Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

“Just so there’s no come back.”

“You call the tune, I do the dance.” He wanted to ask about the money, but Striker might take it as an insult.

“I got another job for you. Can you get over to Catalina in that plane of yours?”

“Any time you want.”

“Sunup.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s an old woman, should be a piece of cake.”

Horace almost puked again as he listened to Striker tell him. Christ, another killing and it was another woman, an older woman. But there was nothing he could do right now, except close his mind to it.

He went to the bathroom and stripped off his bloody clothes. The shirt was ruined now, the pants too. He rolled them up, went naked and barefoot out to the kitchen. No one to see, Virgil wasn’t coming home and there wasn’t any reason to dress for Ma. She was already in her room anyway, happy like a rat in the trash. Her boy got a girl. Ma was nuts. He got a garbage bag from under the sink, stuffed the clothes in it, then stuffed the bag in the trash can outside the back door.

Back in the bathroom, he got in the shower, turned the water as hot as he could stand it. Steam filled the bath. Striker wanted him to do another woman, the thought busted into his head. He didn’t want to do it, didn’t know if he could. In the end it was the anger that got him through the Kenyon bitch. She’d just stabbed Virgil, after all. Killing her didn’t feel premeditated. He turned the water even hotter, punishing himself.

When he could take it no longer, he got out of the shower, changed into another pair of baggy pants, a denim work shirt and slipped on his leather bomber jacket. He faced the mirror, closed his eyes and forced the thought of the old woman he was supposed to do to the back of his mind. Time to be cool. He opened his eyes and looked at himself. “Cool to the max.” He turned away from the mirror and left the house.

The van still smelled, not as bad, but the taste of shit lingered on the air. He’d have to get one of them air fresheners in the morning. It started to rain when he entered the on ramp, a slight drizzle. God’s tears, Horace thought, then he cried. Snot drizzled down his nose, mingled with salty tears on his lips. Horace didn’t get control of himself till he got off the freeway on Lakewood Boulevard by the Long Beach airport.

He turned into the airport, drove to Condor aviation, passed the flight school and drove onto the line. He parked next to his Cessna 172, with the van’s sliding door facing the passenger door of the plane.

No one challenged him, the place was deserted, the planes lined up like soldiers in the night. He shut off the engine and listened to the quiet. Off in the distance rolling tires hissed by on damp pavement as late night travelers journeyed home.

Out of the van now, he slid open the door, then opened the passenger door of the plane, glad he had sun protectors covering the windows. The body had moved during the trip. Now Virgil was on his back. Horace pulled the body to the door.

He squatted, slid his arms under it, careful to keep the belly wound away from the expensive bomber jacket. The body was limp and that surprised him. He’d expected rigor to set in like in the movies, but it hadn’t. With strength he didn’t know he had, he stood, got his balance, then staggered to the open door of the plane and slid his dead brother into the passenger seat.

Trying not to look, he pulled on the shoulder harness, cinching the seatbelt tight. Finished, he closed and locked the door. Now all he needed was a motel room, so he could get some rest away from Ma for a couple of days and some cement.

Maggie rolled over, rubbed her eyes against the light sneaking in the bedroom. She pulled the blankets up to her chin, scrunched herself up in their warmth, pulled her knees to her chest.

“Nick,” she mumbled. Again, “Nick.” She wanted him to pull the shade, the way her father used to come and turn out the light when she was a little girl and too comfy to get out of bed and do it herself. Her father had always been there, but Nick wasn’t, and all of a sudden last night came pouring back.

She ran her tongue over dry lips. She was thirsty. She had to pee. And Nick still hadn’t come home. She pushed the blankets away, forced herself to sit up. “Ouch.” She put her hands to her temples. Her head hurt. She felt like she could drink gallons. She felt like she could pee gallons.

She checked the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. Quarter to seven. The last time she’d looked it said 4:45. Great, she’d only managed to get two hours of fitful sleep and now she had a hangover. And Nick hadn’t come home at all. He’d never done that before. Then it hit her. Yesterday was Saturday. How could he film a high school drug bust when there wasn’t any school?

“If it’s that redhead.” She dropped her legs over the side of the bed, stood and closed her eyes to keep the room from spinning. “Never again.”

She took a deep breath, steadied herself, padded into the bathroom. The toilet seat was down. There was the proof. He really hadn’t been home. Bastard. She sat, peed, then at the bathroom sink she lowered her head and drank.

The water was a river in her mouth, flooding through the cracked desert of her lips and tongue. So cool. She sucked it down, animal-like, greedy. She stopped after a bit, wanting more, but she’d get sick if she continued.

She studied herself in the mirror. She slept in the nude and nude she was. So she hadn’t been so drunk she couldn’t get undressed. She put a finger to the welt on her forehead. It looked like it should hurt. She poked it. It did.

She cupped her hands under the running water, splashed some on her face. It wasn’t enough to make her feel human, so she stepped into the shower, ran the water cold, to wake.

Images from last night rushed through her mind.

Those two men had been after her. They’d recognized her in the Safeway and had been waiting for her on the beach. If it hadn’t been for those homeless men under the pier, who knows what could have happened? That Virgil was big.

She faced into the spray, drank more water. She needed a clear head. She needed to run. She shut off the shower, dried off, jumped into Levi’s and a sweatshirt. She stuffed twenty bucks into a back pocket, in case she was hungry as she jogged by the donut shop. It happened sometimes.

But once outside, she decided to jog down to the beach, where she could run full out. She started as soon as she hit the sand and she poured it on when she got to the place where those men, Horace and Virgil, had tried to trap her the night before. She glanced at the pier, thought about stopping, remembered the disappearing bottle of wine and decided against it. She took a look at the pool. The glass walls glowed orange, reflecting the rising sun. It was no threat now.

Past the pool, she saw the country and western bar. She ran to it, ran past it, through the Safeway parking lot, then the sprint home. In front of the duplex, she doubled over, hands on her knees, dripping sweat. The headache was gone. She was still thirsty, but this was an honest thirst, her body craving the water she’d lost as sweat.

She turned on the garden hose, drank, then sat on the front steps. It was Sunday, still early. The neighborhood was quiet, save for a cat across the street. She watched while it prowled under a car, looking for God knows what. Then it crossed the street, slinked under Gordon’s old Ford and all of a sudden it was out of sight.

Gordon’s car reminded her of the garage out back. Part of their rental deal with him was that they got the garage, Gordon parked out front. He didn’t seem to care. Besides, nobody in their right mind would ever think of stealing his car. What could they get? Maybe fifty bucks.