Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller

by Brandon McNulty

  “You’re worried about my husband?”

  “That’s part of it, but…” He took a deep breath, inhaling the chlorine-tinged air. “If I’m being honest, this feels like it’s coming out of nowhere. Up until recently, I never got the impression you were interested.”

  “Oh.” Her hands slid from his neck. Now that they were gone, he wanted them back. “Sorry, Ken.”

  “No, it’s fine, it just feels rushed.” He was breathing fast.

  Way to kill the moment, Kenny boy.

  “I didn’t mean to rush anything,” she blurted. “I just…what I wanted…ugh, this is gonna sound so cheesy.”

  “It’s okay.” He began to calm down. Hearing her trip over her words made him feel like less of a doofus. “Nothing’s cheesy if it’s the truth.”

  She smiled. “Okay. But if you make fun of me, you’re a dead man.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Okay, so…” She bit her lip. It was strangely reassuring to see her nervous in his presence. “Ever feel like you’re an actor in a movie you’ve seen already? Like someone yells ‘cut’ every night and you have to do another take in the morning and it’s the same scene every day?”

  “Sometimes. Yeah.”

  “I keep getting this sinking feeling. When I see the students in my classes, they’re always growing. Always working toward new things. They have goals, they have destinations, they have purpose.” She hung her head. “But me, I’m the same Angela every day. I wake up, teach, run errands, pretend to care about my husband, fall asleep, and repeat. That’s it. No goals, no destinations, no surprises. Just the same movie as yesterday but with some deleted scenes mixed in.”

  He nodded. “Sounds like my work life. And my family life.”

  “See, that’s what I’m saying. Life’s no mystery anymore. It’s too safe, too predictable. That’s why I invited you here.” She pulled at her hair. “I know you said things felt rushed, but we’ve known each other a while. I don’t know about you, but it hasn’t been only this week that I’ve thought about you. When you look at it that way, it’s not rushed—it’s overdue.”

  His scalp tingled. “Never thought of it that way.”

  “Sure you have,” she said, grinning. “I’ve seen it in your eyes. Many times.”

  His cheeks burned.

  “Ken.” She took his hands beneath the surface. Her slim, strong fingers squeezed out his fears like juice from a lemon. “Let’s stop living in a boring old movie we’ve seen a thousand times. Let’s leave that theater. You and me. Together.”

  Damn. Her words knocked the wind out of him. He stood there, trying to breathe, trying to think what to say.

  Then he realized he didn’t need to speak.

  Beneath the surface his hands remained cupped under hers. He squeezed tight and pulled her toward him. Their bodies met with a quiet splash, his pulse throbbing in his ear. He felt something warm brush his face and realized their breathing was overlapping. Everything was happening fast. Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

  Bombs went off in his brain. Her kiss was strong and soft and exhilarating. It lasted longer than any man deserved. He slid his arms around her back, pulling her body against his, her breasts flattening against his chest. It sent tremors through him and again his penis pushed against his boxers.

  She pulled away.

  Oh, shit.

  He found himself staring back at her. She must’ve felt his erection against her thigh and got creeped out. Even with the surrounding arborvitae trees shutting out her neighbors, a backyard pool was no place for—

  Before he could finish the thought, she reached for the strap on her right shoulder. She pushed it aside and did the same with the left one. Her bare shoulders glowed in the moonlight. His eyes followed her fingers, which curved inside the neckline of her swimsuit. She started to tug it down, then paused, torturing him with suspense.

  His mouth went dry.

  Instead of finishing the job, she took his hand and guided it toward her, tucking his finger inside her slick cleavage.

  A buzzing warmth filled him. He ached for her. There was no hesitation anymore. No fear. Nothing but the desire to keep going.

  When she released his hand, she nodded.

  With an anxious tug, he freed her breasts from the confines of the one-piece. They spilled out almost comically, but once they settled, he marveled at their fullness, at the white secrecy of her tan lines. He cupped their springy firmness while her hands went searching for secrets of their own.

  Beneath the water, her grip closed around his shaft. His mind raced everywhere before stopping at the intersection of “Is this really happening?” and “Don’t mess this up.” He felt himself ache within her grasp and wondered if they should move indoors. The house seemed miles away, so he hurried her toward the shallow end. He sank down on one of the submerged steps, leaning back against the pool wall, the water line partway up his chest.

  Angela climbed over him and slipped, dropping onto his thighs with a splash. She laughed it off; he held his breath. Establishing her footing, she reached between her legs to tug her swimsuit aside.

  Meeting his eyes, she nodded breathlessly.

  Icy nerves overran his body. The frigid rush turned him half limp, but that changed when her hand found him again beneath the surface. He stiffened as she guided him closer. He felt himself bump her thigh before passing from the pool’s warmth into her own.

  His life stopped being a boring old movie. It started mattering. Even their clumsy position didn’t spoil it. As he and Angela searched for a rhythm, the world around him melted away. It was mesmerizing, losing himself to the sensations—the clutch of her arms around his shoulders, the splash of the water against his chest, the huff of her hot breath against his ear.

  Then somewhere a crack sounded, like a snapping tree branch. He hopped to attention, alarmed. His abrupt movement tumbled her off him. While she splashed to her feet, he peeked over the pool’s concrete edge, squinting through shadows, trying to locate the source of the noise. It sounded like it came from the rear of the yard.

  “Did you hear that?” he said, breathless.

  “Who cares,” she said. “Probably nothing.”

  “It was loud.” His heart pounded, and not romantically. “You think—”

  “Ken, it’s probably just a squirrel.”

  “Or someone watching us.” He dipped his shoulders beneath the surface. He felt exposed, as if an audience were watching—an audience that included not only the neighbors but everyone he knew, including his ex-fiancée. In the back of his mind he heard Olivia saying he wasn’t man enough for Angela. Not man enough for any woman.

  “Relax,” Angela said. “I’m sure it was nothing.”

  Despite the warm pool, he went limp. The water line floated along his collarbones, the same place as on his wedding day. His shoulders exposed to the chilly night air, he shivered brutally.

  Angela touched his arm.

  He flinched. Backed away with a splash.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should go.”

  “You’re leaving now?” Her voice was half pleading, half insulted. “Right now? In the middle of this?”

  He climbed out of the pool, grabbed a towel from a lawn chair, and dried himself.

  “Ken, please come back.”

  “It’s late.” He tossed the towel aside and grabbed his wet clothes. In their condition they were hard to pull on, but he dressed hurriedly. “I’m worried about my father. Usually I help him into bed.”

  “Ken!”

  “Sorry.” He pulled his soaked polo over his head. “Maybe some other time.”

  “I’m not leaving this pool until you get back in here.” She dropped both fists with a splash. “I mean it. I’ll stay here all night. You want me to fall asleep and drown?”

  “I’m sorry.” He jammed his feet into his soggy shoes and scampered off, taking one last glance over his shoulder at her. She stood there, arms
folded across her bare chest. He was already regretting this, but Olivia was right.

  He wasn’t man enough.

  Chapter 14

  Michelle obeyed the old man and entered the unlit house at gunpoint. It pained her to take orders from Goro Fujima, but if she’d learned one thing this week, it was whoever pointed the gun got their way. Her own weapon remained tangled up behind her, the trigger neutralized by a shoelace. Traveling all this way to get shot by her final target wasn’t in the plan. She needed to regain control somehow. She needed justice for her family.

  “What you hiding behind your back?” Fujima said. “Turn slowly so I can see.”

  Michelle stalled, trying to work the bindings. They were too tight. Fuck, I need to shoot. Never should’ve told Hannah to leave. What was I thinking?

  “I said turn around.”

  She followed his order, exposing the revolver to the light coming from the street.

  “Hmph. So that’s the gun,” he murmured, as if familiar with the weapon. “I take it you blocked the trigger to keep from firing?”

  She remained silent.

  “Foolish move.” He lit a nearby lamp. The living room burst into sight, cluttered with cushy furniture and a bright blue dog bed. Photos of the Fujima family adorned the walls, their smiling faces mocking her. “Step toward the kitchen. Slowly. No sudden movements. If I catch you undoing those laces, I’ll shoot.”

  Michelle glanced over her shoulder and saw he wasn’t fucking around. His pistol remained steady and he glared without blinking. As she approached the kitchen, he wheeled himself behind her and shut the front door. A stiff fear tunneled through her chest. Why didn’t the bastard just call the cops or shoot her? Why bother marching her through the house like this? She couldn’t help feeling like a web were being spun around her, one she wouldn’t escape.

  “That gun of yours,” he said. “Supposedly a former yakuza possessed it. His name was Saito. What’s your relation to him?”

  She gritted her teeth.

  “Answer me.”

  “He was my father,” she spat. “And you killed him.”

  Fujima’s wheelchair creaked as he shifted his weight. “Back in the ’90s your father betrayed our clan. In an attempt to gain power, he sold out our captain to the LAPD. Such an act was punishable by death. What I and the man you killed in Dallas did was carry out the punishment.”

  “Fuck you,” she said, unfazed by his 9mm. “My mom—you killed her too.”

  “She wasn’t supposed to be there.”

  “But she was.”

  His voice hesitated slightly. “We had orders to kill your father. He knew it was coming. It’s possible he kept your mother close to deter us from shooting. Regardless, his crimes warranted immediate punishment.”

  “That’s no excuse for shooting her, you prick. You don’t get to make excuses after you pull the trigger.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You killed several people.”

  “Yeah, five assholes responsible for my parents’ deaths.”

  “Your vengeance was sloppy.”

  “How so?”

  “You killed six.”

  “Not yet. Only five.”

  “You shot five,” Fujima said. “But you killed six.”

  Michelle swallowed. “What do you mean?”

  “You left two bodies in Dallas. Those of Mr. Orochi and his three-month-old granddaughter. She passed away last night.”

  “What?” Michelle felt her neck muscles tense. “That’s bullshit.”

  “I’m afraid not. You, daughter of Saito, robbed us of an innocent child.”

  “But the baby was in a crib—it was crying when I left.”

  “The exact cause of death hasn’t been determined, but we both know that child would be alive if you hadn’t dropped by.”

  “No…” Michelle said. Her fingers, which yearned to pluck at the shoelaces, went agonizingly numb. Her whole body did.

  “Why have you stopped moving?” He rolled his chair forward and shook his pistol at her. “Go on into the kitchen.”

  Nearby a dopey-faced pit bull limped around the kitchen table. It growled, driving her away from the fridge. Ahead lay a washer-dryer and two doors. One opened onto a bedroom. The other was shut.

  “I’ll get that door for you,” Fujima said, rolling ahead and opening it. A shadowy staircase descended below. “Head downstairs.”

  “Down there? Why?” Before she could protest further, she recognized an opportunity. If she hurried down into the darkness, she could undo her bindings there without being seen. This idiot was giving her an advantage.

  But as she approached the top step, he said, “Stop.”

  “You said to head down.”

  “Want you to know something,” he said. “Two years ago, after my wife died, I had too much to drink one night. When I went downstairs for more beer, I missed one of these steps and took a hard tumble. Ended up whacking my spine, and I lost function in both legs. Since then, I’ve often wondered if this staircase punished me for my sins. That I’m not certain of, but I know one thing—tonight these stairs will punish you for yours.”

  Alarms went off in her head. She swung around to face him and found his pistol pointed at her chest.

  “You can jump down,” he said, “or I can shoot you down. Either way, the stairs will decide your fate.”

  “Wait!” Her fingers worked frantically at the laces. “I can’t jump. My wrists are tied. How am I supposed to break my fall?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “No!” She ripped at the restraints. Laces slid, but not enough. “Don’t do this.”

  He lifted the pistol. “Last chance to jump.”

  “NO!” Michelle screamed.

  That instant the front door burst open.

  “Chelle!” Hannah’s voice. “Where are you?”

  “Stay back,” Fujima yelled, pointing the 9mm toward the living room.

  With the pistol aimed elsewhere, Michelle seized the opening and charged at Fujima. She headbutted his shoulder, driving his wheelchair back into the washer-dryer with a loud, echoing clang. She fell to her knees but scrambled to her feet and bull-rushed him, this time smashing her skull into his sternum.

  The impact left her woozy. The old man groaned when she collapsed against him.

  Behind her the dog barked and Hannah shouted.

  Michelle twisted her neck and saw the pistol remained in the old man’s grasp. She stretched her mouth toward his forearm and snapped her jaws over his soft, hairy flesh. Fujima jerked in his seat. The pistol wobbled in his grasp, and she clenched her jaws, her teeth sinking into muscle. A metallic flavor seeped into her mouth.

  Then came a harsh backward tug on her hair. Her scalp burned, and the sudden flash of heat caused her to release her bite. The moment she did, her head was tugged violently in the opposite direction.

  Fujima yanked a fistful of her hair forcefully in several directions before shoving her backward toward the basement.

  She landed hard on her bound hands. A nasty sting ran up her forearms. When the pain faded, she realized nothing was supporting the back of her head—it dangled over the top step.

  She sat up in a panic. Ahead Hannah and Fujima were wrestling over the pistol. Hannah tugged him out of his wheelchair and onto the floor.

  Michelle lifted her leg to kick him. She got him once in the shoulder, then drove her heel toward his face.

  His hand reached out.

  Grabbed her foot.

  And shoved her.

  Again she landed on her bound hands, but this time her upper body teetered over the edge. Her legs kicked, bicycling wildly as she tried to find her balance. As her head tipped backward, she yelled out, “Hannaaah!”

  But it was too late.

  For a moment Michelle felt weightless, like she was riding a roller coaster in reverse. The sensation stretched on until her shoulder struck one of the risers. Pain exploded through h
er back. Then her head. Then her knees. She lost track of what hurt. Each step pummeled her until she struck the concrete floor.

  Everything throbbed. The fall had demolished her. In the darkness it was impossible to tell what parts got it worst. At least one shoulder had been ripped from its socket. Her joints were hot, and an eerie numbness covered various areas of her back and limbs. Agony engulfed her every nerve.

  Then the pain abruptly faded.

  In its place came another sensation. One that acted as a welcome distraction.

  Hunger.

  The revolver’s hunger.

  It ate through her pain and allowed her to sit upright. Her neck crunched as she stretched it gently up and down until she was able to look upstairs.

  Framed in the doorway, Hannah held the old man in a headlock, her jaw hanging in horror as she stared down at her sister.

  “Hannah,” Michelle said. “Bring him down here.”

  Chapter 15

  The moment Ken pulled into his driveway, a chill shivered beneath his wet clothes. Something was wrong. He couldn’t identify what was off, but he’d lived here long enough to know a normal night from an odd one. When he discovered Hopper pawing at the back door, his worst suspicions were confirmed. Dad never locked their dog outside, which meant someone else had.

  Ken’s first instinct was to call 911. Trouble was, he’d left his phone at Angela’s. He considered borrowing a neighbor’s phone, but if an intruder were inside his house, every second counted.

  Shivering in the midnight air, he unlocked the back door and rushed into the kitchen, Hopper following behind. First thing Ken noticed was the TV volume was cranked to skull-splitting levels. SportsCenter commentary boomed while Hopper gimped toward the basement door. Ken raced there, his waterlogged shoes squelching. He paused when he spotted Dad’s empty wheelchair parked in the nearby shadows.

  That stopped his heart cold. Some monster took him out of his chair. What kind of psycho would do that?

  He went to grab the kitchen phone when a shout sounded from the basement.

  Dad!

  Ken yanked the basement door open.