The Killing Kind (5 page)

The gun was in her hand again.

She was out of the car now and walking toward the parked Neon. The Neon’s passengers were oblivious to the danger approaching them. And why wouldn’t they be? A glance in their mirrors would show a very pretty girl approaching them. And who would ever consider that a thing to fear? Of course, things might be different if any of them were sober. They might notice the gun pressed flat against her right thigh. She was almost to the car now, and Rob was close to hyperventilating. He felt he should warn them somehow. Maybe lean on the horn and jerk them out of their dope stupor for a few lifesaving moments. It might work. They might even get away.

But he’d still be stuck right here.

With a very pissed off Roxie to face—Roxie and her gun.

He placed the palm of his left hand flat against the horn pad.

It was the right thing to do.

He
knew
that.

And yet…there was the fear of that gun pointed at him instead.

So he hesitated.

Roxie was standing next to the Neon now. The gun was still pressed to her thigh. She leaned down and rapped the
knuckles of her left hand against the passenger-side window. The punk girl turned toward her and rolled the window down. Rob opened his mouth to scream a warning, but it was already too late. Roxie’s gun hand was like a striking cobra. One moment it was still against her leg, the next nanosecond the barrel of the gun was pressed against the punk girl’s forehead. Rob heard the report of the gun and knew for sure Roxie had actually shot the poor girl in the face. There were screams from the Neon now. Then another shot. The driver slumped over. Roxie pushed the punk girl’s corpse aside and leaned farther into the car, twisting her body so that she could point the gun into the backseat. Rob heard more screams, only barely distinguishable from his own cries. The rear door on the driver’s side started to open as one of the backseat occupants tried to escape. Another bullet ended the attempt. Roxie’s body twisted again and she aimed her gun at the Neon’s last living passenger. There was a brief hesitation, almost as if she was savoring these last moments before the final kill.

There was one more scream. Another bullet cut it off. Rob saw an explosion of red against the Neon’s back window and felt bile rise into his throat. His gut churned. He was shaking and hot tears were spilling down his face. Any illusions he might have harbored about Roxie’s supposed vulnerability had been vanquished forever within the space of a few moments of extreme violence. She’d been right.

She wasn’t a regular girl.

She was pure fury.

And now, finally, he understood just how much trouble he was really in.

Roxie extracted herself from the Neon and strolled calmly back to the Galaxie. Rob stared at her. He couldn’t believe how cool and unconcerned she seemed. She was still holding the gun by her side but was making no real attempt to hide it. Cars were zipping by on the interstate. Lots of them.
There were still several hours of broad daylight left. How could she be so fucking nonchalant?

Back inside the Galaxie, she reached across Rob and slid the key back into the ignition. She turned the key and the engine came to life.

Then she pressed the gun’s hot barrel against his crotch and said, “Drive.”

Just the one word.

It was enough.

Rob put the car in gear and eased back into the traffic.

Picking up speed, he glanced at the rearview mirror for one last look at the Neon. From this perspective and distance, it looked like just another stalled car. No big deal.

Roxie was laughing. “Now what was that you were saying about it not being too late or some shit? Something about choices?”

More insane laughter.

Rob’s hands tightened around the steering wheel again.

He was holding on for dear life.

Whatever little was left of it.

March 16

She was still asleep when he came naked out of the bathroom. She was lying on her side in the bed with her mouth hanging open. A thin stream of drool leaked from a corner of her mouth to dampen the pillow beneath her head. Loose tufts of frizzy blonde hair obscured some of her face. Tucked away there beneath the covers, she could almost be any anonymous woman. Some truck-stop floozy or roadside whore. A last-call bar pickup. Or better yet, that hot little jailbait babysitter from down the street, the one with the platinum Paris Hilton hair. Sixteen going on ninety-nine-to-life, as his buddy Franklin had said once, adding that he’d almost be willing to do a stint in jail for one night of fun with the hot little tease.

John was inclined to agree. Screw morality.

He pictured Julie Cosgrove, the babysitter, asleep there in his bed. Imagined her throwing back the covers to reveal her lovely, nude body. He could almost see her big tits, how ripe they would look. How inviting. And there would be a dazzling smile on her face as she held her arms out to him. He would go to her. Hell, yes. There would be no pause to consider the right or wrong of the situation, nor even the slightest impulse to resist temptation. Fuck, he’d embrace the wrongness of it.
Revel
in it. Just dive into that silky soft mound of succulent, tender girl flesh and put a fucking on
her that would make her head spin for days. Thinking of it made his cock stir. God, what he’d give to have sweet little Julie for real.

But no such luck.

This was no mystery woman, no stranger to his bed. This was his wife of twenty years. A woman he’d once lusted after intensely. But now he could hardly stand to look at her. It’d been ten years since he’d fucked another woman and he’d almost forgotten what it was like to caress unfamiliar flesh. For a while that had been okay. It was the way of things. You get older and settle down, leave the tomcatting around to the younger guys. John had accepted this as his lot for some time, but lately, ever since his recent fortieth birthday, he’d begun to feel restless. He couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that he was wasting what was left of his…well, not youth, obviously, more like that last dwindling slice of time when he might still possess some virility or fading attractiveness to the opposite sex. No, not youth, more like the last fading echoes of youth, and he didn’t—

Christ.

He reflected on his last thoughts and felt disgust. He was a
man.
And real men didn’t wallow in self-pity. He was self-aware enough to know he was on the verge of a stereotypical midlife crisis. Most men in his position would seek the help of a therapist, or perhaps slake that renewed thirst for strange flesh by blowing a wad in some cheap hooker’s mouth. But he needed something better than that.

A dramatic change.

A
forever
change.

And the time for that change had arrived at last. He stepped closer to the bed, curling his fingers tighter around the blade of the carving knife as he searched Karen’s face for any signs of impending wakefulness. He’d stashed the knife in the bathroom closet several hours earlier, while Karen had been so immersed in that night’s episode of
Survivor
that she’d been oblivious to anything he was doing. Which included the twenty-plus minutes he’d spent locked in the bathroom, slowly masturbating to pictures of Julie stored on his cell phone. Mostly these were pictures taken on the sly, when she wasn’t looking or didn’t know he was around. But the one that got to him the most was the one she
did
know about. A candid shot snapped at his daughter’s tenth birthday party last week. He’d made some lame joke and she’d laughed and stuck her tongue out at him. He stared at that picture for minutes, at that wedge of glistening tongue protruding between glossy, pink-painted lips. That was the image that got him over the edge, making him come harder than he ever did with Karen these days.

He circled the bed and then stood staring down at his wife, knife held at shoulder level, hand shaking, his soul burning with the need to bury the blade in the sleeping woman’s body. A latex glove was on his right hand. When she was dead—and after he’d inflicted a few superficial wounds on his own body—the glove would go down the toilet. Then he’d call the cops with his practiced sob story about a masked assailant. He was sure he would be convincing enough in his fake grief to make them buy the story.

But he wondered about his daughter. Nancy was asleep in her own room at the far end of the hall. She
should
be asleep. It was well past her strict bedtime. Still, it bore thinking about. The cops would question her, maybe ask her if she’d heard anything. John debated the idea of killing his daughter before dealing with Karen. On the upside, dead girls tell no tales. Downside, he’d leave telltale signs of blood and possibly other evidence, traipsing back and forth between her room and here. No, he’d just have to take his chances. Odds were she was stone asleep, and if not, he’d figure a way to deal with it.

Meanwhile, it was time to stop fucking around and do this thing. His lips curled into a sneer as he raised the knife
higher and psyched himself up to bring it down. He imagined how it would feel to slam the heavy blade into living flesh and felt his cock twitch. The sneer became a smile. It would be a
fucking rush
, that’s what it would be. He pictured himself pulling the blade out and ramming it in over and over, butchering her the way a genuine random psycho would. It was too bad he couldn’t rape her, too. But that would leave DNA evidence and…well, what if he wore a condom?

Scratch that.

No condoms in the house.

Just do it,
an inner voice berated him.

John sucked in a big breath and raised the knife still higher. Then, in that last moment before he would have brought the knife down…he heard something.

A rustling out in the hallway.

John turned away from the bed to stare at the closed bedroom door. He held his breath and waited, counting off seconds. Ten. Twenty. Half a minute. He began to let his breath out, sure now that he’d heard nothing. Or maybe just rodents scurrying through the walls. He’d been meaning to set out mousetraps for weeks. Yeah, that could be it.

Then he heard it again.

That rustling, closer now.

He moved a step closer to the door. The sound came again. Quieter, this time. A shuffling rather than a rustling. An attempt at stealth, feet gliding softly over hallway carpet. John clenched his teeth and swallowed hard as genuine fear leaped into his heart. In his mind, he saw himself as he must look and almost laughed. A naked man, intent on murder and possible sexual assault only moments earlier but now paralyzed with fear. Predator turned prey? No. Ridiculous.

Someone was in the hallway, no doubt.

But the interloper’s identity was obvious.

Nancy.

She was restless, was maybe trying to sneak downstairs for
a cookie or some other late-night snack. John grinned. Sudden impulse hurried him to the door. This was too perfect an opportunity to miss. He would take her in the hallway, do it so fast she’d never know what was happening, then return quickly to the bedroom to do Karen. The cops would see that the intruder had stumbled upon Nancy en route to his primary prey. The little snot wouldn’t be around to raise suspicions or cramp his style as he swaggered into a glorious new phase of his life.

He yanked the door open and charged into the hallway—and collided with a big man in a fringe jacket. The man had long, scraggly gray hair and eyes that conveyed insanity even in the gloom of the hallway. His grin was wide and displayed yellow, crooked teeth. And holy Jesus, but he fucking
stank
, a stench like something from a backed-up sewer drain. It made John’s eyes water. A blinding terror gripped him before he remembered the knife in his hand.

He raised it again.

And was shoved backward into the room,
hard
, causing him to stumble over his feet and crash into the nightstand next to Karen’s side of the bed. A lamp tumbled off the nightstand and Karen’s stack of paperback romance novels went flying. Struggling for balance, John lurched away from the nightstand. He turned and raised the knife as the big man in the buckskin jacket came into the room, followed by another man. The second man was less stout than the first, wiry, and also had long, filthy hair, but not straight and fine like the other man’s. It was big and bushy. If anything, he stank even worse than his partner.

Karen awoke with a gasp and sat up straight in bed. “John! What’s going on?” Then she got a glimpse of the intruders and unleashed a shrill scream. “ohmygod! helllllllllp!”

She rolled to the other side of the bed, tried to get up, and got her feet tangled in the twisted bedsheets. She took a
tumble off the bed and hit the floor hard, crying out in terror and pain.

The big man chuckled. “Don’t let her get nowhere, Clyde.”

“On it.”

Clyde swaggered past his partner and leered at John. The lean man faked a lunge in his direction and cackled at the girlish shriek this elicited. Then he continued around the bed and scooped Karen up off the floor. She screamed again and flailed against him, battering the sides of his head with her tiny fists. If the blows had any effect on him, it didn’t show. He just grinned and let her hammer away a few seconds longer before cracking her across the face with the back of his hand. The sound was loud. And there was a crunch as the cartilage in her nose snapped. Intense pain made her cry out again. Another punishing blow stifled any additional screams. She mewled and blubbered, pleading for mercy, sounding to John like Nancy sometimes did when he put a good spanking on her for misbehaving.

The sounds of her distress affected him in ways that were ironic given what he’d been about to do to her. Some primal part of him felt anger and an instinct to protect. He made a move toward Clyde, but the bigger man intercepted him, grabbing him by the wrist and twisting the knife out of his hand. Then, before John could even begin to consider defensive tactics, the man stuck the knife in his belly.

And now John screamed, a sound even shriller and louder than what had come out of Karen. His attacker just stood there, grinning, those madman’s eyes conveying an avid fascination. He was studying John, tasting the quality of his pain and terror. John glanced down and saw that only the tip of the blade had penetrated his flesh. No more than an inch of steel was inside him, but it was more than enough to send shock waves of agony cascading through his body. Blood
streamed down his belly and soaked his pubic thatch. The man gave the blade a little twist and John screamed again, but the blade penetrated no farther. The sick son of a bitch was toying with him.

John tried to twist the knife out of his hand, but he wasn’t as skilled at the maneuver as the intruder. The man swatted his hand away and delivered a closed-fisted blow that hurt like hell and sent him sprawling backward across the bed. He hit the plush mattress and bounced. His head went up and down a time or two, and a fresh stab of agony at the center of his face told him his nose had been broken.

Karen saw the wound to his belly and cried out in anguish. “John! Don’t hurt him, please!”

The lean one cackled and leaned close to Karen, teasing one of her earlobes with his tongue. “Oh, we’re gonna hurt him, baby, you can count on that. Gonna hurt you, too, you want to know the truth.”

Karen cringed away from him, but he held her close, holding her by the back of the neck as he rubbed his crotch against her bare bottom. His other hand roamed over the front of her body, cupping her breasts and squeezing the big pink nipples. Primitive instinct spurred John to action again as he rolled over and prepared to leap at the man attacking his wife. He was on his hands and knees, readying to launch himself at the filthy bum, when the other man stabbed him between the shoulder blades. John screamed and arched his back, hands clawing at the blade as it sank deeper into his flesh. He felt it scrape bone and screamed again. The big man rode him down to the bed, straddling him and pulling his head back by the hair. He felt the knife against his throat and knew he had only moments to live.

He looked up at Karen through eyes misty with tears and felt something he hadn’t experienced in a long time—shame.

What he’d been about to do…well, it was an abomination.

Unforgivable.

The least he could do was tell her he loved her one last time before he died. It wouldn’t be a total lie, either. He really had loved her once upon a time. With his whole heart and every fiber of his being. He guessed maybe there was some of that feeling left somewhere inside him, after all. Recognizing this deepened his shame and broke his heart. He just wanted this over now. Nothing could be worse than this feeling. Not even death.

Then he heard it.

They
all
heard it.

That small sound drifting in from the hallway.

“Daddy?” The delicate, fragile voice was thick with tears. “What’s…happening?”

The wiry man cackled yet again. The pressure of the blade against John’s throat ceased as the big man climbed off him and started toward the open bedroom door and the tiny figure just barely visible in the darkness beyond.

John lived a while longer.

Hours, maybe.

And during that time, he learned beyond all dispute that there absolutely are things infinitely worse than death. Worse even than the emotional and spiritual betrayal of his wife. Things that blackened his soul. When death finally came, he greeted it like the embrace of a long-lost love.