The Counter Born (#Wattys2016)

Chapter Thirteen

It has been exactly two hours, fifteen minutes, and twenty three seconds at the precinct. The suspension is already killing me without him having to do the dirty work. He sure knows how to torture his victims in the worst way possible. The captain cocks his head when I bounce in my chair anxiously like I'm on steroids, when I hum to myself like a canary, when I kick the legs of the desk like a child incapable of any self control.

"Stop looking at me like Jen. Please, you have to listen. Hear me out! The serial killer is coming for me! All these murders are for a reason! Everyone I know. You're just going to stand back and watch? How else would you link the victims?" There is a long intermission between sentences. He taps his ballpoint pen against his hardcover binder flooding with criminal profiles. Then he props his feet up, smacking his mint gum with each crackling pop.

"You need some rest, Streeper. I think Miss Devlin may know what's best for you," the captain says.

"How do you even know about what she wants?" I oppose. He flings a rubber band across the room and it hurls against one of his cabinets, making a whipping sound and then a boom. "Captain?"

"I may have overheard your conversations."

"I see. Eavesdropping, huh?"

"Only because you've been on edge ever since the you know . . . accident. It's wise you listen to her," he advises. "Anyone but yourself."

"I don't need rest! I need to bring this hooded outlaw in pronto!" I cry, frustrated in every way.

"That's what attitude I'm talking about, so settle down. We're working on it."

"Working on it? Three people are dead now, and everyone's been sitting on their asses doing nothing! Even with a description of the murderer!" I rage, gritting my teeth. "They wait until the next killing, and that's when they're forced to write the damn reports!"

"Stay calm. This will all blow over soon."

"Blow over? Not subtly. Have you seen the crime scenes? He's not going to stop till I'm dead!" I exclaim.

"Don't you have a concussion or something from second collision? These are probably just paranoid symptoms. They'll go away soon, Streeper. Relax," the captain says.

"I can't relax! I actually give a shit about my job. And my life." I get out of the chair and storm out of the untidied office. I grab my folded leather jacket and start the buzzing engine in my cheap excuse for a sports car. My hands are pins and needles when muscles contract, backpedaling. They tingle like crawling spiders even as I pull up to the crowded parking lot at Lucky's bar. Is that a chill I just felt run down my back? There's an explanation for all of it at least. Uncanny indeed.

"Some Jack Daniels please," I say as I seat my unlucky self next to unlucky Oliver.

"Tough day?" Asks the bartender.

"Maybe this place'll even it out," I respond. For a Friday, the attending people seem to be awfully quiet. They chatter, keeping to themselves as pop country tunes play in tone to the bar theme.

"Bonjour. Look who finally decided to show up." He smirks. I gulp down a salty, burning shot in less then a second. Then I motion to the bartender for another. "It took you long enough." I come in closer to the counter, the metal squeaking against the tile flooring when I do. Metal squeaks against blacktop . . . friction and sparks flying, igniting into a giant flaming mass.

Landon, I'm not gone. I've been here in your mind since round one. I'm never gone until- No. No! You are gone! Stop thinking! Stop remembering! I smile half heartedly and raise my glass, a simple disguise for the truth inside. Face it, you're going mad because of this murderer! Johnny's here, and he's coming to break down sanity's door!

"No! Don't tell me that!" People look over their shoulders, and I wave politely.

"Who are you talking to?" Oliver hisses.

"No one." I clear my throat. "Let's get back to what we were discussing, hmm?" He stares at me blankly.

"Fine."

"Excellent. Where were we? Oh yeah. Don't get too excited about the little drinking buddy frenzy, because this is a limited time Landon. I have a reason to drink. Unlike yourself," I say. Oliver shrugs, not taking it as an insult.

"But then you'd always have a reason to drink because you're life has been depressing. What's happened now?"

"Natalie's dead." Oliver chokes out his shot of coke mixed with something else heavy, mixed with something else heavy.

"Aw jeez. I'm sorry, mate." I stare at him as I take shot after shot after shot. My eyes water, nearly dripping Jack Daniels themselves.

"Not only that. Everyone thinks I'm insane. A crazy animal slash psychopath slash sociopath!" I slam down my drink and circle it around the cardboard coaster. The liquor swishes from side to side, spilling out in small droplets.

"Sounds like they're right. From what Jen's told me," Oliver assumes. "And from the wreck I see before me." I'm the wreck? I chuckle, but decide to venture no further into that discussion.

"She called you?"

"Mhm. Jen's worried." Worried, worried, worried . . . the same word ingrained ingrained in my mind coming from her same, plump strawberry lips, worried.

"What's new?" I grumble.

"And so am I," he finishes, and I roll my eyes. "I don't mean to be a girl about this. I hate all this emotional nonsense as much as you do."

"Olly, that's the least of my problems! I think the killer is going to murder me in my own home! That's what you should be worried about! I can't just ignore that unsettling possibility!"

"And I can't just call backup. Relieved of duty, remember?" I tell him that it's alright if he can't help. Oliver is Oliver, and his help is the least of my concerns. We all know how that turned out last time. "Let's stop with this nonsense, Landon. Like we're trying to avoid the topic. I'm not."

"I'm not either. It's okay. I'm not the one who got fired from alcohol use, so I guess I don't have a good reason to hold a grudge. Just don't put me in that spot again."

"So we're good?"

"I'd say so. Until you do it again." Oliver lowers his head like a gangster disputing a top secret heist.

"It won't happen again."

"Oh, so you're in control of yourself? I think not. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here." Oliver's eyes follow my movements as I get up from the lumpy, cracked barstool. "Goodbye. See you the next time you decide to give yourself up to idiocy." I stumble past the laminate tables, reaching for the brass door handle. It's grubby with fingerprints, as if it hasn't been washed in weeks, possibly months on end.

"Landon!" I turn around to see Oliver jogging up to me. "If you really want someone to believe you about the serial killing thing, why not set them up?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"If you know that the next letter is going to be a D, let the authorities know. If that just so happens, everyone will see that you're not truly going crazy. They'll know he's really after you, and try to help you instead of turning against you," he explains.

"I'm going to use the victims as bait for my own benefit? That's quite . . ."

"Wrong?" Oliver estimates.

"Brilliant. For a drunk, you sure can be helpful."

"Oh. Well I am your best friend and not a complete waste of your time."

"Thank you, Oliver. Though I feel more like a con artist than a detective for some odd reason. Oh well." I step out into the crisp, damp air. The taste of autumn is lingering on my lips, and I press them to my palm. I gesture to the flashing neon sign. "Thanks Lucky's. To this I drink!" And with that, I swallow one and a half ounces of regret.