Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller

by Brandon McNulty

  A frantic tapping diverted his attention. Against the wall sat Dr. Glinski, her legs jimmying against the floor. Her mouth hung open, soundless, as if she’d forgotten how to scream.

  For a moment he wondered why she was here. Then he realized he’d invaded her home to kidnap her. The plan had been to coerce her into saving Hannah, who might die any minute. He could mourn Chrissie later; if he didn’t hurry, Hannah would join her.

  He lumbered to his feet and approached Glinski. In a small voice he said, “I need you to treat a gunshot wound.”

  Glinski blinked. “But…she’s dead.”

  “Not Chrissie,” he said. “Another woman. You need to come with me.”

  He led her toward the door at gunpoint and then stopped short.

  The sight of Chrissie lying dead in Robby’s arms struck him like a sledgehammer to the chest. Last night Ken, engulfed in grief, confusion, and panic, had killed his father’s murderer. Tonight, however, he knew what he was up against: a cursed weapon that thrust his ugliest desires to the forefront of his mind. Rather than selecting a worthy target while he still had control, he’d waited and waited. His indecisiveness cost Chrissie her life. And though she’d spent the past two years ruining his brother, she didn’t deserve that. Not when Ken could’ve shot anyone else—backstreet criminals, people on the verge of death, even the doctor who’d misdiagnosed his mother.

  “Robby,” Ken whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Robby sobbed into the unbloody half of Chrissie’s head. When Ken reached for his shoulder, Robby shrugged him off—not with anger but with grief.

  “Rob, we need to go. The noise woke the neighbors. Cops’ll be here soon.”

  “I don’t care."

  “You should.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “But—”

  “Leave me the fuck alone!” Robby snapped. “Go save Hannah since she’s so goddamn important.”

  The comment burned his ears. Ken backed away, unsure what to say. He wanted to point out that Hannah had spared his life back at the house. That she’d never killed anyone. That she was someone they needed to work with. But out of all the things Ken wanted to say to his brother, he said the one that mattered most.

  “Don’t get caught, Robby.”

  Then he steered Glinski out the door and tried to do the same.

  Chapter 30

  They managed to save Hannah.

  Her kitchen-floor surgery hadn’t been pretty. It had required alcohol wipes, betadine wipes, scissors, a needle, some thread, and the expert care of a physician with a gun to her skull. Strangely, there was no bullet to remove; by some dark miracle, it seemed to have vanished. That worked in their favor, but without any topical anesthetics, Hannah had to endure the suturing process with clenched teeth and constant thrashing. Watching her suffer was no fun, and Ken spent the entire surgery berating himself for putting her in this position.

  Once Dr. Glinski had sealed the wound and wrapped it with gauze, she insisted on moving Hannah to a hospital. Ken declined, knowing that his and Hannah’s survival depended on more than IV drips and blood transfusions. Instead, he asked about home care. Glinski recommended raising the thermostat and covering Hannah with blankets to keep her warm. Restoring nutrients was equally critical; plenty of fluids, electrolytes, and iron-enriched foods would help with that.

  Now Ken chewed on his knuckle, wondering if he’d done the right thing. He’d made an awfully large mess in the past hour or so. There was no telling if Hannah would survive, but for the moment he was glad she had a chance.

  They lifted Hannah onto the living room futon and monitored her for several minutes. She lay there, pale and breathing shallowly. An occasional cough escaped her throat, but aside from that, there wasn’t much action.

  Glinski wiped her bloodstained hands on her bathrobe and sat on the coffee table. Her gaze darted around the room before landing on his gunhand. She opened her mouth but hesitated before asking, “Who removed the bullet?”

  “Nobody,” Ken said.

  “Someone had to,” Glinski said in a hurried tone. “It was expertly done. Was another doctor here?”

  Ken shook his head. He decided to tell her about the gun. By the time he finished, the coffee table was rattling from her shaking. “Settle down. I don’t intend to kill anyone until tomorrow.”

  “Listen,” she said, pulling at her collar, “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “So you do remember her. At your house you pretended otherwise.”

  “I was scared. I didn’t know what to say.” Glinski nodded toward Mom’s photo on the wall. “Truth is, I’ll never forget her. She haunts me everywhere I go.”

  “That’s no way to talk about her.”

  “Sorry, I meant no disrespect. What I’m trying to say is that the moment your family filed that lawsuit, my life came to a hard stop. I didn’t sleep for three straight nights after I found out.” She grimaced. “Ever since, I’ve felt trapped. I can always sense these invisible walls nearby—ten, fifteen feet away. They keep squeezing inward. They get closer and closer until I feel them push against my skin, my bones. Every day is like that, and whenever I enter an exam room, I want your mother to be there. I just want another chance. At the same time, I’m terrified that it will be her, that I’ll make the same mistake again.”

  Ken frowned, wondering if he would feel the same about Chrissie from now on. When he closed his eyes, he saw the deep red of her bullet wound and her blood-slick hair. He imagined he’d be replaying the scene millions of times if he lived through this mess.

  “What mistake?” he asked. “What mistake did you make?”

  Glinski shrank away. “I…was careless. I should’ve asked your mother more questions. Should’ve sent her for tests.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “We get lots of patients with back pain. Very rarely is it caused by cancer.”

  “Tell me something,” he said, recalling his dinner conversation with Dad. “Did you get kickbacks for what you prescribed her?”

  “What? No.” She forcefully shook her head. “It’s like I said. I was careless. I made a horrible mistake. Ever since then, I’ve tried to make up for it.”

  “You can’t,” he said. “My mother’s gone.”

  “I know. But those invisible walls I mentioned—they only pull back when I’m examining patients. Nowadays I inquire about everything. If I have the slightest suspicion that cancer might be present, I send my patients for tests. I do what I should’ve done with your mother. I know it’s too little too late for her, but it’s the best I can do.”

  Ken stared her down. He wasn’t sure he bought her change of heart. She was likely telling him what he wanted to hear. Either way, he didn’t have to decide her fate until tomorrow. For now, he only needed to keep her from leaving.

  “Get up,” he said. “We’re going downstairs.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I can’t trust you to sit here and behave.”

  “Wait. Please. Hear me out.”

  “I did.” He gestured with the gun. “Now get up.”

  “Okay, but—”

  The doorbell rang.

  Ken froze as if he’d been hit in the neck with a tranq dart. His imagination raced straight to Officer Isaacs. A neighbor had probably notified him about the gunshot earlier tonight. Ken had been in such a hurry to save Hannah that he’d forgotten about the other consequences of firing a loaded gun in his living room.

  “Help!” Glinski shouted. “H-e-l-l-p-p!”

  Ken poked the gun against her cheek. That quieted her, but he needed to think fast. If Isaacs were outside, Ken needed to respond now or risk having his door beaten down. The barrel tucked under her chin, he grabbed her collar, steered her toward the front door, and whispered, “Lean against the wall and don’t move. If you do, I’ll shoot you and whoever’s on the porch. Are we clear?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she murmured.

  The bell rang again.


  When he opened the door, it wasn’t Isaacs. It was Robby. His brother’s eyes, glossy and red-rimmed, peered through the two-inch gap. Chilly air trickled in, bringing his brother’s unwashed odor with it. Though it was hard to tell for certain, the sleeves of Robby’s hoodie appeared wet with blood.

  Instead of relief, Ken felt horrorstruck. “Get in here, Rob—before anyone sees you.”

  Robby remained on the porch. He said nothing, just stared into the living room and sniffled.

  “Hurry, get in here.” Ken yanked Glinski away from the wall. “I’m moving her downstairs to tape her up. Give me a hand.”

  Robby entered without a word. The only sound he made was an occasional sniffle. On his way to the kitchen, he paused to look at Hannah. He blinked a few times, then approached the basement door. Downstairs he grabbed the tape. It took them two minutes to attach Glinski to the shelving rack. Once it was done, Robby stared at her for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Thanks for the help,” Ken said, unsure what else to say. Now that things had settled down, he realized Robby was in a fractured state. The blood on his clothes might as well have been his own. In the span of a single day, he’d endured the deaths of his father and his lover—the latter caused by his own brother. That was enough to overwhelm any man, let alone one caught in the dark cloud of addiction.

  “Robby…” Ken set a hand on his brother’s shoulder. The muscles underneath tensed. “Let’s head upstairs. Get you a change of clothes.”

  Robby remained silent and still.

  “Maybe we can have some coffee, talk things out.” Ken squeezed his elbow. He tugged gently, fearful that his brother might collapse if he pulled too hard. “But only if you want to. If you don’t want to talk, that’s okay.”

  Robby sniffled.

  Ken frowned. “Look, I’m sorry about Chrissie.”

  The moment her name left his tongue, Robby turned and smacked him.

  Ken caught the punch square in the mouth. His neck whipped sideways; his teeth flared hot. He tasted blood. When he reached to check his lip, Robby roared and tackled him onto his back.

  Fists crashed against his forehead and cheek. On instinct Ken blocked the incoming blows with his forearms. He guarded his face until he felt the sharp drop of an elbow on his stomach. More blows smashed his ribs and chest before Robby grabbed Ken’s forearms and tried to pry them away from his face.

  Ken held strong in his defensive pose. He didn’t want to fight back. He didn’t want to make things worse. He just wanted this to end.

  A hard pinch along his forearm followed. Pain swept over him in a fiery rush. Ken realized Robby was biting into him like a feral dog.

  That did it.

  Ken slammed his fist into his brother’s gut and shoved him away.

  Robby rolled into a stack of cardboard boxes. The upper ones toppled down, spilling towels and dishcloths over him. Robby shoved them aside and bared his teeth, which were stained with blood. In the dim light of the basement, he resembled something subhuman. When he reset his feet, he lunged forward. Both hands reached for Ken’s neck, but they never took hold.

  Ken jammed his gunhand hard against his brother’s forehead.

  Time froze, as though a pause button had been hit. Nobody moved, not even Glinski, who’d been yelling throughout the scuffle. The brothers’ eyes met, and Ken watched Robby’s glare wither into fear. A man could only maintain aggression for so long with a gun against his forehead.

  “I want you to leave,” Ken said through gritted teeth. His forearm throbbed where he’d been bitten. “Now.”

  Robby backed away from the revolver. On his way up the basement steps, he cast one last glance at Ken. Tears swam in Robby’s eyes. A sob escaped as he rushed upstairs. The front door soon slammed behind him.

  Chapter 31

  Sunrise came before sleep did. An orange glow burned around the edge of the front curtains, lighting the living room enough to outline Hannah’s silhouette. Her chest rose and dipped beneath the blanket, a sign of life. For now, everything was peaceful—not that Ken trusted the respite to last. Any second, he expected to learn that blinking his eyes could detonate a nuke or sneezing could trigger an earthquake. He felt dangerous, and not in a sexy, exciting way.

  Sinking back into Dad’s recliner, he removed the icepack from his chin and took another gulp of the bottom-shelf vodka he’d found stashed in a cupboard. It tasted the way paint smelled, but he needed it. More than anything, he needed to ditch his conscious mind. Escape this nightmare. Escape himself.

  As more sunlight pierced the living room, Hannah shifted beneath her quilt. Her head moved. She coughed.

  He rushed to her side. “Hannah? Need anything?”

  After some weak coughing, she said, “Water.”

  He filled a mug at the sink and stuck a bendy straw inside. He guided it to her lips, and after a harsh cough she pulled on the straw. He encouraged her to drink more, remembering what Glinski said about keeping hydrated.

  After Hannah drank her fill, he touched her forehead. Hot as a lit oven.

  “Kill anybody?” she asked groggily.

  “Let’s cool you down,” he said, ignoring her question. He ran cool water over a dishcloth, wrung it out, and pressed it to her forehead. “How’s that feel?”

  “Grimy.” She pushed the quilt down and lifted her shirt to check the wound. When her finger grazed the bandages, she grimaced.

  “Does it hurt bad?”

  “Try shooting yourself and find out.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing,” she said. “It’s like sorry is the only word you know. When I get better, I’m gonna force-feed you a dictionary.”

  He smiled. “Least you’re in good spirits. Hungry?”

  “My stomach feels like it’s full of sludge.”

  “I’ll get you something to soak it up.”

  In the kitchen he refilled her mug and found a box of unsalted crackers in a cupboard. Dad used to love them in his soup. If he were here now, he’d cringe at the idea of sharing them with Hannah. But after everything Ken went through to keep her breathing, he now considered her his responsibility. Maybe he had simply become accustomed to the role of caretaker, but he believed it was the right thing to do.

  Back in the living room he offered her a cracker. She nibbled, following each bite with a sip of water.

  “You’re tougher than the doctor expected,” he said.

  “Doctor? How’d you get a doctor here?”

  “Kidnapped her.” He sat on the coffee table and hung his head. “I went from shooting you to invading her home in the span of a half hour.” He rubbed his eyes. “Where the hell is my life going?”

  “Wherever it has to.”

  “I’m so screwed.”

  “Then blow your brains out.”

  “Can you tap the brakes on the sarcasm?”

  “Well, excuse me for being lippy toward my almost-assassin.” She nibbled another cracker. Sipped more water. “Remember, there’s a way out. We’ll go to LA and hit the reset button.”

  “It’s not that simple,” he said. “I…I killed Chrissie.”

  “You also killed my sister.” Hannah said. “Or does her death not matter?”

  “It does. It’s just… So much happened so fast that my head feels like a beehive. I can’t even think straight. And I have four more bullets.”

  “Know what I’d do?” Hannah said, gingerly tilting her neck. Judging by the strain on her face, it put unwanted pressure on her side. “I’d rush the next four. Don’t drag things out and torture yourself. Think—would you rather have bad things happen all week long or just have an extra-shitty Monday?”

  “A bad-enough Monday can ruin the whole week.”

  Hannah winced. Though she spoke like her old self, her face suggested she was in agony. He brought her another cool dishcloth.

  “Thanks.” She rested her eyelids. “Hey, you heard what I said about the floor mat in my van, right?”

&nbs
p; “About the note? Yeah. Haven’t gotten around to it.”

  “Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

  “Do you need it now?”

  “No, I’m…surprised.” She blinked. “Thought I’d be expendable once you heard about the note. Instead, you kidnapped a doctor to save me. Never expected that out of a Fujima.”

  “Didn’t want anyone to die,” he said.

  “You’re strange. Letting me bleed out would’ve made your life easier.”

  He smiled. “Maybe next time I’ll reconsider.”

  “Not funny.”

  He frowned. “You’re right. Especially after what I did to Chrissie.”

  “Don’t say that. You didn’t kill Chrissie. The gun did.”

  “Hannah, that’s not true. Every choice I made led me to that point. I knew about the deadline. I should’ve acted.”

  Soon as the words left his mouth, he realized what must be done. He was no killer, but if he had to be one, he needed to pick his targets decisively. Chrissie died because he backed himself into a corner. He should’ve shot someone sooner, but instead he avoided his grim responsibility and hoped the problem would vanish.

  In the end it didn’t.

  In the end the gun got its way. It forced his reluctant, indecisive hand.

  But it won’t happen again, he thought. Next time, it’s my call.

  Chapter 32

  Hoping to clear his overburdened mind, Ken trudged outside in search of Hannah’s van. From the moment his feet hit the sidewalk, his senses came under assault. Blinding sunlight crashed against his eyes; dead leaves crunched underfoot, the sound of each step irritating him toward insanity. At the street corner, his nostrils took a beating from a busted garbage bag. The fumes followed him, carried by a chilly morning breeze that seemed intent on suffocating him. He hurried down the next block before the air cleared. Suddenly he realized, to his horror, that he'd forgotten his jacket.