by Jeff Strand
"I'll watch," said Malcolm. "There's an ice pack in the freezer."
I wanted to protest, but no, the ice pack was a good idea. I opened the freezer, searched for a moment, and didn't see one, so I just picked up a TV dinner and pressed it to my face.
"Does he have a gun?"
"No. When he ran off he didn't have anything. That doesn't mean he didn't stop somewhere."
"All right."
"Seriously, Malcolm, you can't worry about what happened to Brandon right now."
"It's easy for you to say that. You're not the one who killed him. Who will take care of Rachel if I go to jail?"
"I will. And you're not going to jail."
"The hell you will. We've got some ugly unfinished business. But we'll postpone."
"Yeah, it might be a good idea to save that shit for after your daughter's life is no longer in danger."
Malcolm ignored my sarcasm. "We can't have your car in the driveway. Two houses away, on the left, it's a red house—they aren't home. Park in their driveway."
"Are you kidding me?"
"Do you think I'm kidding? Get your car out of here and then get your ass back. I'll be watching you."
I didn't want to waste time arguing, and I definitely didn't want Malcolm to decide that he'd be better off just shooting me, so I hurried out of the house and back to my car.
I drove to the correct house. I hated to leave Ignatz behind, but he'd be in more danger if he was running around, and I was pretty sure that my little Schnauzer would not be the one to defeat Allen.
I parked my car in the empty driveway, then hurried back. I didn't even think about just driving away and getting the authorities myself, which surprised me, because it seemed like the kind of thing I'd at least want to consider as a viable option. I still wanted to handle this quietly, without Malcolm's colossal blunder being dragged into the spotlight.
Malcolm seemed a little bit shocked to see me return. Maybe this would earn me a point or two. We went back inside and into the kitchen. I traded out the TV dinner for a bag of frozen broccoli.
A car approached.
Malcolm left the kitchen and peered through the front window. "It's Baker," he said.
"Good."
"No, not good." Malcolm gestured at me with the barrel of the shotgun. "Hide in the bedroom."
"Why the hell would I hide?"
"Because I don't want him to know you're here, dipshit!"
"I get that, but why—?"
"In the bedroom. You make a single noise and we'll have problems."
I was ninety percent sure that Malcolm would not actually blow my chest open with a shotgun if I didn't hide silently in his bedroom, but it was that last ten percent that concerned me. "If you put her in danger, I'll never forgive you," I told him.
"I'm keeping her out of danger. Work with me here, and I'll work with you. Understand?"
Did he mean that he'd give Rachel and I his blessing if I didn't let the sheriff know that there was a homicidal maniac on the way? This was truly not a normal course of events. I decided to play along, went into Malcolm's bedroom, and closed the door most of the way.
I wasn't going to hide in the closet or under the bed or anything. If Sheriff Baker decided to take a look around, he'd find me, and I'd tell him everything.
"Good afternoon," I heard Malcolm say. "What's going on?"
"Well, I got kind of a disturbing call. Apparently a man who matches the description of Jason Tray told a young girl that it was vitally important that I show up here."
"What an asshole," said Malcolm.
"What makes you say that?"
"He's trying to go out with my daughter. I mean romantically."
"Ah."
"We had what you might call a spat, and I sent him away. I'm sure he's trying to get revenge."
"Did you threaten him?"
"I guess I might have."
Even though they were on the front porch, I could hear Sheriff Baker sigh. "Jesus, Malcolm, you can't do things like that. He seems like a perfectly decent gentleman. A bit old for Rachel, maybe, but there are...you know, extenuating circumstances. She's twenty-three years old. You can't control her boyfriends. You have to face the reality that she's not a little girl anymore, and you have to let her live an actual life. As far as I'm concerned, you owe Mr. Tray an apology, although I suppose that calling me was kind of a low move on his part."
"To be fair to him, Rachel and I had something of a screaming match ourselves. He was just worried, I suppose. When he comes back, yeah, I'll...I don't know, I'll talk to him. I'll let him see her, maybe. It's tough for me, you know?"
Wow. Malcolm was a skilled liar. I was kind of impressed.
"I know," said Baker. "It's hard enough when there isn't a history of crazed ex-boyfriends. Do you need me to hang around, make sure you hold your temper?"
"I'll be okay."
"I'd like to have a few words with Rachel before I head off, if you don't mind."
Malcolm chuckled. "Good luck with that."
A minute later, I pushed open the bedroom door and stepped out into the living room. Malcolm was in the kitchen, watching through the window. The music stopped, and I could see Rachel's door open and Baker walk inside her shed.
Malcolm looked back at me. "It went fine."
"I still don't understand why we don't want the sheriff here. I love the idea of having him here. I'd invite eight more like him if I could. He already knows what you did to Brandon, so why the secrecy?"
"As far as he knows, Brandon completely deserved what he got. It's all different now."
"But he was complicit in covering it up. He doesn't want this story to get out any more than you do."
"I disagree. I'm willing to kill again. I don't think he is."
"Aw, shit."
"Stop talking." Malcolm returned his attention to the window. Sheriff Baker stepped out and Malcolm waved for me to duck out of sight. He walked out onto the front porch.
"She's pretty mad at you," Sheriff Baker called out, sounding amused. Rachel's music was on again. "You've got some groveling to do, though I'd give it a couple of hours."
"Yeah, all right."
"If Mr. Tray's behavior turns into harassment, don't hesitate to give me a call. Otherwise, I think you need to sit back and let nature take its course. I looked him up. He's doing pretty well for himself. There are far worse men who could be in Rachel's life."
"I screwed up, I get it. I'll let you know if I win back my 'World's Greatest Father' mug."
I heard Sheriff Baker drive away.
"Now what?" I asked.
"Now we wait for that son of a bitch to show up."
A couple of minutes later, he did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Allen stepped out of the woods next to the shed.
Was the timing coincidental, or had he been waiting for Sheriff Baker to leave?
I couldn't believe he'd actually shown up. Whatever criticisms you wanted to make about Allen, and there were many, he had balls. His nose was no longer spurting blood, but it didn't look like he'd bothered to wipe any of the old blood from his face. If I hadn't known it was him, I wouldn't even have recognized him.
I rushed out of the kitchen, expecting Malcolm to immediately follow. Instead, he slid open a drawer.
I gaped at him. "What are you waiting for?"
Malcolm took out a butcher knife.
"What the hell are you doing?" I asked. "We've got a shotgun!"
"Rachel will hear a gun," he whispered, as we walked through the kitchen and out onto the back porch. He scooped up the shotgun with his free hand. "I'll shoot him if we need to."
Holy freaking crap. How had a butcher knife entered the equation? I wanted to protest, but Allen was standing six feet from Rachel's shed, staring at it, and we needed to move.
Malcolm pointed the knife at me. For a second I thought he was threatening me, but he was actually just signaling that I should step back inside. I reluctantly did so.
"If you're sneaking up on him with a butcher knife, things are already out of control."
"Use your judgment," he said. He peeked outside. Allen was still standing next to the shed, staring at a wall that had no door or window. Was he building up his courage?
This made absolutely no sense. We should rush right out there, make as much noise as possible, and scare him off. Why was I going along with this? Sure, I didn't have some long-buried secret from my past to worry about, but if I let him murder Allen in a manner that wasn't exactly self-defense, I'd have my own ghoulish little secret.
All Rachel and I had done was kiss. This was an overwhelming burden to accept just so her beloved father wouldn't suffer the consequences of his own mistake. I needed to turn the shotgun on Malcolm and explain that we were going to handle this my way.
Allen walked around the back of the shed.
"I'm going," said Malcolm. He ran off the porch, moving with rather shocking stealth (he'd seemed like more of a lumbering kind of fellow to me) toward the shed.
This was the worst idea ever. I was putting Rachel at risk to keep Malcolm out of trouble, and I didn't even particularly like the guy.
Well, no, Rachel wasn't really at risk, at least not at the moment. Malcolm was right—if Allen wasn't on the side with the door or the window, he couldn't actually get in.
The only danger was that Rachel might come outside to investigate. But she wouldn't hear Allen walking around; hell, the way her music was blasting, she might not even hear the shotgun. Malcolm might as well have blown Allen away.
Malcolm made it all the way to the shed.
I couldn't stand around and wait in his house. If I ruined his plan, so be it, but no way was I letting Allen get anywhere close to Rachel's window.
I walked off the porch and headed toward the shed.
Not that I had any intention of murdering Allen. I wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger if I had no choice, but I was perfectly content to hold Allen at gunpoint. Though he was insane, he was not, to the best of my knowledge, suicidal. If he had a shotgun pointed at him, he wouldn't give us any trouble.
Malcolm hurried around the back of the cabin.
A second later, as if we were in a wacky bedroom farce, Allen stepped around the other side.
If this had truly been a farce, he would have gone about his own business without noticing me. But this was real life, if you can call it that, and he saw me.
His mouth dropped open.
My presence can't have been that much of a surprise, since he knew I knew where he was headed. He may have been reacting to the shotgun.
I wanted to shout out to let him know not to try anything, but it suddenly occurred to me that this might draw out Rachel, if she heard it over her music. I decided to remain silent. The concept that I would shoot him if he tried anything was implied by me pointing the shotgun at him.
Now what?
Now I supposed that I'd use the shotgun to my advantage and make both Malcolm and Allen stay where they were while I went inside and called the sheriff. If Malcolm couldn't keep his butcher knife out of Allen's throat, well, that wasn't my problem, but I wasn't willing to endure sleepless nights of guilt over this. No way. Sorry, Malcolm, but nope. Next time you decide to murder a teenage kid, make sure he was really the one in the clown suit.
Allen put out his arms as if trying to strangle me from a distance, then charged at me.
I assume he realized that, at this point, his life as he knew it was over. He'd probably realized it before he even ran away from the cabin. Why not go out in a big dramatic shotgun blast?
I couldn't pull the trigger.
Yeah, it was self-defense, but it was still killing somebody.
It was still the kind of thing that haunts you.
The kind of thing you can't ever get out of your mind.
Instead, I settled for using the shotgun like a club, smacking the son of a bitch with it as he reached me. I didn't really even need to swing it much—his momentum did most of the work.
Allen hit the ground.
That wasn't so difficult.
Malcolm came around the shed. He looked simultaneously relieved and angry to see Allen lying there, curled into the fetal position.
I didn't point the shotgun at Malcolm, but rather pointed it at the ground in a way that I hoped sent the message that I could, if I were so inclined, point it at him.
"We're calling the sheriff," I said.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes, as if he did indeed get the shotgun message. Then he looked down at Allen, whose eyes were squeezed shut and who was back to muttering under his breath. He might have been praying. I couldn't tell.
"If you insist," said Malcolm.
"Yeah, I do."
"Let's get him away from my daughter, then."
Malcolm reached down and grabbed Allen by the back of the collar. He tried to yank him to his feet, but the back of Allen's shirt tore. Malcolm grabbed him by the arm instead and pulled. Allen made no effort to stand up; he just lay there like dead weight.
"You're going to pull his arm out of its socket," I said.
"So?"
I supposed it didn't matter. "Why don't you go in and make the call?" I asked.
"No. I'm keeping an eye on him. You make the call."
"No. I'm keeping an eye on you."
"On me?"
"Yeah?"
"Why?" Malcolm asked.
"Why do you think?"
Malcolm shrugged. "All right. You're the boss." He tugged on Allen's arm again, then gave it a not-so-gentle twist. "Get up or I'll rip your arm off."
Allen kept his eyes closed, but stood up.
"You really messed up his face," Malcolm told me.
"I know."
"Nice work."
"It was self-defense."
"I didn't suggest that it wasn't. I'm just saying, nice work. Got him worse than he got you." Malcolm shoved Allen forward. "Though not worse than he got Rachel."
"This isn't about revenge."
"I didn't suggest that, either. You're really in the mood to put words in my mouth today, aren't you?"
With Malcolm's firm guidance on the back of his neck, we led Allen to the front porch. Any day where your face gets slashed and burned is a terrible day, but I figured that things could have gone a lot worse. All things considered, it had worked out reasonably well.
Those were the exact words that went through my mind: All things considered, it had worked out reasonably well. I assumed that later that evening, as I lay in my motel room whimpering about how much my poor face hurt, I'd decide that things had not worked out reasonably well, but at the moment, with me not dead, Rachel not dead, Malcolm not a two-time murderer, and Allen in our custody, things seemed okay.
An instant later, I worried that I'd jinxed myself.
An instant after that, I discovered that to be true, assuming one believed in the ability to jinx oneself.
Allen went berserk.
It was difficult to attribute motives to the guy, but presumably he'd decided (again) that since he was screwed he might as well try whatever method he could. Or he'd been cleverly waiting to lull me into a false sense of security while I thought about how things had worked out all right.
Malcolm lost his grip, and though I smacked Allen in the chest with the barrel of the shotgun, it didn't stop him. He lunged at me, reaching for my eyes.
I hit him with the shotgun again, and he staggered toward Malcolm, who slammed the butcher knife deep into his chest.
Allen let out a soft squeak, almost a yip.
Malcolm wrenched the blade out of his chest. Then he grabbed Allen by the back of the neck and pulled him forward, while jamming the blade into his chest again.
Allen's mouth dropped open. A new trickle of blood dribbled over
his bottom lip.
I took several steps back and dropped the shotgun. Holy Christ.
Malcolm pulled the knife out. He looked like he wanted to jab it in yet again, but then he noticed my horrified reaction. Though I don't know for certain what he was thinking, he seemed to consider that I'd write off the first stab as self-defense, and the second stab as making sure the job got done, but that a third stab could be construed as nothing but making the piece of shit suffer. That may have been projection on my part. He was probably just thinking, "Die! Die! Die!"
He let go of Allen. Somehow, Allen stood upright for a moment, before his knees buckled and he collapsed. My medical training went no further than CPR training in Cub Scouts (and even that was mostly spent making jokes about the dummy used for practicing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation) but it was abundantly clear that Allen would not be getting back up.
"Holy shit, Malcolm."
"He attacked us."
"I know, but holy shit, Malcolm."
"It had to be done."
"You could have let me hit him with the shotgun again."
"Clearly we do not see eye to eye on this issue. Now, if I were the one who'd just been mangled by him earlier today, I think I'd be more inclined to take my side."
Malcolm was surprisingly articulate right now, but his voice quivered and I noticed that both of his hands were trembling. In fact, he looked and sounded like he might be on the verge of tears.
He'd probably be more upset for me to see him cry than for me to see him kill somebody.
"I'm going in to call the sheriff," I said.
"Please don't."
"It was a clean kill." Well, far from clean, but he knew what I meant. "And now he's dead, so you don't have to worry about him blabbing about being the one who attacked Rachel."
"Then how do we explain why the hell he went after you? Why he went after her?"
"I don't know! Because he's a copycat!"
"It leaves too many unanswered questions."
"Look, I totally get that you're in self-preservation mode," I said. "I just can't be an accomplice."
"It's not about me," said Malcolm. "You have to think about Rachel. Think about what this would do to her. You say you care about her? Prove it."
