Brian Keene - Jack's Magic Beans

I tell him none of this. Instead, I finish my scotch and reach for the second glass. I hold it in my hands, not drinking.

“How did that make you feel?” I ask.

He blinks, as if he’d forgotten I was there.

“W-what?”

“Killing your girlfriend’s brother. How did you feel about it?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t really feel anything at the time, except maybe scared. Janey’s mom heard him scream. By the time Mikey hit the floor, she was running down the stairs, hollering at Janey to call 911. So I chased her down and shut her ass up, too. I didn’t really think about it. I just did it. The news said I stabbed her mom forty-seven times, but I didn’t count.”

I arch my eyebrows, bemused. Forty-seven is a powerful number. It has meaning in certain occult circles, but I doubt he is aware of the significance.

“I went into Janey’s room. She was hiding in the closet. Crying and shit. I told her we could be together now. We could leave, before anybody figured out what had happened. Take her parents car and just fucking drive, dog. Just hit the road and see where it took us. Go live somewhere else. Together.”

I know where that road leads, but I don’t tell him that, either.

“But Janey… she… she wouldn’t stop hitting me. I slapped back and the knife…”

A shadow of genuine emotion—the first I’ve seen him express—flashes his face. I raise my glass and drain it. Then I set it on the bar and slide two twenty-dollar bills beneath it.

“I’ve got the tab.” I rise from the stool.

“Yo!” He grabs my arm, and I allow him to pull me close. “You gonna call the cops? You gonna tell somebody?”

I smile. “No. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Bullshit. You’re gonna go outside and call someone.”

I grab his hand and squeeze. Hard. He flinches. My face is stone as I step away.

“I’ll do no such thing,” I say. “I have heard your tale and it means nothing to me. Do you think yourself some great murderer? You’re not. You’re an amateur.”

“Fuck you.”

“On the contrary. Fuck you. You play at being a killer, but have you murdered anyone since your girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go. If you really want to transcend, you’ll go out tonight and continue your spree.”

“You’re crazy.”

“No. I am the last sane individual in the world.”

I leave him sitting there and walk away. I leave the hotel bar and instead of returning to my room, I sit on the smoker’s bench outside and keep careful watch on the lobby through the big glass doors. Out on the highway, miles from here, a big rig’s air brakes moan. They sound like a ghost.

I only kill out of necessity. I only do what needs to be done. There are doors in our world, and things can come through them. What is an entrance, but an exit? I shut those doors. I close exits.

Eventually, I see him stumble through the lobby, heading for the elevators. He is far too inebriated to notice me re-enter the hotel. He just leans against the wall, waiting for the doors to open. I smile and nod at the desk clerk. The doors slide open. He steps inside, staring at his feet. I join him.

The doors close.

“What floor?” he asks, still looking at his shoes.

I do not answer.

He looks up and I cut his throat before he can scream. It is a practiced stroke. Perfunctory. Clinical. But I grin as I do it, and my heart beats faster than it has in many years.

I am breaking my rules, just this once. I am killing not out of necessity, but out of justice. Out of mercy. This is about putting down a rabid animal.

This is not an exit.

But I am.

Readers have often asked me for a follow-up to “I Am an Exit”, so I eventually wrote one. It appeared in my short story collections Unhappy Endings and The Little Silver Book of Streetwise Stories . This tale tells you a little bit more about The Exit (as I’ve come to call the serial killer)—but not so much as to reveal everything about him. So who is he? Why is he killing people at highway exits? Well, I know, but I ain’t telling. Not yet. He was supposed to appear again in my novel A Gathering of Crows , but about halfway through the first draft of that novel, I realized that he was stealing the show, so I went back, changed the plot, and wrote him out. You’ll see him again in a different, as-yet-unwritten novel. Maybe the rest of his secrets will be revealed there. In fact, I’m sure they will.

The man stood rotting on the corner. Frayed rags hung from his skeletal frame and ulcerated sores covered his exposed flesh, weeping blood and pus. He stank. Sweat. Infection. Excrement. Despair.

Finley considered going the long way around him, but Kathryn waved impatiently from across the street. He shouldered by; head down, eyes fixed on the pavement. Invisible.

He can’t see me if I can’t see him.

“Yo ’zup,” the rotting man mumbled over the traffic. “Kin you help a brutha’ out wit’ a quarta’?”

Finley tried ignoring him, then relented. He didn’t have the heart to be so cold, although Kathryn’s yuppie friends (they were supposed to be his friends too, but he never thought of them that way) would have mocked him for it. He raised his head, actually looking at the bum, meeting his watery eyes. They shone. He glanced across the street. Kathryn was incredulous.

“Sorry, man.” Finley held his hands out in a pretense of sympathy. “I’m taking my girl to dinner.” Feeling like an idiot, he pointed at Kathryn, proving what he was saying was true. “Need to stop at an ATM.”

“S’cool,” the vagrant smiled. “Ya’ll kin hit me on da way back.”

“Okay, we’ll do that.”

He stepped off the curb. The man darted forward, grasping his shoulder. Dirty fingernails clawed at his suit jacket.

“Hey!” Finley protested.

“Have ya’ll seen Yellow ?” the bum croaked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Finley stammered, clueless.

“Afta’ ya’ eat, take yo’ lady t’ see it.”

Cackling, he shambled off toward the waterfront.

Kathryn shook her head as Finley crossed the street. “So you met the Human Scab?”

“Only in Baltimore,” he grinned.

“Fucking wildlife,” she spat, taking his arm. “That’s why I take my smoke breaks in the parking garage. I don’t know what’s worse—the seagulls dive-bombing me, or the homeless dive-bombing me.”

“The seagulls,” Finley replied. “How was your day?”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Roger. Christ, you’ve become so liberal. What happened to the conservative I fell in love with?” She paused and let go of his arm, lighting a cigarette. In the early darkness, the flame lit her face, reminding Finley why he’d fallen in love with her. “But since you asked, it sucked. How was yours?”

“Alright, I guess. Pet Search’s site crashed, so I had to un-fuck that. Fed-Ex dropped off my new back-up server. On Days of Our Lives , John is still trying to find Stefano and Bo found out about Hope’s baby.”

“Wish I could work from home. But one of us has to make money.”

“Well isn’t that why we’re going out to dinner? To celebrate your big bonus?”

They crossed Albemarle Street in silence. Ahead, the bright lights of the Inner Harbor beckoned with its fancy restaurants and posh shops. The National Aquarium overlooked the water like an ancient monolith.

Kathryn’s brow furrowed.

“Beautiful night,” Finley commented, tugging his collar against the cold air blowing in across the water. “You can almost see the stars.”