Killing Katie

by Brian Spangler

  “I meant, how much do you want?” I restated my question. My eyes stayed locked on the screen’s spreadsheet and numbers—his books. I hadn’t even considered how to get paid. I couldn’t exactly accept cash. Not safely, anyway. A paycheck was out, so what did that leave? If everything was online, was the payment online too? How would that work?

  “Fifty percent,” Nerd answered. Elated, I nearly jumped and grabbed Nerd, hugging him in agreement. My first business partner!

  Wait, this is when you negotiate, I heard in my head. I forced myself to hide my emotion. Agree too soon, and you’ll look like an amateur.

  “Thirty percent,” I countered. When he shook his head and sneered, I added, “Who’s taking the risk?”

  “I am,” he quickly answered. “I’m setting everything up. Your entire storefront, your online profile, everything. All in advance of any actual . . . well, you know.”

  “And that is worth thirty percent,” I said again, but it sounded like a statement instead of the question it was.

  “Forty percent,” Nerd offered, negotiating back. “By the time anything happens, you’ll still be a bystander, but I’ll be holding the bag.”

  I glanced at his computer screen and the spreadsheet full of numbers, then looked at the flash drive and red links—my finger itching to tickle one of them.

  “And you know how to work the funds?” I asked.

  “I do,” he answered. “Been paying myself for over a year now.”

  “Agreed,” I said, extending my hand.

  Nervously, he took my hand and said, “You know, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “So what are we waiting for?”

  TWELVE

  THE FAMILIAR SHOWING of sunlight through the library’s western windows told me that it was time to wrap things up for the day. I never did get to click one of the yellow or red links, abiding by Nerd’s request.

  “Let me finish your profile first,” he’d asked me, nearly pleading. I listened.

  “My profile,” I mumbled. An online profile, establishing me as a murderer for hire. Just the thought of progress made me feel good. It wouldn’t be long now. I felt that I’d finally stoked an old fire, turned the embers, readied them for a red-hot burn. Only I didn’t know who’d be the first to burn. Or how I’d do it. My mind was already filling with new Killing Katie designs.

  Nerd had a good point about the risk. As of now, he held all the risk while I had done nothing illegal. I’d merely visited a library. I’d even forgotten about the flash drive. I felt stupid and careless when he grabbed it from the computer, yanking it from the port and handing it to me. He gave me an annoyed wink and motioned to my purse, where I stuffed it away—safely pushing it down into one of the bottom liner pockets.

  Was 40 percent worth the risk to him? Was he making enough? Was he safe?

  This last question hit me like a bullet. If I ever suspected that his participation was a ploy or trap—a sting, as he’d called it earlier—the obvious question would have to be: could I kill him?

  I stopped what I was doing and slung my coat half off my shoulder. What I saw in him was the same boyish charm that reminded me of my son. Innocence and naïveté.

  Looks can be deceiving. Very deceiving.

  But there was something else. I liked him. And now I wanted to work with him.

  Could I kill Nerd?

  “Yes, I could,” I whispered, answering my own question while nodding a quick thank-you for the day’s help. As a killer, I knew that I had a different makeup, a different psyche—something that made the act of murder seem trivial. I suppose I should feel disappointed, but then I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have an opportunity to help my family and give Steve a law degree.

  With Steve’s mother at home and taking care of the kids, I didn’t feel rushed or pressured to lie. They all thought that I was out researching what I wanted the next chapter of my life to be. Maybe they weren’t thinking that deep, but a new job and a paycheck would come of my efforts. I loved my family life, but after a dozen years of staying home, something new would be a thrill. Adding murder to the job description was gravy.

  I said good-bye to the librarian but she only raised her hand, too occupied with her phone to bother with anything more. I opened the set of metal outer doors, taking a step outside the library. I surveyed the traffic. Rows of headlights crawled like a fluorescent sludge—the day was ending again, and everyone wanted to be somewhere else. But tonight, I’d leave my phone in my purse and enjoy some classic rock while thinking about designs.

  Nerd stayed back, wanting to finish a few things. That was fine with me. He was younger and had more energy. A glass of wine and a hot bubble bath waited for me at home. The smell of autumn mums, freshly planted along the walk, encouraged me to descend the steps. I eased down to the sidewalk as if floating. What a successful day.

  “You!” I heard as I moved along the street. I stopped to look around. “You, there. Have a phone? Can you help me?” I’d already walked a few minutes, leaving the heaviest congestion behind me. I could see my car up ahead, under the dim light of a street lamp.

  “Where are you?” I asked. My voice sounded thin and uncertain. I cleared my throat and searched. I twirled back around to face the library’s building and watched as the traffic on Main Street spilled onto Springdale Road. Most of the traffic turned onto Springdale, which led to the interstate that ran back into the city. A few cars remained going straight, blinding me as they passed. I squinted, raising my hand to shield my eyes. The street was empty save for a few parked cars near mine. After Springdale there were a few small businesses, private offices, and Romeo’s Café. I glanced over to where Katie and I had eaten the day before, but there was nobody outside. Even in the warmer night, the tables stayed empty and the chairs had been turned over, giving the patio eatery the look of a graveyard.

  “Over here!” I heard a man’s raspy voice say from my left, louder now. I followed it. “I’m over here. Help me, please.”

  “One second,” I told him, shouting out in no particular direction. I took my cell phone out of my purse and turned on the screen to use as a flashlight. Faded blue light revealed the broken sidewalk in front of me—crabgrass sprouted from between stony cracks. I followed the voice, which made a painful-sounding groan. To the left, an alley lay between the buildings—too narrow for a car, but wide enough to walk through. I peered into the darkness. Large trash bins were stacked against one building. On the other side, I found the source of the voice. Folded over like a sack, a man reached out with his hand and waved for me. And even from where I stood, I could see his legs tucked beneath him.

  Was he wearing a suit?

  The faint light wasn’t enough for me to be sure, but I wondered if maybe he was a businessman who’d been mugged and left for dead.

  I considered calling an ambulance but lost the thought as I reacted to another cry. When I knelt down to check for blood or injuries, the man’s gray face peered up at me, offering a toothless grin that creased his cheeks and made his weepy eyes squint. I did see a business suit after all, or the remains of one—gray and black pinstripes, but ragged and torn and soiled with years of dirt. The man wore the too-large suit jacket like a robe. One time, long ago, he might have been a businessman, but the man staring up at me was clearly desolate.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, choking from the stench of urine and alcohol. The acrid smell was overwhelming so I leaned away from him, covering my mouth and nose and trying not to gag. From the clothes, it appeared he was homeless. Could have been eighty, but might have only been in his forties—it was hard to tell. I gagged again, finding a bottle next to him, wrapped in a twisted brown paper bag.

  He grunted.

  “Had yourself enough before falling down?” I asked him. He continued staring, a smile parting his lips to show me a few of his remaining teeth. “How about we get you back on your feet?”

  “Aren’t you a pretty one?” he said, reaching up to caress my hair.
r />   “Yeah, I’m a pretty one,” I answered politely even as I moved away from his reach. “Are you hurt? Can you stand?”

  “So pretty . . .” he repeated. “Too pretty to be out at night, ’specially in the dark.”

  The man’s tone changed, giving me a reason to pause. A sudden alarming urge came over me. A primal need to escape danger, to run. In the dim light, I never saw his other hand. My head lurched to one side, sending a painful jolt through my neck and into my skull. The homeless man grabbed my hair, yanking my head forward in a snap until my hands fell to my sides. A sharp bolt of lightning echoed through my spine, sending a tingle of pins and needles into my arms and legs. I tumbled over, unable to catch myself. The alley’s stony asphalt cut into my hands and arms as I tried to regain my balance.

  It’s a mistake, I told myself, not realizing what was happening. He’s just drunk . . . amorous . . . trying to cop a quick feel before I slap him, that’s what it is.

  The man was up on his knees, and his body positioning over mine. A cloud of his stench enveloped me. He clutched one of my breasts, squeezing violently until it hurt. When he tried wrestling me onto my back, I fought, surging upward until I was on my knees. But I didn’t move after that—he made sure of it. My body went rigid when I felt a sliver of cool metal pierce my neck. I straightened then, resting on my legs, gasping.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, struggling, my lungs cramping as I tried to stand. He had a fistful of my hair and jerked his arm down, forcing the blade into my neck. If he moved just a little more, I was certain the knife would cut me open.

  “Now, now,” he answered. “This won’t take long . . . been a few days. Been storing it up, you might say.” He pawed at my crotch, clutching hard enough for me to feel his fingers. I felt sick and disgusted by the thought of him inside me. But I wasn’t afraid—and maybe that was also something different about me. Fear. I didn’t feel it. Not like the way my friends described it or how it was portrayed in the movies, anyway. I did, however, feel utter revulsion at the thought of what was going to happen. My stomach turned and I wanted to vomit. I searched the man’s creased face, looking for an opportunity. Any opportunity. Maybe I could launch myself at him, grabbing onto his face with my teeth, rip his nose off in one putrid chunk? But he’d only need to push the knife a little harder to cut me open. By now the blade had warmed and blood oozed from beneath it, running like a tear onto the collar of my blouse.

  He sneered, licking his lips as his eyes wandered. I kept my head still but was able to glance at the light on Main Street. The sidewalk where I had been walking stayed empty and still, like a painting: no passing cars, no pedestrians. And we were too far from the street for anyone to see us, unless they were looking on purpose. Set back in the dark, he could cut me open before I ever had a chance to scream.

  “Be careful around the library,” Steve had warned.

  I thought of the Road Runner cartoon and the plate of birdseed the Coyote put out as bait—a Free Bird Seed sign sitting above the trap. The only difference? The homeless man didn’t paint a sign to trick me. He’d only needed to yell for help. I cringed.

  How could I be so stupid as to fall for a ploy as lame as calling for help? Was this what happened to the young girl I heard about on the radio? Did she fall for the same trap? Did the homeless man know that she’d lived through his attack?

  The pressure of his knife lifted. Not a lot, but enough to let me feel cool air on the small cut he’d given me. He eased away from my neck as he let go of my hair. With his hand free, he shifted to grope elsewhere and plunged it beneath my blouse. The brick wall behind him was old but strong, with sharp pieces jutting from between the mortar. When he moved the knife, I took my chance. I hit him with everything I had. He never should have let me get to my knees, get leverage. I found the strength I needed in my legs and pushed my entire body upward in one heave, smashing the back of his head against the wall. The knife cut deeper into my neck for a moment, but fell instantly. I followed the sound of the blade as it clinked onto the alley’s pavement.

  I felt winded, but managed to scurry for the knife and pick it up. The homeless man slumped over in a tidy squat: face down and motionless. I swiped away the cool, slippery wet that came from the cut on my neck.

  Not too bad, I thought and ignored it.

  “Sit up,” I demanded. I knelt across from him, bringing the knife forward, pointing it like a sword. The knife’s handle was a mix of tape and old clothing, wound together in a messy grip. I clutched the handle, turning the blade so that the street lamp’s light glinted off the blade. It was mottled with pitted rust, but the edge was clean and sharp. Curious, I teased the blade with my thumb, running the edge over my skin to see how sharp it was. At once my skin parted, dropping blood like an errant tear.

  “Bitch,” he groaned. I shuffled forward, pushing the blade beneath the man’s chin. I flicked it once to cut his chin. “Fucking bitch!”

  “Is that what you said to the young girl the other night?” I asked. “My husband’s a cop, you know, and I think he’d be interested in talking to you about what you’ve been doing.”

  “You bitches deserve it,” he answered, spitting as he spoke. “You all deserve it. And don’t matter. Few hours, I’ll be back on the street.” He shoved his hand behind his head, and I jumped back, cautious. But I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I was anxious and excited. I was breathing hard and stars raced in front of me.

  “The world won’t miss you,” I mumbled with an understanding, a realization. I was ready to begin my journey, and any thoughts of calling my husband vanished like a shadow in the sun.

  “Fuck you say?”

  “Did the young girl deserve it?” I demanded.

  He peered up at me, grinned an ugly smile. “Yeah, she deserved it. Gave it to her good too.”

  My bones became electric. My arms and hands twitched. My fingers tingled and sweat beaded on my head. I felt hot too—implacably hot, thinking I’d pass out if I didn’t calm myself.

  It’s the adrenaline, I thought, realizing it was hitting me like an overdose.

  I pivoted the blade over his neck, pressing harder. My heart thumped frantically and hard enough to hurt. This was my fantasy and it was coming true. His eyes were fixed on me, still cloudy and dazed from the hit, but I could see the curiosity in them as he wondered why I hadn’t called the police yet.

  I didn’t hesitate. My body pulsed, encouraging me, and I lurched forward, plummeting my knee into the man’s chest. The air in his lungs rocketed out of him until there was nothing left but a dry wheeze.

  “Plea—,” he tried to say. I eased up and let him take a sip of air. “I think I’m having a heart attack.” I lurched again, and his mouth fell open in a silent scream.

  “The world won’t miss you,” I told him, making sure he heard me. His eyes became huge, like a full moon on the blackest of autumn nights. I slipped the blade into his neck. Just the tip at first—in and out—tentatively, reserved. My courage grew then, as did my strength. And I pushed. The man’s eyes thinned a nightmarish squint. His mouth opened and stretched wide in a soundless scream. He squirmed, arching his back, fighting to stay alive. I put all of my weight into my knee, nailing him against the wall with such force that I felt something break inside his chest.

  Not so fast, I told myself.

  I tried to slow down, tried to make it last. But I was ready. I’d waited long enough. I plunged the knife in until it sunk to the handle. I slowed when I saw bright red spilling over the blade and ease into a smooth rhythm.

  “Fuck you,” he tried to say, gargling his words as his mouth filled and spat a pink mist. When I brought the knife back out, blood sprayed with a whooshing sound. It splashed against the bricks, nearly hitting me.

  “Fuck you too,” I said, leaning away to avoid the bright flow. The spraying pulsed once more and then became shallow. I slipped the knife in and out again, sawing until I thought everything vital to his miserable life must have been severed. His ey
es stayed fixed on me—wide and filled with the shock. The metal, wet smell was stronger than I’d expected. Hot and thick. It caused me to gasp as the power of it curled up the back of my throat. I could taste it.

  I was weak and sweaty, but I felt more alive than I’d ever felt in my life. By the time I looked up, the silent screaming and the terrified eyes were gone. His head had slumped to the right and I saw the extent of how much I’d cut. The blood had stopped spraying, had stopped boiling.

  The dead don’t bleed, I thought as I wiped some of the sticky wet from my hands against his clothes. I stared at my first murder victim for a long time, admiring the deed. Proud. I’d rid the world of a bad man and stayed until I felt I didn’t have to stay any longer.

  My hands stayed sticky, his blood drying on them. I tried wiping them against the gravelly pavement, but it didn’t help.

  “Bottle of water or wipes would be better,” I mumbled, fixing a mental reminder for when I’d do this again. As my heart eased into a normal rhythm, I finally felt what I should have felt when the man first attacked me: afraid.

  A whole new sensation took over my body. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes, a frightening and overwhelming sense of being caught filled me, capturing me. My hands grew clammy and my lips trembled at the thought of being convicted and sent to prison. It wasn’t just the thought of living behind bars that scared me—it was losing Snacks and Michael and the love of my life, Steve.

  I gripped a handful of small stones, spitting onto them with every last drop I had in my dry mouth. I squeezed my hands around the tiny pebbles until my knuckles hurt. I cringed at the pain. I used the stones like a rough sponge, to wipe my hands clean. I threw the handful of stones down the alley. The small rocks skittered and bounced over the pavement like pattering feet—thrown far and wide, spreading and eliminating any possible collection of evidence.

  When I stood up, my head felt as heavy as if I’d been drinking. A glint of light from below drew my eyes toward it. The knife lay waiting, ready to be taken from the scene and not left behind. Surely my fingerprints couldn’t be dusted for—not here, and certainly not on that handful of pebbles or against the wall. I grabbed a piece of crumpled newspaper from the garbage bin behind me, wiping my hands on it some more, and wrapped the knife before stuffing it into my purse.