Joel Goldman - Motion to Kill

“Gotcha!” Julio shouted when he turned the lights on and opened fire.

“Not fair, asshole!”

Mason ran down a junk-filled aisle in the middle of the warehouse, zigzagging as bullets ricocheted around him, until a bone-rattling blast of thunder shook the walls and a lightning strike lit the windows and knocked out the power. He tripped in the dark over a pallet of five-gallon cans, banging his head on the way down. Rolling to his knees, he felt something warm and sticky on his forehead, guessed it was blood, the only question whether it was his or Julio’s or both.

He knew he couldn’t hide from Julio forever in the rows of junk and that the power could come back on in an instant. He had to find a way out, which meant getting to the exterior wall and feeling his way toward an exit. The lightning’s unpredictable strobe light guided him.

The building was square shaped. Mason groped along the wall, hunched over to shrink Julio’s target. If he didn’t find a way out, eventually he’d get back to where he started. Julio would figure that out too and would be there, waiting for him.

He made it to a back corner and felt the wall jut out as his hand bumped into a doorknob. He drew a deep breath, quietly opening and closing the door. Stale, sour urine. He was hiding in the john, a wooden partition separating the sink and stool.

The power returned, the flash of the naked bulb dangling from the ceiling blinding him for an instant. He turned the light off and stood astride the stool with his back pressed against the wall, his heart pounding against his ribs.

He had trapped himself. Julio would check the exits to make certain they were still locked. He’d walk the aisles and not find him. The bathroom would be next. Julio’s footsteps slapped against the concrete floor and stopped outside the door, making him a prophet.

“Come on out, man. I won’t hurt you.”

Mason was surprised that Julio’s voice was soft, almost feminine, but he wasn’t tempted.

“Have it your way, man.”

Five shots smashed through the door, splinters flying, Julio kicking the door off its hinges. Mason lifted the porcelain tank lid off the back of the stool, lowered it in a two-handed grip, counted off the two steps from the door to the partition, and swung for the fences, catching the center of Julio’s face, driving his nose into his brain.

Julio crumpled as Mason’s swing carried them forward into a heap, Mason on top, Julio not moving. Mason pushed himself to his feet and turned on the light. Julio’s eyes were wide open and fixed. His nose had vanished into his face, blood trickling from his ears and the corners of his mouth.

Mason heard more footsteps running in his direction. Julio’s gun had skidded beneath the sink. Mason reached for it, hoping there were a couple of rounds left, giving up when he heard a familiar voice.

“Freeze, shitbag!”

Blues stepped into the bathroom, gun drawn.

Mason looked up at him and smiled. “Sorry. I forgot to tell you. I’ll be late for dinner.”

“Fuck you! What the fuck you think you’re doing?”

Sandra pushed her way into the bathroom and knelt at Julio’s body, searching for a pulse.

“He’s dead,” she said. “How’d you do it?”

Mason stood. “I hit him with the tank lid.”

“I don’t fucking believe it. You killed the son of a bitch with a toilet!”

Blues shook his head and walked out. Mason and Sandra followed him.

“Let’s get out of here before Camaya comes back,” she said.

“They took Sandra’s car. Where’s yours?” Blues asked as they stepped outside into the driving rain.

“In an alley. What do we do about Julio?”

“Let Camaya clean up his own mess. Follow me back downtown. We’ll leave your car in a tow zone.”

“Why do we have to leave it anywhere?” Mason asked.

“You’re getting out of town. You can’t go back to your place. The cops will tow your car and at least you’ll know where to find it.”

Mason parked the TR6 in a handicapped spot in front of city hall and got in Blues’s car, smiling when he saw his briefcase. Blues had made good on his promise to retrieve it from Mason’s Acura.

“Thanks for that,” Mason said, pointing to the briefcase. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I was minding my own business, waiting for you to show up for dinner, when Sandra called and told me what happened. I swear to Jesus, both of you are too stupid to live! What in the hell were you thinking? Never mind. I know the answer to that question. You weren’t thinking!”

They knew better than to argue so they kept quiet as he wound through a maze of inner-city side streets, doubling back several times to make certain they weren’t followed, before finally reaching the interstate.

Wiped out by the post-adrenaline letdown, Mason closed his eyes, thinking about the fraternity of killers he’d joined. Camaya was a charter member. He’d just been initiated.

When he woke up, they were at the intersection of Highways 50 and 65 in Sedalia, Missouri. Blues turned south on Highway 65 in front of a sign that pointed to the Lake of the Ozarks.

Blues called Kelly, told her what had happened and that they were on their way to the lake. She met them at one a.m. on Highway 5 just after they crossed the Camden County line south of Laurie, Missouri.

Mason rode with her as she led Blues through the woods. Her stony silence told him all he needed to know. She crushed the one attempt he made at explaining with an attack on civilians who tried to play cops and robbers.

They stopped at a cabin so isolated and hidden that Mason half expected it to be a bed-and-breakfast run by the seven dwarfs. After handing out blankets, Kelly left, threatening more than promising to return in the morning.

They drew straws and Sandra won the only bedroom. Blues claimed the couch, and Mason got the wooden floor. Claire had always claimed that sleeping on a board was good for a bad back. Mason decided that she must have cheated and used a mattress. He woke up at first light, heard Blues snoring, and stepped outside.

The only log cabins he had ever seen were on bottles of maple syrup. Studying this one was easier than thinking about Julio.

Rough-hewn logs, sculpted at each end to mate with another log, were laid one on top of the other. Gaps between the logs were filled with mortar made from clay and mud. Windows and doors had been cut into the logs, each ninety-degree angle sharp and precise. The roof was made from split rails raised to a modest pitch that extended over the front porch, a limestone chimney on the south side adding a homey finish.

The cabin was set on the side of a hill in a clearing ringed by trees. The untamed grass formed a green belt roughly a hundred feet wide between the trees and the cabin. Long-stemmed purple stalks, sunflowers, and deep blue pansies painted the grass in a natural palate.

A fifty-gallon propane tank on the north side fueled the hot-water heater, kitchen appliances, and an electrical generator. Along with the bathroom, they were the only concessions to modern living.

Mason sat on the wooden bench on the front porch, letting the rising sun warm him as he relived last night. Hallmark has a card for almost every occasion. There’s one for birthdays, remembered or forgotten, comings and goings of all kinds, friends and loved ones gained or lost. There’s even one for Mother-in-Law’s Day, but he was certain there was no card for killing someone. After all, what would it say? Congrats on hitting the big one! Or maybe, The bigger they are, the harder they fall!

He was just tugging at the fringes. He didn’t know how this was going to feel now or in the future. He knew three things for certain. The first was that he had responded to the most basic instinct of survival. The second was that killing came more easily than he would have ever imagined possible. And the third was that the threat was still there.