Twisted Fate (Tales of Horror) (3 page)

They stepped into the hallway.

“Sad what happened, eh?” the cop asked.

“Very sad. Accidents can happen. People die every day.”

A door banged against a wall somewhere.

“What now?” Walter said out loud.

He hustled past the cop and up to Joan’s bedroom. She lay just inside the doorframe on the floor, face down.

“Okay, let’s get you to bed.” He struggled with her dead weight. His peripheral vision revealed the cop had followed him.

Joan seemed heavier than before. Walter set her down and caught his breath. He looked over at the bedside table. Strewn across the top beside the food tray were a small collection of needles with all their plungers pushed to the bottom.

He looked at his wife’s arm. Blood had trickled from the inside of her elbow where there were over a dozen puncture marks.

The cop talked into his radio, calling for an ambulance. Walter backed away from his wife’s body as the cop checked for a pulse.

“People die every day, eh?” the cop said, repeating Walter’s words from moments ago.

Walter needed a stiff drink. It was past nine in the evening. The last of the authorities had just left. As far as anyone could tell, Joan had killed herself.

His son had shown up about an hour after his mother had died. He locked himself in his room where Walter could hear him crying.

What the hell’s going on? Where did this day come from? Everything’s so fucked up.

He poured more whiskey into his glass from the small bar in his office. He hated funerals and now he had two to deal with. Send flowers to one and arrange the other. Nothing pissed him off more.

Wait a minute
, he thought.
My wife just died
.
Why am I angry with her for the inconvenience? Shouldn’t I be grieving? Perhaps it’s because the Joan I’d married died many years ago.

Her mental attitude toward the diabetic condition had deteriorated rapidly. With a better grasp of what challenges she had ahead of her and a will to overcome them, he would have had more respect for her. All she did was whine and complain like life owed her a chance. With a better diet and some exercise, his wife would be alive and in a healthier place.

Fuck her. She asked for this.

He tilted his whiskey glass back and shot the rest of it into his mouth. It raced down the back of his throat with a welcoming bite.

Would Alex ever stop bawling like a fucking baby?

The bottle of Canadian whiskey was empty now. He set his glass down and left the office en route to the cellar for another bottle. As he passed Alex’s closed door, he stopped.

Damn, can that kid cry. Is this how twenty-year olds grieve
?

Walter banged on the door. “Alex, what’s going on?”

The weeping continued, unimpeded. Walter tried the door handle. It opened. He stepped in and stared at his son, curled up on the bed.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, not expecting an answer. At least not one he’d like.

Alex nodded and made a feeble attempt to wipe his eyes.

“Look, get yourself together and come to my office. I’m going downstairs. I’ll meet you back there in a few minutes. We can talk.”

Alex buried his face in his hands.

“Did you hear me?”

He moaned acknowledgment.

“I’ll meet you in my office in five minutes.” Walter walked away, leaving his son’s door wide open.

He got to the basement, grabbed the bottle of whiskey and headed back upstairs. On the way by Alex’s bedroom door, he took a peek in. The unmade bed was empty.

He walked over to the mini bar in his office and stopped. Alex sat on the antique couch, scowling.

“What’s going on with you?” Walter asked, amused that his son could show so much anger. “One minute you’re bawling like a baby and now you look pissed off.”

“It’s all your fault!” Alex shouted.

Walter set the bottle down on the bar’s shiny surface and scanned his son’s face.

“You might want to watch what you say here. Your mother had diabetes. She was very sick. She had saved her needles and chose today to take them all at once. That had nothing to do with me. Are we clear?”

Alex didn’t respond. He just sat there and glared at Walter.

“I
said
, are we clear?”

“Yeah, I’m clear all right. You killed her.”

“Okay, that’s it. Call a friend, go to a hotel, but I want you the
fuck
out of my house right the
fuck
now!” Walter was conscious of his anger. He was aware of it on a cellular level. It was unfamiliar, but it was welcomed. It made him feel powerful, in control.

Alex got up from the couch and bumped Walter’s shoulder as he passed him.

“Watch yourself, young man. I may be in my sixties, but I can fuck around like the best of them.”

His son’s footsteps pounded down the stairs, then the front door opened and shut with a slam. By the time he poured a glass of whiskey and took his first shot, tires screeched outside and then the sound of metal crunched together.

He left the office and headed downstairs in a run. Too many people had pissed him off. His wife died today. His son was blaming him. And now one of his son’s friends thinks he can show off and squeal his tires all over the fucking place.

He opened the front door and jumped out onto his porch ready to scream at the offending driver.

He blinked and staggered, the whiskey already working on him. Two vehicles had hit each other. A black SUV had T-boned a smaller Nissan. A man was caught between the two vehicles.

Walter leaned on the doorframe for support. People across the street talked on cell phones. Probably calling for help, but it was too late. The guy was dead. His waist disappeared below the grill of the SUV. A running shoe lay about five feet back under the SUV, still attached to a leg.

Poor guy. Wrong place at the wrong time.

“People die every day,” Walter mumbled to himself. He turned around and headed for the stairs. Someone behind him yelled. Someone else cried.

Why the hell does everyone have to be so fucking loud?

Halfway up the stairs, he teetered, the whiskey taking effect on his balance.

“Walter,” someone said behind him. “Ahh, I think you better come and look at this.”

He gripped the railing beside him as he looked down at Crawford, his neighbor from two doors up.

Why the hell is my front door always left open?

“I already saw the accident,” Walter said.

“I’m sorry, Walter. I really am.”

What the fuck is Crawford talking about?

“You heard about Joan?” Walter asked.

Crawford frowned. “No.”

“It’s fine, Crawford. Maybe it’s better she’s gone. She doesn’t have to suffer anymore. That’s life. People die every day.”

Crawford stepped back. “You okay, Walter?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

More vehicles came to a stop in front of the house. The emergency lights splashed a myriad of colors across his windows and doorstep.

“Sure, people die every day, Walter. But this is Alex. He’s your son.” Crawford stepped backwards out the door and disappeared.

Walter denied what he’d heard. It couldn’t be. Alex was just here. They’d argued and then he left the house.

Why the hell would he run out into the street directly in front of moving cars?

The walk down the stairs seemed long and arduous. Walter made it without falling. He got to the open door and looked at the carnage. A blue tarp had been placed over the man who had been sandwiched between the two vehicles.

He got to his front steps where he sat down and waited for someone to confirm who was under the tarp. If no one came then it wasn’t Alex. Simple as that. He wouldn’t believe it until then.

His stomach protested.

How much did I drink already?

He bowed his head and closed his eyes. He focused on keeping his breathing steady while he held his stomach, hoping the nausea would abate.

“Walter, you doing okay?”

He jumped, lifted his head and banged his elbow on the porch railing. “Why the fuck is everyone scaring the shit out of me today?”

“Walter, maybe we should go inside and talk.”

It was that fucking cop, Mackay.

“Okay. But we talk in my office. If you’re going to tell me that my son was hit by that SUV, I know I’m going to need a drink.”

“Maybe you’ve had enough already.”

Walter got to his feet, secured his balance and glared at the cop. “You might be somebody on the street, but on my front lawn all I see is a man trying to school me on drinking. From this moment on, while your visit on my property will be short, I’d watch what the fuck you say to me. I’ve had a terrible day and I’m really fucking pissed about it.”

Mackay didn’t respond.

I give him credit for that.

They made it upstairs and stood across from each other in Walter’s office. It seemed like only a few hours since Mackay had been there, and now another visit and another death. Walter wondered if he would need some kind of therapy. Or a lawyer.

“Have a seat, Mackay. You want a drink?”

“Not while on duty.”

Walter poured a double and went to sit behind his desk but stopped halfway. He eyed the couch. The fucking couch that started everything.

“You okay, Walter?”

“Yeah. Just thought I’d try out my new couch.”

He walked over and sat down.

The moment he touched the fabric, hatred coursed through him. A hate so vile that living another moment was contrary to its existence. The anger rose inside him like a red rocket firing salvos into his consciousness.

He downed his double whiskey in one long pull and glared at officer Mackay. He decided the fucking pig who had intruded in his home and in his life had to die.

Fuck him and his badge. What the hell? Come into my house and want to interrogate me. Where’s my lawyer? Where’s my rights? Miranda, my ass. This guy was a fake and killing him is the best thing for everybody.

Walter got up, opened the bottle of whiskey and shot three huge gulps straight from the tip.

“Are you okay, Walter?” Mackay asked.

He turned and tossed the half-empty bottle into the corner of his office where it rolled a few times, the rest of the alcohol spilling out.

“Just fucking fine, asshole.”

“Calm down,” the cop said, his hands in front of him. “You might want to watch how you’re talking to me. I’m here on official business as an officer of the law.”

“Fuck you, you fucking
pig
,” Walter spat and lunged at him.

Mackay wasn’t ready. Walter’s two hundred plus pounds smashed into the cop and both of them dropped onto Walter’s desk. The small of Mackay’s back bent awkwardly and twisted from all the weight. He screamed in pain, his ability to fight diminished.

They rolled off the desk and hit the floor. Walter dug his thumb into the center of the cop’s throat and pressed. Mackay flailed at Walter but was no match for Walter’s hatred. It didn’t take more than a minute for the cop to stop twitching.

“That halo over your head only needs to drop a few inches to become a noose, motherfucker,” Walter said as he stood over the dead cop. He spat in Mackay’s face.

The fact that this guy’s body is even in my house makes me sick.

Walter vomited. It hit his desk and splashed onto his office chair. He vomited again, this time making sure to aim for the cop’s face, covering him with stomach contents laced with bile.

He couldn’t believe how bad his body felt. What was wrong with him?

He half walked, half lurched to the corner and picked up the empty bottle of whiskey. He searched for another drop, found none, then walked over to the couch.

What is it about this fucking couch?

Ever since he had brought it into his somewhat normal life, people had died.

He tried to pry the main cushion back. It wouldn’t budge. He didn’t want to have to go all the way to the kitchen for a knife so he grabbed a letter opener off his desk and cut along the edge of the cushion.

Why he was wrecking an antique in perfectly good condition was beyond him. All he knew, with some kind of certainty, was this thing had something to do with the day’s troubles.

He got the side cut open and started working on the back.