Chapter Fourteen
The Barbecue
Larry
He stole a car two months later. Larry used it to drive home.
It was a six-hour trip if he didn’t stop.
He kept his speed right at the limit and obeyed all traffic laws.
He passed a policeman giving someone else a ticket and kept his face pointed straight ahead.
It was dark, and the cop hadn’t looked over.
Larry had spent every waking hour making this plan.
He was smarter than law enforcement, and he was about to prove it.
The streets of his youth made him realize he had never fit in.
Even though they followed his lead when he was younger, he didn’t ride his bike with them or play ball.
He’d lived to work at the butcher shop. He understood what his father had said about the shop and why it had to be closed.
He didn’t care, though. Clyde preferred the bar to keeping the shop in top shape and changing with the times.
Larry was the one paying the price. Tonight, that would change.
He parked around the corner from his home and looked over the area.
An orange cat chased something small into a bush, but other than that, the street was quiet.
He slowly walked to his parents' destiny. First, he went to the garage and picked up the can he knew would be there. He let himself inside the front room with his key and quietly closed the door behind him. For a moment, he looked around. His mother hadn’t wanted his father to smell up the house, but overall, she wasn’t the best housekeeper.
A musty odor permeated the air. Larry preferred the smell of slaughter.
His father might insist on his marital rights, but he did not control his wife the way he should have. Larry had always seen his dad as some type of God, but he’d been wrong. His father was weak and had always been that way.
It was 2 a.m., and silence reigned inside.
He took the stairs down to the boiler room, which was at the back of the basement.
The room was narrow. He placed the can in the side corner about eight feet away from the boiler.
He removed a large dead rat from beneath his jacket, tore open the plastic covering it, and placed it a few feet away.
His plan was a good one, and he had no intention of being caught.
Arsonists and other criminals failed due to their mistakes. Larry wouldn’t make them.
He left the basement and made his way upstairs to his parents’ room, easily avoiding the squeaky stair.
Before he returned to college after Christmas break, he had nailed his parents’ window shut.
His mother wouldn’t attempt to open the window until mid-spring.
He’d killed Mrs. Levvy’s dog, and tonight, he would do much worse.
Stopping at the open door to his parents’ room, he took a minute to study them.
They slept with the covers pulled up to their necks, his mother on her side by the window and his father on his back closest to the door.
Larry quietly pulled the door shut, pulled a wedge of wood from his pocket, and slid it home.
Using pressure with the toe of his boot, he forced it in tightly.
When he was satisfied, he went to his bedroom.
There were no posters on the wall or model plane collections on the shelves.
He had a few books and VHS tapes, an old clay bowl he made in art class when they experimented with pottery in seventh grade, and a Rubik’s cube.
He almost took it with him, but decided he didn’t want it.
The room was from his childhood, and he was no longer a child.
He quickly returned to the boiler room and uncapped the large can of turpentine.
Carefully tipping it on its side, he backed away until the rat was at his feet.
Using his shoe, he dragged it through the liquid and moved it toward the stairs.
He leaned forward using the lighter he’d purchased two weeks before and ignited the turpentine.
Casually, he left his childhood home and closed the front door behind him. After a brief inspection of the neighborhood, he walked back to the stolen vehicle and got inside.
He desperately wanted to watch the barbecue and hear their screams. It was possible his father would force the door open, and they would escape.
More than likely, they would die of smoke inhalation before the fire got to them, and there would be no screams. The neighborhood remained quiet.
He started the engine and began the long ride back to the college campus.
His speed remained slow, his eyes alert, and his imagination in overdrive.
He could hear the screams inside his head, and he smiled.
The car was left in a lot after wiping his fingerprints from the steering wheel and the door’s handle.
It was cold, but he walked back to the small house he rented a room from.
After his return from break, he had begun taking morning walks.
This was one of a few things he did for the perfect plan. No one paid attention when he entered.
He ate a full meal, cooked by the housekeeper, and left for his first class. Right before his second class ended, he was called to the dean’s office. A police officer waited with the dean.
Larry had practiced his response. He’d used the mirror to judge the best facial expressions.
He’d also worked on his verbal tone to keep suspicion away from him.
It paid off. He received sympathy and condolences.
The dean’s secretary was even called in to console him.
He should have won an award for his acting abilities.
Murder was now his passion, and he wouldn’t stop with a dog or two old people who didn’t stand a chance.
Pride filled him when he entered his rented room.
He’d killed both his parents. The officer said smoke inhalation got them, but he had a look in his eyes that made Larry feel giddy. The fire got to them first. He knew it.
The following morning, he left college and took the train to his hometown. He never returned.
Money was no longer an issue.