Текст книги "Joe Victim"

Автор книги: Paul Cleave

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Chapter Forty-Seven

It’s a lazy Sunday. He used to have them with his wife most Sundays, really. Before they had Angela, while they were raising Angela, and they carried on the tradition after Angela moved out of the house. It’d always been their job as parents to prepare her for the world—to set her on a journey into the world—but for the last year he’s thought that that was a mistake. If they’d kept her closer she’d still be alive. If they’d encouraged her to stay at home. If they’d put a lock on her door and protected her.

Ultimately, Raphael knows no matter how you look at it, he let his daughter down. He let his family down. You can attack the argument from any angle, he’s heard it all before—but the proof is, as his mother used to say, in the pudding. Angela was dead. He had failed her. End of story.

The last two days have been good for him. Therapeutic. He’s been thinking that killing Joe Middleton will start a healing process. He doesn’t expect to be able to move on—how can you after what that maniac did to his daughter—but he can expect, perhaps, to start coping better. To live again. Maybe he can try to patch things up with his wife.

Most days since losing Angela have been lazy Sundays, and though he made some progress since Thursday night, he’s reverted back to what has become his normal self. He spent a few hours this morning in Angela’s room, staring at the newspaper articles pinned to the wall. Then he spent some time going through photo albums.

Lazy Sunday is progressing along nicely now. He’s sitting in the lounge and the sun has been and gone and he’s watching video footage of Angela’s twenty-first. She had moved out of the house the year earlier and was renting in town with two of her friends. The party was held in this house. It feels like a hundred years ago. He certainly looks a hundred years younger. He was happy back then. He’s not sure where the Red Rage is right now—buried somewhere, he guesses, beneath the alcohol and the depression, waiting for tomorrow to get on with the show.

He knows why he’s watching the video today. He knows the reason for the sadness. This is his last lazy Sunday. There’ll be no more flicking through photo albums and watching home movies. He knows the Red Rage will get the job done tomorrow. He has one bullet for Joe and one bullet for Melissa, and he has one bullet left over in case he misses—but he won’t miss. He’s on a mission—a movement—and he can’t fail.

It’s after the shooting where things get tricky. Even if he does manage to get away from the scene, he knows the police will come for him. Of course they will. They’re not stupid. Stupid enough, maybe, to have let Joe Middleton kill for as long as he did—but not stupid enough to not figure out tomorrow’s events.

Tomorrow may be therapeutic, but he’s kidding himself when he thinks it’s going to start a healing process. He’s kidding himself in thinking he can get back together with his wife. By the end of tomorrow he’s pretty sure he’s going to be in a prison cell, but he’s okay with that. He will have avenged his daughter and for that he’d be happy to go to jail for a thousand years.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Melissa is tired and excited and nervous. It’s not a good combination. It’s been a long day, albeit a good day, and she did manage to get some nap time a few hours ago. She’s been trying to relax since getting home after stashing the gun back in the office ceiling. Her house isn’t in the middle of nowhere, but her nearest neighbors are a two-minute walk away and she’s never seen them. It’s nice and private and she prepaid her rent the same way she prepaid her gardener. When she stopped being Natalie and became Melissa, she cleaned out her bank accounts. She has cleaned out bank accounts of others since then too. It’s how she survives.

The day has gone now, as has the heat, and what’s left is a cold winter evening of the type nobody in their right mind could enjoy. Her shoulder is hurting too from all of that gun use this morning and she wanted to pop some painkillers and anti-inflammatories, but decided against it.

She left the van she hired earlier parked in the driveway rather than putting it into the adjoining garage. She paid for the van in cash and used a fake ID and took out insurance on it not because she needed it, but because that’s what most people did, and she wanted to be considered part of the most-people culture.

The van is important.

She locks the house behind her and walks to the van, tightening her jacket around her. It takes two minutes for the van to warm up, by which point she’s tightened her jacket so much it’s almost strangling her. The windshield is frosted over. Everything is frosted over. It’s a still evening. No wind. No clouds. Cold, but perfect shooting conditions.

She turns on the wipers and tries to use the jets to spray water onto the windshield, but the jets are blocked. The wipers don’t help, they just swish back and forth over the thin ice. The heater warms up the windshield and then the wipers start tearing at the ice. A few minutes later she can see.

There are a few other cars around. Not many. She turns on the radio to break the monotony of the van engine. Like she knew there would be, a radio DJ is talking about the day’s events, and those that will follow tomorrow, and perhaps later this year. A body—most likely to be that of Detective Inspector Robert Calhoun—has been found. Found by a psychic, of all people. She finds that hard to believe. Impossible to believe, and wonders what the real truth is and suspects Joe may have played a hand in giving up the location. If so, for what? Something to do with the trial, no doubt.

“And of course tomorrow is the big day, ladies and gentlemen,” so the DJ tells her and anybody else who’s listening. “Tomorrow the trial of Joe Middleton begins. The Christchurch Carver. The man for whom the death penalty is being voted on.” She’s expecting the DJ to open up the lines to callers from around the country to give their views on the death penalty, but he doesn’t, not that that matters because she, like everybody else, has heard them all before. Everybody thinks that it’s a dividing issue, that you’re either strongly for it or strongly against it. She doesn’t care one way or the other.

It takes her fifteen minutes to get to the house she wants, the van warming up early in the drive. She rubs her hands together. Warms up her fingers and grabs her handgun. It’s an okay neighborhood. Not great. Not cheap. Just okay. The kind of place people living by themselves tend to flock to. Two-bedroom dwellings, small yards, not old, not modern, but okay—heaven for people who are in love with all things bland. TVs are glowing from behind windows, lights are on in lounges and bedrooms, but otherwise there are no signs of life, other than a couple of cats sitting at opposite ends of a fence. Last time she was here was three months ago. It was warmer. A lot warmer. She made a mess. A big mess. There was blood and tearing flesh and crying. A lot of crying. Through it all she knew that she would be back here tonight.

She parks the van out on the street and locks the door and knows the entire plan will fall apart if somebody steals her ride. She walks up the path. The garden is neat and tidy. There are the legs of a garden gnome and no body, just jagged edges where the body used to be attached. Out there other gnomes are suffering the loss. There are lights on inside the house. She can see patterns of moving colors from a TV behind the curtain. She climbs up the step and holds her finger on the bell for half a second. She doesn’t have to wait long before the footsteps come toward her.

Melissa holds the gun down by her side, just slightly out of view.

The door swings open.

The woman doing the swinging is dressed in winter pajamas and a robe that are a little too big for her, even though the woman is a little too big herself. Still, she’s not as overweight as she was in the papers twelve months ago after she jumped on Joe during his arrest, or even as she was three months ago when Melissa came to see her. Her face is somewhat flushed. She looks like she is running late. She’s wearing a crucifix around her neck. A little Jesus on a little cross. A little Jesus who doesn’t seem happy to be hanging where he’s hanging.

“I thought we had a deal,” the woman says. “You promised you were going to leave me alone.”

“And I have until now, Sally,” Melissa says. “But I’m here to make another deal. You need to start by letting me in,” she says, and she raises the gun and sticks it into Sally’s chest, right where Jesus is doing his best not to look. “Or if you prefer I can shoot you in the stomach and leave you here to rot.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Raphael wakes up expecting fate to intervene, that he’ll have a sore throat or a bad stomach from something he ate, maybe a racing heart from too much bad food, or at the very least a hangover—even though he didn’t really drink that much yesterday. Fate has never been one for the Can’t we all just get along school of thought, there are too many sad stories in the city that prove that, so for he and Fate to be on the same page about Joe seems like a small miracle.

He holds his hands in front of his face in the six a.m. light and can barely make them out, but can see them enough to tell he doesn’t have any signs of the shakes. For a guy who hardly slept last night, he’s doing remarkably well. It’s been a clock-watching night, where every passing hour his mind would do the math, telling him just how much sleep he wasn’t getting. His mind was racing. In the beginning it was racing with positive thoughts. Then around one a.m., the first negative thought came along. Within thirty minutes the balance had shifted. The negative thoughts were chasing away all the good ones. By three a.m. there were no positive thoughts, just a bunch of frayed nerves he was struggling to keep under control. When he finally fell asleep at around four, he entered a dream world and somewhere in that world all the bad shit disappeared, and he’s woken up feeling good.

He throws back the covers. Even though he sleeps alone these days, he still sleeps on the side of the bed he has slept on since being married. The other side barely has any wrinkles in it. He puts on his robe and slippers and walks through to the kitchen. The house is warm thanks to two heat pumps that have been running during the night. He has no appetite, but forces himself to eat anyway. A bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice and his hands stay calm the entire time. These are, he thinks, the hands of a killer. He makes toast and burns it so he tosses it into the trash. He puts in four fresh slices and gets it right, but doesn’t eat them, just leaves them in the toaster. It was the same way when he killed the lawyer. Same way when he killed the second one too. No appetite. No reason this morning should be any different.

It’s cold outside. For some reason he’s suddenly transported back to when he was a kid, when he’d have to bike to school in freezing-cold weather along with thousands of other kids across the city, icy roads and frosty air, breath forming clouds in front of his face. Only right now it’s a bit darker than what it was when he used to leave for school. It’s still only seven thirty. People are driving to work with the lights on and with coffee cups in their drink holders, driving to a job involving numbers or materials or words or physical labor—none of them, he imagines, with the idea in mind of killing somebody. It’s too early for the protesters to be showing up. He turns on the radio. Not too early for the protesters to be calling in.

He parks on the street between the office building and the courts, thinks better of it, then moves his car just around the corner, adjacent to the building he’ll be shooting from. Soon this whole area will fill up, and after the shooting he doesn’t want to get caught in a traffic jam ten yards from the back entrance to the court.

It’s a thirty-second walk back to the office building. He takes the stairs up to the third floor and unlocks the office door. The duct tape has held the drop cloth in place, so the office is dark. He paces the office for half a minute, then sits down and leans against the wall. He’s brought a thermos with him full of coffee, and he pours himself one and slowly sips at it and watches the office as it slowly becomes lighter. He takes a photograph of Angela out from his pocket and rests it on his thigh.

What are you doing? she asks him.

“Today’s the day,” he tells her.

You’re going to kill him?

“Yes,” he tells her, but of course she isn’t really here, he knows that, but boy, wouldn’t it be great if somehow, somewhere, she really could hear him. “I know it doesn’t bring you back,” he tells her, “but I hope it makes you feel better.”

You think killing him honors me? she asks. You think taking a life in your daughter’s name is something mom would want? Or I would want?

“Yes,” he says.

She doesn’t answer him.

“Isn’t it?”

Yes, she says.

“I wasn’t there to protect you. This isn’t going to make it right, but it’s all I can do.”

I’m sorry you weren’t there to protect me either, she says. You were meant to be there. That was your job.

“I know,” he says, and he’s crying now. “I’m sorry.”

Thank you for killing him for me, she says, and I’m glad you’re doing it in my name. Make him suffer, Daddy. Make him suffer and then he can rot in Hell. I just wish you could kill him ten times over. A hundred times over.

“I miss you, baby,” he says, and he puts the photograph back into his pocket and reaches up into the ceiling for the gun.

Chapter Fifty

I wake up at seven o’clock. We all do. A loud buzzer goes off. It rips into our dreams and puts an end to any of the good stuff going on in there. Though in this case the good stuff was me remembering the blank look on Ronald’s face when the hammer cracked open his skull. He just stood there staring at me for a few seconds. I think he knew he was dead, but his body was still catching up. I thought he would have dropped like a rock, but it took two or three seconds for him to fall. It was the strangest thing, a physics-defying thing. Killers like to say they don’t remember what happened—that they just snapped, that it was a dream. But the exact opposite is true. Killing has a way of making you feel alive—who the hell would want to forget that?

I use the toilet and wait patiently in my cell for thirty minutes until my block is taken through for breakfast, which appears to be something a patient with the Ebola virus coughed up. My stomach is feeling good. Whatever was in that sandwich has done its best, it’s gone through the motions, and I’ve come out on top. Adam comes and finds me. He looks me up and down. He doesn’t look happy.

“You look better, Middleton.”

“Fuck you,” I tell him.

He laughs. “We showed those photos of you eating that sandwich to a lot of our buddies,” he tells me. “Got a whole lot of laughs.”

“I just need a list,” I tell him.

“What?”

“A list. Because when I get out of here, I’m going to fucking kill every one of them, and I’m going to start with you.”

He laughs at me again, even harder this time. “Christ, Joe, you really do make me laugh. This prison needs people like you, and thankfully for us you’re going to be here for a very long time—unless they end up hanging you, which would be a shame, I guess, until the next funny bastard comes along and we forget all about you.”

He takes me down to the showers. I get cleaned up and Adam tosses me some clothes. It’s a suit. It’s the same suit other prisoners have worn in the past who are my size. The same suit I wore when I was charged a few days after I was arrested. A gray suit with a dark blue shirt and black shoes. I look like a bank manager. Only one without shoelaces or a belt. Adam promises me I’ll be given those before I leave. The shirt has stains in the armpits and smells like cabbage and I shake it out, hoping whatever head lice are asleep in there lands on the floor.

I’m taken back to my cell. I have to wait an hour. Most of it I spend sitting on the edge of my bed wondering about the trial. For the first time the reality of it is all kicking in. I always knew this day was coming, but part of me always believed it never would—part of me was sure I’d be out of here by now, that the police would have found a reason to let me go. The trial date just kept on rolling forward and now it’s here, and suddenly the nerves of the trial kick in and I almost throw up. And then I do throw up. When I’m done I back away from the toilet and Caleb Cole is standing in my doorway.

“A farewell present,” he says, and then he rushes me with something sharp.

I don’t even get to my feet before he hits me, but I manage to lift my pillow so whatever he is trying to stab me with—it actually is a filed-down toothbrush—goes into the pillow, but doesn’t come right through, stopping somewhere short of my hand. I use my other hand to punch him in the balls. He staggers back, but not as far as I’d have thought, and then I throw the pillow at him in what, to anybody else, would probably look quite comical.

He comes at me again, only this time I’m able to get to my feet. I don’t know what I’m doing other than reacting. A survival instinct has kicked in. The room, other than our footsteps and muffled grunts, is silent. This is what a real fight sounds like. I get both my hands around his wrist with the toothbrush, and he uses his free hand this time to punch me in the balls. Or ball. I drop quickly to my knees, but don’t let go of his wrist, knowing it’s the only thing keeping me alive. I pull him forward at the same time. His breathing gets louder. So does mine. I topple back—my back on the bed, my shins on the floor, and feet pinned beneath them. He topples onto me, and for the moment neither of us are throwing punches. Instead both of us are focusing on the toothbrush. I’m guessing nine out of ten dentists wouldn’t recommend having your stomach perforated by one. And the tenth dentist is either a prick or is the one doing the perforating.

“Die, you fucker,” Cole says.

I say nothing. I just keep focusing on the toothbrush. It’s angling at my chest and getting closer as he pushes his body weight into it.

“Die,” Cole repeats, the word thrown at me with spittle and hate. I try pushing upward, but it’s a losing battle.

So I do the only thing left to do. I scream like a girl.

Cole pulls back a little, as if the sound waves are too much for him to handle. The sound reminds me of a year ago when Melissa gripped me with a pair of pliers in a place pliers should never be gripped. I put more effort into the scream. Only it’s not powerful enough, and a few seconds later as the scream fades the toothbrush comes back toward me.

The last thing going through my mind as the toothbrush also threatens to go through it is my mother, my mother and her stupid fucking wedding, she in some ugly dress and Walt saying I do and then them kissing in front of a priest and whoever is unlucky enough to be attending. Then suddenly Caleb Cole is being pulled aside, and there standing behind him is Santa Suit Kenny. Santa Suit Kenny throws him against the wall, then looks down at me.

“You okay?” he asks.

Before I can even answer, the toothbrush that had my name on it now has Kenny’s name on in instead, and Caleb jabs it into him and twists it and turns it and there’s the sickening sound of flesh being punctured and a strange smell too, and then a snap as the toothbrush breaks, half of it left inside Kenny, half of it in Cole’s hand. Santa Suit Kenny staggers back and looks down at his side, where blood is blooming over his prison overalls, a look of disbelief on his face, like he can’t believe this is where his journey of music and molestation is going to come to an end.

Caleb takes another run at me, and he swings the remaining half of the toothbrush at me and gets me hard in the stomach, only the handle doesn’t penetrate me because it has no sharp point on it—it just slides back through his hand, which is wet with blood, but the impact is enough to fire the storm back up in my stomach. It fires up hard and fast and things in there turn over, they turn and turn and I can’t hold on for much longer—scattered showers and a hurricane are on their way.

The guards come in and drag Caleb, the fight mostly out of him now, away from me. I rip my pants down and squat over the toilet and the relief is sudden and painful, but relief nonetheless. Santa Suit Kenny stares at me as his life slips away and I stare back at him, my stomach burning hot as the world fades a little.

“Queen,” Santa Suit Kenny says. “Muff. Punch. Queen,” he says, and I guess as far as dying words go, others have done better.

I lean my elbows on my knees and do my best to stop from passing out, and we stare at each other—me doing the shitting, Kenny doing the dying—and he never says another word and the storm rages on.