Chapter Twenty-Two

Drive

TONIGHT, WE ARE doing it.

We are going to kill them.

The words weighed on his mind.

Vincent wasn’t sure why the gravity of what they were about to do hit him now as he and James watched the stocky man’s house from behind a tree along the road. They’d been there for the previous two nights, staking out the house and tracking the movements of its inhabitants—during which time, he’d had no reservations.

But he’d known they had no chance of enacting the plan then. Tonight was different. He took a breath and mentally cursed the heatwave that had hit Pittsburgh. While the warmer temperature made the hours they’d spent outside far more bearable, he wanted the cold back. The freezing air seemed to reach his sore lungs in a way the warm air couldn’t.

He wasn’t having second thoughts about killing them. He was ready to get rid of those cancers of society. What he couldn’t stop thinking about was losing James in the process. A possibility that seemed far more tangible tonight. They’d taken every possible precaution they could, given the circumstances, but it’d only take one stray bullet to kill him.

The crescent moon shone brightly enough for Vincent to see James’s profile sticking out from around the other side of the tree. He prayed that, even if he didn’t survive the night, James would. James could make it without him. He was strong. Even now, he watched the house like a hawk without even a hint of concern coloring his face. Nerves of steel.

Like clockwork, the porch light turned on just after six thirty. Vincent ducked behind the tree, meeting James in the middle. He leaned against the trunk and tried to breathe. They couldn’t risk the woman or girl spotting them tonight, and he and James didn’t need to watch them leave. The woman and girl had left the previous two nights around this time and returned about an hour later. Unlike those other nights, the stocky man was actually home. Vincent and James had watched his silhouette through a sheet-covered window on the left side of the house, where he sat on what looked like a couch in front of a TV that sent erratic flashing lights through the room.

“He hasn’t moved,” James whispered to him.

Something about the regularity with which the woman and girl had left and returned made Vincent think they were going to some sort of lesson or class, which neither he nor James thought the stocky man would attend. They were right. The stocky man would soon be alone. They couldn’t ask for a better opportunity.

Vincent closed his eyes and gripped the knife in his pocket. A useless safety blanket that somehow calmed him. He wouldn’t need it. James had a gun. And they had the element of surprise. And the stocky man had probably already finished the twelve-pack he’d carried into the house when he got home an hour ago.

We are going to be fine.

They would get him to divulge the location of the others, kill him, and finish off the other two before the fuckers caught wind of the stocky man’s fate. By morning, they’d be safe again. Free from the constant fear of being tracked down and slaughtered.

Tires on asphalt and a humming engine tore him away from his thoughts. He opened his eyes. Headlights shone down the road. The light would reach him in seconds. James pulled him around the trunk to avoid it, his focus never leaving the house. The Uber driver pulled up behind the stocky man’s truck, and James guided Vincent back to where they were standing out of view.

Ever since the night they’d tracked the stocky man down, his truck hadn’t moved from where he’d parked it on the road in front of his house. Both he and the woman had been using Uber to get around. A logistical nightmare in that any car driving down the road could harbor the stocky man, but Vincent and James had managed to avoid detection.

Vincent caught sight of the handle of the gun sticking out of James’s back pocket. He couldn’t see it without thinking about the tunnel. The gun pointed at James’s chest. The barrel pressed into his own skull. James knew the effect it had on him, even before Vincent did, which was why Vincent hadn’t laid eyes on more than its handle since he’d learned about it. The sight was almost comforting tonight though. This time, they weren’t the victims. They were the executioners.

A car door slammed shut.

Vincent jumped.

James turned to him, as if to ask if he was all right. His surveying eyes seemed to ask another question: You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?

“I’m fine,” Vincent said, probably a little too fast.

James had become rather obsessive about their plan over the past few days. He’d stayed up most of the day and night in a manic state that Vincent thought was solely reserved for tortured artists. At several points, he’d tried to get Vincent to agree to stay at the motel while he dealt with the attackers. A suggestion Vincent had vehemently protested until James had dropped it. They were doing it together or not at all. Still, he was pretty sure James was looking for any excuse to leave him behind, so he tried to look unfazed.

The car continued down the street. Time to move. They only had an hour, possibly less if they came back sooner for some reason. James led him to the gate in the backyard. Each step made his feet feel heavier. His sprained ankle had healed over the past few days. This was different. He felt like someone had injected wet cement into his heart, which was pumping it out to his extremities. Rationally, he knew the cards were stacked in their favor. However, a more primal part of his brain refused to believe it. All it saw waiting for him in that house was danger. Vincent continued forward in spite of it.

Once they made it through the gate, they crept over to the old truck. James peered over the top of the truck to make sure the kitchen was empty.

The stocky man, aiming a shotgun at them, raced through Vincent’s mind. But even if the police hadn’t confiscated the stocky man’s weapons, James would have his gun trained on him long before the fucker would have a chance to react.

James turned to him. “Ready?”

The stocky man must still be on the couch. Everything was going according to plan. Vincent took a breath that only seemed to highlight the cement setting in his chest. “Yep.”

James pulled two ski masks out of his pocket. He handed one to Vincent, who slid the coarse fabric over his face until he could see out of the eye holes. The stocky man knew who they were, but his neighbors didn’t, and Vincent didn’t want to risk anyone linking the murders to them. James pulled on his mask. His eyes looked like they were made of glass. Distant. Unemotional. Vincent hoped his appeared just as impenetrable and that the fear flooding his system was disguised beneath the mask.

James didn’t seem to notice. He started around the truck. “Come on.”

Vincent followed him to the door. James tried the handle. Unlocked—as it was the night before when they’d tested it in the early hours of the morning. At first, Vincent hadn’t been able to explain why the stocky man was acting so carelessly until he’d considered who they were dealing with. Even though they’d tracked him down, the stocky man didn’t view them as a threat. They were little more than pests to him. Ones that needed to be eradicated—not feared. After all, why would a man like him fear two faggots who weren’t even brave enough to tell the police they’d found him?

An oversight that’d be his downfall.

James waved him through the back door.

After Vincent stepped inside, there would be no going back. They’d have to follow through with their plan. As terrified as he was to put himself and, more importantly, James in harm’s way, Vincent was ready to end this nightmare. One terrible night stood between them and their freedom from these monsters. He wasn’t going to freeze. He was going to be brave for both of their sakes. He walked through the doorway and into the kitchen.

A blaring TV echoed through the house, filling his ears with some sort of sports commentary. The announcer spoke so fast his words mashed together in a jumbled mess that sounded more like a frantic auctioneer than anything else.

James shut the door behind them, closing them in the house with the stocky man. He pulled the gun from his back pocket and started over to the dark hallway off the kitchen. Vincent surveyed the room in passing. Random details logged in his mind. Pizza boxes. Dirty plates. A half-empty sippy cup of milk. The hall was the only other way out of the room besides the back door. A small comfort. The stocky man couldn’t sneak up on them.

Light flashed in the passage from a room toward the end of the hall on the left where the stocky man was watching TV. James advanced down the hall toward it. Vincent stayed close behind him. The hardwood creaked beneath their feet like it was crying under their weight. He almost grabbed James to tell him to be more careful, but the stocky man wouldn’t be able to hear it. Vincent could barely make it out over the sound of the TV. The closer they got, the louder the TV became. Vincent could make out the words—someone had struck out, ending the first inning. The stocky man would never hear them coming.

They were halfway down the hall when the lights and sound went out at the same time. They both stopped. For an awful second, Vincent thought the stocky man had heard them or this was some sort of trap where he would appear behind them from one of the dark doorways they’d already passed and blast them with his shotgun. Then, a commercial started, and the hall filled with light and sound.

James looked back to check on him.

Vincent was glad he was wearing a mask. Even in the limited light, James would probably be able to see how the blood had drained from his face. He motioned for James to continue forward. There was a commercial, and while it was a relief the stocky man hadn’t become suspicious, a commercial meant he might get up to grab a drink or run to the bathroom. Vincent had never seen Henry move faster than during a commercial break in a game. With the TV volume turned up so high, they wouldn’t get a chance to be ready for him until he was standing right in front of them. The thought made Vincent get out his knife. Useless against a shotgun, but far better than his fists if the stocky man surprised them.

James slowed to a stop right before the doorway.

The cement coursing through Vincent’s veins was starting to harden, making it difficult to breathe. His face and hands were numb. He squeezed the handle of the knife harder and tried to focus. He couldn’t lose it now. He refused to let his inaction endanger James again.

James leaned around the corner to look into the room. He pulled his head back so suddenly Vincent thought the stocky man must’ve seen him. But James didn’t raise the gun. And nothing came out of the room except the sound of another commercial. James turned back to face him. The hall was too dark to see if he was mouthing anything. Vincent could, however, make out his hand, which waved for Vincent to follow him.

They crept into the room. The light from the massive flat-screen TV that hung on the wall to their right was so bright Vincent had to force his eyes to remain open. Directly in front of the TV was a couch. The back of the stocky man’s head stuck out from the top of it. Littered around the carpet leading up to him was an assortment of trash and toys. Aside from a small end table beside the couch with an unshaded lamp that was turned off and several crushed aluminum cans on it, the room was empty. The whole place reeked of beer and sweat.

The TV went dark for a second before the game came back on. James took slow, calculated steps toward the couch to avoid stepping on anything on the floor. Vincent followed in his footsteps. His heart was beating so fast he wondered if there was any truth to the concept of being scared to death. Maybe his heart was just getting in as many beats as possible in case he died tonight. He tried to take quiet, deep breaths to avoid fainting.

“Come on!” The stocky man threw an empty beer can at the TV.

Vincent instinctively jumped back. He landed on something small and round. Panic erupted through his body like a string of firecrackers, and before he could even get his balance, the toy beneath his foot lit up in an assortment of colors as a chorus of children sang “Humpty Dumpty.” He stomped on what appeared to be a rubber egg, hoping to either stop it or break it, but it kept going.

James glanced back at him. Vincent couldn’t turn it off, and even if he could, it was too late. They were screwed. He could dump a piggy bank into a wishing well, but that wasn’t going to stop the stocky man from hearing the song. The TV was loud, but there were enough random silences between the announcer’s words the song filled with its haunting melody. He stared at the back of the stocky man’s head, waiting for his reaction.

The stocky man looked down. The TV went silent. He must have muted it. The only sound in the room was the children singing. He leaned over and flipped on the lamp.

Light flooded the room.

“You’re supposed to be in bed.” He craned his neck back to look behind him. Vincent heard the words, but they didn’t make any sense. Who did he think they were? The exasperated smile on the stocky man’s face disappeared when he saw them. “What the fuck?”

The stocky man leaned forward. Vincent couldn’t see he was reaching for—the couch was in the way. James aimed the gun at him. “Freeze, or I’ll shoot.”

The man rose and turned to face them, his hands empty.

James took a step closer, aiming the gun at his head. “Where are the tall man and the blond kid?”

The toy finally stopped making noise, leaving them in silence.

The stocky man glared at him. “You even know how to use that thing?”

James came around the couch. Pressed the gun into the side of his head. “Where are the men you were with the night you attacked us?”

“Us?” the stocky man tried to say nonchalantly, but his voice wavered. Fear. He wasn’t so brave without a crowbar or a shotgun. “We killed one of them. And I’d know that fag with or without the mask”—he nodded his head toward Vincent—“so who the fuck are you?”

Their attackers didn’t know James was still alive.

“Answer the question!” James pushed the gun into his temple.

The floor creaked behind him. Vincent turned around, pointing his knife out in front of him. The little girl stood in the doorway. She was dressed in an oversized pink T-shirt. Her nose was bright red, and her eyes were wide with shock.

What the fuck was she doing here? She was supposed to be with her mother. Off at some mother-daughter afternoon activity. Far away from the house and what Vincent and James were planning to do to the stocky man.

“James,” Vincent said, at a loss for words.

“Hey, she’s just a kid,” the stocky man said. “Leave her out of this!”

James took a step back, the gun still aimed at him. “Tell us what we want to know, and no one gets hurt.”

But that wasn’t the plan. The plan was to kill him after he told them where to find the other two. They couldn’t let him live. He’d warn the others. But they couldn’t kill him. Not in front of the girl.

“Go back to bed,” Vincent said to her, trying to steady his voice.

The girl just stared at him.

Vincent turned to James for guidance. The very second James looked at him was when the stocky man lunged for something in front of the couch. James must have seen the movement out of the corner of his eye because he turned back and lowered the gun to aim it at the stocky man.

“No!” Vincent screamed.

Bang!

The bullet tore through the stocky man’s chest. Blood sprayed the plain white wall behind him. He collapsed to the ground in front of the couch. James pointed the gun at the ground where the stocky man must’ve landed.

“Daddy!” The girl let out a blood-curdling scream and started around Vincent for her father.

Everything was happening so fast.

Vincent managed to step in front of her and grab her shoulders to stop her.

“Where are they?” James demanded, pulling Vincent’s focus back to him.

A garbled “Fuck you” was the stocky man’s only response.

Bang!

The girl screamed even louder, falling to the ground with her hands over her ears.

This couldn’t be happening.

The next thing Vincent knew, James had grabbed him by the wrist. “We need to go.”

What was he talking about?

They couldn’t leave the little girl here alone with her father’s corpse.

But James didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled Vincent past the girl and into the hall.

Vincent had to stumble forward to keep from falling. “Wait!”

James ignored him, dragging him into the kitchen. “We don’t have a choice.”

Vincent planted his feet firmly on the vinyl flooring and yanked his arm back. James’s grip didn’t loosen. A bomb of sharp needles detonated in his chest, sending stabbing pain through his body. “Stop!”

James kept pulling him toward the back door.

“I said fucking stop!”

James froze. He whipped around and drew close to him. “We need to go. I’ll carry you if I have to, but we are leaving.”

His words were low. Cold. But his eyes were wild in a way that Vincent had only seen in photographs of crazed, shell-shocked soldiers in history class. James looked like he’d do far more than carry him if Vincent didn’t cooperate.

“Okay, let’s go,” Vincent told him. He fought against the urge to run in the opposite direction. There would be no point. James seemed like he’d sooner dislocate his arm than let him go.

Vincent followed him through the backyard. James flung the gate open when they reached it and pulled him around the front of the house. Would the police later lift his print from the latch when the house became a crime scene? Where would they find the girl? He hoped she’d run to her room and hide underneath her blankets and imagine that what she saw was just a terrible nightmare.

They continued onto the street, close to the tree line. James only released his grip when they reached the car on Allequippa Street. “Drive.”

Vincent rubbed his throbbing wrist. The skin had broken out in red and purple blotches. He unlocked the doors, got into the car, and started the engine because he wasn’t sure what James would do if he disobeyed. James took off his mask and instructed him to do the same before they drove off. Vincent focused on the road, tears streaming down his face as he tried to process everything that had just happened.

He kept waiting for James to say something, but he didn’t say a word. When they hit a red light several blocks away, Vincent glanced over at him. His face was tinted red in the traffic light, but his expression gave no hint to what he was thinking or feeling.

The light changed.

“Drive,” James ordered.

Vincent drove.