A Bullet for the Shooter

by Larry Hoy

  Its hissing dropped to a growl as it jerked the blade up, cutting the cord around Erebus’ wrists. Wisps of smoke rose from the cord’s blackened ends. The twice-dead serial killer took only seconds to free his wrists.

  “Shoot it,” Sweetwater called out, weakly. “Hurry, kill it.”

  “No!” Covered in blood and looking more dead than alive, Erebus scrambled to his knees with a quickness than belied his gory appearance. No sanity remained in his eyes. He threw his arms wide to shield Herbert.

  “You will not shoot my boy.”

  No taller now than waist high, Herbert placed the knife in Erebus’ hand, and he gripped the handle in a tight fist. The man’s flesh sizzled, and the reek of seared flesh caused Sweetwater to flashback to the post 9/11 days of digging out bodies from the Capitol.

  “Yes,” Erebus said. He hefted the knife and thrust the point upward through his tongue, splitting it like a reptile’s. Blood filled his mouth and ran out the corners. He smacked his lips like it was chocolate syrup.

  “Thank you, my boy.”

  Warden already had her back against the wall but was trying to back up anyway and slipped on the bloody floor. Falling, she squeezed off a shot that missed Erebus and shattered the heart monitor screen. Her head bounced off the wall, and she landed in a heap.

  Erebus swiped at her hand with the knife, cutting her thumb and knocking the pistol free. He knelt, pulled her leg taut, and stabbed the fleshy part of her calf below the knee. The blade ripped through her leg and out the other side. She screamed and kicked when he grabbed both her legs and dragged her off of Sweetwater, where he could reach her head and chest.

  She kicked him in the jaw using her other leg. A loud crack indicated she’d broken his jaw, but Erebus plunged the blade deep into the thigh of her injured leg.

  Warden’s screams echoed in the room as her body trembled from the sudden, overwhelming pain. Beyond Erebus was the dark figure of Herbert, laughing as his father raised the knife for another stab. She kicked again, and this time, fueled by desperation, met the plunging knife with the sole of her shoe. The tip penetrated through the tough leather and nicked the skin below, which made him laugh.

  Erebus yanked it out, held her leg, and even as she jerked and struggled, struck again, twisting the blade as blood poured onto his fist. He slid the blade free and drove the knife into her abdomen, pushing hard to drive the blade in all the way to the guard. Then he ripped it free again in a spray of droplets.

  Warden’s screams hadn’t roused the catatonic Sweetwater, but her low moan did. Only half-conscious, he spotted the pistol lying beside his right knee in the puddle of his own blood. When he tried to pick it up, the gory handle and weight made it slip twice before he got a firm grip. Raising it was like hefting a brick. The ammo might or might not be wet.

  Laughing as Warden sagged after the stab wound to her stomach, Erebus noticed Sweetwater’s movement and glanced down at the half-dead hitman. The knife dripped at his side.

  “I’m glad you’re still alive, Two-Bit,” he said. “Now I can watch you die.”

  Fresh hammering came from the hallway, diverting Erebus’ gaze. When he looked back, the pistol was pointed at his chest.

  “I hate that fucking name,” Sweetwater said. He fired, unable to control the recoil, which sent the gun up and to the right. It didn’t matter. The bullet hit Erebus under his sternum, passed through his body, and out the back, where it mashed flat against the cinder block wall.

  The knife dropped from Erebus’ fingers, and he collapsed to his knee before falling face-first into the blood puddle. The elevator bell stopped ringing, and seconds later a squealing noise came from the hallway.

  Warden and Sweetwater’s eyes met. She had a hand on her belly wound.

  “I’m not ready to die,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. “I don’t wanna die, Luther. God help me, I don’t wanna die.”

  Voices came from the hall. Sweetwater tried to raise the gun. Erebus’ chest still rose and fell, although he was coughing blood, and Sweetwater only had seconds to finish him off. Warden noticed and shook her head.

  “Don’t do it,” she said.

  “Some fuckers just need to die.”

  The world was going gray again.

  “Where is the kid?” she said.

  “Gone…disappeared.”

  Erebus coughed a spray of blood into the pool he coughed up the last time he died.

  “Is he gonna live?”

  “I hope not. I’ve already killed him twice…so who the fuck knows?”

  Sweetwater dipped in and out of consciousness. He woke under a bright surgical light for a few seconds. Next, he woke in a room, which resembled the one in the recovery ward. His stitches and bandages were back in place, as were the usual machines, hanging bags, and associated wiring and tubes. There was a second bed on his right occupied by Teri Warden. Sleeping, she looked pale, but a nurse fussing with something didn’t appear panicked. Why he’d needed further surgery wasn’t as clear but sleep beckoned, and he began drifting away.

  “Mister Sweetwater?” said a deep, raspy voice that whistled when the speaker inhaled. He wore a well-tailored gray suit with black pinstripes, a blue shirt, and red power tie. “I’m Police Director Hayes, how are you feeling?”

  “Better than dead, I guess. I’d shake your hand director, but you should know I charge for autographs.”

  Hayes’ face showed no response beyond a twitch to the left corner of his mouth.

  “In the past two weeks my department has investigated four homicides and one bombing that all have one thing in common, you, Mister Sweetwater. Moreover, the only trauma center for two hundred miles has been effectively shut down to all but the worst emergencies because of that bombing, which I am given to understand was designed to kill you. Multiple hospital personnel have been killed or wounded. Innocent people going about living their daily lives, who came to work to help save the lives of those in critical danger of death. Memphis has its share of crime, Mister Sweetwater, and I understand that innocent victims are part of that—”

  “Hey, I’m a victim here, too.”

  When Hayes turned to make sure neither of the two cops posted at the door were watching, even in his tired state Sweetwater didn’t need instinctive warnings to know something unpleasant was coming. He didn’t expect what happened, though.

  Satisfied none of his people were stupid enough to spy on the boss, and that Warden was still unconscious, Hayes gripped Sweetwater’s forearm and squeezed, hard. Refusing to show how much it hurt, Sweetwater grinned, biting the inside of his lower lip instead of crying out at the pain.

  “I understand you were not the cause of most of these issues, Mister Sweetwater, and while I find you and your fellow—what is it you call yourselves, Shooters?—while I find you viler than a depraved pedophile, your profession is, nevertheless, legal. But you, Mister Sweetwater, are a magnet for trouble. The physical therapist who died downstairs was a single mother of three. She earned her degree at night while cleaning houses during the day, all to build a better life for her children. Had you been the manager of a drive-through fried chicken restaurant, she would have tucked those children in that night. Instead, her mother, their grandmother, had to explain why they would never see their mother again.

  “I have reached out to your supervisors and requested you be removed from my city just as soon as possible. And lest there be any confusion about what I mean, let me spell this out as clearly as I can: Leave my city, Mister Sweetwater. Get out. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Leave.”

  Hayes withdrew a pair of handcuffs from his jacket pocket, snapped one end on Sweetwater’s wrist and the other around the bed railing.

  “That’s gonna be hard to do if I’m handcuffed to this bed,” Sweetwater said, knowing it wouldn’t help, but not caring. Hayes wasn’t there for a reasonable discussion.

  “This is just a safety precaution while we wait for your transfer to come through. It’s for your ow
n good. There will be no further attempts on your life. However, I’m going to unlock the door when I leave, and I’m also going to disable the automatic lock down. The next time someone comes in here to kill you, I’m going to make damn sure there is no collateral damage. That is the correct term, isn’t it? If one of your assassins hits a non-involved person, that is the term for them, correct? Collateral damage?”

  “Among others.”

  “I appreciate your cooperation, Mister Sweetwater. Now get the fuck out of town.”

  Hayes turned on one foot with a military flourish and strode to the door.

  “Let’s not do this again anytime soon,” Sweetwater said.

  Hayes stopped, back erect, and executed a full turn.

  “Perhaps I was not clear enough. If you return to Memphis, Mister Sweetwater, then it may have dire consequences. For you.”

  Chapter 32

  Memphis Police Department Secure Facility below the Elvis Presley Trauma Center, Memphis, TN

  “Father?” A familiar voice cut through the black haze in Adrian Erebus’ unconscious mind. “It’s time we talked.”

  A single light source, like a high-intensity spotlight, came from above, making a wide illuminated circle on the floor. Erebus sat up and saw he was wearing his favorite old teaching suit with all of the little nicks and tears mended and the elastic in the suspenders not overstretched. He felt comfortable in the suit, which allowed him to revel in doing what he most enjoyed: teaching.

  “Herbert, is that you, my boy? What a pleasant surprise.”

  The boy walked along the edge of the shadows, half in, half out of the light. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with a butterfly on the back. Erebus smiled a father’s warm smile at Herbert, trying to see the reciprocal love in the boy’s eyes, but something was wrong. It hurt to look at his son’s eyes, so he turned away. He looked at the T-shirt instead.

  Erebus didn’t remember getting up, but he found himself standing on a hard surface.

  “Hey, buddy, I missed you.” He dropped to one knee and held his arms. “Give your dad a hug?”

  “Of course.”

  The boy stepped closer and embraced his father.

  “Ow.” Erebus felt a sting on his neck. It hurt, but only for a moment. “Did you bite me, son? Why did you do that?” He pushed the boy away and held him at arm’s length. Something on Herbert’s shirt caught his eye, a single drop of red spreading into the surrounding fabric. It could have been spaghetti sauce.

  “I’m sorry, father. I’m just so hungry.”

  “We talked about not biting people a long time ago.”

  “Yes, Father. I’m sorry. I won’t bite you again.”

  “That’s all right, buddy. These last few days have been hard.”

  “Are you all right, Father?”

  “I feel a headache coming on.”

  “Oh.”

  Erebus felt something in the air change. The room, or wherever they were, grew a bit colder. Then two boy-sized hands lifted his face so he could stare into the vacant nothingness of his son’s eyes. The sight made tears well in the corners of his eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, son.”

  “Why, Father? Without you I wouldn’t exist. I am you.”

  “You’re dead because of me.”

  “No, you’re wrong, I live because of you. Come, Father, I have something to show you. Let’s go for a walk.”

  Erebus took his son’s proffered hand. As they walked, the bare ground turned into a cobblestone path. Tufts of grass sprung up here and there, growing denser until both sides of the trail was a green field. Erebus realized the darkness was slowly growing lighter, as if dawn was breaking.

  Together they strolled through the countryside. Off to the left, he spotted a brook winding its way through the green field. Everything was so tranquil, so idyllic. It was the type of place Adrian Erebus, dedicated schoolteacher, had dreamed of living.

  “You picked a winner of a spot, buddy. Where are we going?”

  “We’re almost there, Father.” Herbert pointed with his free hand. “Just over that hill. Do you see?”

  Erebus squinted and could just make out a thin ribbon of smoke rising from behind the hill. The path wove back and forth and turned to follow along the little ridge. As they rounded the hill, the path fell away and snow covered the ground, bright and shining in the morning sun. The trees along the route were evergreens, their branches dusted in snow.

  “Look, Father, one for you and one for me.” Herbert picked up two woolly coats hanging from a tree branch.

  “Well, that’s just perfect,” Erebus said, smiling and patting the back of Herbert’s neck. They each put on a coat and resumed walking. Around another bend in the path, Erebus spotted a cottage. It had yellow walls and a blue roof. The smoke was coming from a stone chimney, merrily puffing little black clouds like from an old man’s pipe. The house was ringed by a picket fence. Erebus had never seen this house before, but he recognized it immediately; it was the sanctuary he’d retreated to all those nights when his drunken mother went on a rampage.

  He bent down and lifted his son in his arms.

  “Are we home?”

  “Yes, Father. It’s just like you told me.”

  Erebus lifted his son and trotted toward the log and stone house. As they came closer, they could see a Christmas tree in the picture window. Holding Herbert in one hand—the boy weighed less than he remembered—he pulled open the gate and followed the path to the front door. He sat Herbert by the door and turned the knob.

  The warm smell of gingerbread enveloped him. “Adrian, is that you?” It was the musical voice of Grace Allen, his wife. “Don’t forget to wipe your boots off.”

  He looked down and saw he was wearing snow boots. He stomped them on the welcome mat and stepped inside. Grace Allen stepped out of the kitchen with a warm gingerbread cookie in each hand.

  She was just as Adrian remembered her. Her gorgeous red hair was bundled on top of her head and she was wearing a plaid dress and a spotless white apron. Her adoring smile always made his heart race. Leaning out to kiss her cheek, she stopped him.

  “Boots first, kiss second.” She pointed to a wooden bench beside the door. “I will not have you tracking snow through this house.”

  Erebus sat and pulled his boots off, then he picked up Herbert, plopped him on the bench, and unlaced his boots. He remembered Herbert being older, somehow, eight or ten instead of sixish, but no matter. He pulled the boy’s boots off and placed them beside his own just to the right of the door. Grace Allen put a cookie in Herbert’s eager hand, wrapped her arms around Erebus’ neck, and kissed him more deeply than she had ever done before. When she finally released him, he could still taste her lips on his own. She popped her second gingerbread cookie into his mouth.

  “Only one cookie each. Dinner is in thirty minutes. We’re having Christmas lasagna; my father’s recipe.”

  He watched her backside as she walked back to the kitchen. They were the perfect couple.

  He felt his son tug on his shirt sleeve. He knelt on one knee and brought his head down to his son’s height.

  “What’s up, buddy?”

  “Father, I found Mommy,” Herbert said. “You can stay here with us if you want.”

  Erebus crushed his son in a bear hug. “I never want to leave.”

  Sweetwater jerked in his sleep. He needed pain meds, but that was a no-go; the doctors wouldn’t prescribe any more. Apparently, the whole “do no harm” thing only went so far. So, when Grace Allen Tarbeau appeared next to his bed, Sweetwater had no idea if it was a dream or not.

  “Be careful, that’s not my son,” she said.

  Sweetwater knew she meant the horned thing.

  “Then who is it?”

  “It’s Adrian.”

  A slight noise roused Sweetwater enough to crack open one eye. Seeing who it was sitting in the chair near his bed, he closed it again and lay still.

  “Will you be pretending to sleep for much longer, Mister
Sweetwater?”

  Damn!

  Sweetwater took five seconds to run through an old meditation trick he learned in sniper school.

  “Hmmm…oh, Ms. Witherbot, what are you doing here?”

  “Keep your voice down, your roommate really is sleeping. I have left my comfortable office in Dallas because the Memphis Police Department informs me that you do not play well with others.” She crossed her legs and placed her hands on her knee.

  “They said that?”

  “More or less. Do not think me unaware of the strained relationships between LEI and some law enforcement agencies across the nation. Our company tries to maintain a working relationship with the local police departments, but sometimes it does not work out, through no fault of ours. In this case, however, the fault is ours, or more specifically, yours and Miss Warden’s, so now I’m here to clean things up.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I do not like repeating myself, and as this concerns you both, I will wake Miss Warden first.”

  “Which of us will be getting waterboarded?”

  “Are you volunteering? Because that did cross my mind.”

  “On second thought, no. What’s the point of this little talk?”

  “You have a lot of maturing to do, Luther.”

  “It’s Luther now?”

  “Only because we are alone at this moment. As I said, you have a lot of maturing to do, but as you are doing the growing up you should already have done, there is one thing I will not abide. Under no circumstances are you to hurt Miss Warden. Do we understand each other?

  “I would never hurt her.”