John Kennelly
IT WAS ALL John could do to keep himself from diving at Scott.
Intellectually, he knew the man had a gun. And he knew the gun was pointed at his chest. But a big part of him simply did not care. His son’s killer was standing there—right there, in front of him, no more than a few yards away. Without even thinking about it, he tensed his calves and rolled his weight onto his toes, ready to propel forward.
Luckily, sense prevailed.
He took a deep breath. Tried to calm the adrenaline raging through his body like a river.
“How about you put away the gun?” John asked through gritted teeth. “You owe me for what you did to my son. So let’s make this a fair fight. More fair than the chance you gave him.”
Scott was panicked. Sweating, breathing fast, eyes darting between the parents assembled in the dark parking lot. He seemed unsure of what to do. John was a little surprised, and thankful, that Scott hadn’t pulled the trigger yet.
And he knew he shouldn’t goad him, but he couldn’t help it.
“Listen, just listen…” Scott said, his voice shaking. He sounded so much like a child, his voice contrasting starkly with his heavy brow and his rough appearance.
Screw it. Scott didn’t seem all together anyway. The guy was definitely a few cards short of a full deck. Maybe he was too afraid to fire. John took a step forward, the asphalt crunching under his foot.
Scott whipped the gun up and leaned forward, pointing the gun square between John’s eyes. John put his hands up and took a step back, hoping it would calm the man, but it didn’t seem to help. He glanced back to make sure no one else was in the line of fire. Susan and Daisy were still in the van with Paul, and Kat had moved a little behind the van, out of view.
“I did not kill your children,” Scott said.
That was enough to brush away the fear and bring the anger back to the forefront.
“What?” John asked, a little surprised by the boldness of the claim.
“I did not kill your children,” Scott said. He sounded so much surer of himself the second time.
“You’re going to lie to my face?” John asked. “To all of us? The cops had you dead to rights.”
“I did not kill them,” Scott said, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “I would never kill them. They were nice, and sweet. They were kind, and, and beautiful—”
“Listen to yourself,” John said, his voice booming. He didn’t care who heard him. “Grown men don’t talk like that! You know who talks like that? Freaks.”
“I am not a freak,” Scott said, stabbing the gun forward in the air to punctuate each word. John’s heart skipped a few beats.
This was getting out of hand. He needed to de-escalate. He looked around, and the rest of the parents were frozen. Paul hadn’t even left the van. He seemed to be watching through the window. The coward. Leaving him alone to deal with this madman.
Stall. That’s what he would do. He would stall. He would talk as long as he could, keep Scott placated and confused, until he found his opening.
And then he’d exploit it, in the bloodiest way possible.
He’d do it right here. Forget the warehouse. He would gladly pay whatever the price was. If that meant spending the rest of his life in jail, so be it. He had no more children. There was only Susan, and she’d survive without him.
Maybe she’d even be better off.
It would be worth it, to see this man extinguished from the earth.
“Where’s Hanlon?” John asked. “Is he hurt? Does he need help?”
“He’s not hurt,” Scott said, glancing back to the window. “He’s just tied up. I don’t hurt people. I wouldn’t hurt him.”
John believed Hanlon was probably okay. He hadn’t heard any gunshots. And if he wasn’t okay, then it wasn’t some great loss to the world. He was a mediocre cop who screwed up and put them all into this mess. They didn’t need him to finish it.
“Okay, it’s good that he’s not hurt,” John said. “Listen, we can solve this. I’m willing to hear you out. But first, you have to put down the gun.”
“As soon as I put down the gun, you’re going to come after me,” Scott said.
“That’s not true.” John tried to sound convincing.
“Yes, it is,” John said. “I see it. You’re lying. You’re just telling me what I want to hear.”
Okay, so maybe this guy wasn’t a complete idiot.
John wasn’t sure what to do. But Scott didn’t seem to know what to do, either.
One thing was for sure: John didn’t know how much longer they could stand here like this, out in the open. Surely, someone would be by soon and stumble across this scene, a wild-looking man holding a gun on a bunch of people standing around a minivan.
John tried to think of another way to stall, another question to ask, when Scott waved the gun like he was trying to bat away a fly. “Get away from the van.”
“I can’t do that,” John said.
Scott took a step forward, held the gun up. “Yes, you can. Get away from the van. All of you. Leave the keys.”
John shook his head. “Now wait—”
“Now!” Scott yelled, his voice again taking on the shrill tone of a child.
John didn’t want to get shot today. Then he’d lose his chance for revenge.
Lose the battle. Win the war.
John put his hand up and waved at Kat to move away from her place behind the van. He turned to Susan and Daisy, and found them frozen in fright.
And he got an idea.
“Susan, Daisy, the two of you, get out of the car now,” he said, purposely leaving out Paul.
He hoped Paul would be smart enough to get the message, and stay hidden in the back. He hoped Susan and Daisy were smart enough to get out of the car without saying anything, without alerting or pointing out Paul. It was their one last chance to maintain the upper hand.
And it worked.
Because when Susan and Daisy opened the doors, the interior lights popping on, Paul’s face had disappeared from the window. There wasn’t much space to hide in the back, with the seats taken out, but maybe there had been something he could throw over himself.
Or maybe Scott was in too much of a panic to notice.
Or maybe Scott would turn and shoot Paul, and that would give John the opening he needed.
Any of those options worked. He honestly did not care. Whatever path put his hands around the throat of his son’s killer was an acceptable one.
The women got behind John, and he put his arms up, like he could block Scott from getting to them. The group cut a wide circle around him, away from the van and toward the back wall of the motel. Still no movement from the van.
Scott’s eyes seemed to soften now that things were going his way. He stepped toward the van and closed the sliding door, then walked around to the driver’s side, never taking his eyes off them for too long, never bringing the gun down.
He stopped as he reached the door and looked at the assembly of parents.
“I did not do it,” he said. “I did not kill them. I couldn’t have killed them. I would never—I would never—do something like that. I hope you find out who did. I’m sorry. But I’m leaving. I can’t be here anymore.”
Scott climbed into the car. John considered rushing it, but saw that Scott didn’t take his hand off the gun. He just moved it to his left hand and placed it on the steering wheel as he turned the key in the ignition with his right hand.
Then he backed the van toward the parking lot, whipped it around, and drove off, tires squealing and throwing up bits of loose asphalt. They watched in silence as it turned the corner and disappeared.
John cursed silently to himself and adjusted his son’s Yankees hat.
It was up to Paul now.
The one person in this group John had the least faith in.