The Killing Hour

CHAPTER TWENTY

It started with the notepad. Then with the bloody shorts. The confession. Feldman’s wife missing. The lying. The wooden stake. There’s no way of shifting all those pieces into different positions and still not getting them to match. It’s undeniable. Irrefutable. It’s like the cancer running through his body-it can’t be forgotten.

Landry changes gear and speeds up. He wishes he could keep his mind off the cancer if only for a moment, but he can’t. The cancer isn’t changing how all those pieces fit into place, but it’s changing how he’s looking at them. It’s changing the way he’s looking at everything. He glances at his hands and sees them still shaking. He knows it isn’t nerves. He’s following through with the plan. The alternative is to take Feldman down to the station. He’ll be charged. He’ll go to court. He’ll be found guilty, or he’ll be found insane. With all that cutting and severing, insanity seems to be the way the jury will go. So Feldman will go to a psychiatric institution. He’ll get pills and he’ll get counseling and five or ten years after Landry has been rotting in the grave Feldman will be back on the streets.

Life is unfair. Death is unfair. Feldman will kill again. That’s the way the justice system works. Nobody is saying it’s perfect. They’re just saying it’s the best they’ve got. What else can they do? Execute the guy?

Execute the guy?

Well that’s what all this is about, isn’t it? It’s why he kept that notepad to himself. It’s why he packed his gym bag with different clothes and boots. It’s why he has a shotgun in the trunk of the car. It’s why he knows about Feldman and Schroder doesn’t. If life was fair Feldman would be the one with a death sentence scheduled to start this winter, not him. Feldman would be the one with lost times and last thoughts flooding his mind.

He doesn’t even think about doing the right thing now. He’s happy to follow where his thoughts are leading. Has been happy to follow them all day. Tonight he’s going to find justice for the three dead women-for Kathy, Luciana, and Jo. Because Jo is dead. He’s sure of it. Not sure enough to have shot Charlie already-he’ll work on that soon. After a career in the police force and living with cancer for a week he’s come to realize that being a cop is all about correcting God’s mistakes.

“Where are we going?” Feldman asks.

“Have you forgotten what I told you?”

“We’re heading out of the city. You’re not taking me to the police station, are you?”

“No,” he says, and what this is leading to isn’t murder, not really, not in the same sense of the word that Feldman is a murderer. It’s more like an exchange. A two-for-one bargain. He can’t save Kathy or Luciana, but he can save the next girl. That can’t be a bad thing. Not really. It can’t be a bad thing to live with. And perhaps Jo is that next girl.

“Where are we going?” Feldman asks.

“You need to shut up,” he says.

“Are you going to kill me?” Feldman asks.

“Maybe.”

“I didn’t do it,” Feldman says, his voice panicky now. “I know you think I did, but I didn’t.”

“You’ll get your day in court,” he says.

“I thought you just said-”

Landry pulls over. Feldman shuts up. Landry turns around and points the gun at him. “One more word, Feldman, and this ends right now. Nod if you understand.”

Feldman nods.

“You’ll get your chance to talk,” he says, “but not here and not now. But soon. When we get where we’re going. You say one more word before then and your brains are going to paint the back of my car, and neither of us wants that, do we,” he says, knowing how much cleaning that would take. Not from experience-but he’s seen gunshot wounds to heads before and knows what can happen.

Feldman shakes his head.

“Good,” he says, and he puts the gun back onto the passenger seat, puts the car into gear, and carries on driving.