Trust No One (47 page)

Jerry picks up the pen.
Everybody is a critic,
he thinks, but then realizes Hans has a point. He can remember writing similar letters in the past. One to Sandra, one to Eva, letters he wrote from the heart when he thought he was a killer and he thought saying good-bye was doing them a favor. But he can’t capture that mood now. At the bottom he writes

I wish I could turn back the clock. Despite all my actions, I love my family. I love my wife, I love my daughter, and I would do anything to have them back. Anything. Eva, I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I wish there was some way to ask for your forgiveness.

He wishes there was something else he could write, some kind of code to let the police know he’s innocent, but there’s nothing. Jerry signs the confession and slides it back across the desk. While making the addition, Hans has set fire to the short story Henry wrote. The ashes are still drifting onto the carpet. Hans picks it up and reads it. Jerry glances at the knife then looks away. Even if he can get to it, a knife against a gun isn’t much of a battle. He now has the ultimate role as a parent, and that’s to protect his daughter.

“There’s no emotion in here,” Hans says.

“It’s the best I can do.”

Hans nods. He puts down the note. “Here’s what I want you to do for me. I want you to focus, really focus on what I’m going to do to Eva if you try anything other than what we’ve spoken about. You understand me?”

“I understand you.”

“Put your palms flat on the desk,” Hans says.

Jerry does as he’s asked. He knows where this is going. He is, after all, the master of connecting the dots. In twenty seconds he’ll be dead. By tomorrow he will be a confessed killer, and Eva will live with that shame, but at least she will get to live. The Alzheimer’s has taken his life, and Sandra’s, and the women that Eric killed, but he won’t let it take Eva’s.

Hans moves around behind him, coming to a stop behind the chair.

“Keep your left hand on the desk,” he says, “and bring your right hand up to your head. Pretend your fingers are a gun and you’re going to shoot yourself.”

Jerry does as he’s asked. He brings his right hand up, turns his fingers into a barrel and points them against his skull. His hands are shaking. He’s thinking he should have gone for the knife. Should have done something. With everything he’s lost, all those times he thought about killing himself, he’s surprised at how afraid he is to die. Perhaps, if the circumstances were different—

But they’re not different,
Henry says.

And final words of advice?

You’re on your own here, buddy.

“You try messing with me and this will go very badly for both you and Eva.”

“I know.”

Hans puts the gun into Jerry’s hand, and at the same time jams the barrel into the side of Jerry’s head. He has both hands wrapped around Jerry’s hand, forcing him to maintain the aim. He closes his eyes. He can feel his finger being forced into the trigger guard. He’s doing the right thing. For Eva. But before he can do anything else, the wireless doorbell starts ringing.

“Somebody is here,” Jerry says, searching again for a way out of this. “If there are others inside sleeping they’re going to wake up. You can’t get away with it.”

“Shut up,” Hans says, and he takes the gun out of Jerry’s hand but keeps it pointing at him.

The doorbell keeps ringing.

“It’s probably the police,” Jerry says. “Somebody saw us break in. Maybe the owners heard us.”

The ringing stops. There is silence for ten seconds. Then there is tapping at the office window.

“You shoot me now,” Jerry says, “and it only makes things worse for you.”

“Shut up,” Hans says, then he moves over to the curtain. There is more tapping, which is then followed by more silence. Hans peers around the corner of the curtain, careful to keep the gun pointing in Jerry’s direction. “It’s your nosy neighbor,” he says. “She’s got a flashlight and that bloody hockey stick she had earlier. Okay, she’s leaving. Wait . . . she’s moving to the back of the house.”

“She’s going to come inside, and I bet she’s called the police. You should go.”

“She won’t be coming inside.”

“I left the key in the back door. She might.”

Hans moves back behind the chair. He points the gun at the door. They wait.

“Don’t shoot her,” Jerry says.

“What do you care? You hated her anyway.”

“Please.”

“Don’t worry, as soon as I’m done you can add a
PS, I just shot the neighbor
to the bottom of your confession.”

The handle on the office door starts to turn. The door opens, and there she is. Mrs. Smith, standing in the doorway wielding the hockey stick. She takes two steps forward, and Jerry has no idea what kind of scenario she was expecting to walk in on, but it certainly couldn’t have been this one. To her credit, it only takes her a second to sum up the situation.

“Oh,” she says, and she must really like the sound of it because she says it again. Any other person would be caught between fleeing and running, Jerry thinks, but not Mrs. Smith, the woman whose garden he vandalized, whose house he graffitied. Mrs. Smith who has been a constant pain in his ass since the day he moved in. Where others might flee, or be paralyzed by shock, she comes forward, perhaps thinking she can cover the distance quick enough, perhaps thinking the man with the tattoos won’t really open fire on a woman older than the sun, perhaps thinking the very idea of a wrongdoing is so offensive she must challenge it.

Hans pulls the trigger.

The gunshot is instant. It’s loud, a booming in the room that makes Jerry’s ears ring so painfully that instinct takes over and he puts both palms over his ears. Mrs. Smith doesn’t do that. Instead she takes two steps forward as if refusing to believe she’s been shot before coming to a stop. She looks down at her body where there is no sign at all of any damage, as if the bullet has gone through without harming her, or perhaps it completely missed. But then blood appears just below her chest. She drops to her knees, her face scrunches up into a tight ball, and she uses the hockey stick to prop herself up. She tries to get back onto her feet.

“How dare you,” she says.

Hans pulls the trigger again.

And the gun goes
click.

“What the fuck?” Hans says, and Jerry knows exactly what’s happened, that when he kept spinning the chamber all those months ago as he sat next to Sandra, the bullets got out of sequence. Right now the firing pin has landed on the empty shell, the one that used to contain the bullet that killed his wife. Hans turns the gun to the side so he can look at it, as if the problem will be visible, and as he does this Henry speaks up.
Now,
he screams, the word inside Jerry’s head almost as loud as the gunshot, so loud, in fact, that Jerry knows he too is shouting out the word.

He throws his elbow back into Hans, getting him in the base of his stomach, just as Hans pulls the trigger. The shot is wide and hits the wall. Jerry turns in the chair and now the fight is on, and this is the way it should be done, he thinks, a fighting chance, and isn’t that the best way to end things? A good old-fashioned fistfight to the death? It would be, except for the fact fighting is a Hans thing to do, and therefore he knows how to do it. Then there’s the slight fact that Hans still has the gun. A gun he now turns towards Jerry. There is another explosion of sound, and suddenly there’s a burning in his stomach and he feels like his kidneys are on fire. The room darkens as his legs weaken. He’s able to get his hands onto Hans’s hand and push the gun so it’s pointing away. One bullet for his wife a year ago, one into Mrs. Smith, one into the wall, one into his stomach. That leaves two.

The knife,
Henry says.
Do it. For the love of God, stop stalling!
It’s on the desk. He can see it, but he can’t reach it. Hans is turning the gun back towards him. It’s happening in slow motion. It’s pointing at the wall, at the chair, at Jerry’s shoulder, then at his chest, and as the gun gets into position the expression on Hans’s face changes too, first one of anger, then frustration, then he smiles. A big
Fuck you
smile. An
I win
smile. “Eva is next,” Hans says.

The hockey stick, one end still being held tightly by Mrs. Smith, swings through the air and hits Hans in the forearm, not enough power to break bone, Jerry thinks, but enough to make the gun hit the floor. Hans reaches for it, and Jerry goes for the knife. He has a vision of knocking it off the desk, of it skidding over the floor, but no, his hand wraps tight around the handle. He doesn’t hesitate. He swings it towards the man who killed his wife. He swings it as hard as he can, swings it for Sandra, for the florist, he swings it for Suzan with a
z,
he swings it for Eva, for everybody this man has hurt, for all of those that have had their lives ruined by their own Captain A. Most of all he swings it for himself. He conjures up all the anger he has and swings it as hard as he can.

It finds Hans’s neck.

It goes in the side, the entire blade, slicing in on an angle so the tip comes out the front. Jerry puts all his strength into it, pulling forward, trying to cut all the way through to the front, but it won’t move any further. Not that it matters. Hans stops going for the gun and puts his hand to his neck, blood shooting out like a fountain, a gurgling sound coming from deep inside his throat. He straightens up, both hands on the wound now, trying to stem the flow, but it’s no good. Already the light starts to fade from his eyes. He stumbles and leans against the wall, the knife still buried all the way into his neck. Jerry reaches down for the gun. He points it at Hans.

“This is for Sandra,” he says, but before he can pull the trigger, the hockey stick comes back into view. It comes swinging into his field of vision, held by a woman too stubborn to die. It hits Jerry in the forehead and all the lights in the world switch off.

Dear Diary, dear Future Jerry, dear Anybody Else who is reading this, my name is Jerry Grey and I have a story. I am a father, a husband, a crime writer, a gunshot survivor, I have Alzheimer’s, and I am a convicted killer. I murdered my wife. I don’t remember killing her, and I don’t know whether to be grateful for Captain A hiding that from me or not. I live in a psychiatric facility with bars on the windows and locks on the doors and gray walls in every direction. Sometimes I have questions, and sometimes the doctors answer them, and sometimes I don’t believe what I’m hearing, and sometimes to prove their point they’ll show me a copy of the confession note I wrote. Other times they’ll show me the newspaper articles too. On days when they don’t have time to answer my questions, they just medicate me. It’s easier that way. For them, and for me.

They tell me I’ve been here a year now.

This is day one of keeping a diary, which I’m doing in an attempt to keep my sanity, of which there is very little left. Though, really, I think it’s more of an attempt to preserve some of the man I used to be. It wasn’t my idea, but the idea of one of the doctors. He thinks it may help.

Sadly, the man I used to be is a monster. I killed a lot of people. I killed my wife. I killed a florist who worked on my daughter’s wedding. I killed my best friend, Hans, I killed a woman who used to be my neighbor, and I also killed an orderly at the nursing home where I used to live. There are diaries, I’ve been told, that I’ve kept in the past, but the police have them now. Some days I think those diaries might tell me I’m innocent, other days I think they just confirm what I wrote in the confession. It means all the things I don’t want to be true are, indeed, true. Yet the only person I can remember killing is Suzan. Suzan with a
z.

When I try to think of these people, their names and faces all fade into a murky past, but not hers. I remember quite clearly standing in the backyard of her house, the moon bright and full, I remember embracing the night and feeling the blood pulse through my body as the need took me over. I had wanted Suzan from the moment I first saw her. I wanted to know how she felt.

So, Diary, I’m going to tell you all about it. But first . . . I don’t really like the name
Diary.
I’ve been thinking of
Madness Diary,
but that doesn’t quite fit. I’ll think about it and see what else I can come up with.

Future Jerry, let me tell you about Suzan.

Madness Diary, let me tell you how my life as a killer began. . . .

Out of the nine novels I’ve written so far, this one has been the most fun for me, and perhaps the most personal. In the book, Jerry keeps saying “write what you know,” and for the first time I’ve gotten to do that. There is plenty in Jerry’s life that is similar to my own—and of course there is plenty that isn’t. For a start, he’s older (though that’ll obviously change one day) and, Alzheimer’s aside, he’s in better shape than I am. He went to university, I didn’t. He has a wife and a daughter, I don’t. We are both closet trekkies, both drink G&Ts, and we have the same artwork hanging in our offices—the
King Kong Escapes
print hangs near my desk, and of course there’s the music. Each of the books I’ve written has a soundtrack—a very loud soundtrack that blasts throughout the house and half the neighborhood. Why so loud? Because I don’t want to hear myself sing. Nobody wants that.
The Laughterhouse
was written to The Doors,
Cemetery Lake
to Pink Floyd,
Joe Victim
to Bruce Springsteen. Others have had The Killers, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles . . . the line in the book about the music Jerry listens to being immortal—that’s truly what I believe. This book was actually written to the tunes of David Gray—he’s always been one of my favorites, and I’ve pretty much been binge listening to him for the last year or so. In fact, I started learning guitar recently, and it’s David Gray songs that I practice with.

The last few books were written in a variety of countries, but this one was all New Zealand. Half in the summer and half in the winter. Like I say, this one was a lot of fun for me. It feels like I’ve been living with Jerry for a long time now—and I get the feeling I’ll be living with him for some time yet.