The man was my age, and disheveled. His dark clothes were filthy, and a slight beard hid a weak chin. He reeked of alcohol. “Why did you hit me?”
“Shut up,” I said. “Get up and walk.”
The man got up slowly, his eyes not once leaving the gun, and then I pointed toward the backyard with my finger. He walked. I walked behind him, the gun in his back.
I couldn’t tell you which one of us was sweating more, him or me. My heart was racing like a greyhound, I was so nervous. I had waited so long for so many nights, hoping and praying for the man of my dreams to appear from the ether, and here he was right in front of me. I couldn’t believe my luck.
As we snuck around to the back of the house, I wondered what it would be like to truly kill a man, to wrap my finger around the trigger of the gun, to pull the trigger that sent the bullet through this man’s organs. Would he scream when he died, or would it be so quick for him that he wouldn’t even have time to think of all the women he’d killed? Would he willingly tell me what I needed to hear—what kind of hoodoo bullshit he had been involved in to make him untraceable not only to the fuzz, but to the wolf—or would I have to beat him to know what I needed to know?
The man’s hands were shaking at his sides. I could see that even in the dim light. I’m sure he wasn’t used to dealing with armed men, just defenseless women.
Behind the house was a basketball hoop hammered onto the outside wall. There must have been kids inside. I told the man to stop, and he did, but not soon enough. A bright light shone down into the yard—a motion detector. Someone would see us soon enough.
“Please don’t kill me,” the man said. “I didn’t do nothing.”
“Bullshit,” I said softly. “You just answer my questions or it’ll be over before it begins. I could shoot the wings off a fly if I wanted to, so you just be nice and still.”
The man swallowed.
“What’s your name?”
“Mickey,” he said. “Mickey Hanson.”
“Mickey. I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”
“Man, I don’t even know who you are. I don’t have any money.”
“Don’t play stupid,” I said. “I know who you are.”
“How?”
“Motherfucker, don’t you read the papers? You’re the Rose
Killer.”
“Who? Me?”
“What did you do to cloak yourself?”
“What?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I raised the gun to shoulder level and took it in both hands. I knew that I would land on my ass, firing such a piece as that Magnum. The man began to cry.
“Please don’t kill me,” he said.
“What made you invisible?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What was with the church break-ins?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you ever been to the state of Maine?”
“No, man, I swear …”
The smell of urine filled the air. That, coupled with the look in the man’s eyes, told me he was probably telling the truth.
“Why were you following her?” I asked.
“I wasn’t following nobody.”
“Now I
I pressed the gun into his forehead. He shook.
“I just … I just wanted to say hi.”
“Bullshit. You
“I’m not a sickie.”
“Stop lying.”
“I swear. Every once in a while there will be underwear out on a line, and I’ll have a look, but that’s it. It’s not my fault …” Up on the second floor of the house, a light went on. “Shut up,” I said. “Quick, take off your shoe.”
“Which one?”
“Just do it.”
He took off his left shoe and tried to hand it to me. There were no laces, and the heel was so worn down I almost felt sorry for him.
“Put that fucking thing down. I don’t want your stinking shoe. Give me your sock. I want it.”
“There’s no money in there,” the man said.
“I want the sock, I said. Give me your fucking sock.”
With shaking hands he slid the scummy sock down his ankle and held it up to me like a peace offering. There were holes in it. I took the sweaty sock with my left hand and stuffed it into my back pocket. There was something else in the pocket, I didn’t know what. Then I remembered—Anthony’s photographs.
“I got your sock now, motherfucker,” I said.
“Take it,” the man said.
“Oh, I took it, man. It’s mine now. But remember this, you fucking sickie: I own your life now, man. I won’t forget you. And if I ever see you in this town again I’m gonna shoot the balls off you and stuff ‘em down your throat.”
The man swallowed again.
“Okay,” he said.
“Now get the fuck out of here.”
The man took off like a shot in the night. In a second’s time, I couldn’t even see him anymore.
This was another mark against me. I’d be striking myself out of the game soon enough if I couldn’t help it. Up high, the window opened, and a middle-aged man in glasses looked down into his illuminated backyard. There I was with a loaded gun in my hand. I smiled and waved.
“What are you doing down there?” he said.
“Defending the public,” I responded before disappearing myself.
When I got home that night, I dropped the keys on my makeshift coffee table, checked the four locks on the door, then checked all the windows. Everything looked fine, so I started the shower going.
As I was undressing, the phone rang. I pulled my pants back up, went into the living room, and stared at the phone. The gun was next to it. I picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Getting home kind of late, aren’t you?”
I hung up. Whoever was calling me was also watching me. This wasn’t good. It was the kind of thing that made you want to drink.
SEVENTEEN
Midnight on Carpenter Street. Yet again. With the clock rolling over, it was now June 3. One week to go, and the police were doing no better than me when it came to getting the Rose Killer off the streets.
