J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

“Before you go running home to Mama, crying like a little girl, we have to take care of one more problem.”

Dread creeps up Swanson’s shoulders and perches there, like a gargoyle. “What problem?”

“That chick cop. The one who fired back at me.”

“What about her?”

Munchel wipes his mouth off with his sleeve. “She saw my face.”

Swanson sits back down. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

“Had some sort of scope,” Munchel goes on. “Some infrared night-vision bullshit.”

“Could she ID you?” Pessolano asks.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Swanson tries to think, tries to remember if his passport is up-to-date.

“We can go to Mexico,” he says. “We can leave to night.”

Munchel snorts. “Hell no. I love America. I’m not leaving. Not because of some split-tail. Besides – there’s another option.”

Swanson’s heart is beating faster than when he took the shot and killed the pervert. He should be feeling good right now. Satisfied. Complete. Maybe even a little excited. Killing Rob Siders had been easier than he thought, and every detail had been executed perfectly. But instead of celebrating, he feels terrified and ready to throw up.

“What option?” Pessolano asks.

“I put that GPS tracker you lent me on her car.” Munchel grins wide, his teeth the color of corn. “I know where she lives.”

“LET’S PLAY A GAME,” Alex says.

I sit on the sofa. My hands rest in my lap, the handcuffs digging painfully into my wrists. My ankles are wrapped in silver duct tape. Latham has tape on his legs, wrists, and mouth. Alex dragged my mother, still bound to the kitchen chair, into the living room with us. Mom’s eyelids are drooping. She doesn’t look well.

Alex holds a nickel-plated revolver. It has a two-inch barrel and a rubber grip. A small gun. It probably only holds five bullets. My guess is confirmed when Alex swings the cylinder out and pushes the ejector rod, dumping five.32-caliber rounds into her palm. She thumbs one back into an empty chamber, spins the cylinder, and slaps it closed.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, Jack. If you get one wrong, I’m going to point the gun at either your mother or your fiancé, and pull the trigger. Like this.”

Alex aims at my mother and fires before the cry can leave my throat.

The hammer falls on an empty chamber with a metallic click.

“A one out of five chance,” Alex says. “Those are pretty good odds. Do you understand the game?”

I push the panic down, deep down, forcing myself to think rather than react to fear.

“What if I get the answer right?” I ask.

“Then I’ll ask another one.” Alex spins the cylinder. “Let’s begin.”

She walks over to me and stares down. Her eyes are empty. I wonder if she’s enjoying this. She doesn’t seem to be.

Alex doesn’t have the classic male psychopathic response, because her particular mental disorder isn’t linked to sex and testosterone. That means she stays calm, works within her peculiar kind of rationalization, without letting emotion take over. Her cruelty isn’t hot and breathy. It’s cold and calculating.

In my opinion, that makes it worse.

“How did I escape from Heathrow?” Alex asks me.

What is she looking for? Praise? Begging? Cowering? Or does she just want a wrong answer so she can shoot someone I love while I watch?

“You lured someone into your room, burned them, and took their ID. A guard, maybe.”

“It wasn’t a guard. Try again.”

“Another inmate.”

Alex snorts. “If I took another inmate’s place, I’d be sitting in her cell right now. One more guess, then we play some Russian roulette.”

I rack my brain, trying to remember what I know about Alex, about her past. She grew up with a family of psychos. She liked to kill animals. She was infatuated with her brother. She could act normal, function within society, until her peculiar tastes took over. She used to be a marine. She was an expert marksperson, and an expert martial artist. She murdered many people, torturing most of them first. She was of above-average intelligence. She had been analyzed by many specialists.

Many specialists.

“Your shrink,” I decide.

Alex has killed several of her psychiatrists. She seems to get a particular thrill out of it, and I could easily picture her carrying on that legacy at Heathrow.

I know I’m right, because the unscarred half of her face smiles.

“Dr. Panko. Shorter than me, but the same hair color. She was a Freudian. Kept wanting me to talk about my parents. Saw me as a victim, a weak little girl who had been abused by the world. I had to fake a lot of tears in front of that bitch. It paid off.”

“You got her to trust you,” I say. As long as Alex is talking, she isn’t shooting.

“So much that she allowed me to get a job in the laundry room. On our next session I snapped her neck and put her body in the laundry cart. Not easy to do in handcuffs and ankle restraints. When I did laundry rounds that night, I dropped her off in my room, switched clothes with her, and set her on fire after spraying her with three cans of Lysol. Then I walked out of prison while everyone stood around watching the blaze. How did I do that, Jack?”

“You took her keys. Her ID.”

“Good. What else?”

I stare at Alex’s cheek. “You also took her makeup.”

“I needed a whole tube of concealer to cover up the scarring, and it wouldn’t have stood up to close inspection. But no one even bothered to look at me. They were all too jacked up about the tragic suicide. I found Panko’s car by pressing the alarm button on her key chain. She had this cute little gun in her glove compartment. A Freudian with a gun. I wonder if she ever thought about how ironic that was.”

I steal a glance at Mom. She seems out of it. In contrast, Latham appears alert and determined. I try to tell him how much I love him using only my eyes.

“So how did I convince the authorities that Dr. Panko was me?” Alex asks.

I think about my earlier calls to Heathrow, how they insisted the dead body was Alex.

“You somehow switched dental records.”

“Wrong.” Alex holds up the revolver. “Who do you want me to shoot, your mother or your fiancé?”

My stomach falls to my ankles. “Give me another chance. You’re smarter than I am.”

“No. Choose.”

I’m tempted to say please , but begging Alex won’t help the situation. She feeds off of weakness. I promise myself I won’t beg, no matter how bad it gets.

I look at Mom. She doesn’t meet my eyes. I wonder if she’s being strong, or if she’s gone someplace in her head. Then I look at Latham. He nods at me. My sweetheart is giving me permission to shoot him.

“I refuse to decide,” I say.

“Fine. Then I’ll do both.”

“Wait-!”

Alex points the gun at Latham and fires, then turns it on Mom and fires.

Two empty chambers, but something inside me breaks. The panic worms its way to the surface, and a soft whimper tears loose. I don’t want to cry, don’t want to let Alex see it, but some tears make it out anyway.

“Hmm,” Alex says. “What were the odds there? A forty percent chance one of them would die? Looks like you got lucky, Jack. Now try again. How did I convince the authorities that Dr. Panko was me?”

I have no idea. My brain is mush, scrambled eggs. I’m being forced to watch the people I love get killed. Alex will keep going until they both are dead, then she’ll start on me. How am I supposed to be able to think?

“The clock is ticking, Jack. You have five seconds.”