and enjoy the aftermath. Though his new toys were effective, the possibilities would be absolutely endless once he had his mansion. His belly tickled at the thought of it, and he forced the thoughts out of his mind so he could stay focused.

  Booker stepped away from the mirror, looked up through the plastic cell, past the vibrating, feasting rats and into his living room above him. The old woman crept by, clutching a shotgun. Booker thought he recognized her, but couldn’t put his finger on it. Didn’t matter.

  There was just one more contestant left to gather, and they could begin.

  ***

  Winona couldn’t keep her hands from shaking as she crept through the house. She had already checked the bedrooms, the kitchen, even the restrooms, but no sign of the peckerwood or Tonya.

  She could feel the man’s eyes on her. From what happened to her boys, she was certain he knew she was there, was probably following her every move. Winona took each and every step carefully, making sure there were no booby traps that could spring up and bite her.

  “Booker, you pig fuckin’ bastard! Get on out here and talk to me!” She was back in the living room now, staring up at Arnie’s splayed body. “I got Hamid in the trunk outside. Or what’s left of him. Nobody else needs to die, Booker. I only came for what’s rightfully mine.”

  Yes, Booker had her money. And he would give it to her one way or another, that Winona was sure of. But he killed Benny. She didn’t give a shit about Arnie or Tonya, had been praying for the lord to take them for years now.

  But not my Benny. Never my beautiful Benny.

  And poor Rufus was rat food, damn near stripped to bone by the time Winona caught sight of him. She liked that dog. Booker would pay for this.

  You killed my family. You stole my money.

  Winona waited there for another ten minutes maybe before getting impatient and walking back into the house toward the bedrooms.

  There were only two bedrooms in the hallway, and another door at the end, which had been locked. Winona had just decided to press her shotgun barrel up to it and blow a hole in the fucking thing, but when she turned the corner into the hall, the door stood open.

  In that moment, staring at the wavering darkness beyond the door, Winona had an urge to run away, just get her ass home. Whoever this Booker fucker was, he was not messing around. He was strong, dangerous, smart.

  And what am I? Just a dying old woman with no family. With no money.

  She wondered if she could talk the boy into coming home with her. Now that her boys were gone, she would need somebody strong back at home. She wasn’t finished doing God’s work, and though Booker was a lost soul, he could sure be damn useful. Yeah, that’s it, she thought as she crept further and further down the hall. I don’t want to take your money, sweetie. I want you. I want us to be a family. I want us to send the sinners screaming down to hell…together.

  Using the barrel, she eased the door open further, carefully stepped inside. It was dark, but from around the corner, something flickered pale, chaotic light, just enough so that Winona could see where she was going.

  And then she turned the corner, nearly dropped the shotgun when she caught sight of what lay in this room. She rested the barrel on the ground so she could use one of her hands to cover her gaping mouth.

  A garage. The floor smooth concrete, the walls littered with chunks of foam and egg cartons, layered on thick so that every inch seemed to be covered.

  In the center of the room were three women, nude, hanging from chains cuffed to their wrists. Each one of them had their palms pressed together above their heads, as if praying, and their knees were bent so that the soles of their feet could be flat against each other too.

  “Tonya?”

  Her granddaughter hung between the two other women, and at the sound of her name, Tonya slowly lifted her head, locked eyes with Winona, and then wept. It sounded like she was trying to say something, but her lips weren’t moving and the sounds were just muffled nonsense. Tonya thrashed a bit in her chains, but looked to be in too much pain to fight too hard. She hung her head again, her shoulders bouncing as she sobbed.

  Winona gripped her shotgun with both hands again, spun in a circle to make sure Booker wasn’t hiding somewhere, ready to pounce on her. Even with the weak light splashing across the walls, there were dark areas in the garage, and Winona’s eyes weren’t what they used to be.

  The light was coming from a small television sitting on top of what Winona thought was a coffee table. It wasn’t until she was right up on it that she realized it was some kind of sex doll, down on all fours, the skin shiny and smooth like oiled leather. Damn realistic too, not those blow up kind. The news was on, and as Winona stepped away from the doll and TV, it switched over to the lottery. A woman, not the usual spic broad that called the numbers, smiled from the screen as the lottery machine swirled the ping pong balls.

  Once the woman started calling out the numbers, Winona turned away from the television and faced Tonya and the other women. Out of the three women hanging there, Tonya seemed to be in the best shape. Blood ran down from her mouth, her hands, and her feet, pooling beneath her. She was the only one still conscious, and it looked like it took every ounce of energy she had just to keep her head up. Now that Winona was up close, she could tell Tonya’s lips were sealed. Her grandd
aughter screamed behind them, the flesh white where it stretched as she tried to open her mouth. Fresh blood ran down her chin and tears squeezed out from her clamped eyes.

  “What is…?” Winona set her shotgun down just beside her, dug her fingers between Tonya’s lips, ignored the girl as she shrieked and bucked. “Quiet down, goddamnit, let me just…”

  Winona was able to jam her nails in with both hands, then pulled. The lips tore apart with a ripping sound, and a splash of blood spewed into Winona’s face as Tonya let out with a guttural scream. The lips themselves had been cut off, and it looked like Booker used Super Glue to fuse the open flesh back together.

  “M…Me-maw…help me. Get…get me down from here.” The words coming out of Tonya’s mouth were hard to understand behind all that blood running from it.

  Winona ignored her granddaughter’s pleading, reached out and grabbed hold of her ankles. The girl’s feet looked to have been done the same way as her lips: the soles sliced off, the wounds pressed and glued back together. Winona started to pry them apart, but then didn’t see a reason to.

  She had no plans of rescuing Tonya. And she would let Booker know too.

  You see? I’d rather have you than my own granddaughter, Booker. Me and you, we can really make a difference.

  The woman to Tonya’s left looked young, lean. Not a pinch of fat on her. Her face and stomach were purple with bruise, and she had a deep cut running along her hairline. Dried blood covered her face, and the cut was thick with dark, scabrous material. Her leg had a stab wound, a bad one, and from what Winona could tell, she had bled out from it. Winona poked her finger into the wound, dug around in the meat, and the girl didn’t respond. This one was a goner.