Killers Page 4

  The broken bit of ulna turned sideways, almost perpendicular to his forearm.

  He shuddered in agony, and then passed out.

  Donaldson awoke trembling and confused, his face so drenched with sweat he looked like he’d just stepped out of the shower. He cast a frantic glance at the cop—still sleeping—and then the clock.

  2:20.

  Only ten minutes until Nurse Winslow made her rounds.

  He had to hurry. There were still five screws remaining.

  Donaldson hadn’t cried since he was a child. He remembered being ten years old, his father’s belt drawing blood on his ass, his thighs, his back; whipping him for killing a neighbor’s dog, whipping him so hard and for so long that Donaldson missed an entire week of school.

  That was the last time he’d ever cried. His father had whipped him many times since, but Donaldson had vowed to himself he’d never show weakness again. He’d internalize the pain. Keep it inside.

  It was a vow he’d kept for over forty years. A vow he now broke as sobs shook his body and mucus streamed down over his blubbering lips.

  The screw seemed to twitch with his pulse, vibrating just a bit, the bone beneath the skin so obviously out of place it was almost funny.

  Donaldson tried not to hesitate. But twisting was unbearable. It would cause him to pass out again.

  So he took a deep, stuttering breath, gripped the screw head, and yanked.

  The screw popped free, tearing out a thread of flesh, the blood spurting rather than oozing.

  Wailing like a baby now, Donaldson attacked the next screw. The pain became the only thing he knew. His entire world. He twisted and pulled and pried at his tortured arm, blinded by tears, thrashing his legs and feeling the skin grafts tear, shaking his head side to side and actually bending the metal brace that held his neck immobile.

  It was coming… coming…

  Did it!

  Donaldson wiped his blurry eyes.

  Three screws left.

  It was worse than a tooth ache. Worse than being kicked in the balls. Worse than his father’s belt. Worse than being dragged behind the car.

  Just two more.

  Both arms shook so badly now that Donaldson couldn’t get a grip on the screw head. He had to keep wiping his slippery, blood-soaked fingers on the blanket. When they finally locked on, he got confused and twisted the wrong way once again, tightening the screw, ratcheting up his suffering to the nth degree, causing his eyes to roll up into his head. He used the pain, knowing it couldn’t get any worse, turning it quickly and spitting out the blanket and vomiting bile as the screw mercifully pulled free.

  Okay…

  Just one more…

  The last one…

  This was the longest of them all, pinned into his wrist.

  Deep.

  So deep.

  Too deep.

  Can’t do it.

  Can’t fucking do it.

  The very thought of touching that final screw, let alone manipulating it, made Donaldson gag again. He needed morphine. He needed it more than he ever needed anything in his life. He could call the nurse, and she’d give him a shot. It would knock him out. He wouldn’t hurt anymore.

  But then they’d reset the screws.

  Donaldson knew he couldn’t bear that.

  He closed his eyes, lips pursed together as he sobbed, and in his pain-delirium he was visited by an angel.

  In Donaldson’s mind, the angel had big, white wings. A glowing halo. A beatific smile.

  And pink Crocs.

  “Looks like I win, old man,” said the Lucy Angel.

  Donaldson’s eyes flipped open.

  No. You’re not going to win, little girl.

  He attacked the last screw with a hatred so fierce he could handle the agony.

  It took twelve complete turns to get the son of a bitch out.

  And then Donaldson was done.

  His arm no longer looked human. More like a giant, pulsing earthworm, gooey with blood, the skin purple with hematomas. He carefully pulled off the brace, threading his ruined appendage through it, laughing as he hefted its weight. Solid surgical steel, at least five pounds of metal, screws protruding out like spikes on a medieval war mace.

  Hysterical, Donaldson’s tears turned into hoarse laughter.

  You fuckers made sure there were no weapons in my room.

  But you forgot one.

  He focused on the cop.

  Still asleep.

  The clock.

  2:27.

  Three minutes until Winslow showed.

  Donaldson yanked off his head gear, bent and twisted from his thrashing, and set it on the pillow behind him as he heaved his bulk into a sitting position. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the bandages from his skin graft surgery soaked in blood.

  When he stood up Donaldson almost collapsed onto the floor. It felt like his entire body was made of pudding. His ravaged left arm hung at his side, useless, and the bloody brace clutched in his right hand looked comically inadequate.

  I’m going to pass out before I even get to the cop.

  Donaldson closed his eyes, feeling the blood drain from his head, knowing he was about to lose consciousness.

  Once again, an image of Lucy saved him. That little whore’s face smiling after she’d handcuffed Donaldson to the car bumper.

  Rage displaced the wooziness, and he took three quick, lumbering strides over to the door, reaching the cop before he could turn around, raising up the brace and savagely bringing it down onto the lawman’s skull.

  There was a crack like a board splintering. The cop flopped over, off his chair, raising up his forearm to protect himself.

  Donaldson adjusted his aim, swinging the brace sideways, a protruding screw connecting with the cop’s temple, where it became embedded.

  Embedded, and also stuck, which Donaldson discovered when he tried to pull it back.

  The cop’s hands flailed, pulling at the brace, his legs flopping around and kicking the tile floor. Donaldson shifted his bulk, dragging the man inside his room, and then with a single, violent twist, he yanked the brace free, along with a quarter-sized piece of skull.

  From that point on, it was like hammering a nail, bringing down the surgical steel again and again and again and again until the cop finally stopped moving.

  Sweating, shaking, and—quite incongruously—giggling, Donaldson tossed the brace back onto his bed, and used his good arm to drag the pig into the bathroom. He was exhausted, pain crawling over his entire body like red ants. But he was also exhilarated. Killing was the best drug in the world.

  And like an addict, Donaldson craved more.

  The plan had been to dress in the cop’s uniform. But there was no time, no possible way Donaldson could ever fit his mangled arm into a shirt sleeve. So instead Donaldson took the man’s gun—a 9mm Beretta—and flipped off the safety.

  Moving quickly, he slipped into the hallway just as the clock hit 2:29, padded one door over, and ducked into the adjacent room.

  There was a man asleep in bed, lightly snoring. A big guy, lumberjack type. The chart on his bed read R. Bolton. Donaldson considered his next move, judged the large man to be a potential threat if he awoke, and then moved another room down.

  This bed was occupied by a sleeping old woman. Easy pickings. Even better, she was hooked up to a heart monitor.

  Donaldson approached the bed and raised the gun.

  Wait. No fun in that.

  Better to wake her first.

  “Hey. Lady.”

  She peeked open her rheumy eyes, the pupils growing wide at the sight of him.

  “Do you have a family?” Donaldson asked.

  She nodded, eyes flitting back and forth between him and the gun. The heart machine went BEEEEEP……BEEEEEP……BEEEEEP…

  “People who love you?”

  “What do you want?” Her voice was like dry, autumn leaves crackling underfoot.

  Donaldson pressed the barrel of the weapo
n to her head. “Answer me.”

  “Yes, people love me.”

  “Who will miss you most?”

  “I… please don’t hurt me.”

  Donaldson’s eyes flitted to the balloon bouquet on the dresser next to the bed. “Who sent the balloons?”

  “My… my grandson.”

  BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…BEEP…

  “What’s his name?”

  “Petey.”

  “Will Petey miss you when you die?”

  She nodded, her wrinkled, chicken neck bouncing.

  “Will he cry at your funeral?”

  Another nod.

  “Say it out loud.”

  “Yes.”

  BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP…

  “Say it. Yes, Petey will miss me.”

  Her tears came freely now. “Yes, Petey will miss me.”

  “Good,” Donaldson said.

  He brought the butt of the gun down twice.

  The first blow almost split her head open.

  The second blow did.

  The third and fourth gave him a lovely erection. Looking at the brain matter splattered across her pillow, he wanted to climb on and—

  No time. Gotta get out of there.

  Donaldson hurried out of the room, the steady BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP of the lady’s heart monitor indicating she was flat-lining. He ducked into an empty room, watching Nurse Winslow hurry past, listening to her call a code over the hospital intercom.

  Donaldson figured he’d bought himself five minutes, at most.

  Enough time to find Lucy.

  Together at Last

  Lucy rounded the corner. Her eyes narrowed when she saw a portly figure limping up the hallway toward her.

  Donaldson.

  The bandages around his legs, and the front of his hospital gown, were all soaked through with blood. Another bandage, this one bloodless, covered almost the entire right side of his head.

  But the real horrorshow was his left arm, the one she had handcuffed to the back of his car.

  It had swollen to twice its normal size, bending in places it shouldn’t have, hanging from his shoulder like a gigantic blood sausage.

  “Hello, little girl.” Donaldson smiled, his fat lips flapping over crimson holes where teeth used to be. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Lucy sat in a wheelchair, both legs extended and bandaged. Instead of a hospital gown, she wore blood-covered scrubs several sizes too large.

  She smiled—top front teeth missing.

  “Hi, Big D,” she said. “You aren’t looking so hot.”

  “I can say the same for you. Nice wheels.”

  Lucy stopped rolling. They were ten feet apart in the corridor.

  “Look at that left arm,” she said. “You been working out?”

  “My right one still works just fine.”

  Donaldson limped forward, extending his good arm.

  It ended in a gun.

  “Why don’t you lift up those hands, let Uncle Donaldson give you a quick pat down.”

  Lucy shook her head. “Nice piece, Gramps, but I don’t think I’m going to let you touch me right now.”

  “And exactly how are you going to stop me?” He leered, giving his lips a quick lick. I think I’ll start by giving those pretty little legs a frisk. You got any feeling left in those?”

  Donaldson continued to trudge forward.

  Lucy backed up a few feet.

  “Listen,” she said. “I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but any minute now this place is going to be crawling with Feds and sheriffs’ deputies. There was an…incident,” she framed the words with air quotes, “in my bathroom. So the question is…do we want to do this here and now, or do we want to help each other get the fuck out of dodge?”

  The hospital intercom kicked on, some faceless drone calling codes. Code orange, code blue, code green, code silver…

  Donaldson halted his approach, frowning. The bandage on his right calf had come loose, revealing another bloody, peeling bandage underneath.

  “Shit. Can’t go back this way,” Donaldson tilted his head over his shoulder. “Had an incident myself back there.”

  “That’s probably your code they just called out. Mine will be two blues. How about we try this way?” Lucy motioned down the corridor. “I thought I saw an elevator sign.”

  “Stairs too good for you?”

  “You’re a riot. Give me a push?”

  “Turn around first.” Donaldson waved the 9mm. “For some reason, I got trust issues with you.”

  Lucy awkwardly swung her wheelchair in a one-eighty and offered her back to Donaldson.

  “Be gentle,” she said.

  Donaldson loped forward. When he reached Lucy’s wheelchair, he stopped. “Tough to push one-handed.”

  “Life’s a bitch and then you die. I’m so sorry my legs got broken when you handcuffed me to your cheap-ass car with no parking brake.”

  Donaldson pressed the barrel to her head. “Then use your goddamn hands.”

  “Easy. I’m just kidding. So sensitive.”

  Her right arm came up rattlesnake-quick and the handcuff locked around Donaldson’s right wrist. The other cuff was already attached to her left.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I just want us to be together.”

  Donaldson’s finger tightened on the trigger, and then abruptly relaxed. He blew out a stiff breath. “Just like old times, huh?”

  Behind them, the hallway filled with chatter and commotion.

  “I’ll push your right side,” he said. “Use your left hand on your left wheel. Move your ass, or I’ll cut my losses, shoot you, and drag your corpse outta here.”

  “Jeez, somebody missed his Metamucil.”

  Lucy began pushing. Each rotation of the wheel brought a groan.

  “Sounds painful,” Donaldson said. “What other terrible injuries have you suffered, little girl?”

  She didn’t respond. Their progress was slow, awkward.

  “Hurry,” Lucy said. “I hear people coming.”

  Donaldson glanced back. A group had formed at the far end of the corridor—a nurse, a few orderlies.

  “So what exactly did you have to endure?” Lucy asked.

  “Let’s just say I got screwed. There’s the elevator. Less talking, more moving.”

  Steering proved difficult. One of Lucy’s outstretched feet banged into a hallway drinking fountain.

  She cried out, “Fuck! Do you drive like that?”

  “So you do have some feeling left,” Donaldson said, backing her chair up. The gun was pressed against her shoulder, but in order to push, he had to hold it sideways. “I was hoping you weren’t paralyzed.”

  “I want you to know that I prayed you weren’t a vegetable. That would have broken my heart. There’s the elevator. Push me to the panel.”

  Donaldson leaned to the right, maneuvering the wheelchair alongside the lift.

  Behind them, someone shouted, “He’s over there!”

  Lucy pressed the DOWN button.

  “Come on,” she said. “Come on!”

  Five seconds later, the doors spread apart and Donaldson manhandled her inside.

  She pressed the “L.”

  Footsteps pattered down the corridor, getting louder with each passing second.

  “Hurry…hurry hurry,” she said.

  The doors began to close just as a security guard came running into view, yelling at them to stop.

  He didn’t make it in time, and the lift began its descent.

  Donaldson exhaled hard, puffing out his cheeks. “So what’s the plan? I push you all the way to Missoula?”

  They lowered past the third floor.

  Then the second.

  Lucy said, “How about we get to safety, and then we can see how this all plays out? You fucked me up pretty bad, you know.”

  “Little girl, you don’t know the meaning of those words.” He winked. “Yet.”

  The doors spread apart.

 
“Okay, I got a plan,” Donaldson said, “But you gotta uncuff me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to depend upon the kindness of strangers and get us a vehicle.”

  “You won’t hurt me, big bad D?”

  “Not yet. Not until we get ourselves out of here.”

  “Okay, I’ll uncuff you. But you have to get the key. I can’t reach it.”

  Donaldson shook his head. “Always a fucking game with you.” He gave the chair a shove, bumping Lucy’s foot into the elevator door. She yelped, grabbing the attention of a nurse at the reception desk. Bringing up his gun hand—still handcuffed to Lucy’s—Donaldson placed the barrel against her head.

  “You see this gun, Nurse Ratched?”

  The nurse nodded, her mouth agape.

  “Unless you want me to splatter this young girl’s brains all over your ER, you better give me those keys, pronto.”

  The nurse stayed perfectly still.

  “Now!” Donaldson barked.

  She reached under her desk, rifling through her purse, dumping it out, eventually holding up a key ring.

  “Toss them on her lap,” Donaldson said.

  The keys arced through the air and landed on Lucy’s thighs with a jingle. Lucy scrunched up her face.

  “Where you parked?” Donaldson asked.

  “It’s…the black Honda. I parked in the employee’s lot on the side of the building.”

  “Another fucking Honda?” Lucy scowled. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Get over here and show us. Move your ass.”

  The nurse hustled over from behind the desk. “It’s this way. Please don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  “He doesn’t feel regret,” Lucy said.

  The nurse led them through the automatic doors out into the warm night, the chair’s wheels clicking along the pavement.

  In the distance, a gaggle of news vans topped with satellite dishes had taken over the far corner of the general parking lot.

  “Which way?” Lucy asked. Her breath was labored. Behind her, Donaldson grunted like a draft horse.

  “We’re almost there,” the nurse said.

  She guided them toward a satellite lot with numbered parking spaces, semi-illuminated by a handful of street lamps. The nurse stopped abruptly, causing Lucy to bump into her, prompting another howl.

  “I’m sorry, I…um, forgot that it isn’t handicapped accessible.”