But this is an opportunity. I’m already inside the house. I already have a gun. And neither of them is aware of my presence. They’re both too wrapped up in each other. Does that mean they deserve to die? The only thing I know for sure is they’ve brought this confusion over me, this nausea, and for that I should get even. Nobody does this to me. Nobody.
Yet is it really their fault?
My God! How can I even question this? What sort of person am I becoming?
I’m Joe. J is for Joe. J is for judge. I’m strong and I’m in control, and what I decide is my decision-not God’s. Not Dad’s. I don’t care what either of them thinks.
I make my way to the bedroom. Stop at the door. Point my gun directly ahead. But I’m not pulling the trigger. Instead I’m thinking about the technical side. The ballistics of the bullets will match against one of the victims I shot. The serial killer strikes again, and this will confuse them. It will blind them to any real motive. Why has the killer targeted a gay policeman? But how ideal is it if the other detectives become conscious that somebody is after them? How easily could I go through their houses if I needed to? Or their motel rooms?
I take a step back just as the grunting from the bedroom gets louder, as if I’ve given the sound waves more room to travel and amplify. The creaking bedsprings sound like they’re screaming in fear. I push my hands against the sides of my head, but it isn’t working. I jam the barrel of my Glock into my right ear, and stuff my middle finger into my left, but it doesn’t help me think. The sound is still there. And the only way to get rid of it is to either shoot myself, or to shoot them. But I don’t have to shoot them. I’m not an animal. I have the ability to think this out. I know right from wrong. I’m not insane. An insane person would jump in there and start firing because they wouldn’t be able to control themselves. The interesting thing about insanity is that Insanity is strictly a legal term, not a medical one. Patients like me are not insane-we just plead it if we’re caught. The reality is if we really were insane, we wouldn’t be trying to evade conviction-we’d be caught at the scene smeared in blood and peanut butter and singing Barry Manilow tunes.
I lower my gun. I could kill them just for the hell of it, just because I’m here. In life you take what comes along in this crazy mixed-up world. Other times you need to let it pass you by in case something better comes your way. Life is like a highway with many dirt roads veering off it.
I’m at a junction right now, standing in the hallway of some guy I have never met. A memory in my mind that I can’t reach. A headache coming on. Pounding. Sweat running down the sides of my body. Trickling. Grunting filling my ears. Pounding. Do I kill them? Throw a few of those red herrings into the investigation? Or does it only make things worse?
I make my way downstairs. The kitchen is full of stainless-steel appliances that cost more than I make in a year. I sit at the breakfast bar on a bar stool and rest the Glock in front of me. Tagging Travers for gay was simple-it was the calendars. Overcompensation was the key word there. Knowing I’ll think better on a stomach that isn’t so empty, I open up the fridge and rummage around inside for some food. I end up making myself a corned beef sandwich-Travers’s boyfriend is an excellent cook. I grab a can of Coke-it’s on special after all-to wash it down. The fizz burns away any fantasy I hold that what I am listening to could be anything other than two men having the time of their lives.
Upstairs, the bed is slamming the bedroom wall, like it too wants to have bolted out the front door half an hour ago. I sit down at the bar and start tracing my finger along the edge of it, flicking some of the crumbs from the sandwich while doing my best to dismiss the thought that because I ate from the same food these people ate from that I’m gay now, but of course that’s silly, it’s silly, but the thought stays with me as I consider what to do next.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The restaurant is full of conversation, nice smells, good people, decent music, and a warm atmosphere. The waitresses all have perfect hair and trim bodies, shown off by tight clothing. Everybody else has gone to a lot of effort to look casual-jeans, tidy T-shirts, smart shoes.
Sally’s father is working away at a chicken dish, her mother tackling a salad, while Sally pushes a fork back and forth in her tortellini. The day has gone well. For the first time in ages, her father, fifty-five now, looks close to his age rather than several years beyond it. The DVD player went down well; it was no problem for her to install it, and her father spent ten minutes playing with the remote, learning how to drive it. The buttons were difficult to push with his shuddery hands, yet his frustration stayed at a minimum. Whether that will still be the case in another year, or even another few weeks, is anybody’s guess.
She stabs a few pieces of pasta and puts them into her mouth. She loves pasta. She could live on it quite happily, yet tonight her appetite isn’t allowing her to enjoy it. Her mother and father are laughing. She is happy for them, happy that for an hour or two they don’t look so empty.
When she finishes her meal, the friendly waitress who has been helping them all night comes over and sweeps away their plates, then just as quickly replaces them with dessert menus. She scans through the choices. She doesn’t really feel like any of them, and looking at the waitresses, she doubts any of them have touched any type of dessert in their entire lives. She looks up at her dad and identifies the strain in his features as he tries to keep his body under control. He won’t be able to hold on much longer, she thinks.
Sally is a few bites into a chocolate sundae when she starts to feel guilty about Joe. She hopes he wasn’t relying on her for his lunch today. Of course what makes her feel really bad is what he said this morning. Somebody like me. She hadn’t been aware till then that Joe knew people were treating him differently, and she was doing so too. Nobody else was making him lunch. Nobody else was pestering him to sit outside on the banks of the Avon River and throw stale bread at the ducks.
Two things occur to her then. The first is there’s a reason why Joe always has turned down her offer to have lunch together, or to be given a lift home. She has been treating him differently.
The second thing is that this sundae isn’t going to help her waistline. Anyway, it’s starting to taste plain. Just chilled soggy cream. She pushes her spoon around it, making it even more runny. What she needs to do, she realizes, is to make an effort to get to know Joe while pretending she isn’t making an effort. She smiles at her parents, glad they are having a good time. Her mother’s metal crucifix is hanging outside her blouse, the light from the candles glinting off it. Through everything, her parents still have their faith. Again she thinks that she can use faith to bring herself closer to Joe.
She looks back down at her sundae. Today is day one to become a better person, a more caring person, a thinner person. She pushes her dessert aside and promises herself never to touch one again.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The bed is no longer banging. It could be broken. The mattress might have worn out. Maybe they’ve moved to the floor. Maybe they’re spent. Thinking about it makes the corned beef sandwich threaten to come back up, and I’m threatening to let it. Problem is, it won’t just be the sandwich. It’ll be everything I’ve eaten for the week.
I’ve made my decision. I’m going to let God down by allowing them to live. Hey, I don’t owe Him any favors.