Read I Don't Want To Kill You Online

Authors: Dan Wells

I Don't Want To Kill You (31 page)

 
He needs to die,
I told myself.
There are a million reasons for him to die and not a single one for him to live. Who will be better off with this wretch in the world? Who will cry over his grave? Who will even care where his grave is? I’ve killed two others, and he’s no better than they were – he might even be worse. Mr Crowley killed to stay alive. This worm can’t even say that.
 
My finger on the trigger didn’t move.
 
I gritted my teeth, willing myself to see him as a demon, as an object I could break at will, but instead I saw him as something else – not just as a human, but as me.
He’s me. If I keep going down this path, this is how I’ll end – scared and weak and guilty, always running from what I’ve done, always desperate to do it again and again and again.
I saw Crowley and Forman, both in the same position – helpless on the ground, looking up as I ended their lives.
Two down, and one more makes three.
Three was a charm. Three was a pattern. By legal definition, three victims made you a serial killer.
 
And I am not a serial killer.
 
I lowered the gun. ‘I’m calling the police.’
 
‘No.’
 
I pulled out Forman’s phone and flipped it open. ‘I won’t kill you,’ I said. ‘I’m not a killer. The police will take you, they’ll find all the evidence they need, and they’ll put you in jail for the rest of your life.’
 
‘They’ll kill me!’
 
‘I didn’t say the rest of your life would be long.’ I dialed 911 and looked around, at the car and the gun and the hose and the whole elaborate trap I’d set. ‘And I’ll have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.’
 
The phone rang, and I held it up to my ear.
What would I say? ‘I trapped the Handyman in my house; come pick him up before I kill him’?
The phone rang again –
 
- and the Handyman lunged for my leg. I stumbled back and lost my footing, realising as I fell that I’d dropped both the phone and the gun in a reflexive move to break my fall. I stretched my hands back out, trying to catch the gun; it hung in the air as if time was frozen, spinning just beyond my reach, and then I landed heavily on my back and cracked my head against the driveway. I grunted, screwing my eyes shut as bolts of pain and light flashed through them. Something clattered in front of me, and my mind screamed
gun!
just in time to make me roll over, then over again, each time hearing the horrifying whisper of a silencer and the grating clang of metal on asphalt. I rolled over something cold and metal, grabbed it, and pointed it at him.
 
It was the cellphone.
 
‘You think you can threaten me with that?’ sneered the Handyman. All trace of weakness was gone. He loomed over me like a nightmare, hair skewed, eyes wild, teeth bared. He held his gun with both hands, shaky but level, pointed straight at my head. ‘It looks like I’m going to slay a demon after all.’
 
I have one chance to scare him off.
‘Harry Poole,’ I said. ‘Out-of-town reporter. The man who claimed several weeks ago to have a message from the Handyman turns out to be the Handyman himself.’
 
‘I’m not the Handyman,’ he said, lips curled in rage. ‘I am the arm of the Lord; the arrow in His quiver, the lightning of His wrath.’
 
‘Clayton Mortuary,’ I said. ‘Seven-two-four Jefferson.’ Very slowly, I pulled the phone back and held it to my ear. ‘You get all that?’
 
The Handyman’s eyes went wide, and I held out the phone again. ‘They got it. What’s your next move?’
 
He stepped back, then forward, then charged towards me, knocking the phone out of my hand. It flew to the ground and he stomped on it violently, grinding it under his heel. Then, he stepped back and shot it, twice.
 
‘They already know who you are,’ I said, sitting up painfully, ‘and they already know where. I figure you have maybe two minutes to get out of here. When I called the cops for the Clayton Killer last year, they had the entire neighbourhood blocked off in under four minutes.’
 
‘They’ll kill me,’ he said, looking up slowly from the shattered phone. His face was pale, his eyes still wide with fear. ‘They’ll kill me.’
 
‘It’s worse than that,’ I said, forcing myself to ignore the gun and remember his profile.
I have to attack his weak spots.
‘They’ll judge you. A whole parade of cops and lawyers and witnesses and judges – even your fellow prisoners in whatever jail they put you in. They’re going to look at you, and laugh at you, and call you evil.’
 
‘Shut up.’
 
‘Psychologists will interview you and call you a schizophrenic – not enough for an insanity defence, but enough to tell a jury that you justified your crimes with a delusion of God. Priests will testify in court that your divine message is the raving of a sinner—’
 
‘Shut up!’ he screamed, sticking the gun in my face.
 
‘They will punish you,’ I said, forcing myself to stay calm. ‘Leave now and you can get away. I’ll throw them off your trail, one demon hunter to another, but you have to go now. They’ll come after you, and they’ll post your name and your face all over the country, but if you’re careful you can stay hidden. Run.’
 
‘The whole country,’ he said, eyes focused on nothing – on some memory, perhaps. ‘She’ll know.’
 
I frowned, not sure what to say next. I nodded. ‘She will.’
 
‘I will not be judged of man.’ He raised the gun to his chin, a spout of red flew up from the top of his head, and he crumpled to the ground like a broken doll.
 
Chapter 22
 
‘Hello, John,’ said Officer Jensen, sitting across the table. ‘You’ve met Officer Moore, and this is Cathy Ostler from the FBI. I know you’ve answered a lot of questions already, but they just want to ask a few more.’
 
The Handyman’s body never disintegrated,
I thought.
He was never a demon at all. There had to be a real demon in town somewhere – but where?
 
‘Hi,’ I said. The woman sat down, and Officer Moore leaned against the table.
 
‘So,’ said the woman – Agent Ostler. ‘Sounds like you’ve had quite a night.’
 
‘You could say that.’
 
‘Yes, I certainly could,’ she said. ‘At ten o’clock at night we get a phone call from a dead serial killer, we hear the confession of another serial killer, and when we arrive on the scene we find a wanted fugitive from ten states away dead at the feet of a teenage boy who’s been previously involved in the deaths of one-two-three-four other people. “Quite a night” seems to be putting it pretty mildly.’
 
‘Are you accusing me of something?’
 
‘Have you done anything?’
 
‘Well, I’ve apparently witnessed too many crimes. How often can I almost get killed before you assume I’m guilty of something? Is there a specific legal limit, or do you guys play it by ear?’
 
‘Nobody is accusing you of anything,’ said Officer Jensen, scowling at me.
He’s warning me to watch my mouth.
‘But even you have to admit that your involvement in this most recent attack is a lot harder to explain away than the last two.’
 
‘Not really,’ I said, hoping my confidence would make my story seem stronger. ‘The Handyman thought that certain community figures were leading the others into sin, so he killed them. He admitted that much in his letter. Then every news outlet in town made me look like a hero for saving the kids at the dance, and he came to the conclusion that I was one of the “bad” community figures. He came after me. End of story.’
 
‘And the barricade in your living room?’ asked Officer Moore.
 
I’d had just enough time to hide the gun and the exhaust hose before the police showed up; there hadn’t been time to hide the barricades, so I tried to explain them away. ‘I was home alone,’ I said, ‘and I saw a man sitting in his car in front of my house. I got scared – “Stranger Danger” and all that. It seemed like a good idea at the time.’
 
‘If you were so scared,’ asked Agent Ostler, ‘why did you crawl out the window to confront him?’
 
‘I crawled out the window to escape,’ I said. ‘He just kept knocking and knocking, and I thought he was going to get in. I thought I could drive away before he found me, but he must have heard the car.’
 
‘He must have,’ said Agent Ostler. ‘He also must have the fastest pistol in the world, to have hit your moving car with two shots so close together. The bullet-holes were less than an inch apart.’
 
‘I was going very slowly. I thought if I just put it in neutral and pushed it into the street, he wouldn’t hear me.’
 
‘But he did.’
 
‘Turns out it’s hard to steer while running alongside and pushing, so I hit the house. I’ve had an astonishing amount of bad luck over the last year.’
 
Agent Ostler stared at me, silent as a hawk, while Officer Jensen frowned at her. Officer Moore then spoke up. ‘Everything you’ve told us makes a certain amount of sense,’ he said, ‘obviously pending a full forensic analysis. The only piece we’re not sure of yet, and perhaps you can help us explain it, is—’
 
‘How long were you going to keep Clark Forman’s cellphone?’ snapped Agent Ostler.
 
I was very good at feigning innocence. ‘What?’
 
‘The phone you used to call 911,’ she said. ‘Not only is it half a dozen felonies to hide the evidence from a previous case, but it calls that entire case – and your involvement in it – into question. What were you doing with his phone?’
 
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
 
‘Don’t make me get official on you,’ she said, her face harsh, ‘because I can put a stop to this friendly little meeting right now, and we can treat this like the federal case it is.’
 
Officer Jensen put out a hand to quiet her, then turned to me. ‘Just tell us where you got the phone that you called us with tonight.’
 
‘I didn’t call you tonight,’ I said. ‘He did. Why, was it Forman’s phone?’
 
They stared at me.
 
‘Because that’s pretty scary,’ I said. ‘Do you think this is the mystery accomplice you’ve been looking for?’
 
‘He called the police on himself?’ asked Agent Ostler, folding her arms.
 
‘I guess he wanted to turn himself in,’ I said. ‘Or at least to confess to someone official, before he shot himself.’
 
Officer Jensen sighed, and Officer Moore leaned forward. ‘You said he set out tonight to kill you, and now you say that he killed himself instead. What happened to change his mind?’
 
‘I don’t know,’ I said, keeping my face blank. ‘Maybe I just have that effect on people.’
 
Agent Ostler scowled. ‘I am authorised to place you in protective custody if I have reason to believe you’re in danger. Believe me when I say that the kind of custody I’m talking about would be largely indistinguishable from prison.’
 
‘He won’t run,’ said Officer Jensen, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. ‘I can vouch for him.’
 
‘You’re sure?’ she asked.
 
‘He’ll stay in town, he’ll participate in every interview, and he’ll facilitate the investigation in every way he can.’ He looked at me pointedly. ‘Is that right, John?’
 
‘Of course,’ I nodded. ‘Anything you need.’
 
‘All right then,’ said Agent Ostler, ‘you can go. But I assure you that we will be watching you very closely.’
 

Other books

How Do I Love Thee by Lurlene McDaniel
The Forever Engine by Frank Chadwick
The Prodigal Girl by Grace Livingston Hill
Fatal Legacy by Elizabeth Corley