Bryan Smith - The Killing Kind

“I do, Lin. I really do. Trust me.”

They talked the maximum amount of time allowed. Some of it was small talk. Things about family and friends. Things she might take care of for him while he was in jail. There were several more smiling professions of love. Then, all too soon, the time was up and she had to go.

She stood and the guard who’d come in with her led her to the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Rob. I love you. Never forget that.”

His vision blurred as the tears fell. “I love you, too.”

Then she was gone.

The other guard came over and jerked him to his feet. “That was so sweet. You keep that pretty face in mind when you’re taking it up the ass in here.”

He laughed as he steered Rob out of the room. It was the mean, leering laughter of a born sadist. He’d heard its like before.

But Rob didn’t care.

As long as he had Lindsey’s love, everything would be okay.

September 7

He had one last demon to face and that day of reckoning had come round at last. Chuck sat behind the wheel of his 2010 Porsche 911 Carrera, staring at the entrance to Big Sam’s Bar & Grill.

The car was a gift from his father. A hundred-grand set of wheels. A big gesture, even for his dad. The old man thought money was the answer to everything. Spend enough of it, make enough extravagant gestures, and eventually any pain you might feel should go away.

Dad was wrong.

His dad was like a god to him. It was a weird thing to know that even gods could be wrong. He’d learned a lot of hard lessons this year, many much harder than that. It was harder, for instance, to face your dead girlfriend’s grieving parents and try to explain to them why you hadn’t been able to save her. Why you were alive and she wasn’t. And the real bitch of it was they didn’t blame him. They even told him he needed to stop putting the blame on himself and lay it right where it belonged, on the killers. But Chuck couldn’t help it. Zoe was gone and she was never coming back. He should have saved her. Somehow. He should have found a way. But he hadn’t. He’d come up short, and the only girl he’d ever really loved was dead. A part of himself had died along with her. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever be ready for any kind of intimate relationship again.

But today wasn’t about Zoe. Nor was it about finding out whether there remained the potential for love in his heart. This was about Chuck Kirby being a man. This was about fighting back. And it was about regaining some small measure of pride. Zoe’s killers were out of his reach. For now. But he could start smaller than that.

He got out of the Porsche and walked into Big Sam’s. The joint wasn’t exactly jumping. A few couples were dining at tables. Two old guys sat at the bar, nursing beers. Chuck approached the bar, pulled out a stool, and sat down. The barkeep today was a much younger man than the ones who’d attacked him. He looked to be in his midtwenties, not too much older than Chuck. He was tall and fit, with closecropped brown hair. He was polishing a glass with a towel, but looked up as Chuck sat down. “What can I get you?”

“Bud draft.”

“ID?”

Chuck almost smiled, remembering the high-quality fake he’d used last time he was here. It wasn’t necessary anymore. He was legal these days, having turned twenty-one over the summer. He pulled out his wallet, extracted his license, and showed it to the barkeep, who nodded and began to fill a pint glass from a tap.

The barkeep looked at him as he set the glass down. “There ya go.”

Chuck took a sip from the frosty mug. “Ah…”

“That’s two-fifty. Or you can run a tab.”

Chuck handed over his platinum card. “I’ll run a tab.”

“Cool.”

“Maybe you can help me with something.”

The barkeep arched an eyebrow. “Yeah? With what?”

Chuck took a longer sip of beer and set the glass down again. “I was in here a while back. Shit, almost six months ago, I guess. There was another guy working here. We really…hit if off. I’m wondering if he’s still around.”

“You remember his name?”

Chuck nodded. “Joe Bob. Kind of a big guy. Long hair in a ponytail. Receding hairline…” Chuck trailed off, noting how the guy’s expression had darkened as he spoke. “Something wrong?”

The barkeep shrugged. “It’s just weird, I guess. That long ago…” He scratched his chin and squinted as he thought. “Hell, you must have met him right before he died.”

Chuck’s hand was in the process of lifting the glass to his lips again. His hand froze for a moment. He set the glass back down. “Say that again?”

“Sorry, man. He’s dead.”

“Shit.”

One of the old men signaled for another round. The barkeep put a fresh glass under the PBR tap and began to fill it. “Yeah. It was pretty brutal, man. Joe Bob was the regular closer back then.” He set the PBR pint in front of the old man and leaned against the bar again. “He got jumped out back one morning after closing. Somebody really did a number on him.”

Chuck frowned. “What do you mean?”

The barkeep’s expression turned grim. “Sorry to have to tell you this, since you guys hit it off, but whoever killed him cut holy hell out of him. He was tortured.”

Chuck drained the rest of his beer in one pull and motioned for another. “Shit.”

“Yeah. No kidding, right?” The barkeep poured him a fresh mug and set it down. “They found him handcuffed to the wheel of his own truck.” He shook his head. “He was all fucked-up, man. Ears cut off. Eyes cut out. Cops figure it was a drug thing. Joe Bob was a distributor. The guess is he was moving in on somebody else’s territory. And that somebody decided to set an example.”

Chuck grunted. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

Chuck knocked back the rest of his second beer. “I think I’m done here.”

“Sorry to bum you out, dude.”

Chuck shrugged. “Hell, I barely knew Joe Bob. It’s too bad, but…what can you do?”

The barkeep swiped his card and handed it back with the receipt. “That’s too true, bud. The lesson here? Stay out of the drug business.”

Chuck signed the receipt and passed it back. “Yeah. No shit.”

He walked out of the bar and got back behind the wheel of the Porsche. He started the car and drove around to the back of the building. There were two cars out back, a single small loading bay, and an overflowing blue Dumpster. A shiver crawled up his spine as he surveyed the back lot. Missy Wallace had been here. He could feel her presence. He experienced a mixture of anger and deep confusion. Killing Joe Bob, he was certain, had not been a case of exacting revenge on his behalf. It made no sense. She hated him. There had to be some other motivation. He thought about it some more and came to the only conclusion that made any sense to him. Missy Wallace was a lot of things, nearly all of them bad, but she was smart. And cold. She knew what men were like. She would have known how likely it was he’d return here one day for his pound of flesh. So she’d decided to take his chance at that away from him, too.

Just as she’d taken Zoe.

You fucking bitch.

Chuck sat there a while longer and wondered what his next move should be. There were some immediate and obvious impulses. He could get blind drunk. Go back in the bar right now and just get started. He could spend the rest of his life getting hammered and stewing in his anger, lamenting his powerlessness.

Or he could just let it all go.

He could accept that things were the way they were and go back to just living his life. And moving on. He thought of something his father had said over and over during the summer. It is what it is. A stupid, overused phrase. It had always annoyed Chuck, but hearing his father utter those trite words so often had pushed him to the point of near insanity. But maybe Dad had been on to something there. Maybe there was some small bit of wisdom in those words.