Evangeline (9 page)

Timburrrrrr! 

Number two on you
r
trusted servant’s Halloween hit list was going to be a bit trickier.  Jose Morales, the former camp counselor, had the rear apartment in a four unit building in the city of O’Neill-- appropriate given his fondness for corn-holing young boys.  Problem was, firing my snub nose .38 around so many neighbors was bound to draw unwanted attention, so I had to improvise.

The light was off over the Mexican’s door stoop but I could hear crappy Mariachi music coming from inside the apartment.  It was obvious that pervie didn’t want any trick-or-treaters coming to his door.  The bastard was cheapin’ it. 

Well, screw that party pooper.  I pressed the doorbell anyway-- and because my buns were frosted in that tiny dress, I kept right on pressing until the porch light finally flicked on and the door yanked open. 

I thrust my pillowcase forward.  “Trick or treat!”

“What the hell is wrong with you, pendeja?” growled the husky, twenty-something Chicano.  “Didn’t your momma teach you you’re not s’posed to knock when the light ain’t on?”

“It’s on now.” I rightly observed.  “Trick or treat.”

The pervie threw out his hands in exasperation.  “I don’t have no candy, chica.  Do you see any candy?”

“Trick or treat,” I said again.

The Mexican stared at me in disbelief and pointed at his head.  “Loco,” he spat.  “Just stay there.  I’ll find something.”  And he walked back into the apartment cursing to himself in Spanish. 

The moment that pervie was gone, I pulled the sickle from the pillowcase and slipped through the open door.  I discovered him in the kitchen, crouched before the refrigerator looking for something to toss in my bag.  As he was removing an apple, the Mexican spotted me from the corner of his eye.  I swung just as he turned, the blade catching him flush in the neck.

The blow must have severed his carotid artery because blood spurted across the room as if blasted from a fire hose.  The man slapped his hand over the burst pipe and staggered about the kitchen, dancing to the Mariachi on the radio, before slamming against the wall and crashing to the floor. 

I retrieved the apple that had rolled against my feet and took a bite as Senor Morales struggled to regain his footing.  But the linoleum was slick with his blood and the pervie couldn’t gain traction-- flopping about as though shitfaced on tequila.  Going into shock from blood loss, he finally rolled onto his back and was left staring at me from the floor as the life pumped out of him. 

“Hola, senor,” I greeted the man cheerfully.  “Me llamo es Evangeline.” (I knew some basic Spanish thanks to Sister).  “Gracias for the treat.  Sorry about the mess.”

The Mexican opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came through but a gurgling sound.  I casually took another bite of the apple then crouched beside him.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” I asked.  “A confession perhaps?  Go ahead, amigo.  Unburden your soul.  Evangeline is listening.”

More gurgling. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” 

This time nothing came out.  “Okay,” I shrugged.  “Guess it’s my turn.” 

I laid the hand sickle aside and began unfastening the pervie’s pants, and that’s when the sonofabitch grabbed my wrist with a sudden move that nearly soiled my panties. 

As
La Cucaracha
began to play, I struggled mightily to pull free, stretching to grab the blade that was just out of reach.  But that damn Chicano had an iron grip that could not be shaken.  Somehow I managed to drag his leaking carcass a few feet across the floor until I could get my hands on the sickle.  And once I did, well, it was bad news for my uncooperative friend from south of the border.   

I think it may have been Elvira who once said that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through the chest cavity.  So I figured, hey, why the hell not?  Well, boys and girls, let me tell you something-- going that route makes an awful mess.  And it didn’t help that Angeline was having her period that week.  I mean, anything that bleeds for five days without dying can’t be human, right?  That’s just how I felt as I gutted that Mexican; like some kind of crazed primal animal lost in an orgasmic blood frenzy… which I suppose accounts for the extra fifty-or-so whacks I gave Senor Morales. 

Only when I was too exhausted to continue, and insanity had passed like a Plains dust storm, did I fully comprehend the gory aftermath.  My first reaction was disbelief-- total astonishment at the mess I’d made.  And yet there was still more bloody work to be done.  So I yanked that pervie’s pants to his knees, along with a pair of shit-stained tighty-whities, and cut off that Mexican’s tiny tamale with one bold stroke.  

Just for shits-and-giggles, I was making the little fella dance the Cucaracha when the doorbell rang and I heard the excited chatter of trick-or-treaters.  With a weary sigh, I dropped the prick into the pillowcase with his big brother and shuffled to the door.

“Trick or treat!” shouted two pint-sized superheroes and a slightly older pirate.  But once they got a good look at me their tiny mouths fell agape and their candy bags sagged-- because, friends, I was an absolute bloody fucking mess.  I stood in that open door with the hand sickle hanging limply at my side and my body covered in gore.  And I mean covered… like a henhouse full of chickens had exploded in my face. 

“You’re foolish little children,” I lectured those wee ones.  “Don’t you know the devil lives here?”

I hate to disappoint youngsters, even stupid ones, but I had nothing else to offer… so I swung the door shut in their astonished little faces.

By eleven p.
m
., an hour before curfew, I was turning off the County Line Road and lurching down the drive that ran parallel to the irrigation pond, all the way to the farmhouse.  A light was burning in Mother’s bedroom on the second floor, but if she heard the pickup she never came to the window.  I parked facing the barn with headlights on and went inside to hang the sickle back on its hook above the workbench.  I did the same with the Smith & Wesson, returning it to Stumpy’s gun cabinet in the main room.

Later that night, as I stood in the shower watching the Mexican’s blood wash from my body and go swirling down the drain, I was feeling pretty darn good about myself.  Your faithful servant had consigned two more pervies to that special place in Hell reserved for those who steal the innocence of youth.  It was three down and a whole wide world to go.  

Ah, my friends, the task was daunting.  

So many pricks… so little time.

chapter six

On the day afte
r
Halloween, the body of Jose Morales was discovered by a neighbor, opened up on his kitchen floor like an exploded can of Chef Boyardee.  Three days later a UPS delivery man sniffed a foul odor and led police to Doc Aldrich.  And by week’s end, after both killings had been tied to the death of Harland Lee Wade, everyone in Nebraska knew a serial killer was running helter-skelter in the Heartland.  

When the sheriff’s office announced all three victims were level three sex offenders, the sensational news hit the state like a bombshell.  But when it was revealed the primary suspect was female, well, that was like a bucket of chum dumped into the sea-- whipping the media into a whole ‘nother level of frenzy.  Suddenly yours truly was the headliner in every newspaper and the lead story on all the newscasts.  And once reporters agreed on a nickname--mandatory for all serial killers--I knew I’d hit the big time.  Henceforth your humble servant would be known as the Level Three Killer… or simply, L3K. 

But unlike self-loathing mass-murderers, who seek post-mortem immortality through the slaughter of innocents, or serial killers who jerk off to their newspaper clippings, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about media adulation, nor the public’s pathetic appetite for death and destruction.  The crusade wasn’t about me.  It was all about justice. 

Still, if nicknames were to be handed out, I could have done without “L3K”.  It didn’t exactly roll off the tongue, know what I’m saying?  I was a bigger fan of the moniker coined by some of the locals; “The Holt Hacker”.  

I liked that one.  Had a nice ring to it.

Anyway, details of the murders, including unconfirmed reports of missing appendages (and you know what I mean) sent shockwaves rippling through the region.  Holt County’s Level 3 sex offenders were now requesting beefed up police patrols in their neighborhoods.  And pervies throughout Nebraska--as well as in neighboring states like Iowa, Kansas and South Dakota--were clamoring for the same protection.  A few were so spooked that they packed their bags and fled the Corn Belt altogether-- jumping from the pond before I’d even had a chance to drop a line.  Those were the slippery pricks that got away. 

For Deputy Gottschalk, the situation had become a major inconvenience that interfered with his bowling and pornography time.  Dressed in uniform to begin the overnight shift that Friday afternoon, the man sat at the kitchen table and complained loudly while thumbing through the Holt County Independent.   The newspaper’s banner headline shouted, POLICE SEEK LEADS IN L3K MURDERS.  Beneath the header was a police sketch of the main suspect herself, drawn from eyewitness descriptions given by Pete the bartender and those three little dimwits who rang the Mexican’s doorbell on Halloween night. 

I must tell you, boys and girls.  Except for Elvira’s puffed up hair and bangs, that drawing looked nothing like me.  Either my makeup had been that good, or the sketch artist sucked that bad.

“Female serial killers.  Jesus H. Christ, the whole world’s gone crazy,” Stumpy grumbled as he turned the pages.  “Looks like I’m gonna be working overtime chasin’ tail.”  He paused to watch Mother scrape scrambled eggs onto his plate then glanced at Angeline.  “That look like anyone you know?” he asked, tapping the front page sketch.

Friends, for a moment I thought the deputy might be on to me.  In hindsight I should have known better.  Because although Stumpy pegged his stepdaughter as the person responsible for chomping three inches off his dick, he couldn’t connect that timid creature with the infamous Holt Hacker, Nebraska’s most popular cover girl.  To do so would have required a mental leap akin to jumping the Grand Canyon. 

No.  Deputy Gottschalk was an idiot.  For him to crack the L3K case, I’d have to be standing with a severed prick in one hand and the murder weapon in the other, begging him to cuff me.

And even then…

“Well?” said the deputy, tapping the sketch impatiently.  

For Angeline, there was something vaguely familiar about the girl staring back from the front page, but she couldn’t quite place her.  So she shook her head and went back to scrambled eggs. 

“What about you?” Stumpy asked his wife as she took her seat at the table.  But the moment Mother turned to examine the sketch, her husband snapped the paper closed.

“What the hell would you know about it?” he snarled at her.  “You never leave the goddamn house.”  He opened the paper in front of his face and muttered, “I swear if brains were dynamite you couldn’t blow your hat off.”

When supper was finished and Mother headed upstairs, Deputy Gottschalk lifted his gun belt from a peg near the front door and slung it around his waist.  Meanwhile Angeline was buzzing about the kitchen; wiping down counters and clearing the table with uncommon vigor.

“What’s up with you?” Stepfather grumbled while cinching the belt.

“I’m ga-ga-ga-going to a… fffootball game,” she told him, unable to hide her excitement.

“Football?  What the hell do you know about football?”

In fact, Angeline knew nothing about football.  The girl would have been hard pressed to pick one out of a lineup.  There was a time when Ted tried teaching her the rules, shoehorning a college game between screenings of
The Bone Ranger
and
Free My Willy,
but the lessons stopped after his dick got spit.  Now the only time Sister was allowed in the trophy room was to dust the place and polish the man’s sacred golden pin. 

No, Angeline had absolutely zero interest in America’s Game… until earlier that day when Caleb flagged her down in the corridor and invited her to come watch Friday night football under the lights. 

Presto.  Suddenly my sister was a huge fan. 

“I don’t like it,” the deputy muttered under breath as he pressed the campaign hat onto his head.  Then he checked his watch, frowned at Angeline and went out the door.

No, sir.  Stumpy didn’t like it one bit. 

And Angeline loved that.

When Sister arrived i
n
Willowdale Township to watch the undefeated Buffalos take on the Clearwater Cardinals, the parking lots and side streets around the high school were jammed with vehicles.  Judging from the size of the turnout, the game must have been a pretty big deal.  It took Sister more than ten minutes to walk from her parking spot on a residential side street to the ticket booth, dressed against the November chill in one of Mother’s threadbare coats. 

With ticket in hand, she followed other late arrivals down a ribbon of blacktop toward the sound of muffled drums.  As she crested a grassy slope the girl found herself looking down on the high school football field; a vast green carpet shining brightly beneath halogen lights. 

The stands flanking the field were jammed with spectators who were cheering wildly as a lone figure wearing a blue jersey went dashing the length of the field, chased by a posse of red shirts.  At the end of his run, the boy in blue raised the ball above his head, a man in black and white threw up his hands and a sudden cacophony of band instruments and raucous cheers washed over Angeline like a wave.  Friends, this was an alien place for Angeline--a world as foreign as the surface of the Moon--and it was with great trepidation that she decided to move closer. 

When Sister turned the corner at the front of the stands, she found herself looking up at a sea of faces.  A few she recognized from school, but most were strangers, bundled against the cold in scarves, gloves and jackets.  On the other side of a chain link fence that separated the crowd from the field, Briana Dresner and her Dresnerettes were flinging their arms, kicking legs and shaking their pom poms as they chanted in unison, “Go blue let’s fight!  Go gold, win tonight!” 

Angeline had begun climbing the first aisle, passing row after row of aluminum benches looking for an open place to sit, when she recognized Billy Quinn’s barking butt-sniffers, the three boys who followed their leader through the high school like obedient hounds.  The puss-faced kid nearest the aisle nudged his buddy and pointed Sister out.  She turned away quickly and parked her butt on the very edge of the nearest bench, shoulders hunched and hands tucked between her knees. 

A whistle blew and a loud speaker blared, “Clearwater timeout”.  As the band struck up a discordant tune, the boys in blue came trotting off the field in Angeline’s direction.  When the helmet came off number 51, she recognized Billy.  The Asshole peered into the stands with eyes underlined by smears of black war paint, and Sister instinctively held her breath and shrank away.  Billy wasn’t looking for her, of course--it would have been almost impossible to pick her out of that crowd--but that’s how far the boy had crawled inside my sister’s mind. 

Like a turtle emerging from its shell, she poked her head out again when Billy looked away.  Then she saw Caleb and sat up straight.  Number 32 sure looked handsome in that jersey, thought Angeline.  Much better looking than the other boys.  His blonde hair was matted with sweat and he raked fingers over his scalp to push it back.  One of his teammates tossed him a water bottle and Caleb squirted a stream into his mouth.

When the whistle blew again, Caleb and the rest of the blue shirts pulled their helmets back on and trotted to the middle of the field as the cheerleaders shuffled and chanted, “Move from side to side, and show that Buffalo pride!  Move from side to side and show that Buffalo pride!”

Before long the red and blue armies were battling tooth-and-nail again.  Caleb went sprinting after a red shirt who was headed in the direction of the stands.  But before he could catch him, number 51 came flying from nowhere and crushed the kid, driving him violently into the turf and separating him from the ball.  It was The Asshole doing what The Asshole did best… bringing the pain.  The loose ball was grabbed by an overweight Willowdale player who lumbered away with red shirts leaping upon his back like a pride of lions trying to bring down a fleeing water buffalo. 

Meantime, the boy Billy had body-slammed plucked the sod from his teeth and shouted a profanity that brought a gasp from the crowd.  The Asshole must have taken exception because he grabbed the kid by the front of his helmet and flung him into the ground.  From that point it was pandemonium.  Players swarmed, the crowd screamed and the men in black and white blew whistles and flung yellow rags in the air. 

So this was football.  Sister couldn’t make heads or tails of it.  Nor did she care to.  She was just happy Billy Quinn was picking on some other poor soul that Friday night.

The game ended wit
h
the Willowdale Buffalos victorious once again and Angeline found herself swept up in a press of humanity moving toward the parking lot like cows driven through a slaughter chute.  Caleb was still out on the field with his teammates, huddling with Mr. Walters, the school’s football coach.  When the huddle broke and Caleb headed for the exit, Angeline bucked the tide to intercept him.  But just before they connected, Susan Weaver appeared and threw her arms around him.

Angeline tried to reverse course and melt back into the herd, but as Caleb turned to accept congratulations from a passing adult, he noticed her and waved.  Sister returned a tight smile as Caleb and Susan approached.  Right away she smelled the musky sweat that drenched his uniform.

“Hey, you made it!” he greeted her.

“How are you, Angeline?” said Susan.

“Hello,” Sister replied coolly, giving her competition a dismissive look.  She fell into step with them and followed the current.

“After I get changed we’re heading over to the Mohr’s,” said Caleb, his football cleats clacking over the blacktop.  “Why don’t you come with us?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Aw, c’mon, Angel.  I got the El Camino running.  I’ll drive you.”

“Mmm-my truck...”

“Don’t worry about your truck.  I’ll give you a ride back here.  I owe you one, remember?”

“You really should come,” prodded Susan.  “It’ll be fun.”

Regardless of whether my sister wanted to be alone with Caleb--or didn’t want him alone with Susan--she eventually decided to return to the Mohr’s that night… a decision that would later prove disastrous. 

An evening that started badly only to get worse, began with Sister spending an interminable twenty minutes in the parking lot listening to Susan Weaver while Caleb changed in the locker room.  Angeline was far too self-conscious and awkward to contribute anything meaningful to the conversation, but that didn’t stop Susan from filling the time with a nonstop gush of verbal diarrhea.  The girl never took a breath, sharing any inconsequential thought that popped into her head.  Even worse, she peppered every sentence with a barrage of superfluous “likes”.  It was “like” this and “like” that.  For a fan of literature and language like my sister, the word was jarring, banging on her back teeth like tiny hammers.  

While Susan chattered away, Sister found herself distracted by Brianna Dresner and some of her cheerleader pals who had gathered near a banged up cargo van on the other side of the lot.  Every student at Willowdale High knew who that black van belonged to.  It was The Asshole’s self-anointed “pussy wagon”-- an homage, rumor had it, to his favorite Quentin Tarantino flick.  Before long, Caleb exited the gym with big brother Billy close on his heels.  The two were arguing, shouting verbal broadsides back and forth, before The Asshole broke it off and joined Brianna at the van.