The Hollow City (22 page)

I think about Jimmy, and the maggot in the alley. Do I dare attack anyone at all?

“Can you believe what he did to that guy?” asks one of the cops. “Point-blank in the chest, boom! No provocation at all. Kid was just sitting there, trying to talk him down, and suddenly he shoots him out of nowhere, like it was nothing.”

“It’s kind of weird,” says the other cop. “Don’t you think?”

I creep closer, headed for the edge of the fence to get a closer look.

“Weird?”

“I mean, yeah, it’s cold-blooded and everything, but it’s nothing like the rest of his attacks.”

I freeze again, listening. I hit the janitor, but he said “attacks,” plural. What attacks is he talking about?

“Thank goodness,” says the other cop.

“Yeah,” says the first, “but I mean, why? Why do you cut off ten faces and then all of a sudden you just shoot someone? And then leave?”

They think I’m the Red Line Killer—but I can’t be, because Agent Leonard said there was a cell phone. But no, he said he
thought
there was a cell phone. It was all conjecture. I clutch the pipe tightly, my knuckles white. What do I do now?

“Do you remember that one in the warehouse?” the cop continues, “where he hung it from those hooks?”

“Come on,” says the other cop, “why are you talking about this? Waiting here for him is spooky enough as it is.”

“That’s why I’m talking about it,” says the first cop, “because it is scary—this is a knock-down, drag-out, scary dude. I’ve trained with my gun for hours on the range, but I’ve never actually shot anyone, let alone killed anyone—he’s killed a couple dozen. What if he comes here? He has all the advantage. Do you want to end up scalped and flayed and hanging on a hook?”

“Kill them,” whispers a voice in my ear. I turn in shock, but nobody’s there. “Go now, while they’re alone and distracted. Kill them now before they kill you.”

I scream silently: You’re not real!

“You know how he gets the faces off?” says the cop. “He uses a scalpel—takes him hours, inch by inch, millimeter by millimeter, peeling it away from your head. It’s like he’s looking for something. Felix says they’re still alive when he does it—alive and awake.”

“Bash in their brains,” says the voice, louder now. Can they hear it? “Use the pipe and cave in their skulls—it’s as easy as crushing an egg.”

I come around the fence and I can see them now, two cops, alone in the dark, faces lost in shadow.

“He cuts it away bit by bit,” says one, “slicing the membranes under the skin so it all comes off in one bloody piece.”

“It feels so good to crush a skull, just banging and banging until there’s nothing left.”

“All your troubles go away and there’s nobody left to bother you—”

“No!” I stand up, plugging my ears and screaming. “Stop talking!”

“Holy—!” The policemen spin around, facing me with their guns drawn. “Michael Shipman, drop your weapon!”

“Hit them! Kill them!”

“Stop talking!”

“Michael, drop it now!”

“Kill them!”

I drop the pipe and it clangs loudly against the cement.

“Now put your hands in the air!”

“Everyone just back off for a second,” I say, stepping backward. The cops step forward in unison, their guns never wavering. “Just give me a minute to think.”

“Put your hands in the air!”

I look up, waving my hand to silence the voice shouting
Kill!
Something’s wrong—where are all the other cops? Where’s the helicopter and the dogs? Why aren’t they calling for backup?

One of the cops puts a hand on the radio clipped to his shirt. “Dispatch, this is Officer Kopecky, we have found Michael Shipman; repeat, we have found Michael Shipman at his residence. Request immediate backup.”

“Put your hands in the air,” says the other cop.

“Kill them…,” the voice whispers.

I shake my head. “Where’s the helicopter?”

“It’s on its way,” says the cop, but I hear nothing. “Put your hands in the air!”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“I’ll ask the questions, Michael! Tell me why you killed Jimmy.”

I raise my arms. Is this what cops are really like? I’ve met some, but this is the first time I’ve ever been arrested—I didn’t expect it to be so … clichéd. They’ve done everything but read me my rights.

“You have the right to remain silent,” says the cop. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—”

“You’re not real, are you?” I stare at the cops in shock. They’re doing everything I think a cop would, as soon as I think of it—the radio, the rights, even the way they’re standing. “You’re just in my head.”

“You have the right to an attorney.”

“Then what comes next!” I shout. “If you’re a real cop, then what comes next? I don’t know, so you can’t know either!”

“If you do not…” He stops, glancing in confusion at his companion. “If you choose to … to waive this right, an attorney will be … provided for you.”

“Is that it?” I ask.

“Yes that’s it, now get down on the ground!”

I look at them, back and forth between the policemen, between their guns. Are they real? Do I risk it?

I remember Lucy’s hands, strong and solid only when I’d accepted the illusion; when she’d first arrived tonight they’d felt wrong, intangible, like I could pass right through them. She was only real when I let her be real. I don’t have to let these cops be real.

I lower my arms. This is it.

“Get out of my way.”

“Get your hands back up and turn around,” says the cop.

“I’m going inside now,” I say, swallowing nervously. “If you think you can stop me, go ahead and try.” I take a step forward.

“Stay where you are.”

I step forward again.

“I’m warning you, Michael, we will shoot. Turn around and put your hands in the air.”

I stare at the guns, cold metal gleaming in the moonlight, black barrels like soulless eyes. They could be real. They could kill me right here. I step forward again.

They step aside.

“Don’t go in there, Michael. You’re not going to like it.”

“Go away,” I say, taking another step past them. “I’m done with you.”

They shout behind me. “We’re going to report this!”

I stop, staring nervously ahead. “To who?”

Their voices are hollow. “You know who.”

I pause a moment, trembling, then continue walking. It doesn’t mean anything—they’re just trying to scare me. When I reach the back of the house, I turn to see them, but they’re gone.

I climb the few steps to the back door and try the handle; it’s unlocked. I open the door and walk in. My father stands in the hall, a shotgun in his hands.

“They told me you might be coming back here.” He cocks the shotgun. “I told them you were just stupid enough to try it.”

TWENTY-ONE

I STAND IN THE DOORWAY
, staring at my father. He levels the shotgun calmly, almost casually, as if the fact that it’s inches from my chest is the most normal thing in the world.

He scratches his head. “I was kind of thinking I’d never see you again.”

I shift nervously, eyes glued to the shotgun. “Thinking or hoping?”

“Your doctor told me you were nuts,” he says. “Said you needed some kind of new medicine that would either cure you or kill you. I said, ‘Go for it. Gets him out of my life either way.’”

I nod. “I’m leaving.”

His grip tightens, just slightly. “You didn’t come here just to say good-bye.”

“I need my pills.”

“You need your…” He stops, staring at me, then shakes his head and snarls. “You need your damn pills—that’s all you ever care about.” He raises the shotgun abruptly, sighting it straight into my face. “I told you before, I don’t want a homeless crackhead son running around here.”

“It’s not crack,” I say, “it’s medicine. I have a prescription—it’s going to make me better.”

“You can’t get better!” he barks. “You’ve been screwed up since you were born, since before you were born for all I know. I’ve been paying for your medicine and your doctors and your everything else for your whole life, Michael, and it’s never done anything! You’re twenty years old and you can’t hold a job; you live here with me; you flunked out of school, now you’ve flunked out of the nuthouse. You give me one good reason not to pull this trigger and flunk you out of the whole damn world.”

I stare at the gun, too terrified to speak, too certain that anything I say—anything at all—will set off any one of a hundred different triggers in his mind. I’ve lived here too long, spent too much time listening to him and hiding from him and nursing the bruises he gave me. If I cry, I’m a disgrace; if I agree, I’m weak; if I fight back, I’m an ungrateful, disrespectful punk. If I say I need the pills, it means I’m a crazy retard and a shame to my mother; if I say I don’t, it means I’m a liar and a waste of money and a shame to my mother again. I can’t win. I’ve never won.

I stare down the shotgun, dark and deep and terrifyingly real. My father’s never pulled a gun on me before—does he really want me dead? Is he going to call the hospital, or maybe the police? I can’t think clearly—I can’t sort through my thoughts and come up with anything remotely useful. Why is he doing this? Why am I here? I know why I came, but now it doesn’t make sense anymore and all I want to do is run. I need my pills; I can’t think without my pills.

I try to force myself to be calm, reciting mantras and numbers and anything I can think of to clear my head. He wants to get rid of me—I can help him with that. Better I leave on my own than make him clean up a dead body, right? He doesn’t want to shoot me—or at least I hope he doesn’t; maybe he does. But he doesn’t want the hassles that come with it, that I know for sure. He hates anything that disrupts his routine.

I look my father in the face, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’m leaving,” I say again. “I’m going away, and you’ll never see me again.”

He snorts. “I’ve heard that one before.”

“I’m serious,” I say, trying to keep calm. Do I dare to tell him why I’m here? If I ask him for help—for anything at all—will I die before I even finish the sentence? “I…” Just ask him! “I need some clothes.” I grit my teeth, bracing myself for the shotgun blast in my face. “And I need my pills.”

He doesn’t shoot. I watch his eyes, deep and brown, laced with a web of bloodshot red. After a moment he speaks. “Where you going?”

“Away. Nowhere. Out of state somewhere.”

He pauses again, shifting his hands on the shotgun. Finally he nods, gesturing at me in derision. “How you gonna live? You never held a job more than five months.”

“I’ll get by.”

“You gonna steal?” He steps closer, dropping the shotgun slightly to reveal a furious scowl. “You gonna sell those drugs, Michael?”

“I’ll get a job,” I say quickly. “I’ll do … something. But I’m not going to sell the drugs or break the law. I just need my pills; I can’t do this without them.”

“You’re a disgrace.”

I say nothing.

He pauses a moment longer, then lowers the shotgun a little farther. “How you gonna get there?”

“Where?”

“Wherever the hell you’re going—how am I supposed to know?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

He watches me a moment longer, then drops the shotgun to his side, dangling it by his leg. He raises his chin.

“You promise you’re never coming back?”

“Yeah.”

“Then take the car.” He pauses, then shouts angrily. “Well go on, then, dammit! Go get your clothes!”

“You’re giving me your car?”

“I said get your clothes and your pills and get out of my house.”

“I…” I nod. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, just go!” He waves his arm brusquely and turns around. “And I don’t want to ever see you again, you hear me?” I nod again and walk down the hall to my room.

The Klonopin is under my bed, in a shoebox half-full of empty bottles. I have five bottles, about a year’s worth of mental clarity—if they work. I open one with shaking hands and swallow two pills without waiting for water. It will take a while before I feel an effect, but I feel safer just having them in my hand, just knowing that I have some in my system. I scrounge through the bottom of the box, looking for more, and when I find nothing I go through every drawer of my nightstand, looking for every loose pill I can find. It seems so stupid that I used to hate these—that I ever refused to take them. Didn’t I know what they meant to me? Didn’t I know what it was like to live without them? That’s the problem with depression—it discourages its own treatment. It’s like a virus, almost, perfectly adapted against its only natural predator.

I look at the pile of pills on my bed, counting them over and over in my head. Why is my father giving me his car? He doesn’t like me—he was ready to kill me just a few minutes ago. He’s never done a nice thing for me in my life. I guess he gave me this room. I look around at the bare walls and the half-empty closet. Why did—

My room has been searched. It hasn’t been ransacked—nothing’s tipped over or torn apart—but I can see some things that are definitely moved. A lamp, a comb, a book on my nightstand. Was Dad looking for something, or was it someone else—the police, maybe, or the hospital, or Them? The only thing I have worth stealing is the Klonopin, and it’s still here. What were they searching for? I imagine Agent Leonard of the FBI, looking for secret messages from the Children of the Earth; maybe other agents too, scouring my room for evidence of the Red Line killings.

“Your father’s going to betray you,” said a voice. “You need to kill him now, while his guard is down.”

I ignore the voice and open my dresser, talking out loud to drown it out: “It doesn’t matter why they searched my room. I’m leaving. I’m going to take off these clothes and put on some new ones, and I’m…” I pull on a clean shirt and the feel of it stops me: deliciously clean, like an embrace. When was the last time anyone embraced me, or gave me any kind of friendly human contact? I hug myself, pressing the shirt against my skin, closing my eyes and trying to conjure Lucy from the depths of my brain. She’s gone. I wipe my eyes. “No time. Keep moving.” I shove a handful of shirts and socks and underwear into a backpack, then cram in the five bottles of pills.