Evangeline Page 8

  “Why are you doing this?” the man groaned as he writhed on the chair.

  “Because you’ve been a naughty boy, Walter, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you--“

  I swung the snub nose to his good leg and pulled the trigger.

  BANG!

  “Oh, Jesus!” he cried out. “Oh, sweet Jesus have mercy!”

  “Jesus can’t help you, Doc,” I said, standing from the couch and approaching him. “If I were you, I’d be begging the bitch with the Smith & Wesson.”

  “I’m begging you,” he moaned. “Just don’t shoot me anymore.”

  “Are you ready to confess?”

  “Yes,” he blubbered. “Anything.”

  “Alright, then repeat after me. Oh, Evangeline, who art just and merciful, I’m very sorry that I’ve been such a perverted ass plug and hurt so many innocent children. Please spare my totally bullshit life and I promise I will never again hurt another child.” I paused then added, “Your turn.”

  The doctor panted and stammered, “I… I don’t remember what you…”

  BANG! I shot him in the shoulder.

  “Owww! No more!” he howled.

  “Walter, if you’re not going to pay attention…”

  “I’m paying attention! I am!”

  “Then what did I say?”

  “You said… you said… “

  I swung the gun barrel toward his other shoulder.

  “No, wait!”

  BANG!

  “AHHHHHH!”

  The laugh-track audience hooted and hollered. The dog lifted his head, sniffed once, then laid back down.

  “Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we, Wally? Now… do you admit you’re a total pervie?”

  “Yes, yes, I am,” he sobbed. “I’m a total pervie.”

  “And are you sorry for what you’ve done?”

  “I’m very, very sorry.”

  “And you’ll never do it again?”

  “No… never again. I promise.”

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  “Cross my heart and hope…” The man hitched, suddenly afraid to continue.

  “Yes?” I said, aiming the gun at his chest. “Cross your heart and hope to… what?”

  The man’s lips remained sealed.

  “You know, I hate to say it, Doc. But I’m not feeling the sincerity.”

  I cocked the trigger.

  “Wait!” the man blurted out. “What else can I do?”

  “You can hope to die.”

  “But you said if--”

  “Don’t listen to me. I’m crazy, remember?”

  BANG! BANG! I buried the last two rounds in the good doctor’s chest. The man slumped sideways, twitched once then fell still. As the sitcom laugh-track roared, I unbuckled Doc Aldrich’s belt and worked his pants and underwear down to his ankles. The dirty bastard had a prodigious pecker-- of porn star proportions, if you catch my drift. But I’d soon chop that sucker down to size… because your faithful servant had one more trick tucked in her Halloween bag.

  You see, friends, as good as I felt after dispatching Harland Lee Wade, there was still this hollow, empty space inside me that needed filling. At first I couldn’t figure out why, but after giving the matter some serious thought, I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t enough to just blow holes in pervies like Harland. Like any true artist I wanted to leave my signature; a calling card, if you will. Something with a certain je ne sais quoi. Only what would it be? I’d thought even longer and harder on that question without any satisfactory solution… until I remembered the Ponca.

  The Ponca Indians were once proud warriors of the Plains, spawned from the same horse culture that gave us the Cheyenne and Sioux, two tribes responsible for wiping out Custer’s Seventh Calvary at Little Big Horn. Back then the Ponca could be similarly fierce, happy to give deep haircuts to their enemies until they, themselves, became targets of the scalp-happy Sioux.

  No match for their powerful neighbors to the north, the Ponca made the wise choice and turned to agriculture in the Niobrara River basin. Life was pretty good, too, until the paleface showed up one day and spoiled the party. The Great White Chief in Washington ordered the Ponca out of northeast Nebraska, and the poor bastards were marched from their teepees and into the history books-- which is where Angeline discovered them during sixth period social studies class.

  Before leaving the farm for Doc Aldrich’s that night, I’d kept the pickup running outside the barn with the headlamps facing the doors, then rolled them back, flooding the interior with light. I headed straight for Father’s workbench, passing the dusty clutter of shop tools and machinery--resting just as J.D. had left them the morning he vanished--and tugged the string on the overhead bulb.

  Hand tools were hanging on a pegboard mounted above the bench, each one outlined in black marker. A place for everything and everything in its place, was another of Father’s mantras, so I knew just where to find the tool I’d come for. In the company of dusty hammers hung a twelve-inch hand sickle with a curved blade. This tool was commonly used for reaping grain, but yours truly had a much different use in mind.

  Whistling happily as I worked, I clamped the sickle’s wooden handle into a vise fixed to the workbench, then gently worked a cigar stone along the crescent-shaped blade, just as Father had taught Angeline. Using smooth downward strokes, I sharpened that edge fifteen times on one side and fifteen times the other, before wiping away the burrs and grit with an oily rag. When I was finished, that sickle was ground sharp as a razor, and I couldn’t wait to test it out on that pervie pediatrician and his sleazebag sidekick, the Mexican butt fucker.

  Following a proud but forgotten Ponca tradition, your trusted servant intended to pay homage to the warrior spirit by taking trophies from my vanquished foes. But not their scalps. Oh, no, dear friends. The souvenirs I collected would send a message loud-and-clear to pervies everywhere, teaching those bastards a history lesson they’d never forget…

  Bad boys lose their binkies.

  With Doc Aldrich propped in the chair before me, I reached into the pillowcase and lifted the sickle by its hardwood grip, worn smooth by two generations of Gottschalks. Stretching the good doctor’s prodigious pickle to its full length, I aimed the crescent blade at the thick, fleshy base and, with a snap of the wrist, hacked into the shaft.

  Unfortunately my maiden effort lacked conviction and failed to cut through cleanly.

  “Oh, stubborn, eh?” I muttered.

  So I swung harder--one, twice, three times--chopping away like a Canadian lumberjack as the sitcom audience applauded and the dog snored--until Doc’s mighty oak was felled at last.

  Timburrrrrr!

  Number two on your trusted servant’s Halloween hit list was going to be a bit trickier. Jose Morales, the former camp counselor, had the rear apartment in a four unit building in the city of O’Neill-- appropriate given his fondness for corn-holing young boys. Problem was, firing my snub nose .38 around so many neighbors was bound to draw unwanted attention, so I had to improvise.

  The light was off over the Mexican’s door stoop but I could hear crappy Mariachi music coming from inside the apartment. It was obvious that pervie didn’t want any trick-or-treaters coming to his door. The bastard was cheapin’ it.

  Well, screw that party pooper. I pressed the doorbell anyway-- and because my buns were frosted in that tiny dress, I kept right on pressing until the porch light finally flicked on and the door yanked open.

  I thrust my pillowcase forward. “Trick or treat!”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, pendeja?” growled the husky, twenty-something Chicano. “Didn’t your momma teach you you’re not s’posed to knock when the light ain’t on?”

  “It’s on now.” I rightly observed. “Trick or treat.”

  The pervie threw out his hands in exasperation. “I don’t have no candy, chica. Do you see any candy?”

  “Trick or treat,” I said again.

  The M
exican stared at me in disbelief and pointed at his head. “Loco,” he spat. “Just stay there. I’ll find something.” And he walked back into the apartment cursing to himself in Spanish.

  The moment that pervie was gone, I pulled the sickle from the pillowcase and slipped through the open door. I discovered him in the kitchen, crouched before the refrigerator looking for something to toss in my bag. As he was removing an apple, the Mexican spotted me from the corner of his eye. I swung just as he turned, the blade catching him flush in the neck.

  The blow must have severed his carotid artery because blood spurted across the room as if blasted from a fire hose. The man slapped his hand over the burst pipe and staggered about the kitchen, dancing to the Mariachi on the radio, before slamming against the wall and crashing to the floor.

  I retrieved the apple that had rolled against my feet and took a bite as Senor Morales struggled to regain his footing. But the linoleum was slick with his blood and the pervie couldn’t gain traction-- flopping about as though shitfaced on tequila. Going into shock from blood loss, he finally rolled onto his back and was left staring at me from the floor as the life pumped out of him.

  “Hola, senor,” I greeted the man cheerfully. “Me llamo es Evangeline.” (I knew some basic Spanish thanks to Sister). “Gracias for the treat. Sorry about the mess.”

  The Mexican opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came through but a gurgling sound. I casually took another bite of the apple then crouched beside him.

  “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” I asked. “A confession perhaps? Go ahead, amigo. Unburden your soul. Evangeline is listening.”

  More gurgling.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  This time nothing came out. “Okay,” I shrugged. “Guess it’s my turn.”

  I laid the hand sickle aside and began unfastening the pervie’s pants, and that’s when the sonofabitch grabbed my wrist with a sudden move that nearly soiled my panties.

  As La Cucaracha began to play, I struggled mightily to pull free, stretching to grab the blade that was just out of reach. But that damn Chicano had an iron grip that could not be shaken. Somehow I managed to drag his leaking carcass a few feet across the floor until I could get my hands on the sickle. And once I did, well, it was bad news for my uncooperative friend from south of the border.

  I think it may have been Elvira who once said that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through the chest cavity. So I figured, hey, why the hell not? Well, boys and girls, let me tell you something-- going that route makes an awful mess. And it didn’t help that Angeline was having her period that week. I mean, anything that bleeds for five days without dying can’t be human, right? That’s just how I felt as I gutted that Mexican; like some kind of crazed primal animal lost in an orgasmic blood frenzy… which I suppose accounts for the extra fifty-or-so whacks I gave Senor Morales.

  Only when I was too exhausted to continue, and insanity had passed like a Plains dust storm, did I fully comprehend the gory aftermath. My first reaction was disbelief-- total astonishment at the mess I’d made. And yet there was still more bloody work to be done. So I yanked that pervie’s pants to his knees, along with a pair of shit-stained tighty-whities, and cut off that Mexican’s tiny tamale with one bold stroke.

  Just for shits-and-giggles, I was making the little fella dance the Cucaracha when the doorbell rang and I heard the excited chatter of trick-or-treaters. With a weary sigh, I dropped the prick into the pillowcase with his big brother and shuffled to the door.

  “Trick or treat!” shouted two pint-sized superheroes and a slightly older pirate. But once they got a good look at me their tiny mouths fell agape and their candy bags sagged-- because, friends, I was an absolute bloody fucking mess. I stood in that open door with the hand sickle hanging limply at my side and my body covered in gore. And I mean covered… like a henhouse full of chickens had exploded in my face.

  “You’re foolish little children,” I lectured those wee ones. “Don’t you know the devil lives here?”

  I hate to disappoint youngsters, even stupid ones, but I had nothing else to offer… so I swung the door shut in their astonished little faces.

  By eleven p.m., an hour before curfew, I was turning off the County Line Road and lurching down the drive that ran parallel to the irrigation pond, all the way to the farmhouse. A light was burning in Mother’s bedroom on the second floor, but if she heard the pickup she never came to the window. I parked facing the barn with headlights on and went inside to hang the sickle back on its hook above the workbench. I did the same with the Smith & Wesson, returning it to Stumpy’s gun cabinet in the main room.

  Later that night, as I stood in the shower watching the Mexican’s blood wash from my body and go swirling down the drain, I was feeling pretty darn good about myself. Your faithful servant had consigned two more pervies to that special place in Hell reserved for those who steal the innocence of youth. It was three down and a whole wide world to go.

  Ah, my friends, the task was daunting.

  So many pricks… so little time.

  chapter six

  On the day after Halloween, the body of Jose Morales was discovered by a neighbor, opened up on his kitchen floor like an exploded can of Chef Boyardee. Three days later a UPS delivery man sniffed a foul odor and led police to Doc Aldrich. And by week’s end, after both killings had been tied to the death of Harland Lee Wade, everyone in Nebraska knew a serial killer was running helter-skelter in the Heartland.

  When the sheriff’s office announced all three victims were level three sex offenders, the sensational news hit the state like a bombshell. But when it was revealed the primary suspect was female, well, that was like a bucket of chum dumped into the sea-- whipping the media into a whole ‘nother level of frenzy. Suddenly yours truly was the headliner in every newspaper and the lead story on all the newscasts. And once reporters agreed on a nickname--mandatory for all serial killers--I knew I’d hit the big time. Henceforth your humble servant would be known as the Level Three Killer… or simply, L3K.

  But unlike self-loathing mass-murderers, who seek post-mortem immortality through the slaughter of innocents, or serial killers who jerk off to their newspaper clippings, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about media adulation, nor the public’s pathetic appetite for death and destruction. The crusade wasn’t about me. It was all about justice.

  Still, if nicknames were to be handed out, I could have done without “L3K”. It didn’t exactly roll off the tongue, know what I’m saying? I was a bigger fan of the moniker coined by some of the locals; “The Holt Hacker”.

  I liked that one. Had a nice ring to it.

  Anyway, details of the murders, including unconfirmed reports of missing appendages (and you know what I mean) sent shockwaves rippling through the region. Holt County’s Level 3 sex offenders were now requesting beefed up police patrols in their neighborhoods. And pervies throughout Nebraska--as well as in neighboring states like Iowa, Kansas and South Dakota--were clamoring for the same protection. A few were so spooked that they packed their bags and fled the Corn Belt altogether-- jumping from the pond before I’d even had a chance to drop a line. Those were the slippery pricks that got away.

  For Deputy Gottschalk, the situation had become a major inconvenience that interfered with his bowling and pornography time. Dressed in uniform to begin the overnight shift that Friday afternoon, the man sat at the kitchen table and complained loudly while thumbing through the Holt County Independent. The newspaper’s banner headline shouted, POLICE SEEK LEADS IN L3K MURDERS. Beneath the header was a police sketch of the main suspect herself, drawn from eyewitness descriptions given by Pete the bartender and those three little dimwits who rang the Mexican’s doorbell on Halloween night.

  I must tell you, boys and girls. Except for Elvira’s puffed up hair and bangs, that drawing looked nothing like me. Either my makeup had been that good, or the sketch artist sucked that bad.

  “Female serial killers. Jesus H. Chri
st, the whole world’s gone crazy,” Stumpy grumbled as he turned the pages. “Looks like I’m gonna be working overtime chasin’ tail.” He paused to watch Mother scrape scrambled eggs onto his plate then glanced at Angeline. “That look like anyone you know?” he asked, tapping the front page sketch.

  Friends, for a moment I thought the deputy might be on to me. In hindsight I should have known better. Because although Stumpy pegged his stepdaughter as the person responsible for chomping three inches off his dick, he couldn’t connect that timid creature with the infamous Holt Hacker, Nebraska’s most popular cover girl. To do so would have required a mental leap akin to jumping the Grand Canyon.

  No. Deputy Gottschalk was an idiot. For him to crack the L3K case, I’d have to be standing with a severed prick in one hand and the murder weapon in the other, begging him to cuff me.

  And even then…

  “Well?” said the deputy, tapping the sketch impatiently.

  For Angeline, there was something vaguely familiar about the girl staring back from the front page, but she couldn’t quite place her. So she shook her head and went back to scrambled eggs.

  “What about you?” Stumpy asked his wife as she took her seat at the table. But the moment Mother turned to examine the sketch, her husband snapped the paper closed.

  “What the hell would you know about it?” he snarled at her. “You never leave the goddamn house.” He opened the paper in front of his face and muttered, “I swear if brains were dynamite you couldn’t blow your hat off.”

  When supper was finished and Mother headed upstairs, Deputy Gottschalk lifted his gun belt from a peg near the front door and slung it around his waist. Meanwhile Angeline was buzzing about the kitchen; wiping down counters and clearing the table with uncommon vigor.

  “What’s up with you?” Stepfather grumbled while cinching the belt.

  “I’m ga-ga-ga-going to a… fffootball game,” she told him, unable to hide her excitement.

  “Football? What the hell do you know about football?”

  In fact, Angeline knew nothing about football. The girl would have been hard pressed to pick one out of a lineup. There was a time when Ted tried teaching her the rules, shoehorning a college game between screenings of The Bone Ranger and Free My Willy, but the lessons stopped after his dick got spit. Now the only time Sister was allowed in the trophy room was to dust the place and polish the man’s sacred golden pin.