Diary of a Teenage Serial Killer

by Jem Fox

  I spent the morning on the bus going back and forth. No reason to go to class anymore. I sold my books at the bookstore and picked up my run bag from the bus station. The key to the locker was hidden on campus, so I had to get that first. I felt like a mom in a minivan with all my stupid errands. At least I didn’t have to take the kids for Happy Meals.

  I kept my eyes peeled for Bad Men. I considered just buying a bus ticket but thought better of it. That’s the kind of place they might think I’d go if I was running away with their lost merchandise. I have no idea how organized they are or how many more bosses there are up the chain, but for all I know they could get a peek at the manifest and see who left town and where they went.

  Paranoia: It keeps you safe.

  I’ll find some kids heading to a concert a couple towns over and pitch in some gas money to ride along. It’s college. Always something happening.

  In the meantime I have to get back on the bus and run across to the professor’s house and walk Horatio. Return the keys, then my time here is done.

  I won’t bother to call Carl. Let him wonder.

  I let myself in and whistled for Horatio. I walked on through to the kitchen, pushed the door open, and dropped my backpack. I walked over and helped myself to a free glass of tap water.

  I heard a creak in the hallway, on the other side of that swinging door that was still swinging. It was a man creak, not a dog creak. Where was that dog?

  I pulled a knife out of a wooden block on the counter and eased around to the far side of the door. I heard the dog coming down the stairs, his nails on the wood and his grunts of joy. Then I heard him come up short with a yelp.

  I jumped through the door and landed in a ready crouch to see a tall boy with wide-open eyes and mouth hanging open. He was deadly pale and had a tight grip on the dog, who struggled to get loose and come see me.

  I dropped the knife down to my side. “Who the hell are you?”

  He opened and closed his mouth, then sputtered into speech. “Who am I? Who are YOU?”

  He must be the son who I would never see. “I’m the dog walker.”

  “What dog walker? I’m the dog walker. He’s my dog and I live here and…”

  I rolled my eyes. “Your dad hired me yesterday to walk him. He didn’t tell you?”

  “Oh.” He stood up and let go of Horatio, who bounded over to leap on me. I held the knife up where he couldn’t catch on it and petted him with the other hand.

  “No,” he said. “He didn’t tell me.”

  I turned and went back in the kitchen and slid the knife into its little slot. “Where’s his leash?”

  The boy, who was a lot taller than me, was staring like I was a ghost or the tooth fairy. “I already walked him.”

  “Why are you here? Your dad said you had extracurricular activities.”

  “Oh. Well.” He looked furtive, his eyes darting around. Liar. Deceiver of parents. He walked over and opened the fridge, pulled out a soda. He held it up. “Want one?”

  “Yeah.”

  He tossed it to me and got one for himself. He leaned on the counter and popped it open, took a long slug, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Yeah, well, I told my dad I was going out for track. And theatre. And maybe debate.”

  “Busy.” I drank my soda and surreptitiously checked him out. He was good-looking — brown hair, brown eyes. Young, though. Baby-faced. Probably only a little older than my real age.

  It was his turn to roll his eyes. “Yeah. I had to tell him I was doing all that stuff because he was on me every second about how I don’t do enough, I don’t have enough stuff on my college resume.” He held up finger quotes for “resume”. “I told him I was doing all that stuff and I couldn’t get home till later on, ’cause…” He trailed off and his gaze wandered away from my enquiring eyes.

  “’Cause you had something better to do?”

  He pinked up some. “Yeah. I mean, I might be asking this girl out, and my parents never let me go anywhere after school. They make me come straight home and do chores, walk the dog, do homework.”

  “And you needed some free time.”

  He grinned. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Okay, then. Well, if you already walked the dog, I guess I’ll be going.”

  Then I remembered I still had to put the prof’s office key back. I paused while reaching for my backpack and he slid into the opening.

  “Well, uh … you want to have something to eat first? I was going to make a frozen pizza.”

  I needed a chance to be alone in the kitchen so I could put the key back, so I said, “Yeah, okay.”

  He pinked up again. I hoped he wasn’t getting the wrong idea. But he’d just said he maybe had a girlfriend or something. So probably not.

  I needed him out of the kitchen, so after he stuck the pizza in the oven, I suggested we go check out the TV.

  He led the way to a room off the kitchen that was a kind of den, although it was probably too nice to be called a den, with a big flatscreen TV and built-in bookshelves full of books. He searched around in the couch cushions and found the clicker, then he started flipping through the channels. He would come to something and kind of look over at me like he was waiting for me to say “Oh, yay, Spongebob” or something. I just stood there, waiting to make my move back to the kitchen.

  “I think I’ll have another soda. You want one?”

  He dropped the clicker and jumped up off the couch. “I can get it for you.”

  What a gentleman. The prof and his lawyer wife obviously taught him good company manners. “No, I got it.” I waved him back down and went back to the kitchen. I waited a few seconds to make sure he wasn’t going to follow me, then I quietly pulled out the junk drawer to get the key ring.

  But it wasn’t there.

  I was swearing to myself and searching through the litter on the counter when the doorbell rang. The prof’s son — I realized I didn’t even know his name yet — shouted that he’d get it.

  I didn’t think if I just dropped the key into the junk drawer the prof would ever buy that it had fallen off that ring. It had taken him quite an effort to work the other one off. But maybe…

  The kitchen door swung open and prof boy walked in with an awkward gait, his body in a strange position and his pupils dilated. The flunky was walking him like a life-size doll, holding his arm bent behind his back. The boy’s mouth was working like he wanted to say something to me but didn’t know what.

  My backpack with my knives and Robby’s gun was halfway under the dining table. The block with the prof’s nice chef knives was too far away to reach without broadcasting my intention. And then I saw a little glint that showed me Flunky had a knife to prof boy’s throat.

  Horatio came in the kitchen door from the den and starting his flag tail waving back and forth, ready to say hello to our new visitor. Dog has zero taste.

  Flunky startled when he saw the dog and his knife hand came straight out, pointing at him. “Put that dog away!” Prof boy made a little noise and I saw the knife had nicked him on its way. A fat drop of blood ran down his neck into the collar of his shirt.

  “Fine. Chill out. He’s not an attack dog.” Horatio was now feeling uncertain about our guest and starting a low, inquisitive growl. I grabbed his collar and walked him over to the pantry and pushed him in, then closed the door in his confused face. He immediately started scratching and barking.

  I turned around. Flunky had the knife back at prof boy’s throat.

  “Hey, baby,” he said in that weird high voice. Prof boy’s eyebrows knit together, like he was thinking Flunky and I were an item. I met his eyes and shook my head.

  Flunky was still talking. “Did you think you got rid of us, huh? Did you think it would be that easy?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve got what you’re looking for. I was going to give it to Robby tonight. I already told him.”

  Flunky didn’t know how to take that. “He didn’t say anything.”

  “Yeah, well —
he wants to be the big hero, I guess. He wants to be the one to bring it back to the boss.” I walked over and picked up my backpack and set it on the table.

  “Toss it here.”

  “Yeah, hold on.” I dug in the bag.

  “STOP!” I looked up. Prof boy was making a noise and turning gray. Flunky was hoisting him higher by his bent arm. “Toss me the whole bag!”

  “God, fine.” I picked it up by the straps and carried it over. I held it out to him. “Take it.”

  He loosened up on prof boy’s arm and the boy sagged down. It looked like his knees might buckle. Flunky neatly folded his knife with one hand and slid it in his pocket. Then he shoved prof boy and he went sprawling across the floor, making a bad noise.

  I didn’t have a whole lot of maneuvering room. There was nothing in my backpack but the took-apart gun and my stuff. He was going to figure out fast I didn’t have it, whatever “it” was. So when he reached out and grabbed the backpack from me, I jammed my small knife in his arm.

  He looked down at the knife sticking out of his arm in pure disbelief. Everyone’s always surprised when there’s a knife suddenly poking out of their body. And there was that human instinct to pull out foreign objects again. He grabbed the handle — which looked tiny in his big hand — and yanked it out.

  Here’s the thing about arteries. You probably know about the one in your neck and maybe the one in your leg, but they’re all over your body. There’s one running down the middle of your arm, too.

  When I stuck him with the knife, I hit that artery, and when he pulled the knife out, blood spurted in an arc out of his arm. He dropped my knife and clamped his hand over the wound. Blood pulsed out around his fingers. He gave me a look of pure animosity and roared like a stuck bull.

  Since both of his arms were out of commission, while he was taking time to roar at me, I boxed his ears as hard as I could. Don’t do this to anyone you care about, but if it’s someone you don’t care about, be sure to cup your hands a little — works better. He screamed and fell to his knees. His ear drums were probably ruptured. He was buckled over and blood was still coming out of his arm. It was spreading all over the floor.

  Horatio was howling at the top of his lungs and clawing the pantry door to splinters. Prof boy had scrabbled over and was still on the floor with his back to the fridge. His skin was gray and sweaty and his lips were working but no sounds were coming out. He had a tight grip with one hand on his opposite arm, and I could see his shoulder was popped out of place.

  I knelt down in front of him. “Have you dislocated your shoulder before?”

  He seemed to have to exert some effort to fasten his eyes on mine. He nodded fast.

  He was already partly on the floor, so I eased him all the way down. Don’t try this at home, kids. Get yourself to a doctor — someone who won’t accidentally cripple you. I laid him out with his arms at his side, held his upper arm still against him, and pulled his hand up to bend his elbow, then put his arm across his stomach and then back. I tried to be slow and careful, but he screamed as it popped back in. It’s a disturbing sound. At least he had someone to help him. It’s a lot harder to work it back in on your own. I have experience in that regard.

  Flunky’s blood was still pumping and I guess his hand bandage was getting weaker because when I stood up I almost slipped and fell down in his blood. Prof boy sat up and when he saw the mess his eyes got big and then went blank. I thought he might pass out. I wiped my hands on my jeans and went to the junk drawer to get some duct tape.

  Horatio was still making such a racket that I didn’t hear anyone come in. I turned around and Good-Looking Guy was standing in the open kitchen doorway, holding a gun. He wasn’t holding it like Robby. He was holding it like he knew how to use it. And there I stood, holding a roll of duct tape, with my bag across the room and my knife still on the floor.

  He took it all in — Flunky lying in a swiftly growing pool of his own blood, prof boy still splayed out on the floor, the racket the dog was making in the pantry, and me, spattered with blood, holding the duct tape. He raised his eyebrows a little.

  “Why don’t we take a little ride?”

  I held up the tape and indicated his friend on the floor. “If we don’t wrap that up, he’s going to bleed out.”

  He looked down at his right-hand thug lying in the fetal position, moaning. “You said it, sweetheart. Good help is hard to find.”

  I moved toward Flunky, and Good-Looking Guy spoke sharply: “Leave him.”

  “But…”

  “I said leave him.”

  I tossed the tape to prof boy, who caught it, barely. “I need my bag.” I pointed it out, lying between me and Flunky.

  He smiled a little. “One finger. Hand it to me.”

  I hooked the strap with one finger and walked it over to him, and he took it.

  “Let’s go.”

  He held the door open and I started to walk through.

  “Oh, you, too, cowboy.”

  We both froze. I looked back at prof boy and he looked at me. He was still gripping the tape, still sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out looking limp and useless. Horatio was still going wild on the other wide of the pantry. The room was starting to reek of that hot, metallic smell of a lot of newly spilled blood. He swallowed hard. “I…”

  Good-Looking Guy smiled at him. “It wasn’t an invitation. Get up.”

  He stood, awkwardly, favoring his shoulder. He was still holding the duct tape. He stepped over behind me and GLG held the gun up between us, stopping him. “You won’t need that.”

  Prof boy looked at me. Keeping his eyes on mine, he dropped the duct tape on the floor.

  We walked out of the house ahead of GLG. A windowless panel van, the favored conveyance of all Rapists, Pedophiles, and other Bad Men, was parked in the driveway. He opened the rear doors and waved us in.

  Lucas stopped cold. What looked like a rolled-up carpet in the back of the van had shifted and suddenly it was clear it was a human being rolled up like a burrito. Only the top of his head showed. His eyes were wide open.

  It was Ramón.

  I was feeling warm and loose and thinking about how I preferred to never accept rides from strangers, but GLG wisely kept his gun on the back of Lucas’s head. If he’d shifted it to me, things might have gone differently. We took a moment to somberly take in the Ramón burrito, then I climbed into the van and Lucas followed.

  GLG chunked the doors shut. The front was walled off from the back, so we were alone in the dark. It was hot and close back there, the air tainted with Ramón’s sweat and desperation. “Hey, Ramón,” I said. His mouth was evidently taped. His only response was a muffled struggling noise.

  There was nothing back there that could be exploited as a weapon. I checked. I felt every square inch of bare metal like I was reading braille. I checked all around the piece of dirty carpet wrapped around Ramón and regretted I couldn’t reach his pockets. I found two pieces of heavy paper, and I folded them both and put them in my back pocket.

  We were locked in with no way to escape or access the front seat. The engine started and he pulled out. We were thrown back and forth across the space until we managed to wedge ourselves in place. Then we only rocked back and forth when he hit the brakes or made a turn.

  We drove a few blocks and stopped and started a few times before prof boy spoke.

  “Do you know this guy?” His voice was squeaky with disbelief.

  “Which one?”

  “Either one!”

  “Not really. The guy driving the van is some criminal who thinks I have something of his. He’s wrong.”

  There was a slight pause.

  “And this guy?”

  “Oh. This is Ramón.” Another bout of futile wiggling from behind us. “We work together, but I wouldn’t call us friends.”

  Any remnant of fresh air we’d brought into the van with us was officially gone. It was hot and stifling. We hit a bad pothole and bounced hard. I heard pro
f boy gasp. His shoulder was probably still hurting.

  I heard him clear his throat. I thought he was going to ask me if Flunky was going to die. Because he was going to die. He didn’t look like he was in any shape to get up and dial 9-1-1.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Darla.”

  “My name is Lucas.”

  We rode in silence most of the way. I estimated we were somewhere at the edge of town. We bumped over some railroad tracks and a little while after that we started making a lot of turns. Wherever we were going, we were almost there.

  “Darla.”

  Your eyes don’t adjust to the blackness inside a rape van. I couldn’t see his face, just hear his disembodied voice. “What are we going to do?”

  The van slowed and made a sharp turn up a small incline. “I don’t know yet.”

  I could have ripped the tape off Ramón’s mouth but I doubted he was going to contribute anything useful. All told, I was glad he was trussed up and gagged. It’s always awkward being locked into a small confined space with someone you’ve recently stabbed.

  “Lucas.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Whatever they say, don’t believe them.”

  A pause in the darkness. Then he said, with no particular conviction, “Okay.”

  The van swung around hard and came to a stop. The doors opened and sunlight flooded in and we were blinded. Hands reached in and grabbed me and dragged me out. I stumbled a little and squinted, trying to get a look at where we were. Generic industrial park down on its luck. Sea of empty parking lots and cracked cement roads. Nondescript metal buildings without windows. Big wooden “For Lease” signs.