Twisted

CHAPTER 50

THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 10:59 P.M., THE GOMEZ RESIDENCE, UNION DISTRICT

From the upper bunk came the sound of Isaiah’s snoring, loud and intrusive as a leaf blower. The eldest Gomez brother had come home late and exhausted, in a foul mood that silenced the rest of the family. Flinging his work clothes on the floor, he’d lurched straight to bed.

Tar reek bittered the room. Along with alcohol. Isaac would keep that to himself, no reason to upset Mama.

On the other side of the cell-like space, Joel slept on his air mattress, eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly, a smile on his almost-pretty face. A maddeningly cheerful bundle of libido and superficiality, Joel would always be happy.

Isaac, sapped from his motel time with Klara, had eaten lightly and fallen asleep quickly. His dream cycle was frantic and ambiguous. In the midst of an abstract expressionist nightmare, he woke drenched with sweat and disoriented. The din from the top bunk told him where he was. God bless Isaiah’s deviated septum.

Now he was wide awake, trying not to think about Klara but, of course, thinking of nothing else.

Not the things she’d done. Something she’d said.

There would have to be parallels… otherwise why imitate Retzak.

An eccentric woman, probably neurotic woman, but smart. Too smart to be ignored and now Isaac was sweating for another reason.

A big fat balloon of denial punctured.

It’s out of your hands. Petra knows what she’s doing.

Reaching out for the wooden crate that served as his nightstand, he got hold of his watch: 11:02.

Less than an hour to showdown. Soon it would be over.

Would it?

He closed his eyes and the facts loomed larger. Discrepancies impossible to ignore. Sliding out of the bunk, he found his briefcase, tiptoed across the closet-sized space.

Isaiah moved and bedsprings squeaked. A mumbled: “Whu?”

Isaac left the bedroom, closing the door silently, and went into the kitchen, hoping his parents in the neighboring room wouldn’t hear him. His mother, in particular, had the sleep rhythms of a Chihuahua.

Switching on the dim light under the stove, he sat and thought. Decided he wasn’t being psychotic.

Pulling his laptop out of the case and plugging it in- shifting the rag-wrapped gun in the process- he rummaged some more and finally came up with his seldom-used modem. Connecting the box to the corner phone jack behind the table, he booted up and hoped for the best. He’d set up the modem years ago but rarely used it. No reason to, given high-speed access on campus. The apartment’s phone wires were eroded and chancy. Even if he got a line, making it to the Internet would be an infuriatingly slow ordeal.

Neanderthal dial-up. What a joke.

Spoiled boy.

Scared boy.

The modem squawked. Stopped. Made more noise.

His mother padded in, rubbing her eyes. “What’re you doing?”

“Studying.”

“At this hour?”

“I thought of something.”

“What?”

“My research, it’s not important, Ma.”

“If it’s not important, you should go back to sleep.” She blinked, couldn’t focus. “Go back to sleep. You don’t sleep enough.”

“In a few minutes, Ma. It’s my doctoral research.”

“It can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“No, Ma. Go back to sleep.”

The modem buzzed and hummed and beeped, kept chirping its little modem song. Interminable!

“What’s that?” said his mother.

“The thing that connects to the Internet.”

“Why’s it plugged in there?”

“I’m using our phone line.”

“What if someone calls?”

“No one’s going to call, Mama.”

She looked at the stove. “I’ll fix you something to eat.”

“No.” He raised his voice and she gave a start. He got up and placed an arm around her shoulder. “No, thank you, Ma. Really, I’m fine.”

“I…” She looked around the kitchen.

He guided her back to her room. Wasn’t sure she’d really been awake.

When he returned to the kitchen table, the connection had been completed and he logged on to his university server. Scanning his bookmarks, he found the chat room text he’d saved, began retracing cyber-steps.

Five minutes later, his heart was pounding so hard, it felt as if it would rip through his rib cage.

Online Host: *****You are in BloodnGutsChat*****

CrimeGirl: The way i see it OttoR was = to Manson or anyone.

BulldogD: U shouldn’t glarify him he was just anther semi organize serial

CrimeGirl: It’s not glorifying (spell-boy!!) It’s telling it like it is.

BulldogD: I can spell I just don’t bothe

CrimeGirl: Yeah right. I still think OR was interesting maybe unique for his time.

P-Kasso: You’re both missing the point.

Mephisto: Hey look! There’s always some guy with a point.

CrimeGirl: I for one want to hear an intellegient point. Speak, P.

P-Kasso: Retzak stands above the others because of his artistic integrity. His motivation is far more elevated than manson, bundy, JTR, anyone of that ilk. For him it was all about art, he captured the scene, I’d put him more like Van Gogh

Mephisto: Did he cut off his ear haha

CrimeGirl: Funny. Not.

BulldogD: Pee-Kasso. What U’re one of those artsty fartsies, too that’s why U see it that way???

Mephisto: No asnwer?

P-Kasso: I’ve been known to wield a brush.

BulldogD: How about a stout cudgel?

Mephisto: No answer now?

CrimeGirl: Guess he left.

Mephisto: Chickenshit.

CrimeGirl: There’s no need for that kind of la

P-Kasso: I’m still here. But now I’m leaving. You people are brainless.

Mephisto: Arrogant asshole.

CrimeGirl: Im still waiting for intelligence in a y chromosomer.

BulldogD: What about John Gacey? Buddies with Jimmy Carter And all the time he’s burying bodies

Mephisto: It was Rosmarie Carter

CrimeGirl: Rosalyn, fact-boy

P-Kasso: a self-styled artist. Retzak’s biggest fan.

Isaac rescrolled the chat, read it again. Felt his fingers go cold. Logging off, he unplugged the modem, hurried to the wall phone, punched in Petra’s cell.

It connected to her land line. Her machine; he talked to it, trying not to sound weak or scared or frantic, guessing that he’d failed.

Would she call home for messages? Why would she? Busy on stakeout.

Thinking she knew.

The clock on the stove said: 11:11.

P-Kasso.

Rushing back to his room, he looked for his shoes, couldn’t find them, felt around under the bunk, finally got hold of the right loafer, then its mate. He’d gone to sleep in a T-shirt and sweatpants, no socks. That would have to do. Shoes in hand, he ran toward the door.

Isaiah sat up. “What the…”

“Sweet dreams, bro.”

“Where… goin’?”

“Out.”

Down on the floor Joel rolled to the wall. Rolled back. Smiled.

Isaiah said, “Goin’ out for more pussy?”

Isaac closed the door on both of them.

Isaiah owned a pickup truck that needed an engine. The sole operating Gomez vehicle was the intermittently operant Toyota Corolla Papa chanced driving to work. Papa’s keys dangled from a plastic frog screwed to the wall next to the fridge.

The car was just back from the shop, new filters of some sort. Isaac slipped the ignition key off his father’s ring, began sneaking across the kitchen, feeling like a burglar, before he stopped.

Minor omission.

He corrected that. Left.