Brian Freeman: Immoral

On the door, someone had painted the words ALWAYS OPEN. Serena glanced back at Stride, shrugged, and pulled the door open carefully. She stepped inside, with Stride immediately behind her. The noise inside the trailer was deafening. A window in front of them was open, creating a cross breeze that made several dozen stained glass wind chimes spiral and clang against each other in a wild, multicolored dance. They both put their hands over their ears. Serena took two steps and banged the window shut. The breeze died, and slowly the chimes settled down, tinkling softly like a formless music in the background.

Then they heard a voice.

"So you figured it out."

They both spun around. Bob sat at a card table six feet away, in front of a lopsided curtain that separated the shop from the rest of the trailer. A metal cash box sat on the table next to him, its lid open. Bob's T-shirt hung on his skinny frame, and his shorts were several sizes too large. He wore ratty old sneakers.

He had manic eyes, fierce and tiny, like two black holes. He studied them both in turn, first Serena, then Stride. His eyes lingered on Stride, and he squinted as if he saw something in Stride's face that was strange and unexpected. The longer Bob stared at him, the more Stride felt like an insect pinned to a collector's board. The eerie sensation went deeper, because when he stared back, his brain flashed a message. I know you.

But the man was a stranger to him.

"What's your name?" Stride asked.

Bob shrugged. "It's on the sign."

"It won't be difficult for us to find out," Serena said.

"No?" Bob asked. "Well, I have no records, I file no taxes, and I've never been fingerprinted. So you tell me how you plan to find out anything about me."

"You sound pretty smart," Serena told Bob. "I expected an old drunk."

Bob scowled and thrust a thumb toward the rear of the trailer. "The gin's in back. It's there in case I chicken out."

"Chicken out?" Serena asked.

Bob rubbed his long beard and pulled at the tangles. He put a finger to his head like a gun and pulled the trigger.

"You're planning to kill yourself?" Serena asked. "Why?"

Bob turned to Stride and smiled darkly, as if sharing a secret joke. "You know."

"How would I know?"

"You're a man. Why does a man do anything?"

"A woman," Stride said.

Serena leaned closer to Bob. "Are you talking about Christi?"

Bob's anger subsided, and he looked wistful. His voice cracked as he stared at Serena. "You look a little bit like her. She had green eyes, like you. But hers were cold. She destroyed me. I mean, just look around. Look at my life. But if I could get her back, I'd go through this hell all over again."

Serena's eyes narrowed. "You wanted her that much? She was that good?"

"Not good. She was never good. She was evil."

"What was it?" Serena asked. "Did she reject you?"

Bob laughed wildly. "If only it were that fucking simple! It's like having the keys to the palace, okay? And then one day they change the locks. And you look back and realize you gave up everything, destroyed everyone around you, for a fantasy."

"When did you see her last?" Serena asked.

Bob waved his hand impatiently. "Don't waste my time. You want to ask me? Ask me."

Stride knew the question he meant. "Did you kill Rachel?"

"Someone had to," Bob said.

"But did you do it?" Stride asked again.

"Isn't that what you want me to say? Won't that make it easier for you?"

"We just want to know what happened," Stride said.

Bob flicked a cockroach off the table. It skittered away toward the rear of the trailer. "No, you don't. You already know all you need to know."

"We don't know why," Stride said.

Bob laughed. "It was a game to her. She destroyed people. When you do that, sometimes people destroy you back."

"I think we ought to continue this conversation somewhere else," Serena told him cautiously, reaching for her cuffs. "Why don't you come down to the station with us? We can clean you up, get you a decent meal."

Bob's eyes snapped open with the gleam of a predator. "You don't get off so easy," he snarled at them.

His speed caught them off guard. Bob's left hand dove into the cash box, and with a shout, he leaped to his feet, the chair toppling backward onto the trailer floor behind him. Bob's left hand swung upward out of the cash box, his whole arm a blur of motion. He pointed his arm straight up, almost grazing the roof of the trailer. Stride saw the object clutched in Bob's fingers-a Smith & Wesson revolver with a four-inch barrel.

"Gun!"

Stride and Serena jumped backward, tumbling into a maze of wind chimes that clattered and then fell around them, shattering on the floor. Stride twisted to his right and slammed his body to the ground. Broken glass cut his hand as his palm scraped the trailer floor. He snaked his bleeding hand inside his jacket and slid the Ruger into his slippery palm. In a single motion, he flipped off the safety and rose to one knee, taking aim at Bob's chest.

Three feet away, Serena did the same. She came up on both knees and steadied her automatic with both hands.

Bob didn't move. He stared them down with a bizarre grin of triumph, his eyes darting between the two detectives like a Ping-Pong ball. The revolver quivered in his hands.

"What are you waiting for?" Bob demanded.

"We don't want to hurt you," Serena told him, her voice steady. "Put down the gun."

"I'm getting out," Bob said. "And you're going to help me."

Stride saw Bob's fingers tighten on the grip of the revolver. Bob lowered his gun arm.

"I'm going to take the shot," Serena called.

"No!" Stride insisted. "Wait! Wait!" He saw his one window on the truth sliding closed.

Bob hadn't cocked the hammer. He wasn't ready to fire. But he was now pointing the black hole of the barrel directly at Stride's head. Stride stared back along the path of Bob's outstretched arms, sighting down the barrel of his pistol. The revolver gaped back at him. Stride's arm twinged where his friend in Ely had shot him. He could hear the sound of that gun in his memory and feel the flesh ripping apart in his shoulder.

"Bob, you're not going to shoot me," Stride told him. "Put it down, and this time you win. You can beat her."

Bob shook his head. "She always wins."

Stride clicked the safety back into place on his Ruger. His fingers loosened, and the gun slipped upside down in his hand. He bent down slowly, laying it on the ground.

"Jonny, what the hell are you doing?" Serena hissed.

"I'm just not going to do it," Stride told Bob.

Bob was silent, hesitating.

Ting-a-ling, ting, ting, went the wind chimes.

"It's not me doing this," Bob said. "It's her. It was always her."

Stride shook his head. "You can't blame her anymore. She's dead. This time, it's all you. Is that what you want?"

Bob's hand trembled. He exhaled a long, mournful breath, and his muscles seemed to cave in as the air went out of his body. His gun arm sagged, the revolver going limp in his hand.

"Now just lay it on the table. Real easy. Real slow. Okay?"

Stride felt a wave of relief wash over him.

Then Bob's face contorted in panic and fear. His eyes widened as if he were a frightened child. His mouth dropped open, and he took a horrified step backward. He was fixated on something just behind Stride.

"There she is!" Bob wailed.

"Jonny, he's losing it," Serena warned.

Stride knew she was right. Bob was disintegrating.

"There's no one here," Stride told him firmly.

"YOU'RE DEAD!" Bob bellowed.

He swung the revolver up in a single motion, its barrel quivering. His jaw clenched, and he bared his teeth. Bob's thumb flicked to the hammer of the gun.