Paul Cleave - The Killing Hour

Killing out here where nobody can see him is the perfect way to end all of this, but it’s also a cheap way. His mind races for another solution, a solution that equals gain, a solution that isn’t so cheap or slippery, and if it weren’t for the Goddamn pain and medication that’s twisting his thoughts every which way, he’d be able to figure it out. He’s lucky that he at least recognizes the fact he’s not himself. Hell, he hasn’t even thought of that stupid dog in ten years. He hasn’t been right since that son of a bitch stabbed him the other night.

He’s aware he’s just stood on a hedgehog, but it wasn’t really his fault.

Not really, not when it’s so dark out here.

He starts to laugh. Stupid hedgehog. Stupid thing deserved to die.

He’s angry. He can’t help it. The hedgehog was innocent, but maybe it died happy, so he starts to laugh again. He laughs and starts to think of the two dead women. He thinks back to Monday morning and things were going fine, so fine, and the night was nicer than this, there was no rain and plenty of night, plenty that couldn’t go wrong, but seemed to anyway, and Monday came before the drugs could take away the pain of it all. Two pills a day became two an hour, then he started to lose track, then he broke into his wife’s morphine supply, which is something he swore he’d never do. He also found some stuff a buddy of his gave him years ago, stuff they used to refer to as “ the good shit ” back in the day. So there’s that, the morphine, and whatever the hell else he’s been able to get his hands on. They’re damaging his mind, no doubt there. He pictures his mind working like a washing machine, the thoughts tumbling, no, spinning- it’s the dryer that tumbles-and then Charlie Feldman came along and ruined everything. Things will work out in the end. That’s not true of everything, but it will be true of this. He’s proving that. Right now things couldn’t really be any better. It would be better if he could remember what star sign he is and this bothers him more than anything else. His stomach hurts too. Cancer?

No. Gemini.

You are in control, he tells himself, you are in control, buddy, so now what? He counts one policeman here who needs to die so maybe he ought to start there because there’s no use for the policeman. In fact the exact opposite is true because there are several uses for a dead policeman. He looks at Charlie and he looks at the woman and he smiles his smile of relief. Everything’s under control, everything’s going to work out fine, but he should never have doubted that, and he never will doubt it again, and his stomach is throbbing, and he can feel the duct tape across his skin and the duct tape is gray, but it’s red too because of the blood. Thinking about things he shouldn’t doubt lead to him thinking of things he should do-which immediately makes him think of all the drugs he’s taking. Some would say it’s a miracle he’s even functioning. He doesn’t believe in miracles.

He tightens his grip on the shotgun. He uses it to push the woman toward Feldman. He doesn’t know the brand of the shotgun and doesn’t care. It could be Russian or American, but they all do the same thing at this range. He doesn’t pull the trigger because he wants to gain something, though he doesn’t know what it is, even though a few minutes ago he did. It came back to him when he read the piece of paper in his pocket. On that paper is the reason he’s doing all of this. He wrote it down when he figured out his thoughts aren’t what they ought to be. He wrote it on Monday afternoon. He wants to get it out and read it, but the rain will soak it. He needs to think. He needs to remember. Having ink running down his fingers won’t help at all.

He covers the three people with the shotgun and the policeman doesn’t look that healthy. Perhaps the painkillers Cyris has been taking would help the policeman, but Cyris only wants to help himself, and there’s not enough to go around. He keeps trying to tell himself to think things through, to think things through, to think about a gain, a goal, and a small voice in his mind tells him to look at the note, but then it comes to him anyway-he’s doing this for the money. Isn’t that why people do anything? Love and money. Well, he sure loves getting paid.

He needs to focus on that right now.

“For the money,” he shouts, and he thinks that if he keeps saying it out loud more often, it’ll stick with him. That, or he should stop taking the drugs. He should write that one down too.

The cop, Feldman, his bitch wife-they’re all staring up at him. The bitch wife is a surprise. He learned about her when he went through Feldman’s house, but he wasn’t expecting her to be helping him. When he arrived at Feldman’s tonight, he was in time to see the man arrested. Before he could start following the guy, another car pulled out from the curb and began following them first. So he followed the follower. It turned out to be the same woman in the photos in Feldman’s house.

They’re waiting for him to say something else, and he guesses his comment is out of context for them. He should have shouted You fucked up my plans. Actually, that’s not bad. He opens his mouth to say that and cold air rushes down his throat and for a few seconds his mind starts to focus. He has to concentrate now so he can form the words, but maybe he ought to just shoot everybody instead.

Cold rain. Cold wind. One psycho with a gun. Then another psycho with a gun.

Is there something here I’m missing?

“You fucked up my plans!” Cyris shouts, which at least makes more sense than his For the money comment a few seconds earlier.

I don’t answer him. Nor does Jo. I don’t even look at Landry to see what he’s doing. Probably not getting ready to apologize, I imagine.

“You remember me, part. . partner?” Cyris asks, moving his aim from Jo to me.

I remember everything while saying nothing.

“What a show,” he says. “I would clap, but my hands are blue.”

He looks at the man I’m carrying and all I can think about are his blue hands. He must mean they’re cold. I guess.

“Caught yourself a pig?” he asks.

Landry starts to moan.

“Put. . down, put him down, down, down,” Cyris says.

I get the point, but I spend a few seconds wondering if I could use Landry as a shield and just run straight at Cyris. I was somewhat successful the other night. Might be the same tonight. Mind reading must be one of his new abilities, because he says “Don’t even think about it.” Then he points the shotgun at Jo.

I crouch and hoist Landry over my head so he lands in front of me, my lower back protesting at the effort. I don’t really try to be gentle, but I make sure he doesn’t land on his head. He might come in useful. I’ve gone from thinking I was going to die, to surviving, to thinking I’m going to die again. If I had to sum it up, I’d say it’s a pretty shitty feeling.

I stand up, but don’t back away. Instead I slowly move toward Jo. Cyris doesn’t ask me to stop. He seems to be enjoying himself. Why wouldn’t he? I’m the only guy out here tonight who hasn’t actually been armed.

When I’m next to Jo he scampers over to the cop and kneels next to him.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he says to Landry. “Funny hah, hah, funny you brought him out here into the summer, funny because you forgot me, forgot all about me.”

“Cyris,” Landry says, and it’s all he can manage, but he says it with a gravelly voice and with conviction, like it’s an accusation.

Jo looks over at me and I can see a whole bunch of things in her eyes. Confusion, sure, there’s plenty of that, and regret too. Regret for not believing me. Sure, she came along for the ride because I dragged her, sure she met me halfway in the Real World of what’s real and what’s make believe, but if she had committed to me, if she had just taken my hand and helped, then things could be different right now. Could be better. Could be worse. I don’t know. Just different. So there’s the confusion and regret, but there’s also regret for hitting Landry so hard because around now he could have been helping us. I feel like she’s just forgiven me, but it will last only until she dies alongside me, which, I figure, will be in only a few seconds. I hope she can forgive me for that too. She aims the flashlight at Landry’s eyes. They’re red. He doesn’t look well at all.