Jack Daniels Six Pack (133 page)

“People can be unselfish,” I maintain.

“How so? Feeding the starving? Adopting unwanted babies? Sending aid when there’s a natural disaster? Giving blood? Donating to charity? People do these things to feel good about themselves. They’re all selfish acts, and pretty goddamn stupid as well. If you’re going to be selfish, it should benefit your life, not take away from it. Now I’m asking you again—where has your morality gotten you?”

I know the answer, and hate the answer.

“Answer the question, Jack.”

“Here,” I whisper.

“Exactly. Your high regard for life, and justice, and the path of righteousness, has gotten you here. You’re dead, and the people you love are dead, all because you’re so sure that there’s a right and a wrong. Be honest. Don’t you wish that you had killed me after you tore off my face?”

I nod slowly and speak the truth. “Yes.”

Alex half smiles. “Good. I’d hate for you to die without any regrets. And let me tell you something, Jack. For all I’ve done in my life,
I never put anyone that I cared about in jeopardy. Your loved ones are going to suffer, and it’s your fault.”

Alex sticks her face in mine, lets me smell her rotten breath.

“And you call me a monster,” she says.

8:30 P.M.
JACK

A
S IF I’M NOT FEELING HORRIBLE
enough about the unfolding events, Alex helps add guilt to the fear, pain, panic, and regret I’ve been drowning in.

She seems to notice this, and I can sense it pleases her.

“Are we done with the philosophy?” she asks.

I don’t answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Moving on to the next question. And let me tell you, Jack, this one is a hard one. I’ve done some clever things in my life, but this one was truly brilliant. Are you ready for it? Are you ready to see if you’re as smart as I am?”

I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. But I make myself nod. Alex smiles her half smile and comes in closer.

“How did I find out where you live, Jack?”

I don’t have a clue. When I moved to the suburbs from my Chicago apartment, I didn’t leave any forwarding address. All of my ID still lists Wrigleyville as my home. Except for Herb, Latham, and Harry, I didn’t tell a single person that I’d moved. All the utilities here are in Mom’s name. I pay my cell bill and credit cards over the Internet, using Mom’s connection. No one knew that I live here.

But Alex knew. She came here directly after breaking out. How?

“You hired someone,” I guess. “You had some money stashed, used a private eye to track me down.”

“Wrong!” Her eyes twinkle. “Pick someone.”

I can’t speak.

“Hurry, Jack, or I’ll shoot them both.”

“Me,” I croak. “Shoot me.”

“Your turn will come later. And trust me—you’ll be begging me to shoot you before we’re through. But now you have to choose. Or we could do eenie-meenie-minie-moe.”

I stare at Latham, my lower lip trembling, and somehow say, “Him.”

The fact that Latham nods makes it even worse. Alex spins the cylinder and places the barrel up to his forehead. Latham closes his eyes. I want to close mine as well, but I owe it to him to watch.

Click.

I taste blood. I’ve bitten my tongue.

“Try again, Jack. How did I find you?”

I throw out a guess.

“You found out my mother’s last name, called up the electric company or some other utility.”

“Wrong.”

Alex begins to pull the trigger, and I scream, “You have to spin it first!”

“No I don’t. It’s the same question, so no new spin.”

I cringe, my whole world imploding.

Click.

“Looks like you get another guess,” Alex says. “There’s a one out of three chance that Latham will die if you get it wrong. Isn’t this exciting?”

Latham’s forehead has broken out in sweat, but he stays stoic, stays calm.

Think, Jack! Think!

“You tracked the home loan somehow, knew my mother moved here.”

“Exactly,” Alex says.

I slump back on the sofa.

“I just logged onto the Internet,” Alex continues, “because they give full Internet access to the criminally insane. We were allowed two hours a day, right after our massage.”

She begins to squeeze the trigger.

“Dr. Panko’s office!” I yell. “You used her computer!”

“Sorry, Jack.”

“No!”

Click.

Alex pats Latham on the head. “Down to a fifty-fifty chance, loverboy. Better hope your woman gets this.”

How did she find me? How did she find me? How the fuck did she…

I stare at Latham, his eyes squeezed shut. Herb wouldn’t ever give my address up, even accidentally. He’s a cop, which means he’s paranoid. So is Mom. Harry is an ex-cop, plus he has just as much to fear from Alex as I do. Dumb as he is, he’s also naturally suspicious. Harry would know if someone was sniffing around for my address.

Latham isn’t a cop. Latham is a nice guy. A trusting guy. He could have been manipulated.

“It was Latham,” I say. “You got it out of Latham somehow.”

Latham’s eyes open, and there’s so much hurt in them, so much betrayal, that I have to turn away. Alex begins to laugh.

“That’s beautiful, Jack. Your fiancé has a gun pointed at his head, all because of you, and you’re blaming
him
?”

I was wrong. Dear God, I was wrong.

Alex swings a leg over Latham and straddles his lap, caressing his lips with the barrel of the revolver.

“How does that make you feel, loverboy? Your fiancée must think you’re really stupid.”

“I’m sorry,” I say to Latham. “I’m so sorry.”

Latham says something, but the duct tape muffles it.

“I just have to hear this,” Alex says.

She yanks the tape off. Latham stares right into my soul.

“After all we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me?”

Alex couldn’t have hurt me any worse.

“I figured you made a mistake,” I say, my voice pleading. “You know I trust you.”

“How could you think I’d do that?”

“She’s smart. She could have tricked you.”

Latham looks away.

“See,” Alex says, patting his cheek. “You should have fucked me when you had the chance.”

She presses the gun to his forehead, and then my mother begins to moan.

“Hold on,” Alex says. “Mom wants to say something.”

Alex gets off of Latham and walks to Mom. She rips off her gag, and my mother says, “Shoot me, not him.”

Latham says, “Mary…”

I say, “Mom…”

Alex goes, “Shhhh! Let Mom make her case.”

Mom doesn’t look at Alex. She looks at Latham.

“Don’t blame my daughter. She trusts you. She’s just making wild guesses so you don’t die. I’m an old woman. I’ve lived my life. I can accept this.” Then she stares at me and smiles. Her eyes are warm, moist. “Jacqueline, my little girl. I’m so proud of you.”

“No…Mom…” My words are mixed with sobs. Then I turn to Alex and do what I told myself I wouldn’t do. I beg.

“Please…please don’t do this. Do what you want to me, but let them go. Please.”

Alex’s face twitches into a half smile.

“The world-famous police officer Lieutenant Jack Daniels is asking me for mercy. But she didn’t give me any mercy. She tore off half my face, and left me to rot behind bars. And now she’s crying like a little girl, and I haven’t even cut off her ears yet. I have to say, Jack, that I’m disappointed in you. I thought you’d be stronger.” Alex cocks the hammer back. “Now pay attention while I kill your mom.”

“NO!”

Click.

Alex laughs. “Wow! Can you believe the luck? If I were you, I’d go out and buy a lottery ticket.”

I’ve got nothing left. All of my hope has been sucked out. My eyes wander around the room, and I try to fathom that this is it, my last few hours alive, and I’ll have to watch Mom and Latham die before I meet my own horrible death.

“The next chamber has the bullet in it, Jack,” Alex says. “No more odds. When I pull the trigger again, the gun will fire. It takes out some of the surprise, but it really does amp up the suspense. For the last time: How did I find you?”

I can’t look anymore. I can’t handle it. If I could have willed myself to die right then, I would have.

“I love you, Jacqueline,” Mom says.

I want to say it back, but only sobs come out.

“Five seconds, Jack.”

Alex hums the theme to
Jeopardy!
I decide to rush at her, try to get the gun away. My hands are cuffed and my feet are bound with tape but I have to try. I scan the room for a weapon, something that I could get to in time. A lamp on the end table, next to a stack of magazines. The TV remote control. A cat scratching post covered in carpeting.

Wait a second…

“Magazines!” I say, finding my voice. “I transferred my subscriptions here. You were at my apartment, you noticed I read fashion
magazines. You called one of them, impersonated me, got my change of address.”

Alex stops humming. She stares at me with her head tilted to the side.

“Nicely done, Jack. Very nicely done.”

I know the relief will be short-lived, but every extra minute I have is like a gift.

“Now tell me which magazine it was,” Alex says.

I subscribe to half a dozen magazines. I have no idea which one.

“Hurry, Jack. Answer quickly.”

“I guessed right. I guessed it was a magazine.”

“And now I’m asking which one.”

It doesn’t matter that I’d been correct. This isn’t a game that Alex will let me win.

“Vogue,”
I say.

“Wrong.”

She aims at Latham and fires.

8:38 P.M.
KORK

T
HE LITTLE
.32
BURPS
in my hand and I hit what I’m aiming for. Latham’s arm. He moans, and Jack throws herself on him, as if that will prevent me from shooting him again.

What actually does prevent me from shooting again is the simple fact that my gun is empty. If Jack were thinking straight, rather than having an emotional breakdown, she could have taken that opportunity to charge me. It wouldn’t have done anything. I still would have overpowered her. But she could have at least tried.

I reload the gun, and the moment passes. I’m more than a little disappointed in Jack. She’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to an actual adversary, but this has all been cake so far. I’ve spent many sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering how she caught me. Now the answer is crystal clear.

She got lucky.

Anyone can get lucky. The fat kid scores the goal at the buzzer. The trailer trash wins the lottery. The dumb cop catches the brilliant killer.

This revelation makes me feel good. Damn good. I watch as Latham squirms on the sofa, Jack pressing an armchair cover to his wound, and I smile as big as my scarred face allows.

Dr. Panko, and the many headshrinkers who came before her, always tried to blame my unique outlook on a horrible upbringing.
That’s just plain silly. Look at all of those people who were tortured and starved and sexually abused in the concentration camps during World War II. Did any of them become serial killers?

People don’t become predators because of their environment. Some are born predators. My family had some…
social issues
…and not because of some ongoing cycle of abuse. It’s in our genes. Dr. Panko might as well have been counseling a shark, trying to convince it that eating fish was wrong.

I know why I am the way I am. And I like it. Other human beings somehow connect and relate with each other on a level that I don’t. They care.

It makes them weak.

I have no such compulsions. I’m unrestrained by sentiment. I’ve never known guilt, or regret.

I’m no robot. I can laugh. I can cry. I can reason. But I lack the capacity to empathize with others. Watching Jack fawn over Latham has no more effect on me than watching a man build a house, or a bird eat a snail.

But
shooting
Latham. That has an effect. That makes me feel powerful. Full of life. Complete. It produces a physical response within me, an endorphin rush.

Is this what love is? Is this how Jack feels when she looks at her fiancé?

I hope so. Because it will make taking that from her even sweeter.

I aim the gun.

“Move away from him, Jack.”

Jack stares at me, face awash with tears, eyes confrontational. I wonder if she’s going to make a move on me, decide in advance where I can shoot her without killing her. I’ll go for the right knee.

But she backs off, returning to her spot on the sofa. Loverboy has lost a lot of color, and the makeshift armrest cover bandage is soaked through with red.

“I bet right now you kinda wish you dated someone in a different profession,” I say to him.

It’s funny, but no one laughs. Tough crowd.

The oven buzzes. It’s the apple pie that I put in earlier. I’m anxious to try it. It’s the first pie I ever baked, as hard to believe as that might be.

“Would you like to help me check on the pie, Mom?” I ask. I grab the back of her chair and tug her into the kitchen, warning Jack that she’d better behave, or I’ll stick Mom’s head into the oven, on the heating element. I know from experience how much that hurts.

I set Mom up near the oven door, and we both peek inside. It smells great.

“Is it done?” I ask.

She nods. Earlier, while we were baking, she’d tried to connect with me by making small talk. Perhaps, after shooting her potential son-in-law, we’ve lost some of that earlier closeness.

I find some pot holders hanging up next to the sink—they say
Home Sweet Home
on the front—and take out the pie. It’s brown and bubbling and looks delicious. And hot. I bet this thing would cause some serious burns if it got thrown in someone’s face.

“If this tastes as good as it looks, maybe I’ll let you live long enough to bake another.”