Breaking Point_Kindle Serial Page 4

  Ken sat alone in his apartment. On the table in front of him was his license plate, along with a set of colored pencils that he’d bought at the pharmacy up the road. The numbers and letters that he’d copied hadn’t come out perfect, but when he pictured them taped to the plate, with a little bit of dirt on it, he figured they’d do just fine. After all, he was the one with the power, and the people seeing it were lucky enough to be alive if they were around him when he felt like killing.

  Happy enough with the plate scam, Ken walked to the fridge to get his reward. He popped the top on the beer and sucked down half of the can, then considered what to do next.

  The apartment was finally clean. Granted, none of it was going to pass a white-glove test done by Sally Housewife, but for the rental space of a middle-aged man, it was far better than before. He’d thrown out most of the dirty dishes — it was far easier than washing them. After all, there was no reason to have more than three plates; no one ever came over besides the kids, and they only liked to eat takeout. Aside from the massive trip to the Laundromat that he was dreading, the apartment was nicer than it had been since he’d moved in. It was almost peaceful.

  Less peaceful was that it was his turn for the kids this weekend, and he was dreading it. Up until what had happened in McDonald’s, he’d always assumed that there was something wrong with him that made them respect him so little, but he knew the truth now. They were a pair of disrespectful little shitheads whom their mother had poisoned against him, poisoned before the marriage had even been over. He could hear the tone in their voices, in his mind, mocking him with every word. He grabbed the magic bullet from the table and squeezed it in his palm until it was warm, making it feel almost alive. He set the bullet down and let the idea that had gotten him in trouble at work marinate.

  What if there was a way to kill Paula, the kids, her new husband, the whole pack of them, and not get caught? It seemed impossible, but then, so had firing a loaded gun at his head and then walking away with his skull intact. That he would be perfectly happy shooting more strangers was no surprise to him, but there had to be a way to make himself able to shoot them and not be a too-obvious suspect. After all, even if they were involved in a killing like the prior day’s, the first people to be looked at would be those involved in the aftermath of disgruntled relationships.

  Ken stood, dropped the empty beer into the recycle bin, already nearly overflowing, and took a new one from the fridge. There is one way I could do it, but it would be risky. Almost as quickly as the thought had entered his mind, a new one chased after it: risky but worth it. It was true. The benefits of living in freedom, to see them put in a hole, his financial future looking immeasurably better — it was almost too good to imagine.

  Ken let the plan come to him slowly, as he let his eyes float over the license plate, the revolver, and the bullet. If he killed more people and got away with it, the smart guys at the police station would think they were detecting a pattern. If he did it a third time, maybe even a fourth, they’d be sure of a pattern. They would think they were tracing his every move. But what if there was no pattern? What if instead of playing into what they expected from him, he picked another place, totally at random and not connected to fast food, and he killed people there? It wouldn’t be hard — just walk in knowing what needed to happen, and then do it. Live through a couple and not get caught, invite Paula and the kids out somewhere, then show up and kill them. It would be easy, and the cops would think they were looking for some madman.

  Ken didn’t feel mad, though, he felt righteous. He felt like God’s hammer, a man who had finally been given a reason to live. The only question now was of where to go to kill, and of how not to get caught doing it. Unlike when he put the revolver to his head and pulled the trigger, Ken no longer looked forward to the darkness; now he was ready for redemption. I’ll start tonight. Just drive around until I see the right place, go in and do what I have to do, and then just walk away. Ken smiled as he opened the box of bullets and slid six of the things into the revolver. If this went anything like the last time, it would be a night to remember.

  EPISODE 2

  Van Endel carried his urine-soaked uniform in a trash bag. Lex had insisted that he get the thing outside as soon as possible, so now, wrapped in a towel, Van Endel set the bundle in his garage. He shut the door behind him, letting the clothes lie, and then returned to the still-running shower. Lex was sitting in the living room, watching TV, with her fingers plugging her nose. On the couch next to her was the newspaper.

  Once he was back in the bathroom, Van Endel dropped the towel and jumped in the shower. The smell of urine was worse at first, but quickly subsided. He rinsed twice with soap and shampoo, then shut off the water and dried himself with a new towel. He walked from the bedroom, still drying his hair, and then quickly dressed in the only suit that he owned: black jacket, black pants, black tie. When he was done, he felt different than he normally did in his uniform; he barely felt like a cop at all. He took his gun and holster off the belt that he’d left lying on the bed, and slid his badge into his front pants pocket, not sure of what else to do with it. He slid his wallet into a rear pocket, and then had a thought.

  Last Christmas Lex had bought him a Moleskine notebook, with the idea that he might use it to write down things while he was working. Van Endel had forgotten all about it, there never really seemed to be time to do anything like just taking notes for fun, but he supposed if he was going to be working as a detective, he could actually try and help. Just because Nelson didn’t like him, or at the very least just didn’t want to work with him, that wasn’t Van Endel’s problem. He pocketed the Moleskine and grabbed the gun; the problem of how to hide it discreetly remained unsolved.

  “All dressed up,” said Lex as he walked out of the bedroom. “Are you really going to have to wear that to work every day? Say what you will about the cliché of liking the look of a man in uniform, but you look like a mortician in that suit.”

  “It’s not my fault that you’ve only seen me wearing it at funerals,” said Van Endel, “and it’s not like I have much of a choice. I only have the one suit, and detectives wear suits.” He shrugged. “I’m sort of screwed either way, but you know what? I don’t even care. It’s a sheer joy not to wear clothes covered in piss.”

  “Well, at least your standards are going up,” said Lex. “Any other heroics to share with your doting wife before you leave with no known time of return?”

  “I think the paper can cover most of it,” said Van Endel, “not that I’ve had time to read the article. Seriously, though, Lex, it’s going to be fine. The chief said it himself — this is only going to last until we catch that guy and pose for a picture with the big fish. After that, I’m back to getting peed on.”

  “You don’t really think that,” said Lex. “I can see it in your eyes. You think you’ll be able to do something amazing enough to get them to hire you on as a detective full-time. It was the same way when you joined the force. Police work turns you into a horse with blinders, you forget there’s anything else even happening.”

  “Lex, this isn’t like that,” said Van Endel, sitting next to her and laying his arm over her shoulders. “It’s temporary, that’s all there is to it.”

  “It’s better when you don’t lie,” she said, shaking free of his arm and standing. “You need to go, so go. I’ll be sitting here whenever it is that you get back, with your baby in my belly. Please try and think about your own child when you’re rushing out to save someone else’s.” She walked to the kitchen wordlessly, and Van Endel walked to his car, the holstered gun still in his hand.

  The pistol was less of a problem than Van Endel had expected. The first thing Nelson did when Van Endel showed up at his desk was hand him a detective’s badge and a shoulder holster for the issued Smith & Wesson. Van Endel took off the jacket and slipped on the holster, popped his gun in it, and threw the jacket back on. Having the weight there was different than on his hip, but it wasn’t too bad. He p
ocketed the badge, and Nelson said, “Should we hit the road, maybe pick up some orange whips?”

  “Huh?”

  “You look like a fucking Blues Brother in that suit,” said Nelson, clearly irritated with his new babysitting job. “You didn’t have anything else?”

  “It was either this or a tux. I figured the suit was a better bet.”

  Nelson stood, bumping past Van Endel, and said, “C’mon, let’s go hit the bricks. I want to go shake some trees in Wyoming, see if anybody heard wind of some idiots crossing the highway to rob a hamburger store.”

  “Fine by me.”

  Nelson drove, Van Endel sat shotgun. There was no radio, save for the occasional crackle from the CB. It was completely different from any police work Van Endel had ever done. Barring a violent crime in their vicinity, Nelson and he were supposed to avoid anything outside of their assigned case. Nelson pulled into the parking lot of a small Mexican meat market, with a sign that said CARNICERÍA.

  Nelson got out of the car and Van Endel followed, the doors on the unmarked Crown Vic slapping closed behind them. Nelson walked in with Van Endel on his heels, ignoring the man working the cash register. They went past the oblivious butcher and into the back, where a Mexican teenager wearing a blood-spattered apron was cutting a huge piece of beef with a Sawzall. The teenager said, “Hola,” and nudged with his shoulder to the back. Van Endel followed Nelson past the spray of beef, rounded the corner of a massive freezer, and came to an open door. Nelson tapped the wood with his knuckles as they walked in, and then closed the door after Van Endel.

  Sitting in the room was a man of impossible-to-discern ethnicity. He looked Native American, Mexican, and African American all at the same time, with a mix of facial features and a tanned, chicory skin tone. There was a revolver on the table in front of him, along with a folded-over newspaper bearing Van Endel and a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Detective Nelson,” said the man. “It has been far too long.” The man smiled thinly. “Or perhaps not nearly long enough.” He turned to Van Endel, looked him up and down, and then glanced at the paper on his desk. “You bring a famous friend — how nice.”

  “Detective Van Endel.” Van Endel said, sticking out his hand. He wasn’t sure why or how he’d conjured the “D-word” in front of his surname, but he did know that he liked the sound of the temporary title. The man stayed seated but shook his hand. Nelson said, “Dick, this is Alberto Montoya. Don’t let his sparkling demeanor fool you; Mr. Montoya is more than just a meat mogul.” Montoya smiled at them both broadly. “In fact,” continued Nelson, “word on the street is that he is a man with connections.” Nelson let a pregnant pause develop. “Heavy connections.”

  “Detectives, it is a joy to see you,” said Montoya, “and I will surely thank God for the opportunity, but if you don’t tell me why you are here, I will be forced to ask you to leave.” The word “ask” hissed off his lips in an accent of indecipherable origin.

  “Well, luckily for us, I just have a quick question for you,” said Nelson. “Any chance you caught wind of a pair of Mexican bangers crossing the river and breaking the truce? I know you guys respect the hell out of it, but some of the younger crowd can act impulsively. If you had to deal with a couple of loudmouths who could have upset the gentlemen’s agreement with the blacks, I understand. I just need to know if you did.”

  “You’re asking me to incriminate myself?” Montoya asked. “Detective, surely you cannot need a case closed so badly that you would be forced to sink so low.” Montoya’s hands disappeared under the desk, and Nelson’s right arm flew under his jacket. Montoya’s hands returned with a pack of cigarettes and a gold lighter. He shook a smoke from the pack and then threw the box of Marlboro Reds onto the desk. He lit the cigarette and blew a ring of smoke from practiced lips. “As much as I’d love to get myself sent back to American jail, Detective Nelson, I cannot make your job so easy. My men don’t do things like that, not on either side of the river. If it were a break-in?” He shrugged. “Maybe if it were a break-in I would ask around.” Montoya grabbed the newspaper and shook it once. “This is not the work of a man, this is the work of a devil.” He spit on the floor. “La Santa Muerte. I’ve seen it in Mexico, southern Mexico. Chiapas.”

  “This was a man, not a devil,” said Nelson. “You’ve got my number, Montoya; if you hear anything, anything, call me.” Montoya said nothing, just sat with his eyes locked on Nelson, smoke pouring from his nostrils. Van Endel opened the door and followed Nelson out through the meat market to the car. Nelson turned the engine over and pulled out, stomping on the gas and making the Vic purr.

  “Anybody else you want to shake down?” Van Endel asked, but Nelson said nothing back.

  Ken parked his beater car in a handicapped spot at the Ace Hardware on Forty-Fourth Street, only a few miles from the McDonald’s, but farther out from where he worked and lived. He had the revolver in his right pants pocket; in the other pocket was a handful of loose shells. In his back pocket, next to his wallet, was the magic bullet.

  As Ken got out, he took stock of the parking lot. There were three customer cars, and he figured the employees parked out back. Didn’t matter. This was about achieving a goal, and if that meant taking risks, then he would take as many as he needed to. He drummed his fingers absentmindedly on the revolver, and then walked from the car. He was wearing a Detroit Lions ball cap pulled low over his eyes, and had on a filthy long-sleeved flannel shirt with a pattern of red, green, and gold. He strode in like he owned the place, hand on the shells, hand on the gun.

  There were two people in line to check out, and the cashier was punching numbers into the cash register. Ken took the revolver from his pocket and walked toward them, keeping the gun low and at his side. He walked behind the cashier and shot her in the back of the head. Blood sprayed across the register, and she dropped. The woman checking out opened her mouth to scream, and Ken shot her in the chest, then turned as the man in line behind her dropped a garden hose and a sprinkler and began to run. Ken caught him in the back with a bullet, pushing the man to the ground, then turned to the register. He hit no sale with a gloved finger and stuffed cash into the pocket where the gun had been, then raced around the register to an empty lane. The man he’d shot was crawling away and leaving a trail on the floor. Ken could hear someone running, possibly several someones, as he shot the man in the head, then felt a loss of traction as he slid in the smeared blood. Ken checked his watch; he’d parked less than a minute ago.

  Walking toward where he thought the footsteps had come from, Ken hit the shell extractor on the revolver and dumped the hot brass into his shirt pocket, where it began to smoke. He stuffed four new shells in the cylinder to go with the two unfired ones, then slammed the wheel home and began to run. I’ve got a minute left, tops.

  Ken popped out of an aisle filled with doorknobs and nearly ran into the gun counter. Behind it, an old man was attempting to load an M1 Carbine with shaky hands. Ken shot the man in the belly, a bad shot, and then put one in his head. The man spilled forward, dropping the carbine along with a handful of shells. Ken ignored the man and the gun and, on a whim, ran back toward the front door. He was there in seconds, just in time to see a man flee from the store, a woman running behind him but slower in her heels. Ken was on her like a wolf. He shoved her to the ground and shot her in the back. She was screaming before the bullet broke her, and still wailing after it put her blood on the floor. Ken ignored her shrieks and ran outside. The man was trying to open his car door. He saw Ken walking toward him and said, “Hey, buddy…” before Ken shot him. The guy flopped on his hood like a fish trying to get out of a boat. Ken walked to his own car, opened the door, threw the revolver on the passenger seat, and turned the key. He reversed, put the car in drive, and got moving. He spared a glance at his watch; the whole thing had taken less than two minutes. Perfect.

  Ken made it home with no incident, acting as though he were fiddling with the trunk as he pulled the sticker from the plate on
the car. He kept it in his hand as he walked into the apartment. He could feel a buzz far stronger than beer could give him fluttering behind his eyes; he felt like he could fly. He opened the apartment door and locked it behind him, then put the sticker, the revolver, and the spare bullets on the table. He took out the magic bullet and stood it upright and away from the regular ones, then stripped to his underwear.

  He was hard, like a granite fist. It had been years since he’d felt sexual about anything. Paula had ruined his manhood, but now it was back. He stroked himself once, twice, then shuddered as his body was wracked with an orgasm. Ken knelt on the floor, unable to deal with the emotional and sensory overloads. He felt like a postcoital teenager after fucking for the first time, and he rolled on the floor of the kitchen, upsetting a chair at the table and ignoring the mess in his briefs. He wanted to scream — he felt primal, like a lion loosed at the zoo. Finally there was a reason to be alive, finally there was a purpose. He made a promise to himself: one more shooting, and then Paula and whoever happened to be with her.

  Van Endel caught the phone on the second ring, too slow, he saw, as Lex walked from the bedroom scowling. “Hello,” he said, avoiding eye contact with Lex. Had he been able to, he would have shrunk into the wall; he could feel her eyes on him, feel her anger without even looking at her. The voice on the line was Nelson, and he said, “Get dressed, we’ve got a shooting. I’ll be there in ten.”

  Van Endel said nothing, the line was dead before he could even consider responding. How does Phil even know where we live? Van Endel let the question linger as he hung up the handset, then met Lex’s eyes from across the room.

  “I’m a huge bitch,” she said. “I had just fallen asleep. I’m sorry.”

  “Lex, you didn’t even do anything,” said Van Endel, walking past her to put on his suit for the second time in a day. He stripped off the warm-up pants he’d been wearing and pulled on the slacks of the suit. Lex walked in as he slid into his white button-up shirt.