Текст книги "Joe Victim"

Автор книги: Paul Cleave

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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Chapter Seventy-Nine

I’m not one for churches. They have their purpose, I guess, but their purpose could be to burn and keep the homeless warm and I’d be equally as fine with that reason as I would be for the real use they have. My parents were married in a church before I was born. My dad’s funeral was in a church and then he was taken away and cremated. That was the only day I’ve ever been in one.

Rain clouds are looming on the horizon out toward the sea, but I can’t tell which direction they’re moving. We get out of the car and the temperature has dropped a few degrees and the wind has picked up a little and I don’t like the look of where things are heading. Christchurch has a way of starting out sunny and ending very differently. The parking lot out front has five cars, ours becoming the sixth.

The church is made up of stone blocks and looks like it’s about a hundred years old, and looks like it’s going to be cold inside. The cemetery behind it rolls into the distance, fresh gravestones and old gravestones mixing up the view.

Melissa has the gun in her pocket. She’s taken the silencer off so it fits. We climb the stairs up to the church doors and push the right one open. At first sight it’s easy to think the church is empty, but it’s not, it’s just a very small crowd confined to the first two pews. My mom is standing at the front with Walt. Walt is wearing a brown suit with a wide brown tie that looks like something some insurance salesman would have been buried in forty years ago. My mom is wearing a flowing white dress that is made from satin or silk and hugs her body in all the places Walt has been hugging her body lately, but in this case these places only make her look fat. They are facing each other. Standing behind them is a priest, and he’s the only one to notice me and Melissa walking into the room. He doesn’t pause, but carries on with the ceremony and the audience of—I count them—eight people.

We sit down in the back. We have to, because if we go too close and my mom or Walt sees us, they’ll talk to me, then the priest will figure out who we are, and then Melissa will have to shoot him to stop him from calling the police, and though we haven’t talked about it I get the idea that Melissa is on the same wavelength when it comes to shooting priests—it just seems like an unlucky thing to do. Though, a year ago the priest who used to run this church had his skull beaten in with a hammer. That’s kind of an unlucky thing to do too—more so for him.

The priest carries on, and even though it hasn’t felt like a risk coming here, suddenly it does. Being stationary seems dangerous. Being on the move felt safe. I’m guessing Melissa feels that too because she keeps jiggling her legs.

“How long is this going to take?” she whispers to me, and we’re too far away for anybody to hear us.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I’ve never been to a wedding.”

“I don’t like this,” she says. “I think coming here was the wrong thing to do.”

“Let’s give it five more minutes,” I say.

“Three,” she says, and I don’t renegotiate.

My mother looks happy. Walt looks happy. I feel tense. The priest asks if anybody here has a reason why these two shouldn’t get married. I have a bunch of reasons. My mom and Walt look out into the church, but their eyes only go as far as the front two rows. Nobody says anything. Then the priest asks my mother a bunch of questions about taking Walt as her husband. The three minutes go by. We agree to stay three more. Then Walt gets the same kind of questions.

Then they kiss.

My stomach turns over and this morning’s storm is coming back. The priest and Walt shake hands. Then everybody gets up and people are hugging, and then my mother and Walt move over to a table and sign something. One of the crowd steps forward and starts snapping off photographs. Then the happy couple walk down the aisle toward the church doors, and they walk right past us without even noticing. The priest opens the doors for them, the people that came along for the wedding follow them out, and suddenly we’re alone with the priest.

I get up. Melissa gets up too.

“You’re her son, aren’t you,” the priest says.

“No,” I tell him.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” he says, “but there’s no sanctuary in a church. The police will arrest you in here just as they will arrest you anywhere.”

“I’m not here for sanctuary.”

“Then why are you here?”

I don’t answer him. I walk past him and Melissa points the gun at him and he doesn’t say anything, and then she smiles at him and hits him on the head about the same place she hit The Sally on her head. He goes down about the same way, and makes the same kind of pile on the floor, only his pile doesn’t take up as much room as Sally’s pile.

Then my mom comes back into the church before we can go out after her. The door closes behind her. She sees the priest on the floor first, and she says “Oh my,” before she sees Melissa and then me. “Joe,” she says, and she steps over the priest and embraces me. “I’m so glad you came! But you’re late,” she says, and she pulls back from me and gives me a slap on the face, nothing too hard, but enough to show her disappointment. “And who is this?” she asks.

“This is my girlfriend.”

“No, no,” she says, “this isn’t your girlfriend. I’ve met your girlfriend. What’s going on here, Joe?”

“Joe’s here to get the money given to him last night,” Melissa says, and her voice is cold, her voice has a Don’t fuck with me quality that my mom doesn’t seem to hear.

My mom gives a small laugh, and a small nod. “That was so wonderful,” she says, “and I can’t believe you did that for us.”

“Did what?” I ask, but I’m afraid I already know.

“The money,” she says. “It’s a wonderful wedding present. I never, ever thought I’d fly first class anywhere. I could never have afforded it. And I never thought I’d go to Paris! Paris!” she says, then shakes her head. “All because of you. It’s going to be a wonderful trip,” she says, but I don’t see how it can be, not with her in a body bag and Walt in a body bag too, because that’s how they’re going to be making their next trip.

“You spent it all?” I ask.

“No, no, of course not,” she says. “Don’t be so stupid. What’s wrong with him?” she asks, looking down at the priest.

“He’s tired,” Melissa says.

“He looks it,” Mom says. “No, no, we still have a few thousand dollars left for spending money.”

“So you spent most of it,” I say.

“Most of it, yes. It was so generous of you. Will you come to the airport to see us off? Or do you have to go back to jail now?”

“So you spent most of it,” I say, and I realize I’ve just said it, but then I say it again. “So you spent most of it.”

“What’s wrong with you, Joe? You’re like a broken record. I already told you we have some left.”

“We need to go,” Melissa says.

“Who are you again?” my mom asks. “Have we met?”

“Come on, Joe,” Melissa says, and she tugs at my sleeve. “We should never have come here.”

We step around the unconscious priest and my mom stares at us with an angry look on her face, as if spending all of my money has really annoyed her. “Good-bye, Mom,” I say, knowing this will be the last time I will ever see her. I should feel relieved by that, but strangely I don’t. No matter what, I’m going to miss her.

We step outside. Walt is out there talking to a couple the same age as him, and then he spots me and starts to come in my direction, but whatever he has to say I don’t really want to hear. We’re halfway down the stairs when Detective Inspector Schroder pulls into the parking lot.

Chapter Eighty

Driving is a bitch, but thankfully the car is an automatic, which makes it possible. Hutton isn’t taking his calls. When Schroder calls him, it rings a few times and then switches over to voicemail. He’s not sure whether the detective is busy, or whether he’s deliberately dodging him. He has a pretty good idea which it is.

He knows Hutton’s number from memory, but not any of the others, and because the screen on his cell phone is busted he can’t look anybody else up. He could call the police emergency number and ask to be put through to Stevens, but he knows Stevens would yell at him and hang up without hearing what he has to say. He drives to the church, not expecting to find Joe there, but ready to call the emergency number if he does. If it leads nowhere, then he’ll drive to the hospital.

He’s not expecting to see Joe standing on the steps of the church when he pulls into the parking lot. In fact he has to do a double take, and even then he’s not sure because Joe is wearing a hat, but the woman behind him is definitely the same woman from the prison, the same woman who shot Jack, the same woman who blew up Raphael and tried to blow him up too.

So there’s no point in messing around. He stops the car and leaves the engine running and reaches into the sling for the gun, then has to put the gun down so he can open the door. He gets it open and the gun back into his hand and he doesn’t bother yelling out, he just draws a bead on Joe, but doesn’t pull the trigger because some old guy wanders up to Joe and blocks the view.

A second later Melissa steps out from behind Joe to the right of that same old guy and fires a shot at Schroder. Schroder ducks down behind the door onto the ground as bullets come thumping through the car door. Something tugs at his broken arm, and he looks down to see a dime-sized spot of blood that starts to rapidly grow on the front of the sling.

Melissa stops firing. People are running in all sorts of directions.

He peers around the edge of the door and back up at the church just in time to see Joe and Melissa disappear inside. The old man who was trying to talk to Joe is still standing on the stairs. He looks unsure of what to do. Schroder knows the feeling.

He tucks the gun under his arm and reaches for his cell phone. He dials one-one-one. “This is Carl Schroder,” he says. “I’m currently under fire from two suspects—Joe Middleton and Melissa X. Send backup,” he says, then gives the name of the church and hangs up.

He drops the phone back into his pocket. He still hasn’t called his wife. Why the hell did he keep putting that off? If this were an episode of The Cleaner, then that’d mean he’s about to get shot. That’s how TV works—you start talking about a cop who has a family, and two minutes later that guy’s starfished on the ground with blood running out of him. He points the gun ahead and makes his way out from behind his car. He has a promise that he has to keep.

Chapter Eighty-One

She knew this was a mistake. Should never have come here. Hell, for that matter she should never have helped Joe escape. She could have gone anywhere, just her and Abigail. Only now she’s backed into a church and no doubt the police will be on their way. She has about twelve bullets left and nothing else.

“Let’s go back out the front,” she says.

“He’ll shoot us,” Joe says.

“No. He’ll just try to shoot us.”

“What’s going on?” Joe’s mother asks, and Melissa thinks she could spare a bullet on her. If it came down to it, she could probably spare two or three—one into the head, then two more into the head just for the hell of it.

“He’ll do more than try,” Joe says.

“Others will be on the way. We have to do this fast. We have to go back out there and we have to shoot him and then we have to leave. We can drive a few blocks and ditch the car and steal another. Or take one of the others that’s already here. Damn it, we could have been home by now. This was a waste of time because your stupid fucking mother spent—”

“How dare you,” Joe’s mother says, and Melissa points the gun at her.

“Don’t,” Joe says.

“Why?” Melissa asks.

He opens his mouth to answer and comes up with nothing. “We can use her as a shield,” he says.

Melissa pulls him toward her and kisses him hard but briefly on the lips, then pushes him away. “You’re going to make a great father,” she says.

She grabs Joe’s mother, who resists for a few seconds, and then Joe grabs her too. They push her ahead of them toward the church doors. Melissa holds a gun to the woman’s head and Joe opens the door and then they step back outside.

Schroder has made his way to the bottom of the steps. He’s wearing a sling because his arm is broken or wounded or something. He points the gun up at them, but he has no clear shot. It’s Joe’s mom, then Melissa, then Joe—all in a straight line.

“Let her go,” Schroder says.

“Put your gun down or—” she says, and that’s when Joe’s mom stumbles, trips, then suddenly she’s rolling down the stairs toward Schroder. Joe moves to the side to try and reach her, but is too late.

For a moment both of them are exposed to Schroder.

And then two things happen at the same time. Walt steps in between them to try and reach Joe’s mom. And Schroder and Melissa open fire.

Chapter Eighty-Two

“What’s—” is all Walt can manage because a moment later Melissa’s bullet is rattling around in his wrong-on-so-many-levels skull. He stays standing as if being shot in the head is a momentary distraction, an annoyance, and then he’s waltzing down the steps taking the same path my mom took.

The shot Schroder took has gone high and wide, but he points his gun at me to take his second shot. Before he can, I pull Melissa in front of me, which ruins the shot she’s about to take, and ruins Schroder’s shot too. Instead of him shooting me, he shoots her. I can feel the impact of it.

I back into the church as Schroder takes his third shot. Another impact into Melissa and I get back through the church doors, dragging her with me. The door closes behind me. I lay Melissa on the floor next to the priest.

“You fucker,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I truly am. “It just . . . just happened that way.”

There are twin pools of blood forming on her chest. She raises her gun toward me and I reach out and take it out of her hands before she can fire it. “I can make it quick,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. Then she laughs. “I can’t believe you did this to me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I tell her again, and it’s true.

“Abigail,” she says.

“I’ll look after her,” I tell her. “I’ll do everything right by her,” I tell her. “Where is she?”

“She’s safe,” she says.

“Don’t let her grow up without either of her parents,” I tell her, and I tell her this because I really need to know where Abigail is being hidden. I really need the safe place.

“Bullshit. You just want somewhere to hide out.”

“I promise you that’s not the case,” I tell her.

She laughs again. “I’ll tell you,” she says, “because I have no choice,” she says, and she hands me a key.

I don’t know what she means by that, but she gives me the address.

“Leave me the gun,” she says.

“No.”

“I’ll take care of Schroder,” she says. “Go out the back. Go through the cemetery. Make your way out onto a different street and steal a car, but do it now. Go now!”

I’m about to lean down and kiss her when she coughs up a small amount of blood.

“I love you,” I tell her.

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

I leave her the gun. I don’t know why I trust her, but I do. I run to the back of the church and turn to face her, but she’s not looking at me, instead she’s looking at the doors, pointing the gun toward them, and she’s talking to somebody, but I don’t know who. She laughs, and the only words I can make out are Smelly Melly. I have never in my life felt this guilty about a person. Or even guilt.

I go through a doorway into a corridor. I reach a back entrance and then I hear two gunshots that sound different from each other and then nothing. I go out the door and there’s a car parked there. It probably belongs to the priest. I climb into it. I don’t have the keys, but not having keys has never been a problem for me. I get it started and I drive around to the front of the church and there are no police cars, just people from mom’s wedding hiding behind other cars. I get out onto the street.

I keep driving.

After a few blocks I can hear sirens approaching.

I turn off so we don’t share the same road.

For the first few minutes my heart is racing so hard it feels like it’s going to pop right out of my chest. Then it starts to calm. Ten minutes into it I’m feeling pretty good. Good enough to look back over the last few hours and think that it all went really well.

I already miss Melissa.

It takes me another twenty minutes to get to the address she gave me. It’s a secluded house where the closest neighbors aren’t in looking distance. It’s a long shingle driveway and there’s a lot of land here. It’s not a modern place, but it’s not old either, and it looks comfortable. This place is going to be my home for the next few months until I can figure out where to go next.

I park around the back. I unlock the back door. I can hear a baby crying. My baby. My heart starts to speed up again. I make my way toward the sound. It’s a bedroom. I open the door. Inside is a woman. She looks to be in her twenties. Her hair is a mess. She’s wearing no makeup. She’s wearing clothes that look like they haven’t been washed in weeks. And there’s a metal chain going from her ankle to the metal pipe of a radiator. She’s trying to calm the baby, trying to feed it. This is what Melissa said when she said she had no choice but to tell me where the baby was. The woman looks up at me.

“Oh my God, oh thank God,” she says, and she drops the bottle of formula that the baby is refusing. The baby, Abigail, has a blank look on her face and she’s trying to clutch at something that isn’t there. She looks over at me and doesn’t smile or look away and I don’t know whether or not she can see me. She’s cute. As far as babies go. Very cute.

“What’s happening here?” I ask. “Who are you?”

“This crazy woman kidnapped us,” she says.

“Us? You and the baby?”

“No, me and my sister,” she says. “The baby belongs to the crazy lady. She said if anything happens to the baby she’s going to kill both of us, so I have to do everything she says. Please, please, you have to help us.”

“Is your sister younger or older than you?”

“A little older. Why? Why does it matter?”

“Just so I know what I’m in for.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“I mean it really just isn’t your lucky day,” I tell her, and I close the door behind me and tell her about my day, then explain to her how she and her sister are my reward for getting through it.

Epilogue

I pull the car into the driveway. Sit back. Try to relax.

I have the car stereo going. Over the last three months since my escape, I’ve listened to the news a lot. It’s always nice to know what’s going on in the world. In the beginning, the news was all about me. Some of it was good news—like Walt being killed at the church. Some of it was heartbreaking—like Melissa being killed at the church. I miss her a lot.

I twist the keys in the ignition, grab my briefcase, and climb out of the car. I fumble with the lock to the front door of the house and make my way inside.

I can hear the shower going from down the hall. I make my way into the kitchen and open the fridge and help myself to the first beer I’ve had in over fifteen months. I carry it with me down to the bedroom and sit on the bed a few feet from the bathroom door, from which steam is steadily creeping under. I pop open the briefcase and sit it on the bed and pull out the newspaper. The front page is about Carl Schroder. Three months ago he was shot in the head, but survived. He was put into a coma. The paper makes a big deal out of it because he shared a hospital room with a guy he used to work with who was also in a coma. They were called the Coma Cops. The media really played it up. The other guy, Tate somebody, woke up two weeks ago. And yesterday Carl Schroder woke up.

Today is the first day I’ve been out of my house since the escape. I’m already missing my daughter. Right now she’s being looked after by my housemate. My housemate’s name is Elizabeth, and her sister’s name is Kate, but Kate isn’t at the house. She never was. Kate exists, but it’s obvious Melissa only ever told Elizabeth she was there in order to manipulate her. I use the same tactic, and it works.

Mail comes to the house. Power bills, mostly. They all say they are being taken care of by direct payment to a credit card, but whose, or how Melissa set that up, I don’t know. I found a notebook. It was a budget. Melissa prepaid the rent for one year. She prepaid some guy to come mow the lawn every few weeks too.

As well as leaving cupboards full of baby food, baby clothes, and baby supplies, Melissa also left a bag full of cash. I use it for groceries. The same credit card used for the bills also gets used to order groceries online from a nearby supermarket. So once every week or two I shop with a computer and the groceries are left at my door. There is a lot of money here. Almost thirty thousand dollars. It will come in handy when we leave. It’s a nice house, but it does feel a little like prison since I never get to go anywhere. Feels like a prison too for Elizabeth, I imagine.

I’m growing my hair long. It looks awful, but I’m getting used to it. I’ve dyed it too. Blond. It was the color Melissa had chosen for me. There were a few boxes of dye left for me.

Abigail is getting bigger. I don’t know her birthday, but I guess I can pick any day really. She smiles at me a lot now. And sometimes she laughs uncontrollably. I’ve figured out that the best sound in the world is a baby laughing. The worst sound in the world is pretty much any other sound a baby can possibly make. She smiles at Elizabeth too, and the two seem to like each other. Elizabeth is starting to like me too. Maybe there’s something there. It does happen. Or maybe she’s just wanting me to let her go.

But, like I say, the house feels like a prison, and it’s nice to finally be out. I have needs that Elizabeth can’t meet. Urges that keep me awake at night just as much as Abigail does. I’ve been a good boy. I’ve kept my hands off the babysitter. I like the idea of a more hands-on approach, but I don’t like the idea of accidently killing the only person who can get Abigail to go to sleep.

Good things are going to happen.

The shower is switched off. I hear footsteps and a towel being pulled from a rack, then general bathroom noises of drawers being opened and closed. An extractor fan is turned on. I fold the newspaper up and put it back into my briefcase.

I take out the biggest knife I have and rest it on the bed. Then I take out the gun I found at my new house.

Then I take out the sandwich I brought along with me.

Adam the prison guard steps out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, because he doesn’t recognize me. It’s the hair—plus I’ve put on some weight.

I hold up the gun and I hold up the sandwich. “I’m Joe Optimist.”