You and I, Me and You (20 page)

“For me, it's about getting rid of this headache. It's not just the pain, it's having to dig up a bottle of Advil and something to drink. The whole thing, it's exhausting. Why didn't you two stop me from hitting my head so many times? Selfish bitches.”

“Yes, that should have been our focus during that devastating confrontation. Your forehead.”

“What I said.”

“Ready to probably get killed?”

George sighed and rubbed his forehead, which was now purplish and swelling. “Dare to dream, baby.”

 

chapter forty-eight

“Know what?” George
asked. “I just had a thought.”

“Good for you, Georgie.”

We had parked as far up the block as we dared and were examining the trim house, where lights were on in the living room and kitchen. Ian Zimmerman owned this small ranch home in that blandest of all Metro Area suburbs, Little Canada.

Another thing the movies got wrong: serial killers tended to live in respectable homes in the suburbs, not farms o'death (
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
) or houses with their own cavernous, crumbling basements and enormous dry wells, perfect for hunting, killing, and storing victims to be skinned (
The Silence of the Lambs
). I'd never once fake-arrested a killer who lived in an abandoned tract home built on an ancient cemetery

(“You left the bodies and you only moved the headstones!”)

or found so much as a severed finger in an amusement park. Heck, most of the time I fake-arrested bad guys in broad daylight. If we'd been a little quicker with Zimmerman, or if Paul hadn't gone on his “setting up a pro for murder to save other pros” spree, we'd be trying to fake-arrest this guy in the sunshine.

“Your thought?” I prompted. No cars in the driveway, but lights on inside. No second floor. No basement windows … this might not be fatal.

“If I'm not a real cop, I'm not playing by real-cop rules.”

“Agreed. That's why we're sitting here without backup. Also so I can help Shiro rebel against her chosen mother figure.”

“Yeah, boring. I'm over Michaela's sexy treachery now. So I was thinking, if Zimmerman doesn't kill us, or me at least, I'll probably kill him.”

I groaned. “You can't kill him.” Unless it was self-defense, but it was never good to remind George of that loophole.

“No, I can … look!” He showed me the paper with the copy of Zimmerman's driver's license. “Five-six, one-fifty. Heck,
you
could probably take him.”

“No, George, you can't.”

That stopped him short. “Can't as in I'm morally opposed, can't as in I don't know how, can't as in the guilt will keep me up at night, can't as in I'm worried I'll get in trouble … what?”

“Um, can't because we're the good guys.”

“Oh!” George's expression cleared with understanding. “
Shouldn't
. That's what you meant.
Can't
is … that's a whole other thing.”

“I'm terrified of you sometimes, Black George,” I admitted.

“Thanks.” He seemed pleased. And I was surprised I was surprised. “I like ‘Black George'! Makes me sound like a pirate.”

“You stole that line from
The Losers
.” It was George's favorite graphic novel
and
movie.

“Yep.”

We both took another minute to look at the house. We'd driven around the block a few times; a lovely, quiet little burb was Little Canada. A quiet night for Sussudio's neighbors.

“What do we do?” he whispered, which was odd because unless Sue was hiding under the car, he couldn't hear us. Maybe not even then. “Just march in there and arrest him?”

“We can't!” I hissed back. “We don't have lawful authority. We're not FBI agents; we're private investigators.”

“So, what? Citizen's arrest?”

“Do
you
know how to make one?”

“Shit, no. I was happy with the lie about us being Feebs. Wait, I'll look it up.” He jabbed at his phone. “C'mon, Wikipedia…”

“Oh, for God's sake.”

“Shut up … ah! Okay, citizen's arrest. Practice dates back to medieval Britain … ancient sheriffs encouraged citizens to arrest bad guys…”

“Something that will help us in
this
century, please?”

“Shut up. I hate you—okay, here it is … okay, you can do a citizen's arrest in Australia … and New South Wales … and Ireland … India…”

“Something that will help us in this
country,
please?”

“I will slice off your face, you nagging skank!” Awww. It was our first whisper-scream fight. “Oh, here it is, the United States. Hmm, any state can do it except North Carolina. Remind me to stay the fuck out of North—”

“We live in Minnesota! We want to arrest a serial killer in Minnesota! Find out what we need to do in Minnesota or
I'll
slice
your
face off, you whiny selfish sexually harassing egotistical shortsighted unscrupulous shithead!”

“Whoa! Say it, don't spr— Here it is! We can do a citizen's arrest if we think a felony has been committed, and if we've got reason to believe the person we're arresting committed it. Well, duh. But that'll work. Ooh, and listen! In Minnesota a private citizen can not only arrest someone, we don't have to tell the cops … we can even bring in the suspect ourselves. Yay, Minnesota!”

I sagged with relief. “Then let's get to it. Death awaits. Or glory. Well, not glory, because the cops will get the win. I bet the FBI will wish BOFFO was real if we get this guy.”

“Yeah, hold on to that dream. What do you think? Take the back? And no, that's not a sexual euphemism.”

“Sometimes it must be great having such a one-track mind.” I thought about it. Small house, and Zimmerman was probably alone. We could kick in the back door and draw down on him. We could knock on the front door and when he answered, surge inside. We could split up: while I played helpless female and knocked helplessly at the front door and tried to engage Zimmerman in conversation while looking helpless, George could come in from the back. That could be bad for me, but it gave George the best chance of success or, barring that, survival.

I decided to give him
two
gifts: “You can go up the back.”

“Ooh!”

“What if it's not him?”

“You mean what if he's out trolling suicide groups and someone else is here watering his plants or whatever?”

“Right. We could tip him off.”

“He's retarded,” George reminded me, “or he wants to be caught.”

“Stop saying
retar
—”

“If it's the word you don't want me to say, to wit,
retarded,
then he'll be too retarded to worry. And if he wants to be caught, he won't give a shit.”

“There are flaws in your logic, but damned if I can find them. Shall we?”

“We shall!”

We crept from the car and snuck up to the yard like kids past curfew. Or so I supposed; I didn't have any real experience with that, but it seemed right. We were about thirty feet from the front door, and I started to go to the right so George could swing around the back.

“Luck,” I whispered.

“It didn't suck
all
the time we were fake partners for the fake FBI.”

“We were never fake partners,” I said, genuinely touched. “Be safe. As safe as you can given that we've decided to do this reckless thing.”

“Try not to get your stupid ass killed, you worthless twat.”

I knuckled away a tear and started up Zimmerman's sidewalk, making no further effort to be quiet or stealthy. I wanted all his attention on me. Hopefully while he was shooting me in the face, George would get the drop on him.

(What if you live through this and emerge triumphant?)

Now that
was
retarded.

 

chapter forty-nine

I knocked on
Zimmerman's door, conscious of my HK P2000 left and low beneath my jacket. I was thankful I didn't have Shiro's Desert Eagle lurking back there. She loved the gas-powered cartridges, but I hated the weight and the length.

“Helloooooo?”

(Nobody out here but us fake FBI agents.)

“Anybody hoooooome?”

I heard footsteps, rested my hand on my hip just above the holster, and put on a big smile.

(Nobody here but us armed Girl Scouts. You want five cases of Thin Mints or ten, punk?)

The door swung open and there was, again, the banality of evil. I would never get over being amazed that bad guys could look so ordinary. I knew it was Ian Zimmerman because he matched his driver's license picture exactly. That was almost worse than contemplating his murders. You know how every single driver's license picture in the world is unflattering and looks nothing like the actual person? Not Ian Zimmerman's pic. The watery hazel eyes, the pockmarked skin, the greasy hair (what was left of it), the bulbous nose … all in vivid living color right in front of me.

Before I could draw down on him, he brightened and smiled, a grin so natural and sweet it was as dazzling as it was startling. His smile was glorious, and his nicest feature. “Cadence! Hi! You finally here to arrest me? Great! Oh, boy, been waiting forever, feels like.”

“What'd you say?”

Ian Zimmerman was the most polite and welcoming killer I had ever tried to fake-arrest. “They told me you'd be along.”

Then, from behind: “Freeze, Zimmerman! Or don't! Or freeze for a second and then change your mind! Either way I might pistol-whip you to death! I am a fake FBI agent, so
don't fuck with me
!”

“No, it's okay,” Zimmerman said. He'd raised both arms at George's shrill “Freeze.” “I'm ready. I can't believe you're finally here! Jeez!”

“Umm…” George was standing about seven feet behind Ian, his weapon out and pointed at the back of Zimmerman's head. “In my mind? This went a totally different way. D'you get the same feeling?”

“It seems Mr. Zimmerman's been waiting for us.”

George just stared. “I have no idea how to feel about this. You tell him why we're here?”

“To arrest me for killing Wayne Seben, Rita McNamm, Carrie Cyrus, Wendy Dennison, Mike Perry, Sara Torp, Roger Phillips, and Mark Graham. Oh, and I almost forgot—”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Wendy and Mike and Sara and Roger and Mark didn't fight you.”

“They were the
truth
. Those other ones were the lies. Which one are you?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Are we gonna have a conversation with this guy or beat him or kill him or what?” said George, as always impatient with social niceties.

“Are you Shiro, Cadence, or Adrienne?” At my dumbfounded stare, the killer said, “The twins told me all about you. They told me what to do and they said you'd be the one to come get me.” He beamed. “I've been waiting awhile now.”

“Not twins,” I said, feeling the world start to tilt away from me. “Twins
now,
yes, sort of. But once they were triplets. We fixed that, though. Didn't we, George?”

“Oh, fuck me,” George groaned, and I left. I was a coward, yes, and I ran because I was afraid, but I also knew Shiro would catch me.

 

chapter fifty

Or not.

 

chapter fifty-one

Twins! No never
twins they were

                           
like us

They were

                                                         
three

And now they're two and they hate

the wheels on the bus

they hate

going round and round

First there were three and now there are two and like us

                        
(but not like us)

they liked us

                        
(but they didn't like us)

Soon we'll be one

because we don't hear the geese.

The geese are flying not dying

and we almost never hear them

except when we sleep

and the feathers are white.

                        
But ThreeFer they like

They
like
the dead ones

They
like
when the feathers fly

They
like
red feathers

The three-now-two hear the geese when

The wheels go round and round

They hear the geese when they're awake

They don't like

(us)

they don't like when they don't

they hate that they won't don't love

they hate that we wouldn't couldn't love

                                                                
them back

their love

is their biggest lie

their love

                                                         
is to die

(or kill)

                                               
(THEY LIKE that better)