I Kill in Peace (5 page)

Chapter Ten

When the dust finally settled, the case of mistaken identity was responsible for three deaths, including the man who'd been brought in with the knife in his stomach, (the doctors were too busy saving themselves to save him) and four wounded. By the time Candy and I were allowed to leave our little curtained-off corner, a porter was mopping blood off the white tiled floor. There were more police than medical staff in the emergency room. I saw several state troopers and even cops from nearby towns. All of their faces were drawn and pale, unaccustomed to scenes of such brutality, in a place of healing, no less.

I was released from the hospital the next afternoon, only after the police had shut down the hospital and questioned all who were in the emergency room when the fracas broke out. I wondered where the truly sick and wounded were taken during those hours. For all I knew, the nearest hospital was fifty miles away—or in the next town over.

Candy and I were questioned for a bit. The doctors wanted to make sure I was all right to go home.

I knew I didn't have a viral infection, just like I knew I was responsible for the collapsing dominoes of death that followed my actions. Tension was high in the town when we stopped at the variety store to pick up some cans of Katie's favorite iced tea. Folks were talking. Half were afraid, and the other half were quietly calling for even more justice. It didn't take a genius to fathom that their idea of justice skirted the traditional involvement of police and the court system.

Is this all it took to strip the civility from a quiet, little town? My head spun the whole car ride home, but I didn't let on to my wife.

Candy set me up in bed before getting Katie from our neighbors. Deep lines of worry etched across her forehead and the corners of her eyes.

“I don't think I'll ever get the sound of everyone screaming out of my head,” she said.

“Why don't you lie next to me for a bit before getting Katie? You look like you're going to collapse.”

“No, I'll feel better with her home. Maybe we'll all lie down and fall asleep to some boring daytime TV.”

I rolled onto my side when she left, staring out the window.

What had I done? If I confessed now, I'd probably get the death penalty.

But then, maybe that's exactly what I deserved.

The sound of my phone vibrating on my night table froze my blood. I was too terrified to pick it up. I pulled the covers over my head, muffling its cries to be held. A tiny pinpoint of heat emanated from between my eyes.

“Oh no,” I muttered, tensing further with dread.

The phone kept vibrating. I pictured it dancing off the table and shattering on the floor.

The heat seeped into my closed eyes. It got to the point where I thought for sure they were going to melt, just like the pale slugs in my parent's yard used to sizzle away when we poured salt on them. Lashing out, I grabbed the phone while pushing the sheets away from my face.

My hand trembled. My thumb was barely able to swipe the text icon.

AO:
You have nothing to feel guilty about.

“I've lost my mind,” I said, holding the phone with two hands so it didn't drop. “This can't be happening.”

AO:
You're not, and it is. This is only the beginning
.

“Get the fuck out of my head!”

AO:
You may rest today. The Mustang will be waiting for you tomorrow. You'll drive to Saco in the afternoon.

I no longer saw the need to text. Why bother when the great and mysterious AO could read my mind? It was all the proof I needed that I'd gone irretrievably insane.

“And if I say no?” I asked, knowing the answer.

AO:
You won't. Here's why.

My body went stiff as a board as a hurricane of images shot through me like a ballistic missile. I saw a school, a blur of kids streaming past me. I couldn't tell their ages. Something exploded behind me. The hallway turned red as hundreds of voices screamed.

I felt something tear through my stomach and I jolted from the vision with a burst of pent-up air.

On the verge of hyperventilating, I stared at the phone still clutched in my hand.

“I am not going to a school to murder children. You can kill me with that pain you put in my head, damn you! I won't do it.”

I realized that if Candy was home, she could hear me. Maybe it was for the best if she did and called psychiatric services to fetch me.

AO:
Trust in me.

“Trust in you? Because of you and what you've made me do, people are dead. Lives are ruined.”

AO:
Or saved. It depends on your perspective.

I thought of the nurse who'd accidentally been shot at the hospital. How did she fit in to all of this? Did she deserve to die? Had anyone who had lost their lives over the past few days? Marcellus was an asshole, but the last time I checked, being an asshole wasn't a capital offense. The man who raped his son was a monster, but like Frankenstein's monster, was he to blame for being what nature had made him to be? Sure, he should have been in prison, maybe even for life, but dead?

“Where are you?” I looked at the closed closet doors opposite the bed, picturing some golem-like creature, AO made physical, leering at me through the slats, plotting the next move to keep me under its control.

AO:
Sleep now. Tomorrow, you'll see.

Before I could protest, everything went black.

Deeper

Chapter Eleven

To my surprise, I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and full of energy. Candy was already downstairs with Katie. I heard the microwave pinging, alerting Katie that breakfast was served.

I looked at my phone. There were no messages from AO. In fact, there was no record of AO's texts to me the previous day—or any day for that matter. The sweet smell of cinnamon oatmeal wafted up the stairs.

I'm supposed to go to Saco
, I thought while I peed. AO's urging to trust him seemed just as ludicrous after a good night's sleep.

So why wasn't I contemplating how to get out of my next mission? Would my cell phone self-destruct in ten seconds? No, AO needed it to reach me. Yeah, sure, it was the phone that made me do it!

“I hope you don't mind that I kept Katie home,” Candy said, holding a mug of steaming coffee between both hands. “With everything that's happened, I think it's best she stays home for a while. I'll feel better.”

I kissed the top of her head. “I totally agree. It's not like she's missing anything crucial in preschool anyway. If we keep her home for the week, she may fall behind in her finger painting skills, but I can live with that.”

Candy exhaled with a bright smile. “I don't know why I was so worried you'd be upset. How do you feel?” She felt my forehead with the back of her hand.

“Fine. I'm just happy to be out of the hospital”

“They said on the news today that there were four separate assaults in town last night. It's like the whole place has gone crazy.”

“All the more reason to stay inside with Katie today. I'm going to take a ride to Portland, see if I can catch up with Jimmy V. Maybe he has an opening, or knows someone who does.”

I knew Jimmy Valentine from when we worked at a credit and collections company, my first job out of college. Jimmy had moved to Maine several years ago and opened up his own consulting business.

Not that I had any intention of seeing him. The trip to Portland and back was roughly the same as Saco, about two hours. I needed a good excuse to be out of the house for a while.

“That's a great idea! It's always who you know,” Candy said. “Now, you sit while I make you some oatmeal.”

I said good morning to Katie, but she was so engrossed by SpongeBob SquarePants, she didn't even know I was there.

* * * * *

It seemed as if the Lumina drove itself to the old elementary school's parking lot on Depot Street. Auto pilot was becoming a common occurrence in my life. I wasn't surprised when I saw the red Mustang, parked close to the empty building.

First, AO could talk to me without my needing to text. Now I could find the muscle car without being told where it had been parked. All the more reason to believe this was some self-induced delusion. Did I have a split personality? What did I call myself when I bought the Mustang and the scimitar? Or did I just steal them? That seemed more in line with this new side of me.

I swapped cars. The case with the scimitar lay across the entire backseat. For the first time, I noticed the odd smell in the car—a hinting scent of foreign spices. I looked for an air freshener but could find none.

AO didn't make an appearance during the drive to Saco. The radio didn't work, even though the car looked brand new, so I drove in silence.

It wasn't until I passed the WELCOME TO SACO sign that AO spoke.

We had taken Katie to the water park in Saco when we first moved to Maine and I was lost in the memory of one of the best days of the summer. AO's simulated voice almost made me careen into the divider.

“The GPS system will take you the rest of the way,” AO said.

“It better not lead me to a school,” I said.

“It won't.”

I passed an old factory building with the Saco River to my left. The GPS took me down winding residential streets. The neighborhood went from upper middle class to don't-keep-your-doors-unlocked in just several blocks. Here, the weather-beaten Cape houses were caged in by rusted, twisted chain-link fences. There were more “Beware of Dog” signs than I could count. A startling number of angry pitbulls eyed me as I passed.

“You have arrived,” the GPS chirped cheerily as I stopped in front of a two-story, two-family house. The front steps were missing a board and the screen door was off its hinges, leaning against one of the windows.

“Do I take the scimitar?” I asked, worried that if I didn't, that damned agony would return.

“Of course,” AO said. “The door is open. Go inside quietly. When you get to the bedroom at the back of the house, you will have truly arrived at your destination.”

I looked to see if anyone was around. The neighborhood was empty, save for a few barking dogs. That didn't mean people weren't watching the flashy sports car from behind thin curtains or slatted blinds.

Carrying the case under my arm, I slowly opened the door, careful not to shout, “Is anyone home?” I sensed AO wouldn't have appreciated that. The smell of yesterday's dinner and dust enveloped my head. The inside of the house was surprisingly neat, though the furniture was worn and threadbare. There was a big, new, flat-screen TV in the living room. In the kitchen, dishes had been left to soak and the table for four was littered with crumbs.

And that's how you get ants.

I almost laughed out loud.

What the hell was happening to me? I just broke into a home carrying an Arabic sword days after murdering two people, and all I could think of were funny one-liners.

Screw stealth. I was crazy. I needed to be caught. If I tried to turn myself in, the power I had given to this fantasy AO would cripple me. So, what was to stop me from being discovered and taken in by the cops? It was better than having another death on my hands.

I
accidentally
caught my foot on a chair, spinning it into the wall.

“Who's there?” a voice, a boy's, cried out.

Run, kid, run!

I tromped to the back bedroom as instructed, making enough noise to rattle some of the pictures on the wall. I kicked the door in. A teenaged boy jumped from his chair, eyes wide with shock.

The gun he held in his hand was massive. I was pretty sure it was the rock to my scimitar's scissors.

“Who the fuck are you?” the kid spat. I noticed how the gun didn't so much as quiver. He knew how to handle it and didn't seem hesitant to put a hole through me.

He was sixteen, maybe seventeen, with a shaved head—a tattoo of a dragon emblazoning one side. He wore a black Misfits sweatshirt, the white skeleton glaring at me, and black jeans.

I felt a burning need to piss myself. What the hell had I stumbled into?

“I said, who the fuck are you?”

That was a damn good question. If I said, “
I'm the guy my phone sent to kill you
,” I was pretty sure I'd be dead before I finished the sentence. The kid had eyes so dark, they bordered on black. I didn't detect an ounce of mercy in them.

It was then that I also noticed the array of firearms laid out on his unmade bed. There were pistols, a shotgun, grenades, boxes of ammunition, and several of what looked to be homemade pipe bombs.

In that instant, I realized what the vision of the school had meant. This jackbooted kid was planning to destroy his school. He had enough on that bed to kill a hell of a lot of kids.

A calming wave swept over me.

“You planning for a one-way trip?” I said.

The kid cocked the hammer back on his gun. “What did you say?”

“When you're done,” I said, nodding at the bed. “You going to off yourself, shoot it out with the police, or turn yourself in? Suicide seems to be the exit of choice for you kids. Which makes sense. I mean, once you do what you're planning to do, the fate of your afterlife is sealed. You're already going to burn in hell for eternity. Why spend the life you have left being punished as well?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think you do. If you shoot me now, your neighbors will hear. This place will be crawling with cops. Why don't you put the gun down?”

The air between us was sliced with a high-pitched bang.

It felt as if my leg had been kicked by a mule. I fell to a knee, watching blood seep from the tiny hole in my thigh.

The kid smiled. “That's why I have a silencer.”