Bryan Smith - The Killing Kind

“Snap out of it.”

Rob blinked. “What?”

“Your head was off in the fucking clouds.”

He sat up straighter in his seat. “Right. Sorry.”

“I love you.”

For fuck’s sake…

“Right. You said that.”

Roxie laughed. “You don’t have to say it back yet. I know you like me. You’ll come around to the love thing sooner or later. Probably sooner.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, as I was trying to tell you, going gaga over you has sort of changed my perspective a little. Don’t get me wrong. I’ll always be what I am. But I do mean to be more careful.” She pried one of his hands off the steering wheel and laced fingers with him. “And that includes no interaction with the staff here.”

Rob grunted. “So…instead…”

He let the implied question hang.

She flexed her fingers slightly for a better grip on his hand. “We watch for a likely target. Preferably someone vulnerable. Preferably alone.”

“We catch them going in or out of their room.”

“Right.”

“Get them inside the room and tie them up.”

“Wrong. Fucking waste of time. We kill them.”

Rob groaned. “Is that really necessary? You haven’t killed anybody in over twenty-four hours. The bloodshed reduction was sort of refreshing.”

“What’s your favorite horror movie?”

Rob stared at her with his mouth hanging open for a long moment. The abrupt conversational shift had caught him off guard. “Um…I…wait. Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Rob shrugged. “I don’t think I have a single favorite. I like so many. There’s The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Dawn of the Dead. Obviously.”

“Originals or remakes?”

“Both.”

She smiled. “Good answer. The Dawn remake is better than the original, though.”

“Blasphemy. And what does any of this have to do with murdering innocent spring breakers?”

She laughed. “I didn’t want to talk about that anymore, that’s all. I’m killing them. End of story. Don’t make me say it again.”

Her hand tightened around his. A reminder.

This was a command, not a request.

He forced a smile. “Understood.”

She relaxed her grip and smiled back. “Good.”

Rob opened his mouth to say something, but the words died on the edge of his tongue, unspoken and forgotten. He stared at the black BMW parked to the right of the Tercel. Its doors had come open and two passengers climbed out. The very unlikely looking pair started walking toward the motel. It was a middle-aged man and a girl in her teens. The man looked like a powerfully built wino in ill-fitting clothes. The girl was cute as hell. But something about her haircut was off. It looked…unprofessional.

Roxie was staring at them, too. “Something’s not right there.”

“No shit. That car was there when we pulled in, which was“-he glanced at the dashboard clock-“an hour ago. So…”

Roxie nodded. “They hid behind those tinted windows the whole time, waiting for us to get out or go away.”

“Because they didn’t want to be seen together.”

“Right. Or something like that.”

“Weird.”

The strange couple stopped at the door to a room on the first floor. The man opened the door with a key card and they slipped inside the room. The old bum tried not to be obvious about it, but he shot a quick look their way before shutting the door.

Roxie slipped on her sandals (also newly purchased) and retrieved the.38 from the glove compartment. “Change of plans.”

She was out the door and moving toward the motel before Rob could protest.

He slapped the steering wheel.

“Shit!”

One day her impulsiveness really would get her killed. He glanced at the keys dangling from the ignition. For the first time in more than a day he gave serious consideration to the possibility of escape. He could drive away and leave Roxie to meet her inevitable doom on her own. He could go home. Make excuses. Maybe find a way to reconcile with Charlene. Then there was Lindsey. Sweet Lindsey. His best friend. Maybe Roxie was right about her. Maybe she really did want something more than friendship. Or maybe not. Bottom line, he had options. Possibilities. Normal, sane things he could do with his life. Somehow, it was all still just within his grasp.

He looked at Roxie.

She was already at the door to the room the strange couple had entered.

Rob sighed. “Shit.”

He grabbed the keys from the ignition, hopped out of the car, and hurried after her.

March 24

“Are they just gonna sit there forever or what?”

Zeb didn’t answer. He sat behind the BMW’s steering wheel, his head cranked to his left as he watched the couple in the Tercel. They seemed permanently ensconced in the car. The girl, in particular, looked rooted to the spot, scrunched way down in her seat with her feet propped on the dash. She was pretty, but maybe just a little sleazy, with multiple visible tattoos.

“She looks like a Suicide Girl.”

Now Zeb looked at her, a genuinely puzzled expression on his face. “A what?”

“A Suicide Girl. Alternative pinup models. They usually look sort of punk, with tats, piercings, and shit.”

“Tats?”

“Tattoos.”

Julie glanced at the rearview mirror. “I sort of look like that now. I need a tat, Zeb.”

Zeb was staring at the couple in the Tercel again. “I want to kill these people.”

Julie was still admiring her reflection. She fluffed her hair and blew herself a kiss. “Broad daylight, Zeb. Not a good idea. Look, they’re obviously up to no good themselves. They’re not gonna connect us to the guy in the room. And even if they did, they’re not going to the cops. I mean…look at them.”

Zeb nodded. His posture changed and the tensely coiled muscles in his back visibly relaxed. “Right. Enough of this bullshit. Let’s go.”

He opened the door and got out. Julie grabbed her new purse-a nice Gucci liberated from her third victim-and hurried after him. “Hey. Thought of something. What if they’re cops? What if they’re on a stakeout or something?”

“They’re not detectives. Too young.”

“Detectives? You mean like Magnum, P.I.? That old-ass TV shit? I’m talking about cops, man. Like real cops.”

Zeb glared at her. He did that a lot when she was talking. It was sort of funny to wind him up. “I’m talking about police detectives, girl. Investigators. I had some experience with them when I was younger. They’re the ones you’d see on a stakeout. These jackasses are not police detectives, I promise you.”

“You hope.”

“Shut up.”

Julie giggled.

Zeb opened the door to room 109. Julie went in first and flipped on the light. She saw Zeb shoot a look at the Tercel before shutting the door. “Shouldn’t have looked at them.”

Zeb grimaced. “I know.”

He rubbed his hands on his face, sighed, and sat on the edge of the king-size bed. He looked beat. Julie stared at him. Despite his size and imposing musculature, there were times when he just looked like a tired old man.

“Maybe you should take a nap.”

Zeb yawned. “Maybe.”

He scooted backward to the center of the bed, swung his body around, and stretched out, resting his head on the stacked-up pillows behind him. He closed his eyes and folded his hands over his chest.

“Hey, Zeb.”

He opened one eye and looked at her.

“It okay if I play with this guy some?” She reached into her bag and pulled out the large hunting knife. “I’m bored.”

He shrugged. “You can cut on him some. But don’t kill him just yet.”

Julie grinned. “Cool.”

She turned away from Zeb and looked at the man tied to one of the room’s two metal-framed chairs. A layer of silver tape was wound around the bottom part of his face. This was to keep the gag in his mouth. His eyes went wide and his nostrils flared when he saw the big knife. Tears leaked from his eyes and he began to shake. She couldn’t blame him. She’d used the blade on him quite a bit during the night. He was nude from the waist up. His torso was a road map of red and pink lines. The red lines were the open, still-weeping wounds. The pink lines were places where she’d cut him and then applied a lighter flame.