Okay, from what I can tell by the feedback I'm getting, more of you want me to continue then want me to stop. And since this book is nine years old and doesn't require any actual writing (just formatting issues), I have taken it upon myself to finish posting this book. So for those of you who like it, you'll get it straight to the end. And to those of you who hate it, you'll get your regularly scheduled programming probably by Wednesday (snippet day!)
Chapter 9
Saturday, April 24, 1999
Jim Phelps rose from his dirty bed at Ten AM. He turned on the light. His room was a mess. Clothes, books, empty soda cans, parts of newspapers, boot polish and empty boxes all sat deep in dust. His twin bed without frame slumped against the far wall, stained and smelly. His computer sat on his desk buried behind mounds of paperback science fiction and CD cases. He surveyed the mess, shrugged and stared out the window.
In his backyard, a white picket fence wrapped around his family’s designated outer living space. Green, green grass, he thought, on the other side of the fence.
He walked downstairs, still naked, past his father who sat at the kitchen table reading the paper.
“Morning,” his father said from behind the paper.
“Morning,” said Jim, walking across the kitchen floor with a glass of grapefruit juice in his right hand.
He opened the front door and stared out at the upper middle class homes. The warm sun and cool breeze felt good on his muscular bare chest. He scratched the zits on his back and shoulders. His mother, gardening with her posterior toward the house, didn’t notice him either.
No one, thought Jim Phelps, will notice me today.
He walked back inside, upstairs to his bedroom.
Jim picked up the phone and called an acquaintance named Steven Carter.
“Steve,” Jim spoke. “When you pick me up, bring that poem you wrote, you know the one where all the jocks and social people deserve death.”
“Why the hell would I do that?” Steve’s voice sounded nervous. He was after all, thought Jim, a spineless little geek.
“Because, I want to read it at the party—maybe even out loud.”
“Okay, man. But I think you’re being a little weird.”
“Oh man,” joked Jim. “You don’t know the half of it.”
Jim hung up the phone.
Steven Carter, an eloquent, educated, student of the written word would have to die.
Too bad, thought Jim Phelps. Too bad.
Joe Corolla rose to consciousness reluctantly. After the long, laborious, time consuming task of opening his eyelids, Joe wished he’d kept them closed.
He was in the unfinished basement of a high school party thrown by some Junior whose name, much like the previous evening, he’d forgotten. He lay fully clothed on the concrete ground, his head resting on a few wadded up bed sheets. People lay slumped around him in comforters, blankets and on a few old couches.
With his left hand pushing off the wall and his right hand pushing off the floor, Joe stood, swaggered a little, fought the serious head rush and balanced his charred equilibrium.
He pulled a wrinkled, bent cigarette from his front left Jean pocket, lit it, then glanced around the room. He spotted Atwood Nash on his back using a rolled up doormat as a pillow.
Joe bent over Atwood and blew cigarette smoke in his sleeping face.
Atwood, coughed, rolled over, but did not awaken.
“Get up, Nash,” said Joe, kicking the hockey player softly with his foot.
“What the fuck?”
Corolla watched with interest as Atwood fought to open his eyes. Joe helped up his colleague and the two exited via the sliding glass door.
In the yard, juniors walked around like zombies picking up beer cans, paper cups and cigarette butts. Neither Joe nor Atwood helped clean. They stood on the cement porch, smoking cigarettes, speaking softly.
“So,” said Joe. “Monday morning, before the coffee is made, you’re just going to slip in and drop acid in the coffee grounds?”
“Pretty much,” said Atwood.
“I don’t know. After talking to Ethan, I’m thinking this might not be the best idea ever.”
Atwood’s innocent baby face, topped off with matted red hair and dabbled with Rockwell-like orange freckles grimaced maniacally.
“It’s the perfect plan,” he said. “The counseling loft is always open. I’ll just go to school early, get to the perfectly exposed coffee pot after the janitor opens up the boiler room entrance in the morning, and make a very special pot of coffee for my elders.”
“What do I need to do again?”
“Keep your mouth shut and drive my car around the block. I’ll meet you on King Street between six and seven AM.”
Joe Corolla pulled a crooked joint from his crumpled cigarette box and lit it before nodding in agreement. One minute later, the back yard cleaning crew took time out and joined the marijuana smoking.
No one asked Joe or Atwood to clean a thing.
They said their good-byes to the party, each quietly counting down the days until graduation.
Deborah Van Klein and Ethan Lee ate sweet sausage omelets on his porch. Lulu ran around the yard, sniffing for animals.
Deborah was so happy, she couldn’t stop smiling at her food. The lovemaking of the previous night had been the best she’d ever experienced. She still felt the repercussions of a serious orgasm. Her red face beamed in the morning light.
As a form of gratitude, she had straightened Ethan’s room and made breakfast while he slept.
“I am so damn happy,” said Ethan, washing down the remainder of his breakfast with the remainder of his glass of milk.
“Me too,” cooed Deborah.
“I’m no longer a drug dealer,” said Ethan.
A disconcerting silence reached across the table and slapped Ethan in the mouth.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I’m glad you made the choice.”
I’m glad I’m still alive, thought Ethan.
“It’s unfair to say this now,” Ethan started. “But I’m free from the grasp of a very organized criminal empire.”
“Don’t tell me anymore,” said Deborah, staring into the Ten AM sun. “I don’t want to know.”
“I’m gonna’ play Legion ball this summer,” he said in an effort to change the topic.
“Great,” she said. “I can’t wait to go the games and scream my lungs out for you.”
“Me neither,” he said.
“What made you decide to start playing again?”
“Oh, I knew I’d play legion ball again. It’s better than high school ball anyway, and there’s less politics. Coach Krevner will just have me start every three games and leave me alone. No drug tests, no yearbooks, no politics or school pride issues—just baseball.”
“When does it start?”
“June Tenth,” he shrugged as if unsure of the exact date. “I’ll start getting my arm ready with Joe on Monday.”
“I’m glad for you.”
“I’m glad for me too,” said Ethan. “Indeed, the love of a good woman has straightened me out.”
“Aww,” said Deborah Van Klein, standing and hugging her boyfriend.
The good woman then cleared the table, washed the dishes, placed them back into the cabinets, went to the bathroom and threw up her breakfast.
Ethan lit a joint and watched the Saturday Chester Road traffic scurry around below him.
Suckers, he thought, blowing smoke from his nose.
At Six PM Ethan showered, dressed in his Sunday best (a tailor made, charcoal suit with white pin stripes) and went upstairs to meet his parents, now home from their business trip.
Ethan knew the sermon would mention the Columbine incident.
In fact, the entire sermon had been on the Columbine incident. Dr. Warren went on for twenty minutes on faith in the face of death, focusing much of the sermon on a young lady who, when asked (with a gun pointing in her face) if she believed in God, said “yes” and was promptly murdered. Dr. Warren concluded that faith in the face of death, though difficult and sometimes life threatening helps earn you divine life in heaven.
Ethan didn’t care much about divine life in heaven. He felt divine life right now. The Columbine murders and indeed, God, seemed so far away from the innocent, pure love he felt for Deborah, his friends, his parents and his new freedom. Usually, in church, Ethan felt like a sinner, for indeed he had been a drug-dealing, crime-pulling murderer.
However, today he felt like a man with a purpose. His sins had been rationalized away. He was on the path to suburbia. He saw marriage, kids, little league games…
As the service ended, Ethan’s father tapped him on the shoulder.
“Son,” he said. “How was your day dream?”
“Divine, father.” Ethan grinned. “Divine.”
After dinner, Ethan changed into a white cotton button down, a pair of gray Austin Reed slacks, black Florsheim shoes and a thick black belt. He looked like Jonathan Lowmire, but he felt like Ethan Lee.
Deborah arrived in her Honda Civic. She looked playfully sexy in a pair of green, cotton shorts and a gray half-shirt.
“A little overdressed for a bonfire, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Not really. Screw these clothes.”
“Whatever, Ethan,” she sighed.
She shut her front door, locked it and they walked to her car.
“Do you want to drive?” she asked. “I don’t know where I’m going.”
Ethan smiled.
Ethan drove.
He fought the urge to propose marriage the entire ride over.
Deborah and Ethan arrived at the party around Ten PM—early enough to spend a few moments with close friends and late enough to avoid helping set up the party. When Deborah and her boyfriend arrived, only Joe Corolla, Atwood Nash, and John Jenkins, the host, were present, with the exception of five women whose names neither Ethan nor Deborah knew.
Everyone stood around the keg. Introductions were in order. Introductions were made. All five of the women were beautiful specimens but Ethan hardly noticed. Deborah watched with much interest, making sure these women saw her kiss him repeatedly. She needn’t have bothered. Ethan was still working the idea of a marriage proposal out of his head.
“What’s that woods for?” Joe asked John.
“Hunting, mainly.”
“Ain’t that kind of dangerous, right by your house?” asked Atwood.
“Yeah. We always end up with shells in the wall of the house. Fuck it though.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Deborah. “I like it here.”
“Well,” said John. “Let’s start this fire.”
The bonfire, about forty feet in diameter, churned wildly as kids of all ages drank, smoked, made love in the woods and cheered with the vibrancy of good times en masse.
From Jim Phelp’s deer stand, one could look out and see a sea of partying: hundreds of people divided in groups ranging from seven to forty: playing cards, getting naked, pouring beer on each other, chugging beer, shot-gunning beer, making beer can art, kissing, fighting, lighting off fireworks and generally blowing off steam. The fire stood in the middle, illuminating the entire mess.
Jim Phelps and Steven Carter had left Jim’s house at Eleven PM.
“You got the poem?” Jim asked when Steven showed at his door.
“Yeah, aren’t you a little under dressed?”
Phelps wore a pair of dirty Cargo shirts covered in pockets and a ripped, black T-shirt.
“It’s outside,” he shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll be alright.”
When they got to within one mile of the gravel parking lot, Jim said, “Park here, that way we won’t get jammed in there and we can leave when we want.”
Steven Carter did as he was told. Steven Carter always did what he was told. He stood five foot six with thin, almost white hair. Skinny, with thick glasses and small blue eyes, his frame, appearance and demeanor almost demanded someone boss him around.
“I know a shortcut through the woods.”
They walked towards the woods.
“Let me see that poem,” he said.
Steven Carter did as he was told.
Fifty feet away from the barrage of partying Ethan Lee sat and did his best to ignore an unofficial wet T-shirt contest seven or eight women had started. Deborah Van Klein sat close as Ethan described the party.
“You see, those two little groups.” He pointed to two small groups of nine or ten people standing three feet apart from each other.
“Yeah.”
“That’s the freshman roller blade hockey team and the freshman ice hockey team. They hate each other. They’re trying to get drunk enough to fight. You can just tell by their mannerisms that they’re pumping each other up.”
“I see.” Indeed the clique members seemed irate. “Why do they hate each other?”
“Roller blade hockey guys always get called pussies by the ice hockey guys. A few play on both teams but they don’t usually hang with either team.”
“Oh.”
“That group over there is the couples group,” he pointed at about forty students all sitting in a pile, dispensing canned beer, laughing and occasionally letting the men speak. “They’d welcome us with open arms,” joked Ethan.
“And the rest of the cliques are divided by age group and popularity: freshman girls, sophomore girls, cheerleaders, upper classmen, football players, socialites and on and on.”
“Wow. Sounds like you’re having fun.”
“If you weren’t here, well hell, I’d rather be shot dead than hang out here.”
Just as the band covered Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” to a jeering crowd, Jim Phelps raised his weapon. He had sited Steve Shermer, Joe Corolla, Brian Durbin, Luke Johnson and Derrick Mays, his five victims. All were socialite bullies leading wholly superficial lives.
What a shame, thought Jim Phelps as he stared down and looked at the struggling body of Steven Carter at the base of the tree, hog tied with a piece of hate verse in his front left pant pocket. Gagged and blindfolded, the little poet pulled and tugged at the ropes, making little grunts and muffled yells. Steve Carter was really too good a person and too much of a fellow intellectual to murder and frame, but alas, thought Jim, war is hell.
After patiently waiting until almost one in the morning, Jim Phelps finally had his shot.
All five of the intended victims were standing in a circle smoking a joint.
He aimed.
He steadied his breath.
He saw the circle within the center of each target.
Slowly, he pointed the muzzle at each one of them, as if playing connect the dots in the air.
Ethan Lee and Deborah Van Klein laid at the foot of the woods, stared up at the night sky and listened to the sounds of a peaking party. The fire raged, the band jammed and all the partying, socializing voices mingled such that Ethan couldn’t help but hear a soothing song in their chiming chorus of adolescence.
“Hey, Mr. Faded Away, you wanta’ hit this?” Joe Corolla held up a joint about twenty feet from Ethan Lee.
“Sure,” Ethan stood up.
The first bullet fired hit Joe Corolla in the chest. A small geyser of blood escaped Joe Corolla's torso as he fell to the ground with a lit joint between his forefinger and thumb.
No sooner had Deborah Lee shrieked before Steve Shermer, trying to catch the collapsing Joe Corolla, took a bullet in the forehead.
Someone yelled, “it’s coming from over there” as students scrambled and hustled in a futile attempt to escape the unseen assassin.
Luke Johnson fell next.
As Ethan looked to the distant horizon, he realized the source of this chaos lay about two hundred feet away from him in the woods. Someone had a scope aimed at the party.
As Brian Durbin’s chest exploded behind him, Ethan Lee suddenly realized he was walking towards the source of the gunfire. Before Ethan could even rationalize his foolish actions, a shot whistled over his head and ended the life of Derrick Mays.
Ethan did not notice a bullet buzzing one foot from his right ear.
He had walked untouched through the mess of escaping teenagers. Now, they were all behind him. He could see a shadow in a deer stand about twenty feet into the woods.
The shadow saw him.
Jim Phelps first wondered what the hell was wrong with Ethan Lee. If Mr. Popular wanted to die, well then, so be it.
Jim raised the gun and aimed at Ethan’s charging head. He had almost fired before his own rationalization saved Ethan Lee’s life.
Murder, thought Jim Phelps, is killing people who don’t deserve death.
“However,” Jim spoke a quote from one of his favorite movies, “since I can’t have you following me either…”
He pointed the gun and took aim.
The pain in Ethan Lee’s right quadricep was ridiculous. First, the tearing of flesh and the zinging bite, like no mosquito or wasp could muster on the hottest, wettest Florida day, followed by the hobbling, shooting pain that overwhelmed his entire right leg, then the complete immobilization of his body as he collapsed to the ground, both hands pushing on his fresh wound.
He heard voices behind him, men and women alike, as he lay on the ground, paralyzed by pain and fear.
He heard Deborah’s voice coming closer.
“Ethan,” she yelled over and over.
The sound of a fresh gunshot echoed from the woods, but hit no one at the party.
“Deborah, stay back until this is over!” yelled Ethan with all his rage.
But it was already over.
The moment Jim Phelps fired a shot into Ethan, the avenging killer jumped down from the tree, stuck a gun under Steven Carter's jaw and blew his head off. He then untied the ropes and stuffed them in his pockets. He placed the body in a believable suicide position, (with the gun pressed into his right hand, thumb on the trigger finger) and ran off into the woods. Because Jim had worn gloves, the only prints would be those of Steven Carter.
God rest his soul, thought Jim Phelps as he climbed into his beaten, anonymous getaway Gremlin.
In fifteen minutes, the efficient Jim Phelps had ditched the car and walked three miles to a bus stop where he sat reading a pocket book copy of Sir Thomas Moore’s, Utopia, pleased with his place in the world.
Ethan sat up after five minutes of silence and called for Deborah. She was crouched next to the five victims, all lying flat like a loose circle of fallen dominoes. She came running to the sound of his voice. The light of the fire helped her spot him. Ethan saw tears in her eyes as she embraced her loving boyfriend.
“What the hell is wrong with this place?” she sobbed. “Why do people have to do this?”
Ethan shook his head.
“Please help me up,” he said and she did.
After ripping his expensive shirt into a bandage and tying it tight around his right leg, Ethan limped, with Deborah’s help to the bodies of Joe Corolla and Steve Shermer. A large gathering of people stood in a circle twenty feet in diameter and stared at the recently departed.
The crowd parted for Ethan as he hobbled up to the body of Joe Corolla. Ethan, with his right arm wrapped around Deborah so tightly she could feel a loss of circulation, stared at the ground below into his friend’s eyes.
Ethan Lee released his grip and fell onto his left knee. He removed the joint from Corolla’s dead hand and flicked it into the woods. Ethan’s fingers softly closed Joe’s eyelids.
“Fuck the little things,” said Ethan as tears forced down his cheeks.
He cried the entire way to the hospital.
Deborah drove quickly, with the hopes that a police officer would pull her over and give them an escort.
As she watched Ethan sob like a baby into his bare chest, she wondered what kind of secrets hid in his head. Certainly, this was not the first person he’d seen murdered. She wanted to ask him but she didn’t want to know.
She bit her lip and began crying again.
This was simply too much.
Ethan and Deborah were unfamiliar with the makeup of St. Andrew’s hospital and accidentally walked through the visitor’s entrance. Nevertheless, a nurse had Ethan in the emergency room twelve minutes after his arrival.
During surgery, Ethan dreamt that a doctor removed a part of him. The doctor, with a face buried behind a surgery mask, reached into Ethan’s chest and pulled out a shining, golden light.
“This,” he said to a horrified Ethan, “is of no use to you any more.”
The doctor then handed the glowing light to an obese, pimply-faced female nurse. She scowled at Ethan as she strangled the light with her huge hand.
When she finished, she opened her hands and revealed a black and red mess dripping all over her scrubs and onto the floor.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It all washes away.”