Fuzzy Navel (7 page)

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.”

Mom doesn’t seem happy with the thought. I leave the pie on the counter to cool, then drag her back into the living room. Jack and Latham are where I left them. I half hoped Jack would have hopped over to the front door and tried to get out. It would have been fun chasing her down again. But she just sits there, a whipped dog.

“I’ll pay you,” Jack says.

This surprises me. I didn’t expect the bargaining to begin so soon. At least, not before I did some breaking and cutting and burning.

“With what?” I ask. If I let her think I’m entertaining the notion, it will hurt Jack even more when I crush her hopes.

“We have some savings bonds. A few thousand dollars’ worth. And jewelry. An antique diamond necklace that my mother inherited from her mother.”

“And where is this cache of treasure?”

“In my bedroom. I can show you.”

Jack pushes herself up to a standing position, balancing on her taped feet. Now I understand. She has extra weapons in the bedroom. She’s hoping to grab one.

“Sit down,” I say. “That can wait. First let’s call up our friend Phin. Maybe he won’t be a limp dick like Casanova here.”

Jack sits, lets out a long breath. “I don’t know how to contact him.”

“Then we break one of Mom’s poor arthritic fingers for each minute you take.”

“I really don’t know. He doesn’t have a phone.”

I move behind Mom, put my hand over hers.

“I guess we’re not going to make any more pies,” I tell her.

“I don’t know how to find him!” Jack screams at me.

I decide to start small. The pinky. Then I hear a car come up the driveway. I glance out of Jack’s big bay window, facing the front yard, and see a Corvette pull up. I point the gun at Mom’s head.

“Stay quiet, or she dies,” I say.

I pull Mom toward the front door, then wait. There’s a knock.

“Jackie! You naked?”

Harry McGlade.

Jack begins to yell, but I’ve already got the door open, got the gun in Harry’s face.

“Aw, hell,” Harry says. “It’s Frankenbitch.”

I touch the barrel to Harry’s nose.

“Come on in. Join the party.”

Harry walks in. He’s as I remember him. Average height, a beer belly, three days’ growth of beard. He’s wearing black leather pants – yuck – and a yellow silk shirt with the top few buttons open, showing off a blanket of gray chest hair. He’s also wearing enough aftershave to be smelled from another zip code.

I stare down at his right hand, and am surprised to see it still attached. But closer scrutiny reveals it isn’t a real hand. It’s fake, prosthetic.

I pat Harry down, taking his keys, a cell phone, three condoms, and half a bottle of baby oil. Then I feel his artificial hand. The flesh is made of rubber, but there’s something solid underneath. I tug the covering off and look at the mechanism inside. A three-fingered metal claw, grafted to his wrist.

“You’re not even wearing a gun,” I say. “If I’m Frankenbitch, you must be Robodope.”

Again, no one laughs. Maybe this show needs a two-drink minimum.

“You have to give me the name of your plastic surgeon,” Harry says, “so I can buy him another drink.”

That warrants a kick in the balls. He doubles over. I pull him by his hair into the kitchen. I ran out of duct tape on Jack’s legs, but I have an idea that should work until I find some rope.

“Open up the robot hand,” I tell him, “and grab the refrigerator.”

Jack has one of those expensive double-door stainless steel fridges, and it’s big and solid. Harry does what I say, and locks his claw onto the freezer handle.

“Now take out your batteries.”

“They’re up my ass,” Harry says. “Stick your head up there and take a look.”

I introduce the butt of my gun to Harry’s jaw, and he falls to his knees. I spend a minute pressing and probing his prosthesis until I find the ejector for the battery pack. I pull it out and shove it into my pocket. Then I grab Harry’s collar and pull his face close to mine.

“Aren’t you happy to see me, Harry? Didn’t you miss me?”

“You should run away while there’s still time,” Harry says. “Before the villagers come with torches.”

I smile, give him a peck on the cheek. Then I whisper in his ear.

“Remember what I did to your hand? That’s nothing compared to what I have planned.”

Harry doesn’t have a smart-ass reply for that. I go back into the living room, feeling smug and powerful.

“I warned you, Jack. No yelling. I’m going to have to punish you for that. But first we need to invite Phin to this reunion.” I press the speaker button, then toss Jack her cell phone. “Call him.”

“He doesn’t have a phone,” Jack says.

“Then you’d better think of some other way to get in touch.”

I go over to Mom, squeeze her hand. Mom gasps.

“I’ll try the pool hall I’ve seen him at,” Jack blurts out. “I need to call information.”

“If you dial 911, you watch your mother die.”

Jack wisely chooses 411, asks the computer voice for Joe’s Pool Hall in Chicago, and gets connected.

“Pool hall,” the phone says.

“I need to speak to a guy there. Name is Phin Troutt. Blond, crew cut, probably wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. Tell him it’s Jack, and it’s an emergency.”

“Hold on.”

We wait, listening to the background noise.

“Hey, Jackie!” Harry, from the kitchen. “Does this mean we’re not gonna have sex?”

I think back to the last time I killed several people at once. A family. Mom, Dad, teenage girl. I couldn’t remember the reason. But did I ever need a reason?

“Hello?”

“Phin!” The relief in Jack’s voice is obvious. “I need you to come to my house. Right away.”

“You don’t need another wedding date, do you? The last time didn’t work out well for me.”

“I… need your help.”

Jack gives Phin the address. Phin doesn’t answer.

“Hello? Hello? The call got dropped.” She presses a few buttons. “It isn’t working.”

“Let’s try Harry’s phone,” I say.

“How about instead, you try eating that gun, you freak-of-nature gargoyle!”

I make a mental note to cut out Harry’s tongue when I go back into the kitchen. Then I toss Jack the cell.

She presses some buttons then says, “No ser vice.”

I pick up the cordless phone on a table. No dial tone. Latham’s phone doesn’t work either. How strange. It’s almost as if someone is blocking the-

A bullet comes through the front window and the revolver jerks from my hand, flying across the room. I see the blood on my fingers, feel a sting, and realize that someone has shot me. My previous military experience makes me drop to the floor and elbow-crawl away from the window.

Jack yells, “Get down!” and she drags Latham to the floor. Then she inchworms over to Mom and pushes her chair over. Another shot hits the TV, causing the screen to explode.

“What the hell is going on!” Harry cries from the kitchen.

I see terror on Jack’s face. She says, “I think my work followed me home.”

“H
OLD YOUR FIRE!” Swanson barks into the radio. Some moron, probably Munchel, started shooting before he gave the signal. Swanson isn’t in place yet. Munchel’s rounds could cut through the whole house and come out on his end. Getting shot isn’t on Swanson’s list of things to do before he dies. Especially getting shot by friendly fire.

They’d tracked the GPS Munchel put on the cop’s bumper to this secluded house in Bensenville. The setup is good. Lots of trees, no neighbors, nice and dark. The plan is to form a triangle around the house, keep an eye on doors and windows, and wait until the cop shows her face. But everyone needs to get into position first.

Munchel’s voice comes through the radio.
“Just zeroing out my scope.”

“Can’t you do that without shooting?”

“Yeah, but it isn’t as much fun.”

The radios, like the rifles, the scopes, the suppressors, the GPS, the portable cell phone jammer, and various other bits of military and spy gear belong to Pessolano. Pessolano also crept up to the house earlier and cut the phone line and cable connection, so the cop can’t call for help using the Internet.

So far, so good, but Swanson is still nervous as hell. The targets they’d eliminated a few hours ago had been easy, Munchel’s rampage aside. But that had been the result of weeks of training, planning, and surveillance. Even with Pessolano’s equipment and experience, this all seems slapped together at the last minute.

If given the choice, Swanson would have fled. But he fears that running might project a certain lack of trust, and then his handpicked teammates would feel the need to eliminate him as well.

So here he is, crouching behind a tree two hundred yards away from a woman cop’s house, ready to kill for the second time this night. Just to save his own ass.

The lights in the house are on, and he has a view into the living room from a forty-five-degree angle. Besides the large bay window in front, there are ten other windows around the house, and none have drapes or shades or blinds. There’s also a front door, a side door by the garage, and glass patio doors around back, which lead into the kitchen.

Swanson focuses the Leupold scope and squints through it, searching the living room.

It appears empty. Then he notices a foot protruding from behind a couch. That dumb-ass Munchel – his shot made the cop take cover. Swanson fumbles for the radio.

“Is everyone in position?” he asks. There’s no answer. He realizes he’s pressing the wrong button, finds the correct one, and asks the question again.

“Affirmative,”
says Pessolano.

“Yeah,”
says Munchel.
“I see where two of them are hiding.”

Two of them?

“The cop is with someone?” Swanson asks.

“She’s with four other people.”

Five people? This keeps getting worse and worse. While the authorities did a piss-poor job keeping his wife’s attacker behind bars, they still caught him in the first place. They’re the good guys. Swanson wants to be one of the good guys too. He doesn’t see how killing cops and their families can be considered good.

Swanson hits the talk button and says, “Who is with her?”

“One of them is a chick with a gun. Another is a grandmother. And two men. One is sitting next to the refrigerator, the other is tied up.”

“Why is he tied up?”

“Don’t you ever tie up your old lady, Swanson?”

Swanson does a slow burn. He’s told Munchel what happened to Jen. Munchel is either so ignorant that he forgot, or he is throwing it in Swanson’s face.

Swanson lets it go. The sooner they get out of here, the better. He presses the talk button.

“We’re just going for the woman cop. The others are innocents.”

“Bullshit they are,”
Munchel says.
“I’m shooting anything that moves. I’m not leaving witnesses alive to come after me.”

“This is my team!” Swanson shouts into the radio. “I say we leave the civilians out of this!”

“You may have put this team together, but this here is a democracy. I say we vote on it. What do you think, Pessolano?”

There’s a pause. Then Pessolano says,
“We kill them all.”

Swanson wonders how far he’ll get if he climbs into the car and just takes off. Will he make it to Mexico? Will these jokers track him down? Over the previous weeks, meeting and planning and training, Munchel and Pessolano had become his friends. But now they seemed like entirely different people. Crazy people.

“Fine,” Swanson says. He doesn’t have a choice. “We go on my mark. Get ready.”

Swanson squints through the scope, guesses where the head is in relation to the shoe he sees. The suppressor screwed into the barrel makes the rifle almost a foot longer, and more than a little unbalanced. Pessolano lectured them during the car ride over, saying that the suppressor won’t silence all of the noise. Silencers are fictional, because nothing can completely muffle a gunshot. The suppressors will also throw off the aim and reduce the bullet’s speed.

Earlier to night, they wanted the gunshots to be heard. They wanted the media attention. Now, working as quietly as possible is the way to go, because they have no idea how long this is going to take.

“One…” Swanson says, “two…”

Someone fires before he reaches three. That asshole Munchel. Then Pessolano is firing too. Swanson takes aim and squeezes the trigger.

The shot is off. Way off. And it’s still pretty loud, even with the suppressor. He loads another round, searches for a target, and can’t find any. He seeks out the radio.

“We get them?”

“Negative,”
says Pessolano.

But Munchel hoots, so loud he can be heard without the radio.

“I think I nailed me a grandmother!”