Chapter 4
FOUR
In Over My Head - grandson
The wind whistles in my driver’s side door, rushing around the car as I floor it through the country roads. I only have one key, which means I’ve picked the lock enough times that it doesn’t fully seal now. The wind is loud, its white noise filling the car, filling my head and rattling it like a magic eight ball.
Someone saw me. Someone saw me.
‘You’re getting sloppy.’
“Shut the fuck up,” I snap.
It’s early morning now, but no one is out on these roads. They’re just used by the farmers and locals to get between towns. I picked them for that very reason.
‘The cops are probably there already. Did you leave any underwear out?’ The voice is dry.
“I said,” I grab Buffalo and toss him in the backseat, “shut up!” I hear him bounce off the seat, then the voice says, ‘Jesus!’
Immediately, I feel a flash of regret. I shouldn’t have thrown him. I’m still buzzing a little.
In my sober moments—or my hungover ones—I know a stuffed cow isn’t talking to me. It’s just not a thing. We live in the real world, and I’m no Disney princess. But ever since I quit my job two months ago, this voice hasn’t left my head, saying all kinds of shit. It scared me at first. The voice is real. It sounds like a man talking right next to me. He sounds like me. He’s probably my subconscious (I’d rather call it that than a psychotic break or some shit), but in my drunk moments, I assign the voice to Buffalo.
‘You drive like shit,’ Buffalo gripes. ‘Slow down, someone will call you in.’
“Who?” I start to crank the window down, forcing me to slow down a little as I heave to get the window open. “No one will know.” But I’m worried someone will. I chuck the last shoe out the window, getting slammed in the face with cold spring air. I destroyed my clothes while on scene with Summerman, but the ones I changed into could still have trace evidence. I don’t have any acid left, so I’ve thrown them out on these random roads to get lost, worn down by the elements, and rot into the grass.
I can’t get my heart to slow down. How in the actual fuck did someone see me? No way someone saw me. We were in the middle of the woods. We weren’t followed. So this fucker is just trying to scare me.
So who is he? Is it a coincidence that someone is out there copying me, and now this?
‘Saw you,’ Buffalo chimes in from the backseat.
I’m careful! I’m so fucking careful, for fuck’s sake. No way this fucker knows who I am. No way this mystery person was talking about Summerman. If he was, he’d call the cops.
My leg shakes, and anger rolls through me. Still, I’m cleaning up every last bit of evidence in case the cops do show up.
I reach the end of the road, forced to pick between a left and a right. But I don’t know if I’m leaving or if I’m going back. I swing the car to the right.
‘Running is for cowards.’ Buffalo’s voice is slightly muffled in the wind.
I blast the music, cranking it up so I can’t hear him, although I’m sure he’ll still find a way to annoy me. Sweet Home Alabama plays in the background. I’m not running. I’m covering my ass in the only place without cameras. Whipping the car to the side, I pull out the floor mat under me and throw it out, too. Just in case my shoes had blood on them.
I left my phone at home, but the message is burned into my mind.
You took my mark, Ronan Carter.
Who is this fuck? Is this a copycat?
No way. No fucking way. That’s just…crazy.
I get back in the car, slamming the door and heading down the road again. Fine. I mutter, “He wants to call the cops? Go ahead. Call them. I’m good. I have nothing on me.”
‘Nothing except drunk driving your murder car.’
Fucking Buffalo. I’ll fucking toss him out the window too. Only I won’t. And he knows it.
When I get back to my place, I don’t see any cops outside. The lot is silent, with most of my neighbors gone to work. I can’t help but look around in the parking lots and businesses surrounding me. No cops. No mystery texter.
I grab Buffalo, get out of the car, and stalk up to my door. Then I slide the key in and go inside. It’s silent, but I still stomp through my house, checking everything. The more I find everything normal, the more upset I get. This is bullshit. Fucking bullshit. This guy wants to start something with me? Good. Let’s play.
I pick up my phone, type out a text, and then hesitate.
I need to be strategic about this. If this is someone who knew about Summerman, then I need to play things very carefully. If it’s someone who sympathized with him, they would have called the cops already. Or they will soon. And if they do, I’ll be fine.
Regardless, I start sweating.
Nah, I’m good. I’ve taken care of the DNA. They can write a search warrant for my place and my phone. There were no cameras in the woods. It’ll be their word against mine. That, plus my alibi and the lack of evidence, puts me in a solid spot. So long as any number of other things don’t happen.
Like some stranger doesn’t swear he watched me kill him.
Fuck.
‘Pirate eyes?’
I glance up at Buffalo, who’s on the kitchen counter. I realize that he’s talking about playing our game with the mystery person. I glare at him. “Can’t exactly kill someone if I don’t know who they are, Buff.”
‘So find out.’
“Why are you always so violent?”
But the thought is already taking hold. I can’t let someone run around who knows about me. Or even hints that they know about me. They’ll stop me.
And I have to keep doing what I’m doing. The world needs me. As fucked up as I am, the world needs me.
I’m the clean-up crew. I sweep the trash away so no one has to see it. So it can’t poison anyone else. And I can’t do that if someone else is gunning for my spot.
Which means it’s time for mystery texter to go.