The Serial Killers Club Part 27

Betty positions the typed note against my forehead, lines it up so that it sits squarely, and reaches for the staple gun.

"Don't move now, Dougie. . . ."

The staple gun is pressed against my forehead, awaiting Betty's downward pressure.

"Know why I kill like this?"

I offer a faint shrug, careful not to move my head for fear of ruining Betty's carefully positioned note. "Your mom?"

"Clever boy, Dougie. You got a brain in there after all."

"To be honest, it's always the mom."

Betty is about to staple the sheet to my forehead when she suddenly has her feet dragged from under her. She slides down, smashes her chin on the edge of the table, and falls toward Agent Wade, who grips her ankles with all his might.

"The gun, Dougie! It fell under the sofa," Agent Wade screams at me before Betty turns and kicks hard at him. But he hangs on for grim death, and at long last I get the chance to do something right for once in my life. I take a run and dive for Agent Wade's gun, skidding along the carpet, my arm snaking under the bolted-down sofa, my hand closing on the fallen revolver, fingers reaching for it, stretching, grasping, knowing that if I was just a couple of inches taller, I'd have it.

Betty kicks hard at Agent Wade, manages finally to get free of his grip.

But I am tall, I know I am. I'm bigger than everyone thinks, I know it.

My fingers inch along under the sofa, my arm is almost out of its socket as I stretch as far as I can.

Betty grabs her knife and comes for me. "Bye, Dougie."

I'm bigger than anyone. I tower over people; my shadow blots out skysc.r.a.pers. They've had me wrong all these years.

I Am Someone.

Betty's knife flashes through the air, its razor tip driving toward my heart. The bullets get home first, though-blowing Betty to kingdom come in the process.

AMERICAN HERO.

THE TYPED NOTE READS:.

Number 303.

Betty couldn't even come up with a secret recipe for me. Just a stupid number, making like I was a statistic instead of the hero I am.

I wanted to bury Agent Wade, but there was no real way of doing it without attracting a lot of attention. Instead I laid him on the sofa, switched on the television-some Randolph Scott movie, where he aims his weapon at seminaked Indians-and cupped his arm around the empty KFC bucket. Couch potato heaven. Betty I dragged into the washroom and dumped there. I don't really know why, but I just didn't want her sharing the same room as Agent Wade. She didn't deserve to.

I have finally found the security camera still, the photo of me killing Errol Flynn. It was wedged under the loose tiles in my kitchen, the same tiles that I myself had tried to uproot in my desire to escape Agent Wade all of two months ago now. As I look at the photo again, I realize it is nearly impossible to make out anything at all-it looks more like a picture of E.T. poking his long red finger into a sack with a bra wrapped round it-but just for good measure I tear the photo into tiny pieces and dump them into the waste disposal. I feel like a free man.

A new man.

GERONIMO.

EPILOGUE: FEDERAL AGENT.

So there you have it. My story. At least the story so far. Chicago's just one of many places I intend to visit. I drive Agent's Wade car everywhere now, flash his shield, and get free parking practically anywhere I want to. Even in s.p.a.ces reserved for the disabled. In fact, I often lie in wait as they approach their allotted parking s.p.a.ces, only to floor the accelerator and dart in right in front of them. Waving the FBI badge in their angry, righteous faces has become one of my all-time favorite gags.

I have changed my name again. Douglas Fairbanks Jr. is no more. I am now called something else, and I think it is perfectly suited to my new mission in life.

Only yesterday I knocked on the door of someone I thought could develop into a serial killer, given time. The woman, easily well into her sixties-you're never too old, is my motto-and lame, peered at me with a real look of what could only be called guilt. I flashed the FBI badge at her. "Hi, I just thought it fair to warn you that I know what you are planning to do. Your murderous intentions have been noted, so take heed. Because I am watching you."

"Wha.s.sat you say? You'll have to speak up. . . ."

"Make one wrong move and I will be in your face faster than you can say Elizabeth Taylor."

The woman tried her best, but there was no way I was going to let her fool me, and I think she knows that now. When you've spent the amount of time with skillers that I have, spotting one is like second nature.

I have decided to pay a visit to every single would-be serial killer I can find. I am going to warn them all that I am on their case. Sitting in the trunk is Agent Wade's typewriter, and every month I make out a report and send it to FBI headquarters at Quantico, just to let them know that I'm out there keeping this country safe. I was born for this life.

I switch off Agent Wade's mini tape recorder. All this talking has made me thirsty, and I take a long, refreshing sip of Bud. I sit back in the two-man booth where-in what feels like another life-Roger and Rock sat. I glance over to the corner of the room where the Club first met.

I can almost see cigarette smoke rising in clouds to the ceiling. Familiar faces appear, laughter erupts, there's a scuffle, hand gestures to a waitress, someone does a magic trick. I catch s.n.a.t.c.hes of dialogue from voices I will probably never forget.

"I kill, therefore I am."

"Hey, Larry's got a new tie. Someone's birthday, by any chance?"

"Sweet Jesus, that b.i.t.c.h was askin' for it. Beggin' me, 'Do it, do it, do it.'"

"It's in his kiss, that's what it is."

"I turn people to stone. Not literally, you understand, but I kinda replace their blood with plaster of paris. My wife thinks I'm at pottery cla.s.s."

"Hey, Dougie . . ."

"Yo, Dougie . . . big man. Hey, good to see you."

"Dougie, over here . . . saved you a seat."

"Dougie . . . this Club would be nothing without you."

"Dougie . . ."

"Yo there, Doug . . ."

"Dougie's here! Hey, everyone! Dougie's here! The fun starts now, folks."

"Dougie, you are hilarious. . . . You kill me, you really do."

A waitress steps into my view and breaks my concentration. The voices and faces fade away, and the grin on my lips slowly shrinks. I let my eyes rise the length of the waitress's body and meet her jade green eyes. She smiles and awaits my order, pad and pen ready. I glance at the menu, trying to find something remotely appetizing. I eventually close the menu and hand it back to the green-eyed waitress.

"I, uh . . . I guess I'm not hungry."

"Nothing there takes your fancy?"

"I'm a fast-food guy at heart."

"Suit yourself."

The waitress shrugs, collects the menu from me, and turns to go, but I suddenly catch her arm, taking her by surprise. I swear to G.o.d, there's something about her.

"Hey-hands off!"

Jesus Christ, they're everywhere.

Green-Eyes glares at me as I flip out my ID and shove it under her nose. "Federal agent Kennet Wade. Got something you want to tell me?"

I go for my gun.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

First and foremost, huge thanks to Barbara J. Zitwer and Valerie Hoskins. Their matchless determination and belief made this book possible. To my great dad, Brian, and my lovely mum, Beryl, who made me possible. To my equally lovely sister, Mandy, and brother, Tim, who always thought this was possible. And to Rachel, Alexa, Naomi, and Milo-who are the best kids possible. Also to Karen Kosztolnyik for her insight and creativity and to Rebecca Watson for being Rebecca Watson.