Damaged (27 page)

"Yeah, so what?"

"So what? That doesn't mean anything to you? All my new friends—all my friends in middle school… fuck them compared to you."

Adam sighed. "Those people are higher on the food chain than I am. They have normal lives—"

Chris interrupted, "Yes, they do. That's why I like you more than any of those bozos. You're different. Unique. You're not quite right in the head. You just killed three people. I love you, Adam. I'm not trying to sound gay, but you have something nobody else has."

"Like what?"

“You're creative, sensitive … the most loyal fucking person I've ever known. Humble. For what you don't have, you make up for in leaps in bounds in other areas. Your mother died. I am sorry, but life goes on, man. The world's a fucked up place. But when I'm around you, it seems right. You make a lot more sense out of it. You see it for what it truly is. All those prissy, preppie, stuck-up girls in Blake and all their jock boyfriends… they see the world like it was tailor made for them. Really, they don't know shit from a hole in the ground. Their parents are rich, they were fed with silver spoons, and they don't have a clue what the real world is all about. They were born lucky. You were born honest. Tell me what
you
think of them. I want to know."

"I can't understand why people who are born with everything without the asking treat people who have nothing—like me—like shit."

“Exactly."

Adam continued: "They should help us. They shouldn't stick their noses up in the air and look away when I see them. It's sick as hell. If I had money, you know what I'd do?"

"What's that?"

"I'd give it to people who needed it, not to other rich people who wanted more of it. You know, most of those people won't even look at a homeless person. Why? And phony fucks say it's because those bums didn't make anything of themselves. That they quit, but you know what's worse? People who have everything and hoard it for themselves. They're the real losers."

"Adam?"

"Yeah?"

“Will you let it go?"

Adam thought about it for a moment. He shook his head. "I can't. I've come this far. I might as well keep going."

"Do you have a list?"

"Yeah."

"Who's next on it?"

"Paula Bonson."

"Don't do it."

Adam stood up and sighed. "Why? Give me a reason, besides the against-the-law crap, that I shouldn't."

"I know you don't wanna hear this, but people can change. By the time they're in college, they'll be more like us."

"No! Nobody like Paula will ever be like me. It can't happen. She sinned against me. I don't even look at them as people anymore. They're demons."

Chris sighed and sucked in hard on his smoke. "I do not want to see you—they'll catch you eventually. You do know that?"

"No. If I space them out for long enough, they'll forget about this 'serial killer', and when their guard's down again—death."

"And when they're all dead? Then what?"

"Maybe then I'll retire. I haven't thought about that yet. I've passed the point of no return. I can't ever go back now… not till I get an honest apology from God.

“Are you still spending the night? Or are you afraid I'm going to kill you, too?"

"I'll stay. It'll be a little strange, though. Let's rent a movie."

"What do you want to watch?" Adam wondered.

"Anything without killing in it."

They laughed. Chris continued to talk, "Hey, you remember the time when—"

***

Night fell. Adam drifted to sleep on the downstairs couch. Chris lay upstairs in Adam's bed, restless, unable to sleep. A gentle wind
wooed
against the windows. Every little noise made him paranoid. He really didn't want to think his best friend was going to break open the door and stab him to death, even though it was a possibility. And yet, he could not remember a time when he felt closer to Adam.

A
thudding
sound startled him.

Chris opened his eyes and looked around the room.
A car door? Something falling? A loud footfall coming up the steps?

He grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Nancy Grace filled the screen.

Maybe I'll just stay up till dawn. I ain't that tired anyhow.

"If you're just tuning in with us," she said into the camera, "we're discussing the tragic and brutal events that have taken place in Ohio. Three young teenagers have been found murdered, by what reports say, is a serial killer. Here with us is Mr. Derger of the FBI. Welcome, Mr.—"

"You did it, Adam. You're now famous," Chris said as he reached into his pocket for his joint. He looked like he wanted to cry. He still couldn't believe the seriousness of any of it. Adam was the last person he thought would have done something this big, this bad.

I love Adam, and I've lost him for good.

He lit the joint, sucked, and reached for the clouds. But he didn't really want weed right now. He wanted a much stronger drug.

He accidentally bumped the channel button of the remote with his elbow. The TV switched to Fox News, where Bill O’ Reilly was discussing the same topic.

"Yes, we know now that there may possibly be another victim in the Blake County slayings. It's unconfirmed, but people say David Paul McNicols—" A picture of Adam's father appeared on screen. "—has gone missing."

"Oh, shit!" Chris gasped. "Adam, what is wrong with you? Your own dad!"

There was another loud
thudding
sound. It startled Chris. He made up his mind. He wasn't staying in this house any longer. If Adam had killed his own father, what would stop him from killing his best friend?

He stamped out the joint, shoved it back into his pocket, and went cautiously downstairs and to the front door. As his hand contacted the brass knob, he turned and looked over and down at Adam. He was sleeping like a newborn baby, with Muffy sleeping on top his chest. Chris didn't see a cold-hearted murderer lying there dreaming of killing people without a cause, he saw a severely injured creature dreaming of a world in which he truly belonged.

Chris left, sobbing. And as he walked home, he recalled every single moment he had ever spent with Adam, wishing he could turn back and relive them all over again.

***

The firm knock on the front door woke Adam the following morning. Muffy leaped off his chest and went barking frantically.

"Owww, Muff, you're going to leave paw prints on my fucking lungs—"

—He gasped when he looked up at the window. Through it, he saw two police officers standing on the porch, waiting for him to answer.

No! Noooo!

They knocked again. Muffy barked and scratched at the door. Adam felt sick, but he stood and walked to the door. "Get back, Muffy. Get back, buddy." He nudged her away with his foot.

For a while, he expected them to break down the door and run in like a SWAT team, but it didn't happen.

His hand gripped the knob.

The knock came again, harder, longer in duration. Adam nervously turned the brass, expecting the worst.

"Hello," an overweight officer said to Adam as the door creaked open. The man was middle-aged, bald, and fat. His hand was
not
on his holstered gun. Another officer—young, thin, and with a crew cut—stood to his right.

"Uh, hi," Adam said.
Can they feel it? Do they know it? Why are they here?

"Your name's Adam McNicols?" the younger cop asked.

Adam nodded. "What's this about, Officer?"
That's it, Adam, be nice; maybe they'll go away.

"Your father, David McNicols, was reported missing early evening last night. Have you seen him lately? Has he been over here any? Called?"

"No, nothing. I had no idea. Are you serious? I did hear from him, but that's been over a week ago."

The fat policeman nodded and put his hands on his hips.

Adam suddenly had a revelation that almost gave him a panic attack—
his car! My father's car! Parked on the side of the house! I didn't see it! It completely slipped my mind.

"Well, shit, I had no idea," Adam repeated. "I've just been—"

"You know about the homicides?" the younger cop asked.

"Of course. That's why I haven't gone out lately. I just stay here by myself."

"No, no. Stay with a friend. Somebody. At night. Make sure you lock your doors, too," he went on.

Why haven't they mentioned his Cadillac?

"Well, if you do talk to your dad, give us a call, okay? We're afraid that maybe—"

"I understand. I sure as hell hope not," Adam finished.

They walked away.
They walked away!

Adam shut and locked the door, laughing. "You gotta be fucking kidding me!"

He ran into the living room, drew back the curtains, and looked out. David's car wasn't parked by the curb; there wasn't a single car on the whole side of the street.

Where is it?
Adam wondered.
Wintertime. Cold. A bad leg. And a serial murderer on the loose. He surely wouldn't have come on foot.

Adam looked closely. There were skid marks right about where a car would have been parked. And David always had a tendency to leave his car keys in the ignition.

You think?
Stolen?

Adam played around with this theory in his mind.

Or did somebody drop him off? And if so, who?

Either way, fingers were probably going to be pointed his way very soon.

***

Chris had been playing Hitman 3 on his Playstation 2 since he had come home, before the break of dawn. He didn't realize he was playing Adam's same game—except in fairyland—until after noon. He struggled with his conscience all day, trying to assure himself that his friend would not kill again. How could he stop him? Adam rarely changed his mind when he found something he enjoyed, which, in itself, was a rarity. And he’d only killed three people. Three obnoxious teenage assholes—
Don't forget his father.

Regardless, Chris couldn't have it. He would not allow it to happen again. He knew he couldn't live with himself knowing he let somebody be tortured to death while he kept his mouth shut. That was letting it happen. Persuading it to happen. He had to give him some kind of ultimatum, so that if he did repeat his evil actions, he would…

Tell.

I'll say, “what's done is done, Adam, I am not going to turn you in… unless you do it again. Kill one more soul, and I'm sorry, but I'll have to call the cops.”

It sounded like a good idea. Definitely an over-the-phone call. Chris, after having watched the late-night news, was petrified to be near him.

He killed his own father.

***

Adam called Chris moments after he’d devised his plan but moments before he made the call himself.

"Hey, Adam."

"Listen, why did you leave? I thought you were going to at least stay till afternoon."

"I just wasn't feeling good, man. You know how it is."

Adam detected a lie. "If you're afraid of me, just say it. I'll understand."

"I was watching the news last night when they said your father was missing. Yes, hearing that really shocked me. Don't tell me you killed
him
."

Silence.

"He was going to tell. He came into the basement while I was killing Bain. What was I supposed to do, man? Killing my own father was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I just snapped."

Silence on Chris' end.

"What if I pissed you off accidentally?"

"Come on, Chris, that's not the same thing. If he told on me, I'd be in prison right now. I can't have that happen. I'm not prepared to be fucked up the ass by some gangsters."

“Adam, I am not going to rat on you, but I have something to say. I don't think you're going to like it."

—More silence on Adam's end. He knew what was coming.

"Either you stop killing, or else I will tell. One more death—and I don't care who it is—and I'm going to call the cops."

"And if they come here, I'll tell them I told you, and that you knew but didn't do anything about it."

The threat pissed Chris off a little. He said, "Go ahead, I'll just deny it. Who will they trust? Man, I'm not trying to put you in a bad position. This needs to stop. This isn't just you now, it's me, too. I have to live with myself knowing that I didn't prevent someone from being murdered."

Adam wanted to break something. Preferably a human being. "Why, Chris? Why would you do that to me?"

"You, you, you. I know people fucked up your head. Get them back. Be successful. Punch their lights out if some bully gives you a hard time. Call a girl that pisses you off a bitch or a whore, but don't—"

A vein poked out from Adam's forehead. And neck.
I could kill you, too.
He
even considered saying it. "WHY?!" he screamed into the receiver.