I remember coming home Friday and feeling that things in my apartment were slightly out of whack by a few degrees. I’m getting that same feeling now. Only it isn’t my apartment, but the entire street. The entire world. I tighten my grip on the can of cat food. I take my hand off Sally’s shoulder and rest it next to my pocket. The one with the gun in it. The people in the car parked up the road are looking at us. The passenger door has opened slightly. The driver is talking on a cell phone, probably organizing another date. The hooker is getting ready to leave.
“Have I ever told you about Martin?” she asks, changing the subject. She obviously doesn’t care about the scars anymore. She’s probably even forgotten that she asked. She lifts a hand up to her face and takes another wipe at the tears.
“That’s your brother, right?”
“You used to remind me of him. But not anymore.”
“Okay. .”
“Are you really retarded, Joe?”
“What?”
“It was the parking ticket. That’s why I’m here. The address in your file at work is your mother’s address. The police had no idea where you live. But I. .”
“The police?” I ask, my stomach suddenly tightening and taking a sudden lurch downward. “What about the police?”
“The police don’t think you’re coming back. They waited, but you never showed. I told them where you lived because I’ve been here. I helped you, Joe. At work. In life. I helped heal you when you were attacked. It’s my fault more people have died since then.”
“You didn’t help me, Melissa did,” I snap, but of course she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “Look, Sally,” I say, trying to sound calm, but the problem is I’m not calm. My voice is wavering; I feel like the world is crashing down on me. “What do you mean about the police?”
“You phoned me. I came around. I helped you, Joe.”
I look up and down the street. Cars are pulling into it from both ends. Vans too. Both doors on the parked car are open now. Neither of the occupants is a hooker. Both of them start toward us. The guy is tucking his cell phone into his pocket and reaching into his jacket for something else. Sally looks around at the noise of the sudden traffic. She looks surprised to see so many vehicles in such a crappy street. Her mention of the parking ticket and the police not knowing my address is setting off a lot of warning bells. It’s shifting the world off its axis. I unzip my jacket pocket and slip my hand inside. I look at the approaching cars and vans. I look at the couple walking toward us.
“I thought you were special,” she says, and she sounds disappointed.
“I. . I am special.”
“I can’t believe you killed them.”
I take a step back. Slow Sally has figured out something the police haven’t been able to.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, looking over her shoulder.
“You’re him. You’re the Christchurch Carver.”
I tighten my grip on the gun. I can’t use it out here because it’s too loud. But I can use it to force Sally up to my apartment, where I have other tools. Or to go for a drive in her car. Maybe somewhere scenic, like a trip into the bush. Anything. I just need to get the hell off this street.
“You’re wrong, and you can’t go around saying things like that. Look, come upstairs and. .”
“I gave them your address. I had to. What choice did I have? The house you went to on Friday, why did you burn it down?”
She glances over her shoulder in the direction I’m looking. Suddenly all the traffic comes to the same kind of screeching halt that Sally’s car came to a minute ago. The two people walking toward me start to run. The warning bells get louder. The world shifts even further, things are spiraling out of control.
“Jesus, what are you talking about?” I ask, watching the doors on the vans and cars opening. People in black clothing are starting to emerge. They start toward me. A wall of people wearing body armor. I recognize most of them.
“I’m sorry, Joe.”
“What have you done? What have you done?”
“Step away from him, Sally,” somebody yells. It’s Detective Schroder’s voice. No, this is impossible.
“Impossible.”
Sally shakes her head. She’s probably wondering how she could have got things so wrong over the last few months. I’m thinking the same thing. I drop the cat food, pull the gun from my pocket, and pull Sally toward me, my fingers looping over her crucifix and shirt. I point the gun at the side of her head. She cries out, but says nothing.
“You’ve got the wrong man,” I say, talking in my Slow Joe accent.
I push the weapon hard against Sally’s skull. Somebody screams at me to put it down, to put it down, but they’re still too far away to stop me. Unless they shoot. And they won’t shoot, will they? I’m Joe. Everybody likes Joe. And I figure some of them probably like Sally too. I tighten my grip. I can’t face spending the rest of my life in prison. I can’t face that at all. Because that’s what’ll happen. They’ll see the gun I’m holding belonged to Calhoun. They’ll search my apartment. They’ll find my knives. They’ll find the videotape I made with Melissa. There’s no way I can Slow Joe my way out of that one. No way at all.
“Put the gun down,” Schroder says. I’ve never seen him look so mad. So. . cheated.
“You put your guns down,” I respond. “Or I’m going to shoot her.”
“We’re not putting them down. You know that, Joe,” he says, trying to sound calm, but being betrayed by the slight tremor in his voice. “You know we can’t risk letting you go. Just put the gun down and nobody here has to be hurt.”
Schroder’s a moron if he thinks I’m going to put the gun down. I wish Melissa were here. She would know what to do. Or Mom.
“I’m Slow Joe,” I say, but nobody answers. “I’m Joe!” I shout.
They can’t do this to Joe. I’m one of them.
But they are doing it. They’re in control here, and that’s the last thing I want. Why are they so confident I’m their man? The answer suddenly hits me. My fear of what they’ll find if they search my apartment has already come true. Sally said they were here on Friday night. They’ve already found the tape. Found the knives. Found the folders and the audio tapes.
There’s nothing I can do here. No way for me to gain the upper hand, unless. .
The idea doesn’t jump out of nowhere, because it’s always been there, a plan B always hiding in the depths, just waiting for the opportunity to jump out and kick me in the ass. Jesus, it’s still possible to regain control, but it’s the worst fucking way imaginable. Still, it’s either that or spend the rest of my life in prison. It’s a decision I need more time to consider, but I don’t have more time. I don’t have anything. Other than a gun.
The men are only a few yards away now, all their guns pointing at me. I decide to take away their control. I decide to make this all about Joe. I shift the gun from Sally’s head to my own. I dig it under my chin so the barrel points upward. Sally gasps when she sees what I’m doing. Nobody else does. I think of Melissa. I’m going to miss her. I would have thought having control would make me feel stronger for these few seconds, but it doesn’t.
“Put down the gun,” somebody else screams, but I don’t.
“Please, Joe. Please, we can help you,” Sally says, but if she had any clue at all she would know that nobody can help me now.
I’m Joe. Slow Joe. I’m the Christchurch Carver. I’m the one who calls the shots. I’m the one in control. I’m the one who decides who lives and dies.
My legs feel weak. I feel like I want to be sick.
Well, live and learn.
I suck in a deep breath, close my eyes, and squeeze all the way on the trigger.
EPILOGUE
Police Confirm “Melissa” Link to New Murder
Police have confirmed that the officer found dead in a central city park four days ago is a likely victim of Christchurch’s Uniform Killer.