Going Insane--A Psycho Thriller Page 2

  “But you’re not asleep, are you?” said David.

  “No, I’m not. When I started feeling sleepy, I took Modafinil. I use it to stay awake for several days straight. It’s a legal drug, okay. They use it in the Army, too.”

  “You’re not an angel yourself. I saw a sketch of your face on TV two hours ago.”

  “Really?” Ron frowned. “Seems like our hopes didn’t come true. That’s sad. Fortunately, I was prepared for such a twist.” He pointed at his moustache. “Now we will go out of the restroom, sit at the table, and wait for my friend Zack. Are you okay with that?”

  David cast an inquiring look at Ron and muttered:

  “Wait?”

  “Yes. And so that you won’t die of boredom I’ll tell you a riveting story about a guy who once upon a time sold auto parts in Southern California. You will like it. And we’ll also discuss how you can save yourself.” Ron zipped the bag. “Before I forgot, here’s an incentive for you to cooperate.” Ron whipped a .22 caliber revolver out of his pants pocket. “It’s small but it works fine. Please be reasonable and don’t try and pull any tricks.”

  “All right.” David marched to the door.

  They left the restroom and, after Ron phoned his friend, occupied a table in the corner furthest from the counter.

  “So what do you think about it?” asked Ron when he was done telling his riveting story. He spoke in a low voice, even though the diner was empty and there was no one to eavesdrop on them.

  “I think that guy got a raw deal,” answered David. “By the way, you said we would discuss my future.” He peered into Ron’s eyes.

  “Yeah, we need to talk about it.” Ron nodded. “All that crap about a wife and a kid and a mother-in-law--was it true?”

  David knitted his eyebrows and answered:

  “Not really. I have a girlfriend. Her name’s Jane.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “In Glendale.”

  “Do you live there too?” asked Ron.

  “I live near Glendale, in Pasadena.”

  “You understand that I’ll verify that information, don’t you?”

  “I have no doubt you will.”

  “Okay. Here’s the deal: you give us your girlfriend and I forget I ever met you.”

  “Really?” David made sure he did not sound sarcastic. “Is there any guarantee?”

  “No. All I can say to convince you is: we prefer doing it to women, okay. I’m sure you’re not prone to self-sacrifice. You will give her to us, right?”

  After a short pause David answered: “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  “Good. One more thing: why the hell did you steal that car? It’s too dangerous. What if the car was reported stolen?”

  “They are not going to find that guy any time soon.”

  “What about his relatives? They could report him missing by tomorrow morning. Why take an unnecessary risk?”

  “I needed a car. That’s it.” David looked in Ron’s emotionless eyes. “I don’t ask you why you and your friend killed that pregnant woman, do I?”

  “Fair enough. I’m just curious. I would never drive a stolen car for several hours.”

  “I was going to dump it in Sacramento.”

  They were speaking in amiable tones and behaved so courteously that a distant spectator could mistake them for very good friends.

  “After you were done with me?” asked Ron.

  “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”

  Ron flashed a soft smile.

  “I just wanted to explain why we shouldn’t use that Malibu anymore,” he said. “Do you have anything in there that can lead the police to you?”

  “Don’t worry. I never leave traces. By the way, what about that sketch of your face they’re showing on TV? You’re not cautious enough after all.”

  “That was just a ridiculous accident. A glitch. I guess she was just a very lucky girl. But her luck isn’t going to last for ever if you know what I mean.”

  #

  They heard the door open and both turned their heads to see who came in. It was the fourth customer in the thirty five minutes that had passed since Ron had called Zack. David was relieved to see the client was a deputy sheriff: a fit man, probably in his early forties, in aviator sunglasses with dark lenses. He took off his uniform hat, approached the counter, ordered a soda drink and a hamburger, and then parked himself at the nearby table. The rescuing idea exploded in David’s head as he peeked at the deputy chewing the burger. Certainly there was a hope these bastards would let him go after they had laid their hands on Jane, but he hated to gamble with his life. He realized he should hurry.

  “Listen, Ron,” he almost whispered. “I’m too tired of all that. I’ve got nothing to lose anyhow. You will kill me sooner or later, I know it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ron whispered too.

  “Now I’m going to get up and walk out of that door,” said David. “If you want to take a chance you may shoot me, but then you’ll have to shoot the deputy as well.”

  “Don’t be stupid, David. We have an agreement.” Ron’s eyes glared with agitation.

  “He is armed, and there is a probability that he’ll manage to draw his gun and kill you before you kill him. I guess you hate taking unnecessary risks. Good bye and good luck, Ron.”

  David rose from the table and headed for the exit. As he moved he strained his ears to figure out if Ron went after him or released the safety on his gun--he believed his looking back would degrade his newly acquired authority. Fortunately, David did not catch any suspicious sounds from behind his back. As he touched the door handle he heard the deputy sheriff stand up and stride towards the exit. When David put his foot down on the porch, he finally made up his mind. He stepped to the left, waited for the deputy to come out of the doorway, and grabbed him by the elbow.

  “Officer, there is a killer inside the diner,” he said in a low voice.

  “What?” replied the deputy, knitting his eyebrows.

  “He’s wearing blue jeans and a cream shirt. I saw his face on TV this morning. You’ve got to arrest him. Please be careful: he has a gun.”

  The deputy’s right hand pounced on the holster.

  “Wait here,” the deputy said, drawing his pistol. “I’ll go check on him.” He covered the gun with his hat and stepped inside the diner.

  David peered through the door, wasted a few seconds locating the table where he had left Ron, then turned around and jogged towards the Malibu. He figured it would take the deputy at least a couple of minutes to apprehend Ron, so he had time to get in the car and leave. The Malibu had not been reported stolen yet, and if anyone inquired about the car he could always claim that he had borrowed it from Kevin Conway. So he would drive it to the next town, where he would get on a bus or train after thoroughly wiping all his fingerprints from the car’s interior. Yes, the deputy had asked him to wait, but he was not obliged to do so. David fished the car keys out of his pocket. Ron should have confiscated the keys from him.

  Big mistake.

  Could Ron overpower and/or outwit the deputy? He sure could, but David did not care. All he needed was a few minutes to get the heck out of here.

  In the car, David had tried to insert the key into ignition several times before he discovered that there was something inside the key hole that did not let the key in. Then he realized that one detail was missing from the picture outside the diner: there was no sheriff’s office vehicle in the parking lot. Of course, that deputy could be driving his own car on the job today, David would not pay much attention to this fact under different circumstances. He just felt very uncomfortable with the idea that someone had intruded into the Malibu and tampered with the ignition, and suspicions began to rapidly build up in his brain. He lifted his face as he saw out of the corner of his eye somebody stood near the driver’s door. It was the deputy--or should he call him Zack?--who was swinging a pair of handcuffs in the air. David darted a glance to his right and saw a smiling Ron.

>   He breathed a heavy sigh. Well, he tried and he lost. Such was life.

  #

  Quite an amazing coincidence, wasn’t it? What were the odds that two serial killers will meet and have a ride in a car? Okay, with any probability, even a tiny one, it was only a matter of time. A while ago he read about a woman in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, who had won one million bucks on a scratch-off ticket two times in one year. There were only five one-million-dollar tickets in that lottery game, and the lady from Bethlehem won two of them. What are the odds of that? Astronomical. He had never won ten bucks on a scratch-off, let alone a million. God works in mysterious ways, folks. Mysterious indeed. The probability existed, and today the number came up. Nothing special.

  Okay, enough talking: he and Zack had some work to do.

  The End

  **

  Intoxication

  #

  When Leslie came back from the ladies’ room, she found out that Rick had drunk almost all of her poisoned coffee, which Helen Romero had brought to her office just minutes before Rick had barged in unannounced.

  “I didn’t see your name on that cup,” she commented with slight but discernable irritation as she sat down next to Rick, whose left arm was resting on the back of the leather couch, waiting to crawl upon her shoulders. Of course, when she said it, she had no idea that the coffee was contaminated and that she and eight of her coworkers would die of poisoning in less than three weeks. “And who told you that you can come here without an invitation? Or at least some warning?”

  “Come on, Leslie, don’t be in a bad mood again.” Rick smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “I was thirsty and I don’t drink those girlie diet sodas you keep around here, you know that. I missed you, by the way.”

  Looking back on this boring, ordinary conversation and the subsequent brief twenty minute make out session on the couch before they headed to Rick’s place, Leslie concluded that drinking that particular cup of coffee had probably been the most useful thing Rick had done for her in their entire three year relationship. He saved her life that evening and it was hard to beat. It could have been her instead of Rick lying on the carpet, gasping for air, her eyes red, her hair tousled, her heart palpitating, her mouth full of foul taste, and her face glistening with sweat.

  When he fell down on the floor halfway to the door out of the office, as if shot by a well-hidden sniper, Leslie thought it was one of those stupid jokes Rick liked to play. In those few moments it took him to collapse, he looked grotesque as he chaotically swung his arms as though trying to restore his balance or reaching for something to grab onto. Only ten seconds later did Leslie realize that Rick, who was helplessly squirming of the floor like a turtle flipped on its back, was not pulling a dumb stunt and actually could not get up on his own.

  “Rick, what’s wrong?” Leslie dashed to the man and, hunching over, grabbed hold of his shoulders, in a weak attempt to lift him. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay, I’m okay, don’t worry,” Rick mumbled. He tried to get up, leaning on his elbows, but quickly fell back on the floor. Leslie could swear his face was turning white.

  Leslie snatched her cell phone from the purse and pushed the dial button.

  “No 911! Don’t call 911!” hissed Rick.

  “Why?” Leslie almost yelled. “Rick, something wrong is happening to you. You could be having a heart attack, do you understand that?”

  Rick waved his hand in protest.

  “Don’t call them. They’re going to test my blood. And I’ve got something in my system. Whatever you do, don’t call 911. I’ll be fine in a couple of minutes.”

  “What do you have in your system?” Leslie angrily grimaced. “Are you doing coke again? You son of a bitch are doing that shit again?”

  “If Dad finds out I was using it, he’ll cut me off, that’s what he said.” Rick’s speech was slow, his eyes turned into slits, which he obviously struggled to keep open.

  Leslie heaved a sigh. How pathetic: Rick was thirty seven years old and still depended on his rich father’s subsidies. And he still had not gotten that monkey off his back; she would not be surprised if drugs killed him in the next twelve months.

  “Go to my car,” continued Rick. “There are adrenaline shots in the glove compartment. Bring them here. If my heart stops beating, give me a shot. Only when it stops beating, okay?”

  “Rick, you are an idiot! Did you overdose?”

  Rick shook his head.

  “Did I look overdosed when I came here? Don’t waste time, go to my car and get the adrenaline. Please. I’ll be fine.”

  Rick turned out right. He was breathing when she came back with two adrenaline syringes. His eyes were shut, there was not a flicker of movement in his entire body, but he was definitely alive: her makeup mirror misted when Leslie held it over Rick’s nostrils.

  #

  #

  Rick slept like a baby for the next three hours. He might have easily slept for another five if Leslie had not woken him up, having gotten bored of sitting in the office. Out of concern for his health--or, most likely, out of pity--Leslie drove Rick to her place and allowed him to stay the night. He was one of those people who, due to his own very questionable life choices, had never judged her and it would have been pretty sad to lose Rick only because there was no one to watch over him tonight. She poured herself half a glass of tequila and told Rick that she would break the bottle on his head if he tried to have some of it too.

  “I don’t know what was in that coffee, but whatever it was, alcohol will make things worse,” she said. Suspicions began to accumulate in her mind on the way home and once Leslie verbalized a small portion of them, she realized that it all made sense.

  With the brim of the glass pressed against her lower lip, Leslie confessed to herself that she believed Helen had put poison in her coffee. Why? She had not figured that out yet, but she would soon. She had not even made the first sip and now alcohol had found itself on the back burner of her consciousness.

  They say poison is women’s weapon of choice. Was it reasonable to assume that a woman—Helen—had poisoned her coffee? You could call her dumb, but she would do just that. This saying was a result of centuries of human experiences and who was she to argue with it?

  The most terrifying thing was it was so damn easy to put poison in her coffee! Anybody’s coffee in their office, for that matter.

  Then she thought about Rick. It was rather bitchy of her to have criticized him, even if she had never said it out loud, for mooching money from his dad. You bet she would do the same if her parents were loaded, which they were not: her father was an engineer and her mother worked for a medium size public accounting firm, your regular middle-middle class types, you know.

  Having forgotten about the glass in her hand, Leslie looked at the bottle of tequila standing lonely on the table. Or maybe the bottle was staring at her, disapprovingly, wondering why the hell she had all of a sudden stopped indulging in all that sweet, sweet firewater a year ago. Was it possible that her current moodiness was the result of losing that reliable source of fun and joy that booze represented? But you see, she had to quit after that little incident in Redondo Beach. The wake-up call was too loud to ignore. However, she still permitted herself to have a tequila shot or two from time to time—drink socially as they put it on dating websites.

  They did not have sex that night: Rick was fatigued and Leslie was preoccupied with devising a plan of action.

  That night, her descent into insanity began.

  #

  #

  “We need to test your blood, Rick,” Leslie said in a deliberately prosaic voice before breakfast the next morning. She had hoped that the more ordinary her request sounded, the more agreeable Rick would be to it. Last night she did a great deal of research on the internet and the nearest blood testing labs were one of the items she looked into. And she had already emailed George Colmes, the president of the company and her immediate boss, that she might be late today.

&nb
sp; “What for?” asked Rick with disinterest.

  “It has to be checked for poison. And we have to do it now before the poison leaves your system.”

  Rick turned his face to Leslie.

  “Are you serious?” he asked with a dumb smile.

  “Of course, I am serious. You do realize there was poison in that coffee.” Leslie followed Rick as he walked to the kitchen.

  “Come on, Leslie,” he said, opening the refrigerator. “You don’t actually believe in that. It sounds kind of paranoid.”

  “I am not asking if you agree with me, or not, Richard. I just need your help to gather some evidence.”

  “Well, it’s my blood. I think I do have some say here.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell your father about coke or whatever shit you are using nowadays. And I’m taking you to a private lab, not the police, okay? I will also pay for the test myself.”

  “Alright, alright,” replied Rick with an overdramatic hand gesture, as if he had just succumbed to several days of nagging. “Let’s do it. Just stay away from the cops, okay?”

  Rick had nothing to worry about: Leslie was not going to involve the police in solving her problems. She had harbored secret antipathy toward the law enforcement ever since the highway patrolman had given her a cell phone ticket on interstate I-5 on a Saturday afternoon about two years ago. The cop was wrong. While she would occasionally take a call when driving and did not consider it a big deal, she was not using the cell phone in any fashion in that particular instance. However, the patrolman dismissed her protests and handed her the damn ticket. The most devious thing about this ordeal was the outrageous discrepancy between the amount of the fine the patrolman gave her (“It’s something like twenty bucks, Miss Lorne,” he said) and the number printed on the letter from Orange County Supreme Court—146 American dollars. The fine was twenty dollars all right, but they also slapped you with several fees and surcharges, which amounted to well over a hundred bucks. The final insult was the judge taking the cop’s side (yes, she actually ended up going to court to prove her innocence) and giving her a lousy fifteen dollar discount on the amount of the fine.