Without hesitation, Michelle pulled the trigger.
Chapter 6
Ken wheeled his father into the moonlit bathroom and parked him next to the toilet. They each took a deep, audible breath. Next came the fun part. Ken straightened his back and squatted so he and his father were at eye level. Dad never looked him in the eyes at this stage. Needing help getting onto the toilet crushed the old man. Hell, it crushed him that he needed help, period.
“Ready, Dad?”
“Go ahead, Kenny.”
Ken took another deep breath, inhaling the lingering scent of ocean surf body wash. The air was still warm from the shower he’d taken after dinner, and the room had a cozy, sauna-like atmosphere.
“All right,” he said, leaning in and wrapping his arms around his father’s back. Dad hugged onto him. “On three. One, two, three.”
Ken strained as he hoisted Dad out of his wheelchair. With a twist of his waist, he shifted Dad toward the toilet, centering him above the booster seat. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Get your pants.”
Dad released his secure hold across Ken’s back. One hand grabbed a nearby support bar while the other went to work on the waistband of his pajama pants. A rustling sound followed as he tugged them down. Ken’s shoulders and lower back strained until Dad finally signaled him with a pat on the back.
He lowered his father and gasped with relief.
“Whew.” Ken rubbed his lower back. “Mission accomplished. I’ll leave you to your bowel movement. Give me a yell when you’re done.”
“Thanks, Kenny.” Dad reached up and patted his cheek. “Without you, I wouldn’t give a shit.”
Ken laughed. “I’m sure you would. We’d just have to do extra laundry.”
In the kitchen Ken double-checked Dad’s nighttime meds and got a pan ready for omelets in the morning. He had a feeling tomorrow would be a great day, and not just because they had a fresh carton of liquid egg whites. Assuming Dad didn’t run into any complications, Ken would visit Angela tomorrow night. Sure, it wasn’t a legit date, but his gut told him the future was bright.
Then the doorbell rang. Four times in quick succession. Only one person would bother them at this hour.
Yawning, he answered the door.
Outside stood Robby. While he twitched in place, his shaggy chin-length hair shook across his face. Sometimes Ken thought his brother kept his hair long just to avoid making eye contact during these awkward meetings.
Robby frowned. “Where’s Dad?”
“On the throne. Wanna leave a message?”
Robby swiveled his head, glancing at his girlfriend’s beat-up Kia parked outside the tavern next door. The Backfield Bar spilled neon light along the sidewalk, turning his girlfriend in the driver seat lizard green. Robby caught her attention and shrugged. In response she lifted her purse, suggesting they wanted money. That was all the evidence Ken needed to shut the door.
“Wait, Ken!” Robby stopped the halfway-shut door. “I gotta see Dad.”
“Don’t worry. He’s doing well.”
“C’mon, let me in. For shit’s sake, he’s my father.”
More like your piggy bank, Ken thought. Would it kill you to help around here? The two of us could lift Dad on and off the toilet without a hitch. Hell, you could even take care of him during the daytime. Then we wouldn’t need a nurse.
“C’mon,” Robby said. “Gimme two minutes.”
“Best I can do is relay a message.”
“Fine. I got a job interview. Office gig in Scranton. It’s tomorrow, and I need new clothes.”
“New clothes. Right.”
“I’ll show you.” Robby slapped at his pockets until he found his phone. He tapped the screen and showed him a men’s dress shirt that was on sale for $19.99. Then a pair of black slacks on sale for $29.99. “Only need fifty bucks. Then I can march into that interview looking like a man with a plan.”
“How about you borrow my clothes?”
“They’re too big on me,” he said, stretching out his narrow arms. “I’ll look like a total clown.”
“Dad’s not coughing up fifty bucks. Not after last time.”
“But this is legit.”
“Heard that before.”
“I don’t always mean it. This time I do. I’m sick of feeling useless. Can’t you tell? You’re supposed to be able to tell. It’s like with those kids you teach. You say you can sense when they want to work harder. Can you sense me?”
Ken said nothing.
Robby hung his head. His hair dangled like the legs of a dead spider. After a heavy sigh, he picked himself up. “Tell Dad if he can spare fifty bucks, I need it.”
“He said he’s not giving you a dime until—”
“Yeah. I know.” Robby scratched his scruffy cheek. “See ya around, Ken.”
As Robby trudged down the sidewalk, Ken recognized that dejected stride. He too had moped around quite often these past couple years. Neither of them had been able to catch a break, and Robby continuously destroyed himself every chance he got. Seeing his brother trudging away made Ken wonder if he’d added to the destruction.
“Robby,” Ken said, reaching into his back pocket. “I’ll make you a deal.”
Robby spun around. “You’ll talk to Dad?”
“Need a favor,” Ken said, peeling a few bills from his wallet. Robby’s eyes pounced on the money. “Tomorrow evening I’m going to a party. Starts around six. Think you can drop by and babysit Dad?”
“Me?” Robby blinked. “If I set foot in there, Dad’ll run me over with his chair.”
“I’ll talk him into it.”
“Okay. Yeah. Hell yeah. I’m in.” He reached for the money, but Ken pulled it back.
“Bring me the receipt. Got it? And I want to hear how the interview went.”
“You’ll hear great things.”
Ken handed him the money.
Robby tucked the bills away in his pocket. He then shook Ken’s hand, squeezing tight with his slim, reedy fingers. “How about this handshake, huh? Think the interviewer will be impressed?”
Ken squeezed back. “Don’t let me down.”
Chapter 7
Pain swallowed Michelle in a hot purple blaze. It consumed her entire body, a widespread warning siren that quieted a little, allowing her to recognize specifics. Her collarbone came into sharp, screaming focus. Then her neck. Elbow. Wrist. There was a bloody taste in her mouth and a dull ringing in her ears. Upon opening her eyes, she noticed a smear of blinking light. Her cheek lay on hard plastic—the van’s dashboard, she realized—and after picking herself up, she spotted withered brown shrubs crammed against the front headlights.
Did we hit a shrub? she thought groggily. Wait, they don’t plant shrubs in the middle of the highway. And highways are supposed to be paved, not covered in dirt. What’s going on here?
Gingerly, she twisted her neck toward the driver’s seat. “Hannah? What the hell’s going—Oh shit!”
The memories tumbled into place. They’d been driving toward Dallas until Michelle aimed for her sister’s head and fired. Then came squealing tires and a chaotic blur. Now Hannah hung draped over the steering wheel, head drooping toward the window.
Her eyes tear-soaked, Michelle leaned forward to give her sister a clumsy sideways hug. Hannah was still warm, and when Michelle rested her chin on her sister’s upper back, she sensed movement. The subtle rise and fall of breath.
Michelle peeled her sister off the steering wheel and saw her face was clean. Hair lay smeared across her forehead, stuck there by sweat, not blood.
“Hannah,” Michelle said, shaking her. “Wake up.”
Hannah coughed. Her eyes opened.
Michelle did a mental backflip in celebration. She’s okay! The gunshot must’ve missed.
Hannah blinked several times before turning her head. For a moment she appeared as though she were struggling to register Michelle’s presence. Then she hopped in her seat and yelled, “What the fucking fuck! You almost kill
ed me!”
Before Michelle could reply, Hannah grabbed Michelle by the hair.
“Hannah, stop!” Michelle could feel her scalp lifting from her skull. The two sisters wrestled until the motor rumbled and the van crunched over the shrubs. “We’re moving—hit the brake!”
Hannah stomped the brake and parked the van. Then she resumed her outburst, shoving Michelle against the passenger window.
A throbbing purple wave overtook Michelle’s mind. Ugly, murderous thoughts cropped up again. Oh, how she wanted to stick the barrel between Hannah’s teeth and fire. One juicy blast would be enough. Better yet, make it two. Or three. Or—
No, enough. This was her sister. The only person she trusted. What was she thinking? Why had she shot at Hannah like that?
Michelle took her sister’s hand. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Came awful fucking close!” Hannah gestured toward her window. In the center was a bullet hole surrounded by spiderweb cracks. Had Michelle been slightly more accurate, the window would be fine and Hannah would be dead. “What were you thinking?”
Michelle pointed her gunhand toward the floor. She was embarrassed to admit the revolver had manipulated her wrist and her thoughts. “I…don’t know.”
“You almost shot me,” Hannah said, sounding heartbroken.
“I didn’t mean to.” Michelle leaned across the armrest and hugged her tight. “I was sleepwalking or something. It won’t happen again. I’ll shoot myself before I even consider shooting you.”
“Don’t shoot either of us.” Hannah returned the hug with a nervous squeeze. She tied her hair into a messy ponytail and glanced outside. “Where’s the highway?”
Michelle thumbed over her shoulder. “That way. But we can’t let anyone see that busted window. Can you roll it down?”
Hannah tried. It slid partway down before getting stuck. That would be a problem. They couldn’t drive into Dallas without someone noticing the bullet hole.
Michelle climbed out and went around to the driver side. She flung open the door and surveyed the damage before slamming the revolver against the window. A few good hits sent glass spilling in chunks and shards.
She turned to Hannah. “Better hope it doesn’t rain.”
“If it does, you’re driving.”
They merged back onto the highway and drove toward Dallas. Michelle grabbed her phone off the floor and reattached it to the windshield. According to the GPS app, they were an hour from their destination. An hour from kill Number Five. She double-checked the name and address on the envelope. Benjiro Orochi was the target, 24 Warm Haven Road the location. Only a matter of time.
Yet she could barely resist her urge to shoot.
If only this damned revolver had a safety. Better yet, she wished she could remove the remaining bullets, but the cylinder wouldn’t open. Nor was she able to empty the gun by firing continuously—she’d already tried that on Tuesday. The only way to reduce the ammo supply was by taking a life.
The mere thought caused her wrist to bend toward her sister.
Shit. Michelle grabbed the revolver and stuffed it between the seat and the door. She panted, drawing shaggy breaths.
“What’s wrong?” Hannah asked.
“Drive faster.”
“I’m already doing fifteen over the limit. You wanna get pulled over?”
“No, but…” Michelle didn’t know how to explain, but she figured she should say something rather than be stranded with her thoughts. “Before I shot at you, I had this dream. Remember when we were kids, and I hit your eye with a squirt gun?”
“Hard to forget.”
“Well, that memory was in my head. But instead of shooting you with a squirt gun, I shot you with my snubnose.” She buried her arm deeper. Sweat soaked her sleeve. “Then I wanted to do it in real life. I wanted it like a trip to the bar after a shitty night’s work. Wanted it more than anything.”
The van gathered speed. Hannah’s knuckles tightened along the wheel. “Did you feel this way back in LA?”
“No. Only now.”
“And you still want to kill me?”
Michelle hesitated. Her hand burned while chills slithered through her body. “I think I can hold out if you hurry.”
Hannah did just that. They flew off the highway ramp and into the suburbs. The motor growled as they burst through intersections, blew past stop signs, and whipped along the corners of wide suburban streets. They built speed until the GPS announced they’d reached their destination.
Hannah thumped the brake. The sound of squealing rubber compounded Michelle’s hatred for her. How dare she generate such an irritating noise. How dare she park the van. How dare she run outside.
The farther Hannah ran, however, the less Michelle wanted to kill her.
But the gun was hungry. It hadn’t eaten since last night. It could sense a meal nearby. Right up the sidewalk. Behind the door bearing the number 24 waited a meal named Orochi.
Michelle stumbled onto the porch and pounded the door until the front window lit up.
“Help!” she shouted. “Help me!”
Footfalls thumped inside. Along with them came the shriek of a squalling baby.
The door pulled back to reveal a withered, gray-haired man wearing a #1 Grandpa t-shirt. Worry wrinkles spread across his face. He glanced back toward the wooden crib in his living room before facing Michelle.
“What?” he asked, breathless. “What’s the emergency?”
She put the emergency right through his forehead.
Chapter 8
“Guess who’s coming over tonight,” Ken said, sitting across from his father at the breakfast table. The sunlit kitchen smelled of toasted rye and melted cheese. Their egg-white omelets had turned out near perfect—so well that Dad hadn’t found any reason to nitpick yet. Ken hoped the A+ meal would put his old man in a receptive mood. Dad wasn’t gonna like what he heard next.
“Who’s coming?” Dad said, biting into a piece of toast.
“First off,” Ken said, poking at his omelet, “I should mention that I got invited to a cookout tonight. It starts at six, and I was hoping to make an evening of it, but obviously I didn’t want to leave you here fending for yourself. Then I had a great idea—what if, while I’m at the cookout, you spend time with Robby?”
Dad grumbled and pushed away his breakfast plate. His wheelchair creaked as he wiped a fleck of egg white from his mouth before he threw his napkin down. The last warm weekend of the year had turned aggravatingly chilly.
“Robby isn’t welcome here,” Dad said, his tone measured despite his obvious disgust. “Not until he gets his act together and returns your mother’s jewelry. Those are my terms. And by the way, would it kill him to ask how my legs are doing? He can ask for money—that’s for sure—but he never asks about my well-being.”
Ken sliced into his omelet. “Tonight you should tell him that face-to-face.”
“What’s the point? He’s got your mother’s ears. He won’t listen.” Dad waved his hand as if sweeping away the conversation topic. “Besides, I can handle myself tonight. You enjoy your party. Long as I’m parked in front of the TV in time for the Dodgers game, I’m happy.”
“What about getting into bed?”
“I’ve got two working arms, Kenny. Besides, you installed that handlebar along the wall near my bed. What was the point of that if I don’t use it?”
“How about I move the kitchen TV into your bedroom?” Ken said, pointing his fork at the TV on the counter. A news reporter droned about a local drug bust. “That way, I can get you into bed before I leave tonight.”
“That TV’s too small for the game. Might as well hand me a radio. Besides, bed is no place to watch TV. Bed is for sleep and sleeping with.” He smirked. “Which reminds me, any ladies at this party tonight?”
Ken sprinkled pepper over his omelet. “Some.”
“Any of interest?”
Ken shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Atta boy!” Dad clapped
the tabletop. The noise woke Hopper, their pit bull, who gingerly rose to his feet beside the basement door. Hopper had suffered a leg injury before they rescued him and never fully recovered his stride—not that they loved him any less for it. As he staggered over to the table, Dad reached down to pet his fine gray fur. “Hear that, Hopper? Uncle Kenny’s gonna be clinking glasses with a stunning young onna tonight.” He looked up. “What’s her name?”
“Angela. She’s hosting the party.”
“Let’s hope she sends the other guests home early.”
“Wouldn’t count on that. Not even sure if she’s interested. That much is a mystery.”
Dad grinned. “You need a little mystery in your life, Kenny. Be a good detective and investigate thoroughly tonight.”
“Dad, you’re a creep.”
“Son, you’re a prude. Time you moved on from Olivia. It’s not good to dwell on her, especially five years after the fact.”
“I know that.” Ken scraped at his plate. “Can we not talk about this during breakfast? Or ever?”
“I’ll stop mentioning it if you bring home this Angela. It’d be nice to see you happy again, Kenny. We’ve had nothing but doom and gloom since your mother passed. Speaking of, did you see yesterday’s letter from the attorneys? Think we might have that damned negligent doctor on the ropes.”
“Nice. I’ll read it after school.”
“Atta boy. Now tell me about this Angela. Does she—”
The landline rang. Ken popped the corded phone off its hook. “Hello?”
“Goro?” The voice coming through sounded urgent, panicked. “Goro, you may be in danger. Last night in Texas—”
“Whoa, wait,” Ken said. “This isn’t Goro. This is his son, Ken.”
“Put your father on the phone. Tell him it’s Takahashi.”
Heart racing, Ken cupped a hand over the receiver. “Dad, who’s Takahashi?”
Dad’s eyes widened. “Give me the phone.”
Though Dad spoke to the man in a calm, measured tone, there was no mistaking the stress written across his face; he would’ve been dominated by a novice poker player. In reply he gave short, clipped answers entirely in Japanese. He mostly sat there, listening. At one point he flinched and said, “A baby?” but little else. Dad concluded the conversation with a thank you.
Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller Page 4
