Evil Eye (13 page)

Want to spell me, try chopping a while you'll get to like it, Bart.

You might need gloves, though. Any gloves handy?

Bart had said OK, Dad. Some other time.

Laugh-out-loud,
such bullshit.

It was always like that: Bart's father trying to coerce him into doing something he used to do when he was a kid, so Bart is supposed to fall in line and do it, too; and if he doesn't, or won't, Dad gets pissed and looks at him
that way.

Home invasion like in Connecticut: two guys break into a suburban house, terrorize the mother and two teenaged daughters, rape and beat them, and tie them to a bed and sprinkle gasoline and light it—house goes up in a blaze! They didn't get the father, just the mother and girls. Stupid fuckers, ex-cons,
got caught.

A few years ago there'd been thefts at 29 Juniper Drive also at neighbors' homes—25 Juniper Drive, 31 Juniper Drive—­computers, electronic equipment, video games, silver candlestick holders—but the perpetrator had been identified, the stolen items returned or anyway most of them, financial reimbursement made, no charges filed with police.

Negotiating with the neighbors not to press charges. Bart's mother had been so ashamed—she'd said, how many times. Sure, and Bart was sorry, too—he'd needed the money bad, junior year in high school. Bart's father had never forgiven him, just one more fucking thing he'd held against him like the check for the Explorer—already, a thousand times he'd brought up
that
—throwing it in his face every chance he could though Bart had said he was sorry how many fucking times, did they want him to immolate himsel
f
?

He'd had a drug problem, high school. He'd gone to rehab. It was OK. The family judge, a female, was understanding. And Mom was understanding—
as long as this never happens again, Bart.

He'd swore, it would never happen again.

That crummy crap he'd taken from his parents and the neighbors hadn't been worth the effort and the risk for less than five hundred bucks and the dope he'd blown it on hadn't made any special impression on the people he'd hoped to impress—for sure, that shit would never happen again.

And yes,
he was sorry.

It's like the ax is leading him. Upstairs.

Gripped in his (gloved) hands. Metallica
screaming in his ears
Die, die, die my darling.

Past the doorway of his (darkened) room. And the door is partway open like someone is inside—who?

Soon, he won't remember that punk kid. Scared of his shadow practically, fucking
ashamed.

In a weird movie—like
Inception
—could be
Bart Hansen is in his room, asleep in his bed and all outside is his dream unfolding.

Like
Matrix
.
Bourne Conspiracy.
Some kind of mind-fuck. You can argue you are not responsible.

You can argue
you are not you
.

It's an idea: his generation. Nobody is who they're supposed to be—who older people want them to be. A click, a twist of the dial—
you're gone.

At their (closed) door. As a little kid he'd stood outside this door plenty of times.

Just reaches out, grips the doorknob and—turns it. . . .

Opens the door and—

Like some kind of explosion like a—suicide bomb—the door is pushed, there's his father confronting him, Dad in pajama bottoms and no top so his hairy-fatty chest is exposed and his face livid with shock, rage—
Bart! What the hell are
—

Like Dad did not see the ax for Christ's sake.

Or seeing the ax discounted it thinking
The kid will screw up, the kid can't do a fucking thing right.

This loud voice like a bullhorn in Bart's ears, a shock after so much quiet, almost he'd come to think this was in fact his dream, and nobody in it except him. Then this loud-mouth furious man yelling at him, demanding of him what the hell he thinks he is doing creeping into the house is he intending to steal from them again, God damn says Dad he's going to call the police—

And there is the mother in bed a few yards away, sitting up confused—and seeing them struggling in the doorway, Bart in black hoodie and black jeans, his face exposed when his father had switched on the overhead light—the ax between them, lifting and plunging with its own terrible energy—she opens her mouth to scream—

So it happens for all his meticulous planning Bart has no choice bringing the sharp side of the ax down against Dad's skull, Dad's furious face, as the older man sinks at once like a felled tree, all resistance gone, in an instant gone, a look of perplexity and wonder in his bleeding face, both his hands clutching at his son who flails blindly at him with the ax—
Get away, get away from me—
sharp edge of the ax, blunt edge of the ax, sharp edge,
blunt edge, as Bart swings blindly until on the floor the bleeding figure is tangled in Bart's feet—he's panicked kicking free Oh Christ!—what has happened he didn't intend
this.
A deafening roar in his ears but he knows he has to get to the woman in the bed, that is the next step, he must execute the second step, bring down the woman struggling to escape from the bed and into the bathroom where she will lock the door and he will have to shred the door with the ax—rushing at her, jumping up onto the bed as he has not done since he's been a young child daringly climbing up onto his parents' bed and bouncing on it now swinging the ax at the woman in a wide careening arc—missing her, almost losing his balance—­panting—not the sharp side of the weapon but the blunt side, Bart can't bring himself to strike his mother with the terrible sharp edge of the ax for she is begging him
No Bart no honey please no
for he'd gotten along mostly OK with Mom, mainly he was pissed she hadn't defended him enough against his father, God damn she'd let him down too many times culminating in the loan fiasco for the SUV, she'd helped him with Delt-Sig dues and fees, some other debts he'd owed, from her own checking account and the father hadn't known, or hadn't been supposed to know, but somehow that got screwed up, the father had seen the bank statement and called Bart on his cell leaving messages increasingly threatening, speaking of the police,
taking the matter to the police
so Bart has no choice but to act as he is acting—no choice as a trapped rat has no choice—but the fact is: he'd stunned them first with the ax, blunt side against their skulls to stun them like you would stun a cow before slaughter so it's a merciful death, they
never felt a thing.

Next he knew the heavy ax had slithered from his hands. Had the bloodied ax head flown of
f
?

Just the wood handle in his hands, he uses to push at the—the thing on the floor—the man with the split skull, gushing blood—and the thing on the bed—he will cover with bedclothes. Dragging sheets and blankets from the bed, dragging a blanket over the thing on the floor scarcely recognizable as his father, face split in bloody halves like a mangled pumpkin, and the lacerated neck spouting blood—dragging a blanket to hide it. And the other—the woman—half-naked, fleshy and smelling of bowels—an alarming stench—part of her upper skull missing—right eye mashed out of its socket—still she's begging
No honey no p-please noooo
—blood like a great black rose enveloping her where she has fallen slantwise on the bed, already the bedclothes are dark-stained, he has to swallow hard not to puke up his guts dragging a quilt over the woman, to hide her; the quivering body, the shuddering female body, he places pillows, satin pillows, and from her bathroom, which is adjoining the bedroom, he grabs as many towels as he can, heaped atop her in layers.

Die die die my darling. Don't utter a single word.

He's panting, as if he's been sprinting a mile race. His gut aches.

It would begin now: the ceaseless sensation of movement, motion, as of hot gaseous liquids, in his lower gut.

Ceaseless seething, fizzing. At first it was, like, his stomach was
growling
—which was a kind of joke—a kid joke, like ­farting—then, as hours passed, days, eventually weeks, gas pains like knife stabs coming one-two-three in quick sensation so he felt the blood drain from his face, so he almost fainted.
What has happened to me, something is eating me from inside
—it was like something had burrowed into him, a snake, a giant slug, rapacious and insatiable eating him from inside.

The weird thing was, the ax had taken on its own willful life almost immediately swinging out of his control, careening in wider and more extravagant arcs than Bart would have been capable of until the ax head flew off the handle and he'd dropped the handle in horror on the floor amid the tangled bedclothes, bloodied bodies and one of them—it had to be Louisa—­moaning from beneath the quilt, pillows and towels he'd heaped on her quivering body in the hope that she would suffocate and die faster
and pass out of her misery.

For another weird thing was, Bart would never share with anyone, once he'd used the ax on both his parents and the ax head had flown off the handle, he could not strike them again not even with the handle. He
could not.

No fingerprints. The assailant had worn gloves.

No
physical evidence
. The assailant had acted swiftly and shrewdly and had left no sign of himself behind.

Obviously a break-in, attempted burglary that had gone wrong.

Whoever the killer was, he'd decided not to take anything.

(For Bart reasoned: whatever he took from his parents' house if he tried to sell it, or barter it, or pawn it—he'd be caught. That was a major blunder he wasn't going to make.)

It was a part of the execution plan—
I B S
—to change his clothes
after.

Shower, quick. In his father's bathroom not his own for he knows that would be a mistake—shower floor damp, towels damp, sink recently used. All he takes from his own room—from his bureau, his closet—is a change of clothes—dark clothes to replace the filthy clothes he's going to wrap in a bundle and drop in a Dumpster at a lonely exit on the thruway on the drive home. (He hasn't planned the exit. That, he will leave to chance. But it will turn out to be exit 19 at Skaggsville almost exactly equidistant from East Rensselaer and Syracuse, a rest-stop Dumpster, which will be a tactical error since such Dumpsters are emptied less frequently than, for instance, a Dumpster behind a McDonald's or Wendy's, and Rensselaer police will discover the bundle within forty-eight hours.) There's video games he'd have liked to take back to Syracuse with him from a shelf in his room,
Dead Space 2, Portal 2,
and
Brink,
which is awesome but no better not—he's superstitious. Doesn't want to do anything in this room beyond the bare necessity of getting clean clothes, which is why there will be
no physical evidence.

Why the blogs will be saying of Bart Hansen
he's one smart kid.

Darkly handsome. Charismatic, generous—party-loving.

Every teacher Bart had ever had, every relative of his, ­neighbor —friend of the Hansen family—assured the worried parents your son is a smart kid if he'd only just
apply himself.

K through twelfth grade at Rensselaer Day School, more or less that was the consensus—
Bart Hansen is a smart kid if only he'd apply himself.

He'd been a promising athlete. Middle school, upper school—football, basketball, swimming, track. Each fall he'd start off OK but then something would fuck him up—one season it was bronchitis, one season a sprained ankle, poor grades, academic probation, he'd get discouraged and smoke too much dope with his non-athlete friends so the coach had no choice but to drop him from the team.

His parents nagging him
When will you take responsibility for your life Bart—you are not a child any longer!

His problem was, he'd been born the wrong color. If he'd been dark-skinned, some kind of slant-eyed Asian. Better yet, some kind of Native American. He'd be treated with respect not the way he was, treated like shit by his own parents. He could be
himself
and
himself
would be plenty.

He made a terrific first impression. Everybody said so.

Girls liked him—a lot. Then, if he was drinking, or high, or telling funny stories like the guys encouraged him, they'd kind of edge away and wouldn't want to see him a second time. That was the problem.

Every Delt-Sig party had been a fuck-up. Except freshman year a few times, the girls had been so young and naive and grateful for a guy to notice them, that'd been great. But then, things got fucked-up at homecoming, sophomore year. He never did figure out what the fuck had happened, he'd been too wasted.

Bart Hansen hadn't been the only guy this “Kima Klausen” had identified to the dean. The way his parents ranted about it, you'd have thought he
was.

Since the age of nine he'd suffered panic attacks. He'd looked like a healthy—husky—kid but the medical fact is, he's susceptible to “wild swings of mood”—this would be Deekman's defense.

Upper-middle-class suburban parents instilled in their adolescent son a continuous state of nerves, anxiety, a feeling of being
not good enough.
Like so many other young people today in the United States he'd had to resort to self-medication for survival.

Self-medicating
—just pot at first, in middle school, then stronger drugs, lots of drugs. And alcohol.