Chris flinched and replied, "That's the way it is. I still want to be your friend, but if you don't want to be mine, I guess I'll understand."
Adam sat down and rocked back and forth. His temper eased. "If that's the way it has to be." He wasn't sure if he’d meant it or not. "We're still friends, though. Cool?"
"Cool."
Adam remembered—"Hey, Chris? You walked here the other day, didn't you?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Was my dad's car parked out on the side?"
"The white Cadillac? Yeah, why do you ask?"
I knew it. Somebody stole it.
"No reason. Just wondered."
Chris realized why.
Evidence.
***
Fields as green as the grass on a golf course… beautiful Ranch homes bordering woodlands where tall oaks towered over them like guardian angels… a narrow gravel road… suddenly—
Pappie's Inn came into view. As I Lay Me Down was playing in the car the whole way. Adam saw his precious Erin standing in the parking lot, waiting for him. In his mind, he heard her say: "I love you, Adam. I promise I'll never leave you."
—Then he woke up, heartbroken. He barely believed he was alive anymore. It wasn't the pain, the fear, the anger, or the hate anymore; it was the complete lack of emotion. Depression was a feeling, he reflected, but he was somewhere below that, in some cavern in the middle of the earth where ancient dead things lie.
That's why I kill. To feel.
The sunshine blazed through the window and across the living room floor, and he suddenly remembered the day his mother had taken him to meet Erin. He recalled every detail about that day and would have given back the three lives of his victims just to relive it once more.
"All I got to ask is why, God? Why did you do it to me? Did you create me to make me suffer? For your own personal amusement?
Why did you take away my mother?!
What did I do that was so horrible? Am I like Job? Is that it? You do all this bad shit just to prove a fucking point? What did I ever do to you? I came into this life different. You should be respected for that. But instead, everybody takes away everything that you don't even have. And now I've fucked up."
A realization struck him.
Adam stood up, ran into the bathroom and gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He could not believe what he was seeing.
"Am I? Am I the bad guy? Am I the demon? What have I done? I didn't kill four people. I couldn't have."
—Flashes of the blood, the screams and the agony of his victims…
He grabbed his face, unable to look at himself anymore.
I've become all that I've ever hated.
Seconds later, he charged into the basement, built a bomb with the biggest pipe he had bought, and fused it with a simple lighter attached to an end-cap near a hole drilled into the side of it.
Now I'm armed. Anyone fucks with me, all I got to do is flick the switch and we're dead.
Adam didn't specifically build it to kill others; he did it to annihilate the real enemy he never could face—himself.
But he could not push the button.
Three days passed. On Friday afternoon…
Chris grabbed the remote. Hit power. The black screen was overwhelmed by color, voices, pictures. He jumped into bed and snuggled up under the covers. The air in his bedroom was cold. He could smell the Sloppy Joes his mother was cooking downstairs fairly well.
"I don't care! You're a bum! A bum is somebody who doesn't—" Judge Judy said to some loser. But Chris changed the channel. Oprah. He changed it again. Jerry Springer. Again. This time, an update on the local news about The Blake County Killer. A news reporter with wavy hair held a microphone up to his own mouth. He was standing on the bank of the Ohio River.
"We've just been informed that another body was discovered at this local dam an hour ago," the man said.
"Shit," Chris said.
***
Adam signed online. "You've got mail!"—the voice screamed through his speakers. Adam turned it down and opened his email box.
Three new messages!
One was an ad for Wal-mart.
The second was for a pre-approved credit card.
The last one was from Roseybabe1234.
His heart almost stopped.
***
Chris paced around his bedroom, phone in hand, wondering what to do. He knew he could not let this go any further. Adam had to be stopped, even if Chris did understand him. But summoning the courage to dial 911 was easier said than done. He didn't want to picture the police breaking his door down, cuffing a kid with severe problems, and throwing him into a sea of sharks. Or worse: them breaking the door down and putting a bunch of holes in his body.
I don't know if I can do this.
"Chris!" his mother called. "Food is ready!"
***
Adam clicked onto her email and read it:
"Adam, hi, how are you? I should not even be writing this email, because my mom and dad no longer want me to talk to you. I just wanted to say how sorry I am for hurting you so bad. I do apologize. I heard about your father on the news … missing and all, and just wanted to say how sorry I am for you. That's gotta be rough. I know things between us will never be the same and that I will never probably be able to talk to you again. I just want to say I'm sorry, and that I won't ever, ever forget you. Have a good life and keep writing."
Adam clicked off the email and went back to work on Damaged.
***
Chris devoured three Sloppy Joe sandwiches in less than three minutes. His mother and father, who were also sitting at the kitchen table, watched him as he ate mechanically and hurriedly. He moved on to his steak fries, not even dipping them in kitchen like he usually did. He wasn't really in the kitchen. Maybe not in the world.
A moment later, he got up and ran out of the room. He hadn't spoken a word.
***
Adam wrote faster than he had ever written before. Words poured onto the white void quickly, consistently. His fingers flew at the keys. His eyes had not looked this serious during any of his last four murders. He could not stop. He had to finish making a noise to the world, to explain in every minute detail how bad society was distorted.
In every way possible.
***
Again, Chris paced, phone still in hand. The food in his stomach wanted to come back up.
What will life be like without Adam?
He's my only friend who doesn't do drugs or drink.
He's my only friend who's more than honest but won't hurt me with honesty.
He's so one of a kind.
I remember the time when—
Chris stopped. He knew he'd be as crazy as Adam if he didn't make the call. So he did. He dialed 9-1-1, gave them Adam’s address, told them he was the killer, and hung up. Afterward, he fell onto the floor and cried.
***
Deputy Rivers, the same young, thin officer who had paid Adam a visit only days ago, was sitting in his patrol car outside a convenience store on Larick’s Street, trying to enjoy a coffee and doughnut when the call came in.
"Information on the teenage killer case! Check out the McNicols’ residence. 1199 Main St. Possible suspect.”
Startled by Becky Hiant’s loud voice and the abrupt idea that Adam (
the kid looked nothing like a killer
) may have done this, Rivers spilled some coffee on himself.
He took off down the road, sirens blazing. Other officers were informed soon afterward.
***
Adam sat on the living room couch and turned on the TV. A news reporter for Channel 9 filled the plasma screen. "If you're just tuning in, authorities have found another body in the Ohio River. A female about age 19, named Emma Lostone, has been discovered. However, she doesn't appear to be a victim in the recent lash of homicides. Apparently, her body has been in the water for some time. Local Officer Steve Hogens believes that it was a double suicide, as Ronald Lostone's body was also found only days ago. Now to—"
Adam gasped and shut off the television. He thought he could feel the police driving to his house even before they were anywhere close.
I hate you, Chris.
I die. Today.
***
Chris darted down Baskot Street as quickly as he could without losing his balance. Tears almost froze to his cheeks. Cars passed him, passed him, passed him. The Catholic church bell over and over again. He was headed straight toward Adam's house, hoping to get there before the cops arrived. He needed to be with Adam one last time. He didn't really care or think of being hurt in the process; he was going on instinct.
***
Ring, ring, ring.
"Come on, Chris, answer your fucking phone!" Adam said, with the phone to his ear.
Click!
"Hello?" Chris' dad answered.
“Chris? Is Chris there?" Adam grunted.
"Uh, no. I don't know where he went. He just stormed out of here like something was wrong."
"Did he say anything?"
"Did he say…?"
"Do you know if he's coming here?"
“I don't know. Adam, is everything all right?"
"No!" Adam hung up. He smashed the phone against the wall, breaking it into fragments. Now he
could hear the sirens.
***
"Coming up on the reported house," Rivers said into his CB as he rounded the corner of 15th street, almost crashing into a fire hydrant. A young boy in dark clothes followed the police car on his bike, peddling feverishly to try and keep up. He
knew
they'd found him—the murderer. He wanted to see who the hell it was.
Crazy Charlie? Drunken Bill?… Who?
Soon, other curious citizens stepped outside onto their porches or walkways, wondering what all the commotion was about.
“You're okay. You're okay. You're okay," Adam comforted himself. He was sitting in an old chair in his basement, the pipe bomb resting in his lap, accompanied by only one feeling: forthcoming demise.
"I am so fucked," he cried. He could hear the sirens, faintly but inevitably.
"Adam!!" Chris shouted as he let himself into Adam’s house and slammed the door behind him.
"I'm down here," Adam called.
Chris marched through the hallway and down the basement steps.
The last thing he expected to see was Adam with such a formidable-looking device resting on his lap. But he did not know what it was. "Adam?"
"Chris," Adam said, rocking forward and back, his eyes glassy and lifeless. "I can't believe you did it. You called the cops on me when you said you fucking wouldn't."
"Adam, they found another body. I said that—"
"It wasn't a murdered body!"
"What?"
"Some fucking whore jumped off a bridge or something. I didn't kill anybody since you told me not to. It was a suicide. You sure didn't waste your time, did you?"
"Oh, God. I didn't know, man, I swear." Chris looked at the metal contraption, the lighter… slowly it all came together.
He's got a fucking bomb.
"Adam, what are you going to do with that? Adam?"
Adam didn’t say a word. The sirens were very close. He thought he even heard a door slam.
"Is that what I think it is?" Chris asked. "Adam!"
“What! I'm thinking. I have to find a way out of this. I just have to. And if I don't—"
“If you don't—"
"BOOM! I'll kill all you motherfuckers."
"I'm not—Adam, I'm here because you're my friend."
"Yeah. Some friend."
"I said I was sorry."
***
Two patrol cars rounded opposite corners simultaneously. They both parked in the middle of the side street. Rivers exited, his face greasy with sweat. The other officer, a gray-haired man with bad acne scars, stepped out of his cruiser and approached his fellow policeman.
"Who the hell lives here?" the less-experienced officer asked.
"A boy named Adam McNicols. Kid ain't even 18."
"He's the—?"
"So somebody said. I guess we'll see in a minute."
***
“Adam, why in the hell did you make an explosive?"
"’Cause, think about it. I came into this world quiet; now I'm going out with a bang. Come on, you should know me better than that. It makes perfect sense. Not only do I die, but I take out the hero and his henchmen, too."
"Hero? You think I'm a hero? I fucking hate myself for calling 9-1-1."
"But you did!"
"Build me a time machine and I'll do different. Like I said, I did not know."
Adam sighed. "You just assumed, didn't you? Everybody assumes, don't they? If nobody assumed anything, then everybody would know a hell of a lot more."
Chris grew quiet, Adam restless, when there was an earsplitting knock on the door upstairs. The boys looked at one another. Chris in question and Adam in contempt.