by Britney King
The poor kid, not expecting that answer, rattles off his personal information. Never underestimate people’s capacity for stupidity. I should have added that to my speech.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say with a tsk-ing sound. “I could be a serial killer. God knows, I’ve written enough of them.”
The boy sort of chuckles and looks around the auditorium, proud as punch. He got a reaction out of the old guy. “Relax, kid. I’m only kidding. But tell your dad when he writes a novel—or eighteen—then we can talk.”
Looking out into the audience, I see that Liam and the girl are there. She has a huge grin on her face. He does not look quite so happy.
Chapter Seventeen
‘The Book Doctor’
Journal Entry
I know you shouldn’t kill kids. But bear with me here— kids can be every bit as terrible as adults. Worse in fact, because life hasn’t had much of a shot at hardening them. Plus, insufferable adults were once children. One has to draw the line somewhere. It’s really hard to be perfect all the time, and for me, well, it’s a little bit like chocolate cake. If you love chocolate cake, that is. If you crave it.
I really do.
Just like cake, when I find a kid that’s worth killing, it’s bliss. And I found one there that day in the auditorium. The truth is, I’d come up with a special way to kill a person, a way that I hadn’t tried before, but one that I was almost certain I could get away with.
After all, how am I supposed to write it if I don’t live it? Writing is about experimenting. You experiment, experiment, experiment. Until you get it right. Until you find out what works. Murder is no different.
So I did what I did. Hopped online. Made an account posing as a pretty girl. Dug up a stock photo. Flirted a bit. Sent a few photos of someone else naked, and asked if he wanted to meet up. Of course he did.
Even though, honestly, it wasn’t my best plan. I had a lot on my plate with work and all, so I figured, what the hell? It couldn’t hurt to give it a go and see if he bites.
As it turns out, the idea of pussy is very attractive at that age. At any age, really. Although, before you get some sense knocked into you, well—you’ll do just about anything. Especially if your IQ is a touch below average and you didn’t exactly luck out in the looks department either.
The internet is a treasure trove. You can be anyone, say anything, buy anything. I didn’t know exactly where to go to get what I was after, but with the few clicks of a mouse, there they were, something I didn’t even know about until a few weeks ago: murder hornets.
Now, I’ve seen a lot of things. But I’ve never seen a person die by being stung to death. What an opportunity.
Murder hornets hail from Asia. Queens can grow to two inches long, which is why they’re also known as Asian giant hornets.
Beyond its size, the hornet has a distinctive look, with a cartoonish and fierce face featuring teardrop eyes like Spider-Man. Orange and black stripes extend down its body like a tiger, and it has broad, wispy wings like a small dragonfly. The hornets use mandibles shaped like spiked shark fins and can wipe out a honeybee hive in a matter of hours, decapitating the bees and flying away with the thoraxes to feed their young. For larger targets, the hornet’s potent venom and stinger—long enough to puncture a beekeeping suit —make for an excruciating combination that victims have likened to hot metal driving into their skin.
In Japan, they kill up to fifty people a year. Murder hornets arrived in the United States last fall. No one really knows how they got here, but I could give them a couple of clues. I ordered mine from the dark web. You’d be surprised what people keep as pets.
They didn’t come cheap, but then, as they say, you get what you pay for.
The kid, whose name turns out to be Darryl, met me off an old county road just before sunset. He didn’t enter the woods, but I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t either. He parked his souped-up sports car where I instructed him to, which should have been his first clue that something was off. No teenage girl is that thorough.
He sat in his car a while, checking his hair, tidying up, doing whatever it is kids do, before he text me, or rather Veronica, who he thought was me. He wanted to meet at his car. I agreed and told him I’d be there soon.
As luck would have it, just as I expected, he killed the engine, let his windows down, and waited.
Darryl was a big kid, bigger than I’d remembered, which is maybe why it took a little bit for the chloroform to work its magic.
The wooden box was built about six hundred feet off the road. Inside of the wooden box is a camera and a little light. It’s kind of shaped like a coffin but a little bigger, a fact for which I was glad. When I had the guy build it, he asked what I wanted and I couldn’t exactly say I wanted a coffin, so I said make it look like a coffin, but not. It’s for a prank, I said. He could see it on YouTube; I’d send him the link, after. People do a lot of stupid stuff online, so basically after forking over two Benjamins, there were no other questions asked.
But not everything went so smoothly. For one, I regret the six hundred feet instantly. It was a real shit-show getting it out there. Even an almost coffin is not a small thing. Second, not only do I have to haul it 240 steps, I have to drag the kid out there as well. Then after he’s hopefully dead, I have to haul him back. All in a day’s work, I suppose.
Anyway, once he was chloroformed up, I did manage to get him out to the box, and with a lot of sweat equity and a little more chloroform, I managed to get the ball gag in before stuffing him into the thing. I cut a small hole in the top on my own, just big enough to feed the hornets through and add a little handle. Then like a pumpkin, easy-peasy I placed it back on. If these things were to escape it would be very, very bad seeing as they can fly up to twenty miles an hour. They can cover long distances in no time. Who knows where they’d end up? There are a few people I like— not many, but a few—and I know a thing or two about karma.
Although, perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself.
Once the lid was on, things really started to fall into place. First, I waited for Darryl to wake up. Thankfully, it didn’t take long, because the sun was about to set and I don’t care for the woods at night.
He panicked a bit, which was to be expected. And yet, he too, thought it was a joke, that someone was pulling a prank on him. “You’re right,” I said. “Everything is a joke, and all the world’s a stage. I just need you to answer a few questions for me.”
It was tough getting answers out of him, and not just on account of the ball gag. Fear can have surprising effects on people. Sadly, I was worried that we’d have to do without words. “I need you to tell me how this feels. Can you do that?”
He mumbled something inaudible, which helped me know this wasn’t all for nothing.
Threading the bag with the lone hornet in it, through the hole, I explained what it was. Which of course only caused more terror in poor Darryl. Lots of shrieking and flailing about like a fish ensued after that, at least as much as one can when trapped inside of a pine box.
“It’s padlocked, Darryl.” He seemed to calm a bit at the sound of his name. “How does it feel?”
The shrieking grew louder as he was stung. “Does it feel like having red-hot thumbtacks being driven into your flesh?”
He mumbled something else, which I can only assume was in the affirmative.
“Good,” I said, before feeding the others in. “Darryl?”
There was more noise from inside the box.
“Your boxmates earned their nickname ‘murder hornet’ because its aggressive group attacks can expose victims to doses of toxic venom equivalent to that of a venomous snake.”
Grabbing the burner phone from my back pocket, a couple of taps brought up the footage from inside the box. Not exactly award-winning cinematography, but it served its purpose.
The kid’s death didn’t take long. All in all, it was a bit anticlimactic, to tell the truth.
In my imagination, I had t
o kill the hornets, and then I had to drag the kid back to the car, drive it elsewhere, and set the scene to make it look like he died in his car, in a park. In the fantasy version, I trapped a hornet in with him for effect. The following day, I’d dispose of the box.
In reality, I just lit the whole thing up in flames and watched it—and the hornets and the body—burn. Then I just left the charred heap of disappointment in the woods. It’s such a shame that reality intrudes on our good intentions. But like I said, things are hectic at work. Sometimes good enough has to be good enough, and there’s one less disrespectful teenager running around, so we should all be glad for that.
I did expend some effort moving the car to a second location. No point letting a giant red flag stay that close to the crime scene.
Even so, the most disappointing thing, aside from knowing I could have done better, was the lack of the media reports about the murder hornets, the ensuing frenzy, and the inkling of satisfaction that I caused it.
Chapter Eighteen
I can’t shake this terrible feeling, apparently not even from my dreams. The foggy haze of sleep settles, refusing to immediately lift just because consciousness is trying to make an appearance. Pulling myself from sleep to the surface feels like trying to pull myself from a well with a rope. My head feels like it weighs ten thousand pounds, my eyelids equally heavy. Sleep beckons me backward, like waves, knocking my sharp edges off.
I ask myself what I know, running through the events of the day in my mind. It started out as normal. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. A fine summer’s morning, one that had turned out better than I’d expected. Joni made her famous strawberry and spinach salad with honey balsamic vinaigrette for lunch, which Eve and I ate outside by the pool. Afterward, Eve had taken a swim, and I sat in the lounge chair jotting notes about the book. While progress has been made, there’s only a few weeks left until the deadline, and I’m not close enough.
Liam and I had a productive morning session before he retired back to the cottage, telling me he was taking the afternoon off to run into town.
When Eve finished her swim, she suggested we head upstairs for a nap, which I assumed correctly was code for sex. That’s what we used to say when the kids were young and we wanted to get a quickie in. It brought back memories of summers past, in a good way.
After we made love, I powered up my laptop and brought it to bed as Eve slept beside me. At some point, I must have dozed off, because when I wake, I am slumped forward in bed, pillows propped behind me, drool coming from my mouth. Glancing over at the clock, I try to remember what time it was when I fell asleep. That’s when I hear Eve’s voice calling and I realize she isn’t in bed beside me. Pulling myself completely upright, it hits me—the sweet, musky, unmistakable smell of smoke. My mind races to the children. Maybe it’s the post-nap fog, or the two whiskey sours I had after lunch, or maybe it’s just that the parent in you never dies, even if children do, but I have the overwhelming sensation of needing to get to them.
Leaping from the bed, I bound down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The smoke is worse on the first floor, blindingly thick and suffocating, like someone has opened my mouth and shoved a hot piece of coal straight down my throat and into my lungs.
Like a cannon, my chest pushes outward in rapid deliberate bursts. “Eve!”
She calls for me again, and my feet propel me in the direction of her voice. Smoke has filled the hallway. Its thick, black haze overpowers my senses. Finally, I reach Eve in the kitchen. “I warned you, George. So many times I’ve warned you,” she says.
It’s not the first time she’s used these words. They’re familiar, reserved for special occasions. Usually when I let my guard down. “Why don’t you ever listen?” Her eyes are fixed on the floor, never wavering. “Why do you make me do these things?” This is Eve’s troubled voice, throaty and devoid of emotion, the one I do my best to avoid.
As I round the counter, I laser in on what’s causing the smoke. Flames billow from a frying pan on the stove. A container of vegetable oil sits beside it, empty.
Flipping the burner off, my eyes scan the room in search of a lid. I check the cabinets, but they’re all gone. I rifle through the kitchen looking for baking soda and find nothing.
Removing my shirt, I wrap it around my face and bolt toward the laundry room, where I keep a spare fire extinguisher hidden. Eve has removed the one that belongs in the kitchen.
The fire alarm flashes through my mind. I wonder why it hasn’t gone off. Looking up at the ceiling, it becomes clear. My wife has ripped it from its socket. No doubt she’ll have done the same to the others. It wouldn’t be the first time.
This is why we can’t have nice things.
“You really shouldn’t have done that,” she says when I return with the extinguisher in my hands. After I put out the grease fire, I look down at her. Those eyes, there’s so much history in them, but it’s not there now. What’s reflected back to me is not the Eve I know, it is not the woman I married, it is not the mother of my children.
She’s seated on the kitchen floor, sprawled out, her legs splayed in front of her. A knife lies on the floor between them. Across her lap is the shotgun that is supposed to be locked in a gun safe in my closet. Eve doesn’t know the combination, or so I thought. But it’s not the shotgun that worries me most. It’s what is in her left hand. A hammer.
“Please,” I say calmly. There’s so much more to be said, but the rest of it won’t come and doesn’t matter. “Don’t do this, Eve.”
‘This is all your fault,” she tells me with spit flying from her mouth. She’s full of rage, possessed, past the point of rationalization. “You don’t love me, George. You never did.”
“That’s not true,” I say, glancing toward the door, glancing at the shotgun, thinking about what’s at stake if I don’t get this situation under control. Carefully, I go over to the sink and fill a glass with water and gulp it down. Eve rests the hammer across her knee and picks up the knife.
I look in the direction of the driveway. “Joni go home for the day?”
She glares at me. We both know the answer. My attention turns to the cottage, and I try to discern whether Liam’s there, whether he would help or harm the situation, whether putting him in danger would be worth it.
“I lied, you know.”
“Yes.”
“And ever since, you haven’t loved me.”
“I’ve always loved you.”
“You can’t love a liar.”
She’s taken that line from my manuscript, I realize. I shouldn’t be surprised she’s read it, but I am. “You’re sick, Eve. There’s a difference.”
“I’m going to kill you, George. I’m sorry, but I have to.”
“No, you’re going to drink this water,” I say as I squat next to the safe under the sink and quickly punch in the code. I retrieve Eve’s medication, holding it up for her to see. “And you’re going to take these pills and then you’re going to rest.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But first I’m going to kill you.”
Eve doesn’t kill me. Not in the physical sense. She aims the gun at my chest, dead center, but forgets to chamber a round. It takes a bit of a fight, but eventually I pry it from her hands. The knife is on the floor at our feet, and in the scuffle I graze the blade, slicing into the arch of my foot. Blood smears the tile like abstract art, when all is said and done.
While I’m handling the gun, she goes for the hammer. She manages to get a few swings in, first ravaging my back, and a good one to my right shoulder. Covering my head, I push my body into hers, pinning her against the wall. I need to keep her from being able to swing.
Annoyed, or tired, or both, she drops the hammer. As it lands on my toe, Eve begins pummeling me with her hands. She beats her fists into my chest and then scratches at my face before she moves onto my hair. She grabs a fistful as I do my best to restrain her.
I have learned over the years, it’s easiest to let her get out what she can dur
ing the initial assault. Otherwise there will be a second round, which comes exactly around the time you think it’s all over.
It’s never all over, but that isn’t the point.
Taking her to the ground and pinning her there, I have to be careful. Eve, while fierce, is also tiny, and it would be easy to hurt her. One thing I cannot afford is a hospital visit. For me or for her, but especially for her, because I am an expert at explaining my injuries away, whereas Eve, more than once, in a state of mania, blamed her injuries on me. She may have multiple diagnoses, but the law is the law. Due process and a proper investigation have to take place, regardless of my wife’s mental health status.
Kneeling over her, my knees press her arms into the floor, holding her in position as I weigh my options. Her head swings from side to side, wickedly, as she screams at the top of her lungs. I cup my hand over her mouth, but it barely muffles the sound and just enrages her, adding fuel to the fire.
I could run from the house, but if left to her own devices, there’s a good chance she would harm herself or our home. As it is, I’m lucky to have woken up when I did. And even if I could escape her, where would I go? What would I come home to?
Finally, the writhing from side to side subsides and the screams quiet. It’s like a toddler throwing a tantrum—Eve has to wear herself out. I weigh my options. The wrong word or the wrong choice can send her right back into a fit.
“You’re hurting me,” she cries. “Get off!”
“I’m keeping you safe.”
“I’m not safe,” she hisses. “Nothing with you is safe.”
I remove my left knee from her arm, easing up on the weight I’m putting on her. This allows her to swiftly reach up and backhand me, busting my lip in the process. “I hate you!” She spits in my face.
That does it. I lift her from the ground, grabbing her at the elbow, and drag her out of the kitchen, through the living room, past the library, and down the hall to her room downstairs.
