Evangeline Page 13

  “No, no, no. Wait for me,” I gently scolded him, lifting the hammer above my head.

  An instant before I swung, the bastard opened his eyes. But he was too late to stop me. I brought that hammer down so hard it smashed through his forehead and got stuck in his skull. The boy groaned as I tried to extract it-- loud enough that I thought his cousin might hear, so I played along.

  “You like that, Danny?” I cried out, working the hammer to and fro. “Does that feel good? Oh, Danny, does it feel gooooood.”

  The Craftsman finally came free and I shouted in delight, “Yes! Yes, do it again!” and I brought that hammer down once more on Danny’s skinheaded melon. “Do it to me, Danny! Do it to me again! And again!” I screamed in ecstasy, pounding his face another four or five times just to shut him the fuck up.

  “Jesus Christ, save some for me!” laughed Kyle from the hallway.

  I dismounted and stood beside the mattress, admiring my handiwork by the romantic glow of the candlelight. It was a job well done, but our boy Danny had made quite the mess. Blood and brains were splattered all over that Fuck Pad. Now I wanted more. I crossed to the door and opened it a crack. Kyle was sitting against the wall with knees drawn, puffing his cigarette.

  “Oh, Ky-yulll!” I called in a singsong voice. “It’s your turn now.”

  “About fucking time,” he groused as he stood. “Tell him to get his ass out here.”

  “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

  I opened the door a little wider and retreated into the shadows, allowing Kyle to enter. The boy stopped short when he saw his brother lying on the mattress in a bloody swamp.

  “What the fuck?”

  Those, my friends, were Kyle Brower’s famous last words.

  THUNK! I clobbered the back of his skull with the claw hammer. His body pitched forward and crashed to the floor where it shuddered and twitched as though being poked with a cattle prod. I squatted on his broad back and started hammering away on his thick noggin while singing; “I’ve been working on the railroad, all the live-long day. I’ve been working on the railroad, just to pass the time away…”

  It was a little ditty I’d learned from Father, who used to pound nails in his workshop to that song. Now I was pounding me some Brower.

  “Can’t you hear the whistle blowing; rise up so early in the morn. Can’t you hear the captain shouting… Dinah blow your horn.”

  Friends, by the time I’d finished the first verse I was totally spent-- only in a good way, you know? Like the feeling you get after a hard workout. The killing was done. I’d pounded those Browers into hamburger-- now it was time to cut ‘em and cook ‘em.

  I retrieved Kyle’s lit cigarette from the floor where he’d dropped it, tucked it between my lips, then crossed to a greasy blanket crumpled in the corner of the room. Underneath was the gas can and my macramé purse which I’d hidden, along with the hammer, shortly before the first houseguests arrived. I slipped my trusty hand sickle from the purse and knelt beside Danny Brower.

  Okay, technically he and his cousin weren’t convicted Level Threes like the others on the list, but Angeline was only sixteen at the time, and according to Nebraska law, her pussy was out of bounds. Far as I was concerned, the Brower boys were guilty of statutory rape; a verdict that qualified for both the hammer… and the sickle.

  “Dinah won’t you blow… Dinah won’t you blow… Dinah won’t you blow your hor-or-orn…” First Danny, then Kyle. As Susan Weaver would say, the Hacker took their pee pees. “Dinah won’t you blow, Dinah won’t you blow… Dinah won’t you blow your horn.”

  Each prick was slipped into a Ziplock sandwich bag and dropped into the purse along with my tools. Then I twisted the cap off the gas can and doused the Browers with regular unleaded (they didn’t deserve premium) and from one end of the room to the other. I figured if cremation was good enough for dur Fuhrer, it was good enough for those Adolph Shitler wannabes.

  “Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah,” I sang as I merrily splished and splashed. “Someone’s in the kitchen I know-o-o-o. Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinahhhh… strummin’ on the old banjo, and singing fee, fie, fiddly-i-o. Fee, fie, fiddly-i-o-o-o-o. Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinahhhhhh…”

  I stepped into the hall with the purse slung over my shoulder, took a few puffs on Kyle’s Marlboro then flicked it toward the mattress.

  PHOOOOM!

  “Strummin’ on the old banjo!”

  Walking at a brisk clip, I headed downstairs and slipped through the partiers without making eye contact. The kids were still smoking, drinking and carrying on as I left the house, oblivious to the hell that was coming from above.

  I crossed the oil road and headed into the hayfield. As I reached the truck, I paused and glanced back. A bright orange glow was visible in the Fuck Pad’s window. I hoisted myself into the cab, closed the door and waited. Before long the fire was out the window and licking beneath the eaves. That ramshackle farmhouse was a tinderbox…. and all Peter Mohr’s hard work was about to go up in spectacular flames.

  I wouldn’t be around to see it happen, though. I had to get Angeline’s Ford F-100 out of there before it was recognized. As I drove onto the County Oil Road and left the Mohr’s behind, kids were scurrying out like disturbed ants, and the entire second floor was burning.

  Stumpy didn’t bowlthat Saturday. Like most lawmen in Holt County, he was called to work when members of a volunteer fire department found two charred bodies in the ruins of a derelict farmhouse on the county line. All the kids had fled before the fire trucks arrived, but the next day someone came forward to describe a girl with a short black dress and big black hair leading the Browers upstairs shortly before the fire.

  Suspicion immediately fell on the L3K.

  “Ain’t this is a crock of shit?” the deputy growled as he slung the gun belt around his waist. “Like I haven’t already put enough goddamn overtime in on this case. Now I’ve gotta give up bowling, too?”

  Angeline figured it was a rhetorical question and didn’t bother answering as she stepped into the walk-in pantry with a jar of pickled tomatoes.

  “This is Knox’s jurisdiction, goddammit,” the deputy railed before stomping out the door with a parting, “Lazy ass sons of bitches.”

  Sister poked her head from the pantry, saw the man had gone, then slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. The poor thing was so desperate to remember the night before that she gave herself a splitting headache. She recalled being tucked into bed by Mother, but after that there was nothing. No memory at all until morning. Certainly it was possible she’d slept straight through the night. No reason to believe otherwise… except.

  Angeline had doubts. Terrible, terrible doubts pricked at her mind. The girl couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it was there alright-- a gnawing gut sense that something horrific had happened… that somehow, someway, she’d been the lead actor in last night’s tragedy at the Mohr’s.

  All through the weekend Sister was gripped by that dark mood, too angst-ridden to sleep yet too exhausted to stay awake. By Monday morning the girl was a physical wreck and dreaded going to school. All those accusing stares and malicious asides would just add to her misery.

  Thankfully that wasn’t the case. Angeline “Cock Monster” Gottschalk was yesterday’s news by the time she arrived at school. The fickle student body had moved on. The fire at the Mohr’s was now the big talk at Willowdale High, which was just fine with Sister.

  Oddly enough, the one person who showed an interest in Angeline was Caleb Quinn. The boy’s indifference had given way to a kind of morbid curiosity-- as though Sister were some science lab experiment gone awry. All through the week she would catch him studying her in the hallways, until the final bell on Friday when Caleb cornered Sister at her locker and said with a grave look, “We need to talk. Meet me in the gym in twenty minutes. If I’m not there, wait for me, understand?”

  Angeline nodded and Caleb started away before turning with an afterthoug
ht. “Make sure you’re there. This is important.”

  The gymnasium was empty when Angeline entered. The basketball backboards were cranked into the rafters, the bleachers vacant. She crossed the hardwood court, her footsteps echoing through the cavernous space, then climbed halfway up one of the aisles and took a seat.

  It wasn’t long before Caleb emerged from the locker room at the far end of the gym. The boy crossed the floor unsmiling, wearing a pair of gold football pants without pads, and a blue sweatshirt cut off at the sleeves and emblazoned with the words “WHS Football”. He climbed the steps toward Angeline and took the seat on the aisle opposite her.

  For a long time he sat there with hands clasped before him, gathering his thoughts, saying nothing, before turning with an intense gaze. “I’m going to ask you something. And I’d appreciate the truth.”

  “Okay,” agreed Angeline.

  “That day when you told me someone was in your head… what’d you mean by that?”

  Sister hesitated before answering. She was thinking about mentioning the sex offender list--how the torn scraps had magically reassembled--but she couldn’t bring herself to go there. So instead she told him, “It’s… It’s just this… things happen that I dddd-don’t remember. That I can’t explain.”

  “Do you remember me driving you back to your truck from the Mohr’s?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about being in the back of my brother’s van with the Browers?”

  A mortified look crossed Sister’s face. “Wha-what? No.” She didn’t like where this was headed. More gaps in the memory. More validation of an unsettling truth she didn’t need right now.

  “You, Danny and Kyle. You don’t remember that?” Caleb said pointedly, taking her measure. “Don’t bullshit me, Angeline.”

  “I’m not. I swear.”

  The boy reflected on this briefly before crossing the aisle and taking a seat next to her. “You heard about the fire,” he said in a moment. “About what happened to the Browers?”

  “Yes,” she answered, her stomach knotting.

  “Where were you that night?”

  “Home… sleeping.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Angeline cast her eyes at her feet and shook her head. “No,” she finally admitted in a voice that barely rose above a whisper. “I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

  Caleb raked fingers through his hair and said, “I’m asking because… there was this girl I saw just before the fire. She was going upstairs with the Browers. And there was something about the way she looked at me. Something I couldn’t figure out, you know? It bugged the shit out of me all week. And then I remembered.” He locked eyes with Angeline. “That girl looked at me the same way you did in the back of Billy’s van that night.”

  Angeline’s guts were churning. It was like watching a car speeding toward a cliff. She knew what was coming--knew it was going to be horrific--but she couldn’t look away.

  “Anyway… that got me thinking about what you said,” Caleb continued. “About someone else being in your head. When you first told me that I thought you were fucking with me again, you know? But now…” he shook his head. “Now I’m not so sure. Because that girl in Billy’s van? The one I drove back to the truck that night? She’s not the girl I’m talking to now. Not even close. Shit, even your stutter was gone.” He paused, holding Sister’s gaze. “You weren’t there, Angel,” he finally said. “You weren’t even there.”

  Angeline knew the boy was telling the truth… and it made her ill. She swallowed the gush of spit in her mouth and worried she might throw up.

  “I don’t know what to think about any of this, okay?” said Caleb after a moment. “I told the cops what I saw… I described that girl on the stairs. And now I’m hearing they think she’s that serial killer everyone’s been talking about.” He studied Angeline a moment, trying to make sense of it all. “I just don’t know what the fuck to do,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Do you think I’m crazy?” Angeline asked him in a quivering voice.

  Before Caleb could answer her, a booming voice echoed through the gymnasium.

  “Quinn!”

  Coach Walters was standing in the locker room entrance gripping a clipboard.

  “What the hell are you doin’, son? Get a move on!”

  “One minute, Coach!”

  “How ‘bout right now?!”

  Caleb hurriedly asked Sister, “Do you have a cell?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then come to the game tonight,” he said, “and we’ll talk more.”

  “Quinn! Let’s go!” barked the coach.

  As Caleb stood to leave, Angeline impulsively grabbed him by the arm and desperately pleaded under breath, “Caleb. Please tell m-m-me I’m not crazy.”

  “Well, if you’re not,” he answered. “Then what are we talking about?”

  He held Sister’s anguished gaze a moment longer then trotted down the stairs, leaving the girl frightened and alone.

  Following Angeline’s little tete-a-tete with Caleb Quinn, the path forward was clear to me. Yes, it was bloody. Yes, it was brutal. But it was also necessary.

  First of all, sad to say, I was done with my sister. The girl had become a liability… a ball and chain dragging on your humble servant’s grand plans to rid the world of its slimy underbelly. The next time I came out would be the last, because I had no intention of ever going back again. I’d shut the door, once-and-forever, on our sweet Angeline, just as Mother bolted hers against the big bad world.

  Next on the agenda would be eliminating our long lost brother. Caleb Quinn had figured things out, which was unfortunate for him. A good deal of the blame fell on me, of course. Sometimes I’m just too damn cocky for my own good. Regrettably, Prince Charming would be paying a heavy price for my carelessness.

  And last, but certainly not least, I had to fit Caleb’s big brother into that crowded schedule. Never mind that Billy had made my sister’s life a living hell, the evil bastard had also made the Hacker lose focus. Pervies were roaming free in the Heartland because of him. For that reason alone The Asshole deserved to die.

  Of course, it’s not easy trapping a predator… that is, unless, you happen to be a predator yourself. We were creatures alike, Billy and I… always hunting, never the hunted. But I held one huge advantage over my worthless adversary: Surprise. I had surprise on my side.

  Ever since the rape at the Mohr’s I’d been plotting that fucker’s surprise bash. All kinds of elaborate plans and schemes had gone dancing like sugarplums through my head. How to catch him? And once I’d caught him, what to do with him? What to do? What to do?

  Oh, my friends, the fantasies I had.

  In the end, though, the plan I chose was the most straightforward. Willowdale High School’s final playoff game of the season was being played at home that Friday night, with the winner advancing to the championship at Memorial Stadium in Lincoln, hallowed home of the University of Nebraska Cornhuskers. Win or lose, if The Asshole held true to form, he’d be cruising up to Steel Creek Reservoir after the game to fuck Brianna Dresner stupid. And that’s where I’d catch him with his pants down. Surprise, surprise, Asshole!

  Oh, the anticipation. The thought of it chills me still.

  chapter nine

  Over the Plains and across the horizon, as far as Angeline could see, a lid of slate-grey sky was sliding east toward Holt County. Sister had been gazing out her bedroom window for the longest time, watching the front advance while she contemplated a life gone haywire. The girl desperately wanted to believe herself incapable of the monstrous deeds being attributed to the L3K, but in her heart she knew the face in the mirror was not entirely her own-- that it was, in fact, shared by Nebraska’s most infamous murderess.

  That afternoon, for the first time, thoughts of suicide began creeping into my sister’s head, and I knew I couldn’t delay any longer. The time had come to take the wheel. No playing games, either. No knocking h
er out with a migraine. Angeline had smartened up. She knew better now. It would be survival of the strongest, toe-to-toe for ultimate control, and on that score I had no doubt who would prevail. After all, my sister was worn out and beaten down. A swift boot in the ass and she’d be history.

  Only it didn’t exactly play out that way.

  The moment Angeline sensed my approach, she steeled for battle. To be perfectly honest, I was amazed there was any fight left in her. I mean, honestly, what did that girl have that was worth fighting for? Your devoted servant had purpose; I had embarked upon a great crusade. My opponent, on the other hand, had diddly-fuckin’-squat.

  After she’d repulsed my opening advance, I redoubled my efforts and came harder. Frantic, Angeline mentally threw herself against the barricades. When they began giving way, she stacked furniture, hammered nails-- doing anything and everything she could to keep the invader from breaching. But Evangeline the Merciless would not be stopped. I rolled up the siege engines and battered away until my sister’s defenses crumbled at last beneath the onslaught. The moment Angeline recognized the battle was lost she freaked out, spinning in a panic toward the dresser mirror and screaming at her ashen reflection, “Get out of my head!”

  Fuck you bitch. Ready or not, here I come.

  The girl slipped to the floor with her back against the dresser, gripping her head between her hands as if trying to keep it from splitting apart. “Get out!” she screamed in terror. “Please don’t do this!”

  Too late. I was in.

  Angeline’s eyes rolled back in their sockets and her head abruptly dropped, landing with her chin on her chest.

  “What the hell’s going on up there?!” Stepfather bellowed from downstairs.

  “Nothing!” I yelled back. “I’ll be r-r-right down!”

  Friends, that’s how quickly it happened. One second my sister was there and the next… ‘twas I.

  Bon voyage, mi amor.

  I lifted myself from the floor, dusted myself off and took a moment to check my look in the mirror; primping my hair and slapping some color back into those pallid cheeks.