Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

“Maybe we should just go home.”

“We can’t to that.” Horace was thinking a mile a minute. He’d have to get the girl, cuff her in the back of the van, then drop Virgil somewhere. Where? Then he saw the theater across the street from the condos. “You wanna see a movie?”

“Yeah, boy!”

“After we get the woman in the van, I’ll drop you at the theater. Then I’ll take her to her husband’s, serve the papers and come back. How’s that sound?”

“Great!” Virgil wiggled in his seat. A dog waiting for a bone.

He started the car, drove past the condos, made a U-turn, parked on the ocean side of PCH. “Now all we gotta do is follow the next guy in.” And as if the Devil heard, a few minutes later a black Ford Taurus passed them and turned into the driveway. Horace had the van behind him in an instant, hugging the Ford’s tail. There were two guys in the guard shack, an old black guy and a much younger white guy. They were talking, probably changing shifts. The fence gate opened for the guy in the Ford. Horace followed him in. The security guys didn’t even notice.

“Piece of cake.” Virgil laughed. Everything was a game to him.

Horace pulled into a vacant spot next to her car and looked down into the Porsche. The top was down. There was a bag of groceries on the passenger seat. “She must have done some shopping before we saw her at the Safeway, ’cuz she sure didn’t buy anything there.” It was a detail that bothered Horace. Why was she in the Safeway? Did she forget something and come back for it? He tried to remember how much stuff was in her shopping cart. Couldn’t.

“So?”

“So, we wait. She couldn’t carry everything in one trip. She’s gotta come back for the rest. She’s also gotta put the top up. Nobody leaves a Porsche open, even if it is in a secured lot. You never know who could get past a pair of dopey guards like that.”

“What are you gonna do when she comes?”

Horace reached past Virgil to the glove box, took out the handcuffs.

“You’re gonna get out. I’m gonna get in the back. You’re gonna grab her and toss her in. Then we’re gonna cuff her to one of those eyebolts above the back wheel wells.” Horace had the eyebolts put in for his dirt bike, no way could the woman pull one out, no one could.

“I don’t think I wanna do this.” Sweat ringed Virgil’s forehead, glistening even in the dark.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“I don’t wanna,” Virgil said.

“I’ll tell Ma you wouldn’t help.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“I would, so just do your part.” Horace clenched his fists. This was stupid. Maybe he should abort.

“I’ll get out soon’s she passes,” Virgil said. “I’ll tap on the door just ’for I grab her, so you’ll know to be ready.”

“That’s more like it.” Horace gripped the steering wheel so hard he thought he was going to break it. It was a stupid plan. He should have hit her back when he’d had the chance, but he’d been too softhearted. Now, luck had given him a perfect opportunity. Perfect except for Virgil. He had to go for it. Besides, fortune had always favored him, no reason she’d let him down now.

“She’s coming.” Virgil was squirming in his seat again.

“Calm down, it’s gonna be alright.”

The woman was wearing hard soled shoes. Her footsteps clicked on the pavement, echoing through the night. Horace was breathing fast, ice shot up his spine. He climbed in the back of the van as Virgil got out. Any second they’d have her inside. It was going to happen.

Virgil slapped the door and the sound ricocheted through the van as he slid it open. She was wearing different clothes, a green skirt and blouse. She must’ve changed the second she got into the house. Horace took his eyes off her clothes and went eyeball to eyeball with her. Recognition filled her face. Now she knew who he was. Virgil had a hand over her mouth. She chomped down on it.

“Owww!” Virgil let her go. Then hit her, a blow to the head and she went down.

“Get her in the van,” Horace said.

“Blood?” Virgil was looking at his hand where he’d been bit. Horace was looking at the girl’s face.

“Move, before someone comes!” Horace jumped out of the van. “Come on.” He grabbed her around the ankles.

“She dead?” Virgil grabbed her wrists. They lifted her from the asphalt and slung her into the van.

“No, just knocked out. Let’s go.” Horace slid the door closed.

Sweat dripped icicles under Horace’s arms as he drove to the gate. “Shit, we got no opener,” but the gate opened automatically. “Guess you only need it coming in.” The guards, both still inside the guard shack, didn’t even glance up at them as they left the property and turned right onto Pacific Coast Highway.

“I didn’t mean it.” Virgil sat cross-legged in the back, the woman’s head in his lap. He was crying now.

“Stop it! She’s gonna be fine.”

“We killed her.”

The woman moaned, opened her eyes. Horace risked a quick look back as he slowed for the light at Beach.

“See, what’d I tell you?” Horace handed the handcuffs back to Virgil. Now take these and hook her to one of those eyebolts.”

“But she’s hurt.”

“You don’t wanna do it, then I can’t drop you at the movies. You’ll have to come along and watch her till I serve the papers.”

“I can’t.” Virgil tossed the handcuffs aside.

Horace grabbed another quick look into the back of the van. Virgil was stroking her cheek while he rocked back and forth. She seemed to be unconscious.

“Why don’t you smoke a cigarette? That always calms you down.”

“I don’t like this, Horace.”

“You said you could do it!” Horace knew he shouldn’t lay into him. He couldn’t help what he was. Shit and Shinola, the bastard was getting to him.

“Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.” Horace turned on the overhead and adjusted the rearview, so he could see in the back and still keep his eyes on the road. “Stop that rocking! Smoke a cigarette and I’ll take you to the movies.”

“Can’t. Cigarettes are on the dash.”

“Alright.” Horace grabbed the Marlboros, tossed them back.

Virgil grabbed the pack out of the air, tapped out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth. He seemed to have calmed down some, not rocking now. He snaked a hand into his pocket, fishing for the Zippo, pulled it out. The switchblade came too, clanged to the floor.

Horace sighed as the lighter fluid smell permeated the van, followed by the nauseating smell of burning tobacco. Only idiots smoked. Again he glanced in the mirror.

“Virgil!” he screamed.

But he was too late.

The woman had the blade. She thumbed the button, flicked it open and shoved into his brother’s belly.

Horace sliced the van across the highway, cutting off traffic in the slow lane. He stomped on the brakes even before the van was on the shoulder, pulled the Beretta from the holster, spun his arm around, muzzle seeking the woman, finding her as she jerked the knife up Virgil’s belly, stopping at the rib cage. Horace fired the automatic point blank. The round slammed between the woman’s tits, shoving her against the wheel well. Horace kept firing. Eleven rounds in the magazine followed the one in the chamber as rapid fire thundered through the van.

“It hurts!” Virgil had his hands on his belly, trying to hold his guts in.

“Hang on, Virge.” Horace could barely hear him because of the ringing in his ears.

Fuck, the bitch had hari karied him sure as if she’d been one of them samurai guys. He dropped the Beretta, jumped between the seats, was at his brother’s side in an instant. Blood was everywhere. Virgil’s big heart pumping it out his belly wound as if it were a fountain. The woman’s blouse was soaked in it.