Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller

by Brandon McNulty

  The snubnose was out in the open.

  Right where anyone could see it.

  Arrest me now, he thought.

  He buried the gun in his pants pocket, obscuring it. No telling how obvious it looked, but he didn’t care at this point. Running on no sleep had that effect on him.

  Hannah’s Ford Windstar was parked along the curb with its window open. The interior stank of buffalo sauce gone bad. A swarm of flies hovered inside. He reached in and discovered the lock was already popped. Somebody had looted the van. Although, judging by the crusty interior seats and scattered sandwich wrappers, there wasn’t much worth stealing.

  He opened the door. A squirrel darted out, scaring him into nearly pulling the trigger. His heart thumped erratically while he sifted through discarded fast-food bags on the floor. He stuffed them all into a single bag, which he tossed under the vehicle. He then lifted the floor mats and found a crumpled piece of paper.

  He unfolded it. It read:

  —need money, new IDs, or anything else, bring this weapon to the Sunrise Building on San Martin Ave. There you’ll find a man who can help. His name is Takahashi. He’ll take care of you.

  All my love,

  Your father

  Ken rubbed his eyes and reread the note. He couldn’t believe it. Takahashi? Could this be the same guy who called Dad on Friday morning? If that were the case, what did it mean? Did Takahashi want Dad dead? Most likely not, considering the warning had nearly saved Dad’s life, but something was off here. Ken needed to ask Hannah.

  After locking the van, he headed home. The moment he reached his front lawn, he noticed someone wearing a pink hoodie and khaki capris standing on his porch. He thought his weary mind was projecting fantasies, because the woman looked like Angela. He shut his eyes tight. When he reopened them, she was still there, thumbing his doorbell. A faint ding-dong echoed.

  He hurriedly tucked his gunhand under the back of his shirt.

  “Angela?”

  At the sound of her name she twisted around. She didn’t appear happy to see him. Her face was red, makeup streaked beneath her eyes. She’d been crying.

  Over how I left her the other night?

  “Hey,” he said, “about Friday night…”

  “You left your phone in my yard,” she said, pulling it from her back pocket. “Thought you might stop by for it, but you never showed.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “My hands were full.”

  She tossed her dark hair behind her shoulder and descended the porch steps. At the mailbox she handed him the phone. She smelled of lavender.

  “I shouldn’t have run off like that,” he said.

  “Yeah.” She frowned. “Did you hear about Pete?”

  “Pete?” The abrupt change in subject baffled him. “You mean Pete Chang? Our student?”

  “Yeah. He…died yesterday.”

  Ken collapsed against the mailbox. It struck his side with a dull plastic thud. For a moment he stood there, picturing the look on Pete’s face when the boy had rushed out of the custodian’s office on Friday. That haggard, broken look.

  “What happened?” Ken asked, his voice light years away.

  “Overdose,” she said, sniffling. “From pills.”

  He groaned, the mailbox creaking under his weight. It couldn’t be true. Pete had been angsty all week, but Ken never got the impression that the boy was suicidal. “He didn’t OD on purpose, did he?”

  “Probably accidental, I’m not sure,” she said, dabbing an eye with her sleeve. “Another teacher texted me and said the pills were counterfeit Oxycontin. Apparently they were made with fentanyl.”

  “Fentanyl?” He’d heard about fentanyl on the news. It was cheaper and more potent than heroin, so dealers often cut their supply with it. He always feared Robby might buy an unlucky score one day and end up dead. “How many pills did Pete take?”

  “No idea. From what I heard there was a bottle on his nightstand that was practically full. Probably took only a couple.”

  A couple. That almost sounded harmless. Though Ken was no expert on drug addiction, he knew that typically when addicts decided to kill themselves, they went out using their entire stash. Popping a couple pills didn’t sound like a suicide. Rather, it sounded like Pete had developed a tolerance and tried chasing a high, only to ingest more than he’d bargained for.

  If his death were accidental, the blame was on whoever laced the pills. Ken envisioned some greedy, soulless asshole mixing fentanyl into a powdery solution. It sent his blood into a blaze. Surprisingly, his newfound fury arose from within his heart, not his gunhand.

  “Who the fuck gave him those drugs?” he snapped.

  She winced. “I have no idea. Why?”

  “Just curious,” he said, realizing his tone must’ve startled her. To be safe, he added, “My brother’s a user.”

  “God, this is awful.” She sobbed. “Pete’s gone. How can this happen?”

  She leaned forward to hug him. It wasn’t until her arm brushed his that he remembered he had a loaded gun attached to him. On reflex, he hopped away from her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I need to process this.”

  “Oh.” She looked away, embarrassed, and he felt shitty about rejecting her. “Ken, want to get coffee somewhere? Talk about this?”

  “Now’s a bad time.”

  “Oh.”

  “How about later?”

  “Sure,” she said, retreating down the sidewalk. Her Jeep was parked beside the next driveway. “We’ll chat another time, I guess.”

  When she turned her back, a void expanded within his chest. For all he knew, this might be the last time he’d ever see her. It wasn’t right to leave things like this.

  “Angela, wait,” he said. “Tonight we should do something.”

  She frowned. “There’s a memorial event for Pete tonight.”

  “In that case, I’ll be there. Text me the details.”

  “Sure. See you then.”

  She climbed into her Jeep and drove off.

  Ken wandered into the house, struck numb by the news of his student’s death. He realized he’d never get to change Pete’s attitude or see how the boy developed as an artist. Ken became so preoccupied that he accidentally poured vodka into Hopper’s bowl. He couldn’t focus. Not with this tragedy swirling around his brain.

  To think Pete would be alive if some asshole dealer hadn’t sold him fentanyl.

  It left Ken with a heavy heart and a clenched fist.

  When he checked the stove clock, it read 8:23.

  That gave him plenty of time to find and kill the bastard.

  Chapter 33

  Black coffee burned Ken’s tongue but otherwise did little to wake him. The local news stations reported nothing about Pete Chang, but they did cover the late-night shooting at Dr. Glinski’s house. Footage showed the front porch webbed with yellow tape while a voiceover explained that an unidentified woman had been shot dead inside. From the sounds of it, the police were uncertain what had happened, and the reporter mentioned that Glinski’s whereabouts were unknown.

  On the futon, Hannah snored. She’d been asleep since his return, and though he wanted to ask about the ripped note and Takahashi, she needed rest. Besides, he had more immediate concerns.

  Hoping to learn who’d supplied Pete with fentanyl, Ken grabbed a new jacket, climbed into his Camry, and drove to his brother’s place. With his gunhand tucked away, he entered the shadow-infested building. Today five people were passed out in the hallway. Some were naked, all were strung out.

  He found Robby upstairs in a room that smelled of cold pizza and hairballs. Robby lay on a half-sunken air mattress, its sides squeezing in like a hot dog bun. Ken shined his phone light and panicked when he spotted dried blood on the sleeves of Robby’s zip hoodie.

  “Wake up.” Ken shook him. “C’mon, get out of those clothes.”

  “Unngh? Who’s there?”

  “Robby, you’re covered in b
lood.”

  “Man, let me sleep.”

  Ken opened the nearest set of curtains. Behind them, the window was covered with towels pinned to the wall. He ripped them down and sunlight poured in, exposing the room’s gray walls, the crushed pizza boxes, and the scuttling roaches. He grabbed the new shirt and pants Robby had bought for his interview.

  “Get dressed. Now.”

  “I don’t care, man.”

  “You can’t lie around in those clothes. We’ll both get busted.”

  Ken kicked the air mattress. It shifted Robby off balance, dropping his elbow against the floor with a thud. He sat up, squinting.

  “Need your expertise,” Ken said. “Know any drug dealers who lace their product with fentanyl?”

  Robby shrank away from the sunlight. “Shut those curtains.”

  “Not until you get dressed and answer my question.”

  Robby struggled to his feet, clearly burdened by whatever substances had helped him achieve sleep. He peeled his hoodie and t-shirt off with the hesitance of a man removing his own flesh. The pants were even more of an adventure, and he stumbled into a wall before shrugging them off his ankles.

  “Fentanyl,” Ken said, helping Robby into his new shirt. “Who around here deals to high schoolers?”

  “How should I know?” Robby said. “Do I look sixteen to you?”

  “This is serious. A student in my class OD’d yesterday. He took counterfeit Oxycontin.”

  “Ugh.” Robby paused while sliding into his khakis. “Wish I could help, but my guy doesn’t deal to kids.”

  “Can you ask him who does?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost nine.”

  “I’ll ask when I see him later.”

  “Ask now. I need a target. Otherwise someone might die, like—” Ken stopped before mentioning Chrissie. It seemed Robby wasn’t clear-headed enough to remember last night. Best to keep it that way. “Please, Rob. Contact your dealer before someone else ODs.”

  Robby mumbled something, then got on the phone.

  “Hog? Yeah, I know it’s early, but can you hurry over?” A moment later Robby shook his head and whispered, “My guy’s busy.”

  “Where is he?” Ken said. “Can we visit him?”

  Robby asked his dealer about meeting ASAP. He paused before saying, “Can it be somewhere more discreet?”

  Ken whispered, “Anywhere. We’ll meet him anywhere.”

  Robby nodded. “Cool, Hog. I’ll text you once I’m there.”

  “Where to?” Ken said after he hung up.

  “Weirdest place,” he said. “He wants to meet at a baseball field.”

  Chapter 34

  Ken parked at the edge of Broad Street Field, right outside the surrounding chain-link fence. His brother sniffled in the passenger seat. Hard to tell if the sniffling had to do with Chrissie or heroin. Either way, Robby looked like dog shit. Every aspect, from his sunken eyes to his droopy posture, screamed defeat. His lips were badly chapped, and skin was peeling from both cheeks, as though he’d used a cheese grater for a pillow last night.

  After cutting the motor, Ken surveyed the ball field. A father and daughter were playing catch while the mother filmed everything on her phone, cheering each time the little girl caught the ball in her glove. Along the diamond, little boys ran the bases while another kid swung behind home plate, whacking imaginary pitches until his sister—or maybe a girl who thought him cute—shoved him to the dirt and ran off laughing.

  Ken turned to his brother. “Isn’t this spot a little too wholesome?”

  “It’s where Hog said to meet.”

  Ken didn’t like this. Too many people around. Too many children. “Shouldn’t these deals go down in an alleyway somewhere?”

  “They go down where they go down,” Robby said.

  “Where’re we supposed to meet him?” Ken said, swiveling his head. There was a boarded-up concession stand at the edge of the parking lot, not far from the fence. A six-foot menu hung from the side wall. The options were hot dogs, cheese dogs, and something called “fun dogs.” The rest of the menu was covered in graffiti. “That concession stand looks shady.”

  “Chill, Ken.” Robby rubbed his wrist under his nose. “I know you’re Mr. Clean and this is outside your comfort zone, but Hog’s picky about how he does business. Usually he delivers to the house. We shook up his schedule, so he needed to find a spot he’s comfortable with.”

  “I don’t like the location. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Neither does Chrissie being dead.”

  Ken’s stomach dropped. Looking away, he said, “About Chrissie…”

  “No. Get her name out of your mouth. I don’t want a stupid-ass apology.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Hannah and Glinski dead, for starters.” When Ken frowned, Robby slapped the dashboard. “Why the fuck couldn’t you shoot them? They killed Mom and Dad. Or are you forgiving them because you’re a killer too?”

  Ken’s throat went dry.

  “Worst part of losing Chrissie,” Robby said, “is that you took away the only person on earth who liked me.”

  “That’s not true,” Ken said. “You’re my brother. I love you.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t like me. Dad didn’t like me either. Sometimes being liked is better than being loved. When you’re liked, people want to see you. When you’re loved, people see you because they have to.” Robby scratched anxiously at his cheek. “Want to hear something scary? I’m not sure I like or love anyone. My girlfriend and my dad both died yesterday, and all I can think about is dope. I can’t wait to get more. I’m craving it so bad that their deaths barely matter. How fucked is that?”

  Ken didn’t know what to say. This was as honest as Robby had ever been about the subject. If Ken patronized his brother about getting clean, he might end up pushing him away. Best to let him talk.

  “I hate this,” Robby continued. “Hate it so much. I just want my life back. Even just a little piece of it. Anything.”

  His phone buzzed. He checked it.

  “Hog wants us to walk the bases.”

  “Us?”

  “Must’ve seen you.”

  “Great.” Ken exited the Camry. Though he told himself to act casual, his head swiveled, anxious to spot someone. He joined Robby inside the fence. They approached the sandy diamond with their hands in their pockets. Ken nodded as they passed the parents, who smiled uncomfortably. The kids running the bases shied away as the Fujima brothers rounded first together.

  After they reached home plate, they made another round.

  And another.

  “Remember in high school when I blew that game against Hanover?” Robby asked. “Struck out four times. Never got a piece of the ball. Feels like my life story.”

  “You had some hits in life.”

  “Like what? I whiff on everything. Even last night with Glinski. Should’ve cut her throat.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I mean it, Ken. I wanted to avenge Mom and do you a favor—slice Glinski up, get things started for you. Instead I whiffed.” Robby swung an imaginary bat. “Next thing I knew my girlfriend was dead in my arms, all because I hesitated.”

  “Be thankful you hesitated,” Ken said, studying the parking lot. “You don’t want that on your conscience. Better to grieve your loved ones than your victims.”

  “What’re you, a fucking poet now?”

  As they reached home plate, Ken noticed movement near the concession stand. Someone ducked behind it.

  Ken gave chase, his legs gathering speed until he was behind the shack.

  Nobody here. He hurried along the back wall, squinting into the adjacent woods. They were sparse, thin white birches leaning over leafy trails. There were no shrubs or thick tree trunks to hide behind. If someone were in the woods, he’d have seen them.

  Somebody’s gotta be nearby.

  “Nice going,” Robby said. “You scared him off.”

  �
�Where do you think he went?”

  “Who knows?” Robby hung his head. “Fuck. Now he’s not gonna trust me.”

  Ken eyed the concession stand. He circled it twice. Spotted no one. On a whim, he checked the back door. It was locked, but as he tried turning the knob, he realized it was sweaty.

  And fresh sweat could mean only one thing.

  Chapter 35

  Ken lost his patience after two minutes of knocking. There was no telling how long it would take to track down Pete Chang’s dealer, and every second that Hogwild played dead inside the concession stand was a second that brought Ken closer to his kill deadline. As it stood now, he had roughly fifteen hours to locate a target. After what happened last night, he wanted to unload his next bullet long before then.

  “Wait here,” he told Robby. “I’ll be back.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Just guard the door.”

  Ken hurried over to his car and grabbed Dad’s folding wheelchair out of the trunk. He lugged it over to the shack and jammed it under the doorknob, locking Hogwild inside. Ignoring Robby’s gripes, Ken approached the baseball diamond. He took out his wallet and held up his ID to the adults present. Heads turned as he said, “Everyone, this area is under police investigation. Return to your cars and leave immediately. It’s not safe here.”

  By some miracle the parents bought his Law & Order routine. They gathered their kids and left. He watched them drive off before returning to the shack.

  “Ready to come out now?”

  No answer.

  “Hog doesn’t operate like this,” Robby whispered. “He comes and goes on his own terms. He has schedules, man. He sees who he wants when he wants.”

  “Believe me, he’ll want to see me if he knows what’s good for him.”

  Robby squinted in disbelief. “Ken, this tough-guy act isn’t gonna work.”

  “Who said it was an act?” Ken knocked again. “Ballpark’s empty. Let’s talk.”

  When he heard no response, he checked the front of the shack. The boards covering the order window lay horizontal, paper-thin gaps between them. One gap was wide enough to welcome sunlight. He peeked inside and saw stacks of cardboard boxes but little else.