Richard’s car wasn’t here when Thomas shot Starks, so he couldn’t have heard the gunshot. He must’ve pulled up just a few minutes ago. Did he see Thomas covering the bloody snow?
Richard knocks again. He knows I’m here.
“Hi, Richard,” I call out. “I’m sorry, I have to cancel tonight. I’m not feeling well.”
A pause. “Oh, okay, sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can get you?”
“No. No, thanks, Richard. I just need to rest.”
“Okay, I understand.” The disappointment in his voice is obvious. “It’s just that, well, I want you to know you can talk to me if you want to. I’m a good listener.”
“I’m sure you are, Richard. Another time, I promise.”
Then I realize Richard must have seen Thomas’s car in the driveway, a car he doesn’t recognize. He probably thinks I found a better option for company tonight than him and am now feigning illness to get rid of him.
I almost feel sorry for him, but goddamn it, I have a dying man and at least a quart of blood covering my living room rug. I have no capacity for sympathy at the moment.
I know Richard is still there because my squeaky wooden porch betrays the slightest shift of weight on it. He hasn’t moved. He’s wondering if he should say something else. But he’s not the one who speaks next.
“Help me!”
Starks’s voice jolts me. I turn, and Thomas holds the shovel high above his head, ready to strike again.
“Thomas, no,” I say.
Through the door: “Alice? Alice, are you okay?”
“Get help before these crazy fuckers kill me! I’m hurt!”
Thomas doesn’t hit him with the shovel, but he kicks him in the ribs. Starks yells out.
“Alice, what’s happening? Should I call the police?”
“Yes!” Starks screams through gritted teeth.
“No, Richard,” I say.
In an instant, I realize that if I let Richard walk away, this all falls apart. He calls the police, the police come, we plead self-defense. But we clearly tried to cover up the shooting. And the story will come out about why Starks was after me to begin with, and that will all tie back to Jimmy murdering a small-time drug dealer. I was there that night. I could be facing prison when this mess gets sorted out.
Then I remember something else.
Richard works at the hospital as an RN. He knows how to treat wounds.
It’s a choice I don’t want to make, but I have to.
I open the door.
Richard stares at me wide-eyed, but it’s nothing compared to the expression on his face after I grab his arm and yank him inside, and he takes in the bloody chaos of my living room.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re a part of this now.”
Twenty-Five
“Holy cow, Alice,” Richard says. “We need to call an ambulance.”
Holy cow. He actually said holy cow.
“Yes,” Starks moans. “Do that. Ignore anything this crazy bitch says and call an ambulance.” He tries to push himself off the floor but manages only a few pained inches of elevation before Thomas collapses him with another kick to the side.
“Richard,” I say. “Listen to me.” Richard continues to stare at Starks, so I grab his shoulders and turn him to me. “Listen to me, okay?”
I feel the tension in his shoulders as he nods.
“This man came here to kill me,” I say.
“Which one?”
“The one on the floor. The other is my brother.”
Thomas offers a weak wave. “Hey.”
Richard returns a wide-eyed nod.
“Bullshit,” Starks wheezes from the floor.
This time, Thomas screams at him. “Shut up!” Another kick, harder than the last. Starks yelps.
“Thomas, stop it!” I say.
Starks falls silent, and I think he’s passed out.
I turn back to Richard. “Look at me. Focus. This is important. It’s part of my long story I promised you. He was threatening us—was about to shoot me—and my brother shot him first. I promise you it was self-defense.”
“Call the police,” Richard says.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because if they come here, at some point, they’ll find out about my connection to a crime from years ago. I didn’t commit the crime, but I was there when it happened. I could be considered…an accomplice.”
“What crime? Alice—”
“It doesn’t matter, Richard. The point is I’m not going to prison because this scumbag came hunting for me. I’m just trying to live my life. And I didn’t want to involve you, but now you’re here, and that can’t be undone. You can help him, Richard. Maybe…patch him up, at least until we can get him to the hospital later on. We can drop him off. Anonymously.”
Richard looks over my shoulder to the bloody mess on the floor.
“Patch him up?”
“I know it looks bad. Maybe you can at least look at him, see how bad?”
“Alice…”
“Richard, I’m begging you. Did you…did you look at that website from earlier?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know I have a hell of a past. Bad things have happened to me, but I’m a good person. If I get caught up in this, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Alice, how can I even examine him if he’s dangerous? I don’t even want to get close to him.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Thomas says from across the room. I look over, and he nudges Starks with his foot. Starks is motionless. “He’s out.”
“C’mon,” I say to Richard. I pick up the planter-box gun from the floor and walk carefully over to Starks. Richard follows but maintains a safe distance.
“Richard, he’s unarmed. Unconscious. I’ll keep the gun pointed at him if you can just check to see how bad he is. He can’t hurt you.”
“I don’t even have gloves, Alice.”
I run into the kitchen and grab a pair of yellow, rubber dishwashing gloves from beneath the sink, then race back and hand them to Richard.
“Are these new?”
“No, but they have to be clean enough,” I say. “I use them with soapy water, after all.”
He lets out a resigned sigh and snaps on one of the gloves. With his other hand, he reaches out to Starks’s neck, tentatively at first. When he feels safe, Richard puts two fingers on Starks’s throat and checks his pulse against his wristwatch.
“Pulse is low, but not dangerously so.” He leans back and puts on the other glove. The first thing he checks is Starks’s head, probing his fingers into the bloody, matted hair.
“Not too deep. But he’ll need stitches. Tetanus shot for sure.”
“How about where I shot him?” Thomas asks.
Richard reaches over and tries to unbutton Starks’s shirt. At first, he fumbles because of the thick gloves, but he finally manages to work his way through all the buttons. He opens the shirt and pulls back as much of Stark’s jacket as he can.
I keep my gun pointed right at Starks’s head, but I can’t help but move my gaze to the hairy belly painted in red. Bile creeps up my throat.
Richard sticks his finger inside the bullet wound on the edge of Stark’s abdomen. Now I know Starks is truly passed out, because otherwise he’d be howling in pain.
“I’m gonna puke for real now,” Thomas says.
“Then get out of here,” I tell him. He does, heading for the kitchen. Once he’s there, I hear him spit up into the sink. I force my own bile back down and steel myself against the sight of the gore.
Richard gets up, stands over Starks, then bends over and lifts him onto his side and checks his back. There’s another hole, and once again, Richard pokes into it before resting Starks on his back.
�
�Bullet went through,” he says. “About as clean of a wound as you can hope for. No major organs near the path where the bullet went, just muscle and fat. He’s lost a decent amount of blood, so that’s where we should start. I’ve got some gauze and large bandages upstairs, along with a suturing kit. Is it okay if I go up and grab them?”
I don’t like that he asked my permission. It makes it sound like I’m holding him hostage. Perhaps I am.
I nod, and Richard straightens and takes off his gloves.
“Alice, I don’t want to get into trouble over this.”
“No, Richard. I don’t want you to, either. Let’s fix him up the best we can, wait until it’s a bit darker, and then I can drop him off at the ER.”
Richard nods and heads for the front door.
As he leaves, I wonder if he’s going to lock himself into the Perch and call the police. Honestly, that’s probably what I would do.
After a couple of minutes, I become very nervous.
Thomas comes back in the room and asks where Richard is.
“We might need to start running,” I say. “We’ll just have to get in the car and go, because if Richard is calling the police, they’ll be here soon.”
Then something wonderful happens.
Richard returns.
Starks comes to fifteen minutes later, after we’ve bound him to one of my dining room chairs with rope from my basement. I have no expertise in knots, but I make up for it with the sheer volume of loops I place around Starks. He reanimates as Richard finishes bandaging the entry wound. Starks gnashes at him with his teeth, like a fox caught in a snare. Thomas rips off a piece of medical tape and covers Starks’s mouth.
“I’ve cleaned both wounds as best I can. The bleeding’s stopped, but he’ll need fresh blood and sutures. The sooner the better. And to get checked for a concussion.”
I look at the clock on the wall. Not even 6:00 p.m., but at least it’s dark out.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I say.
“Alice, it’s not too late to call the police.”
“It is too late,” I say. “That was never an option.”
“Why not? What exactly did you do?”
Starks looks over with wide eyes and a crimson face. He would be all too happy to tell Richard that I’m a junkie, thief, and murderer.
So I tell Richard. Tell him about that night with Jimmy. But I tell the truth, which was I had nothing to do with the murder. How I ran that night.
“Ran where?”
“To my mom,” I say, remembering that rare feeling of wanting to be cared for by her. Of needing her. It lasted less than three days. “Then rehab, then I moved up to Manchester.”
“Jimmy never came looking for you?”
“If he did, I never knew it. By the time I left, he was constantly high. His brain was fried. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out he didn’t care I left.”
Richard quietly processes all I’ve said.
“Wow” is what he finally says. Not even a holy cow. I was hoping for more, just as I’d hoped for advice from Thomas. But I don’t know what I’d say if I were in their positions. I’d probably want to distance myself as much as possible.
“That’s why we can’t call the police. Just a little longer, then I’ll drop him off at the ER.”
“It’s not that easy,” Richard says. “There are security cameras outside. Besides”—Richard looks down at Starks—“he knows where you live. Where we live. He came for you once. How do you know he won’t come back?”
All things I’ve already considered, but for which I have no answer. “I don’t know what else to do,” I say.
“We could kill him,” Thomas says, a little too quickly.
Starks shouts into the tape.
“Thomas, we can’t do that.”
“Then what the fuck, Alice? Richard is right… Starks will just come back for you. Is that what you want?”
Starks shakes his head as if to say, No, I promise I’ll never come for you again, but there’s not an ounce of sincerity in his eyes.
“Of course not,” I reply. “But we can’t just kill him.”
Though that’s just what Mr. Interested wants. He’s nudging me toward very bad things, just as Mister Tender did with his customers.
I turn to Richard. “You don’t have to be here anymore. I’m sorry I’ve dragged you into all of this, and I truly appreciate your help. But you should go. The longer you’re here, the more trouble you could be in.”
“So, I should just go upstairs, make myself dinner, and forget all this is happening right below me?”
“I know,” I say. “I just…I don’t want to get you too involved.”
“Way too fucking late for that,” Thomas mumbles.
“He’s right,” Richard says. “I’m already here. I can’t erase that.”
Thomas walks around and faces Starks, then leans down and peers deep into his eyes. “I’ll bet he knows who Mr. Interested is. Hell, this might even be the creep stalking you, Alice.”
“Mr. Interested from the website?” Richard asks.
I sigh. “It’s what the glass of wine was going to be for,” I say to Richard. “It’s a long story, but it sounds like you already know some of it.”
“It was hard to glean a lot of information from the MisterTender.com site. I was pretty confused. Is there a short version of the story?”
I think on that for a second, then almost laugh at how a short version of my story would sound. Then I decide to actually try it out.
“I grew up in England. When I was fourteen, I was stabbed by two of my ‘friends’ who were convinced they were being commanded by a graphic-novel character named Mister Tender. A character who, by the way, was created by my father. I barely survived the attack. My parents split up afterward, and my mom brought my brother and me to America, at which time I changed my name because of all the media from the case.
“My father was murdered three years ago, yet just this week, I received a book in the mail—an unpublished cover of a book he never finished—which contained a handwritten inscription from him to me. The book is mostly blank but includes some drawings. The drawings depict me here in Manchester. Someone is watching me, Richard, and I’ve found out there’s a small online community obsessed with me. The leader is this person calling himself Mr. Interested.”
“Holy cow,” Richard says.
“I know.”
“I mean, seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“So this is Mr. Interested?” Richard asks, pointing to Starks.
“I’m not certain, but I don’t think so. He claims Mr. Interested told him where to find me.”
Richard thinks about this for a minute. “But how would anyone know about your involvement that night?”
Exactly what I’ve been wondering.
“Jimmy,” I say. “He was there, and he probably could have tracked me down without too much trouble. It has to be Jimmy.”
Starks shakes his head again, dying to speak. I walk over to him.
“Okay, I’m going to take the tape off your mouth. If you start yelling or saying things I don’t like, I’m going to put it back on and keep it on. Understood?”
An eager nod of the head.
I take one corner of the tape and peel it away from his stubbled cheek. Then I rip. Fast and hard.
“Ah, goddamn it,” he says. “I’m going to fucking rip your—”
I grab the roll of tape, which stops his threat.
“Okay, look,” he says. “I’ll play by your rules. Just…just take me to the hospital, okay? I’m not in good shape.”
“Actually,” Richard says, “considering you’ve been shot and bludgeoned, you’re doing okay.”
Starks gives Richard a stare I can only guess means he’s been added to his list of
future targets, which now includes everyone in this room.
I stand in front of Starks, and as I shift my weight, I can hear the stickiness of blood on the bottoms of my shoes, blood that has spilled over the rug and onto the hardwood floor. Thomas sits in the chair about five feet behind Starks, the gun now in his hand, resting against his thigh. My brother has a glazed look in his eyes, as if he’s been on a long, forced march, and his body has gone into some kind of shutdown mode. Maybe he does need his medication. Like, right now.
Richard nervously paces to my left, hands in his pockets, head mostly down, but glancing over at Starks every few seconds.
I take a deep breath, count to four, then let it out. I do that three more times, while Starks just watches me. I can only imagine the magnitude of the panic attack that will surely come from this, but in this moment, I feel surprisingly in control of myself.
“What did Jimmy tell you?” I ask him.
Starks smiles, and the smeared blood from his raw lips and cheeks looks like clown makeup. “He had a hard time saying anything with my gun halfway down his fuckin’ throat.”
“Did he tell you about me?”
“A little. Not much.”
“What did he say?”
“He mostly mumbled about not having the money. I don’t know. He’s just a strung-out junkie. He was tweaked at the time, not even really that scared. He didn’t even apologize about killing Nick.”
“Did he tell you I left after that?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you where to find me?”
“No. I told you I already knew that. That old guy who stopped me on the street told me.”
“And what exactly did that man say about me?”
Thomas lets out a sigh, and I look at him. He looks completely detached now, as if sleeping with his eyes open. This worries me, but I put that worry in place behind larger ones I own at the moment.
“He said…” Starks looks up as if trying to remember, then finally drops his gaze back to me. “He gave me your address, but he said not to hurt you. Didn’t care what I did to Jimmy, but didn’t want you touched. Said you were special.”
“What?”
“That’s what he said. Of course, I told him I’d be nice to you, but I had no intention of keeping my word. Why should I? I didn’t owe nothing to that faggot.”
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