Genesis of Evil (11 page)

Gerhart listened with his mouth partly open. “You never told me about that. Why didn’t you tell me about that?”

“For what? I mean, shit! The kid’s a little tetched, right? Who’d have thought it was important?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just that this is beginning to drive me nuts. My God,” Gerhart said snapping his eyes wide open. “I forgot one.”

“Another one? When? Where? What else happened?”

“You forgot, too. The first one. The dead guy we found in the mall before it was even finished. Remember? The guy that fell out of a cloud.”

Polly Jo Hornfelter trotted happily along beside her husband like a well-trained beagle. It was all she could do to keep from shouting for joy.

“Did you talk to Roscoe Marney, Elmer?” Polly Jo asked her husband. “Can we go up there when it’s time?”

“I called him yesterday, sugar. It’s all set. He said we can have the run of the place just like you and your daddy used to do. The only thing he said was, be sure and get the licenses. Roscoe said he ain’t sure he’d need ‘em, hunting on his own land and all, but he knows we do. Don’t worry, I’ll pick ‘em up tomorrow.”

Elmer slipped an arm about his wife’s thickening waist and grinned down at her.

Polly Jo had always loved to hunt. When she was nine years old her daddy taught her how to use an old .410 gauge single shot that had belonged to his father. When she was twelve she graduated to a 16 gauge double barrel. She could now shoot as well as her daddy and better than most of the men in the county. One of the reasons she and Elmer got along so well was because they both loved the outdoors. They belonged to the National Rifle Association and subscribed to
Field & Stream
and
American Handgunner
. When the latest issue of a magazine arrived they fought to see who got to read it first. But early in their married life something came between them and the hunting.

Oddly enough, that something was survival.

It’s hard to find the time, much less the money, for hunting when you spend most of your waking hours trying to raise five young’uns that forever sit around with either their mouths open or their hands out. But eight months earlier, Edwina, the daughter Elmer called the last of the Mohicans, married Jasper Conling’s third boy. The newlyweds moved to Attapulgus, Georgia, wherever the hell that was, so the boy could work in a mine of some kind. Now Elmer and Polly Jo had the house to themselves. The first thing they did was get to know each other again—in the Biblical sense—using every room in the house except the bath. It was just too damn small. When they got caught up on that sport they decided that now, by God, they were going to hunt if they had to exist on shoe leather and nettle sandwiches for the next month.

Elmer and Polly Jo stepped into Buck’s Sporting Goods, stopped just inside the door and grinned at each other like two kids at Disney Land. They looked around and sighed simultaneously. Then Polly Jo spotted the gun section and tugged Elmer’s hand.

“Over there, honey. See?”

The ecstatic couple walked through the store and came to a halt in front of a rack full of shotguns. The only clerk in the place, the one that had drawn lunch duty, looked up from the customer he was waiting on and smiled at them.

“Be right with you folks.”

Elmer waved a hand. “No hurry. When you get a chance, let me take a look at that 12 Gauge Ithaca pump.”

The clerk stepped over to the rack, took the shotgun down and handed it across the counter to Elmer.

“Here, sugar, try this for size,” Elmer said. He swung the gun up and placed the butt against Polly Jo’s right shoulder.

She reached out and gripped the shotgun expertly, left hand under the slide, right hand around the small of the stock. She aimed at her reflection in the mirror behind the rifle rack and broke into a delighted grin. “Oh, Elmer,” she squealed. “It was made just for me!”

There was a steady stream of shoppers in and out of the store. The clerk, a good fifteen years Elmer’s junior, recognized early on that his customers knew a great deal more than he did about guns. He left them pretty much alone, except to hand over a weapon now and then. Almost an hour passed as various customers came and went. Finally the store was empty except for Elmer and Polly Jo. The clerk made his way back to them and hoped they had settled on the most expensive shotgun.

“How are you folks doing?” he asked.

Elmer smiled at him. “I think we’ve made up our minds,” he said. He turned to Polly Jo. “Honey, give that Remington a try. I think you’ll like it better than the Ithaca.”

Polly Jo grinned at her husband, pulled the shotgun tight against her shoulder, swung in a small half-circle, took a deep breath, held it and squeezed the trigger. There was a deafening roar and a large hole appeared in the chest of the mannequin standing next to the dressing rooms.

She cocked her head slightly to the right and frowned. “Elmer, don’t you think the pattern’s a little tight for a modified choke?”

Elmer nodded. “Yep, you’re right. How about this one?”

He swung up the shotgun he held and made three basketballs disappear in rapid succession. “Now, that’s better,” he said, lowering the gun.

The clerk had turned several shades of white during this display, each one lighter than the last. He worked his mouth a few times, tried to speak, heard nothing and decided he was deaf. Then he took in a great breath and yelled at Elmer.

“You can’t do that! Give me that gun! I’m calling the police!”

He backed a few steps away from Elmer then whirled around and ran for the telephone at the end of the counter. Polly Jo brought him down with one well-placed shot.

“Good job, sugar,” Elmer nodded with approval. “But don’t lead so much next time.”

Polly Jo pulled a face. “You can tell I’m out of practice,” she said. “Let’s see what this little Remington 16 will do.”

Elmer and Polly Jo walked out of the shop, each with a shotgun under one arm. The clerk made a last attempt to get to his feet, pitched forward onto his face and died.

“Ernie, you and Lenwood go around to the door behind the food court. I want Ford and Al at the end of the corridor in front of Bonmark’s. Brock and Dee Dee, same place in front of Sears. I’ll go in here,” Gerhart said indicating the main entrance. “Now, listen up! These folks are nuts. They’ve shot a clerk, some basketballs, and several store mannequins. If one of them swings a gun at you, shoot him. Then we’ll ask questions. Go!”

The police officers leaped into their respective vehicles and sped off. Gerhart stepped through the main door and stood behind a concrete pillar waiting for his people to get into position. Three minutes later the radio yelped.

“Ford in position.”

“Ernie in position.”

“Brock in position.”

“Okay,” Gerhart replied, “go in easy, keep covered, tell me when you see them. Hit it.”

Gerhart drew his Sig Sauer 9MM, snapped off the safety, and jogged toward the food court with the piece at high port. The mall was so quiet Gerhart thought he could hear his shoelaces rustling as he tiptoed along the corridor. Occasionally a cough or sob burst through the curtain of silence. As Gerhart moved deeper into the mall he saw people laying under benches or huddled in the corners, most of them breathing shakily and holding their arms over their heads. When he reached the intersection where the mall branched right and left he stopped to listen. Far down the left passage were faint voices interspersed with manic giggles. He crept forward and peered around the corner

Midway between where he stood and Bonmark’s a man and a woman strolled side by side toward the big store as if walking through the park on a sunny day. The man was well over six feet and looked like he kept himself in good shape. He carried a long gun over his right shoulder like a soldier on parade. The woman at his side wasn’t more than five feet three and was slightly thick in the waist and hips. She carried another long gun slung under her left arm with the barrel pointing down at an angle. Her right arm was linked with the man’s left. Although the corridor was lined with prone and supine shoppers, the pair seemed not to notice. Gerhart thumbed the button on his radio.

“Ford,” he said quietly, “they’re coming at you.”

“Got ‘em.”

“Be careful. I’m coming at you, too. I’ll be on your right, hugging the wall. If you have to shoot at them, try to do a better job than you did on the range last week. Remember, I’m in front of you.”

“Right.” A soft giggle followed. “You’ll be safe. I’ll aim for your head.”

As Gerhart released the radio, the man stopped, swung his gun to the left and blew the window out of a storefront. The woman gave him a round of applause. He stood critically eyeing his work for a moment, then turned back to her and they continued their stroll. Gerhart was fifty feet behind them. He slid against a concrete pilaster, held his pistol so they couldn’t see it and called to them.

“Hey, there. How’s it going?”

The pair stopped and turned slowly in his direction. Gerhart waved his free hand at them and smiled around the pilaster. Elmer grinned and waved back.

“Hey, neighbor. Nice day for hunting, wouldn’t you say? What’re you after?”

Gerhart thought for a moment. “Just varmint shooting. Ever do that?”

“Off and on, but I like something a little more challenging.”

“I heard that. Doing any good?”

“Polly Jo, here, got herself a real nice ten pointer, didn’t you sugar? Real nice.”

“Where is it?”

“Left it back by the stand. I got a shot at a six pointer a few minutes ago, but I guess I missed. Couldn’t find any blood.” Elmer shrugged and pointed to the ground at his feet.

As Ford moved slowly up behind the couple Gerhart decided to go for broke. He stuck the Sig Sauer back in the holster, but didn’t snap the thumb clip.

“Let me give you a hand. Should be spoor around here someplace.” He stepped out from behind the column and walked purposefully toward Elmer and Polly Jo. Ford and Al were within twenty feet of the pair. Ford crept along one wall, Al along the other. Gerhart smiled and continued toward the couple, all the while hoping they wouldn’t turn away from him. Sweat ran down his face like a waterfall and his shirt was soaked. His eyes never left the business end of Elmer’s shotgun, which was still resting on his shoulder. Suddenly Polly Jo looked behind her, smiled and tapped Elmer on the shoulder.

“Look, honey,” she said quietly, “here comes another buck.”

Everything happened at once but it seemed to be in slow motion. Polly Jo swung the barrel of her shotgun toward Ford. Al dropped into a two-handed stance and pointed his pistol at her. Gerhart realized he stood where Al’s slug would go if it passed through Polly Jo. He dropped to the floor. Al squeezed the trigger. The bullet broke Polly Jo’s right leg, glanced away from her and kept going. Gerhart heard it singing along the floor of the mall and did his best to teleport himself to another part of town.

Elmer spotted Ford out of the corner of his eye. Torn between shooting Gerhart and trying for Ford, he hesitated too long. Ford shot him through the left forearm as he was bringing the long gun around. Elmer lost his grip on the shotgun slide, dropped the barrel and jerked the trigger. The blast gouged a hole in the floor. Some of the concrete chips caught Ford in the face and broke his glasses. Gerhart jumped to his feet and yelled something. Polly Jo rose up on her left knee and tried to bring her gun to bear on Al as he hopped around on one leg. His 9MM auto was jammed and he worked frantically to yank his backup piece from an ankle holster.

As Ford struggled to clear his vision, Elmer sat down on the floor and cradled the shotgun between his knees in order to shoot the blinded officer. Just before Elmer could squeeze the trigger Gerhart shot him behind the right ear. When Elmer fell over, Polly Jo leaped to her feet, broken leg and all, and emptied her shotgun somewhere between Gerhart and Elmer’s body. As her last load hit the wall, Al got his backup piece free and shot her in the throat. She dropped to the floor and lay quivering and spouting blood in great gouts from a severed artery. Gerhart ran across the corridor to Ford as Al dashed up to them.

“What’s wrong?” Gerhart yelled. “Can you talk?”

Ford brushed the last of the broken glass, concrete and lead from his face. “Can I talk?” he screamed hysterically. “Shit! I make the greatest shot of my life and all you can ask is can I talk? Ask me what I was aiming at, you motherfucker!”

“What were you aiming at?” yelled Gerhart and Al at the same time.

“The girl, you assholes! I was aiming at the girl!” Then he slid slowly down the wall to rest on the floor and broke out into loud sobs while the other two policemen stared at each other above his heaving shoulders.

Surprisingly enough, there were fewer casualties from the shooting spree than Gerhart had imagined. The only person killed by the Hornfelters was the sporting goods clerk. There were injuries, but most of them were minor and self-inflicted, although unintentional. The Hornfelters, for the most part, had shot out store windows, lights, the tires on several new cars and trucks on display by the Subaru dealership—and a wayward cat that had crept into the mall through a service door. A window dresser was cut rather severely by flying glass, and one elderly gentleman had dived over a bench in an effort to escape the couple and landed flat on top of a baby stroller complete with baby. The man broke a collarbone but the baby came away unscathed, proving something about the resiliency of youth.