II

The car churned and lurched violently. The brake pads burned then turned to smoke as the car struggled to a halt. The deer bounced off the hood and tore open from the force of impact, spraying gore and entrails all across the windshield. I had swerved to avoid hitting the animal, futilely as it were, and we collided with a car in the adjacent lane. I was knocked unconscious at some point during the second impact, amidst the car's spiraling, and awoke upside down in a ditch beside the highway. The car was smoking and the air was filled with the eerie quiet of sudden catastrophe. Omber, asleep to my right, brandished a bloody gash across his dented brow which looked relatively benign. I loosed myself and scrambled out of the car frantically, hoping to seize the moment and evade the child for good. Once I freed myself however, I realized that it might be best to capitalize off of the situation - to murder the boy and make it look like he'd died in the crash. With whiplash hands I could snap his little neck and no one would ever know.

Mercy, what was I thinking? Could a man so easily be driven to murder? Sure, I'd been kidnapped, sure I'd been handcuffed and held hostage and abused but, murder? I stood outside the car trembling, deliberating, wondering whether I should revenge or run while devils and angels played musical chairs on my shoulders.

Sirens squealed in the distance like screeching bats, tracking me by sonar. If I were to act, it had to be now. As I pried open the door it let out a whimpering metal howl and I knelt down to look at the boy. Still asleep. Hesitantly, I sent my arms toward his head, paused, retreated, and pushed them forward again. When my hands reached the boy's temples I stopped and took a deep breath. His head was clammy and cold, his hair was wet. Tears stung my eyes as I committed myself to taking his life, but then, as if summoned from a deep dark ocean, his blue eyes opened wide and rolled toward me like marbles. I'm sorry, I said, you've left me with no choice. But we were partners, said Omber, looking at me as though genuinely betrayed. Partners, I said, shocked, since when? Had the boy experienced a head trauma severe enough to render this delusion? Yes, he said, the bank heist, our last job; we'll never have to work again. He must have mistaken me for someone else, a former crook or colleague. We've gone over it, he continued, we've mapped it out and we can pull it off. Don't do this.

Hey, a voice called out, you alright down there? Looking up toward the highway I saw a wiry looking man rushing down toward our car. Quick, Omber said, unhook me. I'm sorry, I can't, Omber. And before the boy could say another word, with a fierce twist, I broke his neck. The human head becomes oddly musical when the thing is done; its corporeal acoustics amplify the crunching sound of bone as though it were a hollowed instrument. The sound, unique and final, like the smashing of an electric guitar, can only be made once.

Oh, but what a sound!

With that one quick motion I was free of the little demon and all his evils. Hey mister, I came as fast as I could. I saw the accident, saw you roll over into the ditch. Don't worry, everyone is ok up there, but how about...and then he stopped talking. I'm not sure if it was the look of elation I surely wore, or whether it was the child's blood on my hands, or the horrid angle at which Omber's head hung in the passenger chair, but the man knew something terrible had just transpired. Kneeling there, halfway in the car, I noticed the gun was within my reach, on the ceiling behind Omber's seat. Hey m-m-mister, I d-do-don't know what's going on here but I can mind my business, honest. Well, I said, honestly, if we're being honest, I just killed the boy. You've had the unfortunate luck of a good samaritan turned witness, and now I'll have to kill you, too.

I grabbed the gun and pointed it at the man. He put his hands up in defense and staggered back a few paces before tripping over a stone. You don't have to do this, man, I won't tell no one, I swear! That's a chance I can't take right now, I told him. You see, I've been granted a golden opportunity here. If I kill you, the police will think that you're me - the elusive cold-blooded cop-killer - and I'm you - the hero motorist. Get up. Get in the car. C-c-come on mister, I h-h-have a wife, and a family. I swear I won't say nothing! Seeing as he was in shock and in need of some convincing, I had to whip him across the face with the butt of the pistol to explain that I was quite serious; that these weren't suggestions, they were commands. He stood up and walked toward the driver's side door before breaking into another fit of hysterical entreaties. The c-c-car is upside down, h-how do you expect me to get in? He was right, of course, this was a problem. A handstand just wouldn't do. First thing's first, I said, empty your pockets. Please, I'm begging you, don't k-k-kill me mister. Again, I had to introduce his chin to the hard bottom of the gun for him to obey me. I mused about the lucrative career I might have as a dog trainer if I were to free myself of this trouble before the police arrived. Now, said I, remove your clothes; we are to switch. W-w-what? His stutter was beginning to grate on me. Now, I yelled, as I cocked the pistol and pointed it at his skull, we are running out of time. I wondered what musical sound the head might produce if destroyed this way; the bursting of a snare drum perhaps.

He removed his shirt and shoes and pants and stood before me in women's underwear, a bra, and stockings. I was flummoxed. The red fishnet panties were ghastly against his pale skin and his legs wore an unkempt 5 o'clock shadow from thigh to ankle. His body had all the grotesque cartoon horror of a Ren and Stimpy close up. He stood awkwardly, somewhat cross-legged, vulnerable, proud yet demure. Curly hairs corkscrewed out from his chest and climbed over the leopard-print bra like ivy. You know what, let's not switch after all, I said, I'll keep your clothes. Get into the car. Sobbing, the woe-man dropped down to his hands and knees and tried to enter the overturned vehicle. A testicle peeked out from his lacy underwear as he crawled into the car. It jiggled pathetically as he wept and I had to look away in disgust. How strange some people are! And a little higher, creeping out from the opposite side, was that the string of an inserted tampon?

I can't, he screamed from inside, he's looking at me. I can't, I w-w-won't die inside a car beside a dead k-k-kid! I walked around to the passenger side and reached into the car, slammed his face against the ceiling and then fired the gun into the back of his head. I then placed the pistol into Omber's cold dead hands and turned toward the highway. I climbed out of the ditch and made my way to the transvestite's car, the one I was to escape in. How fortuitous that he came along, I thought. I couldn't have planned it better myself. The papers are going to eat this up. I could see the headlines: murderous cop-killing transvestite pedophile and kidnapped child found dead after tragic car wreck. Poor bastard. Hopefully the gunshot wound will make identifying the body a bit more difficult. As I drove off I reflected on the things I'd just done; murder; murder again; carjacking; vehicular deerslaughter. Poor deer.

That night, after narrowly escaping the scene on the highway, I drove for as long as I could and then checked into a roadside motel, one Omber would've been proud of. I laid in bed unable to sleep, looking through the late Bobbi Fortay's wallet and thinking how everything happened so quickly. Then it hit me - the details of the murders didn't add up. Cold panic choked me and my thrashing heart forced me upright. I wasn't safe. They'd be looking for me once they uncovered my error. It doesn't seem plausible that Omber could've shot Bobbi while driving, given they crashed because of the deer. And Omber couldn't have shot him after they crashed, because that would suggest he survived the accident and then had his neck broken. And then there was the gunshot, which I'm sure was heard by every bystander on either side of the highway. Damn it! This was a terrible cauldron of carelessness that I was cooking in. New news headlines ran through my head like a scrolling marquee: Cop-killer still at large, two more dead as manhunt continues.

The night I spent in that dirty motel room was the most harrowing, tormented, sleepless night I ever had the displeasure of knowing; worse even than the first night of my abduction with Omber. Frenzied fits of delirium shook me and I believed myself to be withdrawing from kindness and conscience, bleeding out whatever benevolence remained in my sinner's blood, transformed like a howling hemophiliac into a monster beneath the full moon. As that night lingered on, dawdling, then deciding to dwindle, I began to see the light. It spilled through those filthy windows, catching pieces of floating dust, briefly causing them to glitter and turn gold before illuminating all the nastiness of the room. How, I wondered, could such a sparsely furnished room induce such a claustrophobic uncleanliness? The walls were painted white but had turned a sort of brownish grey and were peeling in the corners where they met the ceiling; the garishly colored comforter hung too far over the bed, always touching the floor which, itself wore numerous dark and light stains as though it were the fur of a dead Dalmatian. It was clear to me then, in that room, that things couldn't ever be the same.

Then, there was a knock on the door.

I wasn't expecting anyone so I did not get up, did not make a sound. I felt that if I didn't move I might seem invisible and whoever it was would go away. From the crack at the bottom of the door I saw the shadows of two feet. I held my breath and didn't blink as I summoned my spirit animal: a taxidermied chameleon. The two feet became a long, solid shadow, which became three fleshy fingers reaching under the door. In response, I reached for my gun.

...