Joe Victim: A Thriller

“Detective Schroder,” he says, the title out of his mouth too quickly to avoid. Right in this moment he still feels like a cop.

“Carl, it’s Hutton,” Hutton says, either letting the detective comment go or not picking up on it. “Listen, I got something here.”

“Where?”

“Meet me out back in the parking lot, and make it quick.”





Chapter Seventy-Three


The Sally gasps inward when she sees the gun.

“Joe,” Melissa says, “I was keeping her alive for you to kill, kind of like a present.”

“Like a housewarming present,” I say, and I’m not real sure why I say it because as great a housewarming gift as it’d be, it’s not like me and Melissa are moving in here. Unless we are. “Are we moving in here?” I ask.

“No,” Melissa says.

The Sally has backed up against the wall. Her palms are facing outward and they’re in line with her shoulders. She’s wearing a wristwatch that’s spun around upside down, so the face covers the underside of her wrist. I can see the time. I can also see an alarm clock on the bedside drawer, and the alarm clock is two minutes ahead of her wristwatch, and suddenly I know why everything seems so fucked-up—I’m two minutes in the future and it’s messing with my equilibrium. Which means whatever The Sally’s fate is, it’s already happened and I’m just watching now to see how it unfolded.

“So how do you want to do it?” Melissa asks me, her question crossing the time barrier.

“I don’t know,” I answer.

“Please don’t, please don’t hurt me,” The Sally says and, for all that she’s done, I don’t really see any need to.

Of course not seeing a need isn’t the same as deciding to let her go.

“Just shoot her,” I say, because I want to get out of this place with its fractured time zones and, gun to my head, I’d have to confess I don’t really want to do it.

“Please, Joe,” Sally says. “I don’t want die. I’ve always been good to you. I know I never came to see you in jail, but how could I, after what you’d done?”

“I’m sorry, Sally,” I say, and the truth is I am sorry.

“I brought you books,” she says.

“What?” I say, and point my palm to Melissa in a stopping gesture in case she’s about to pull the trigger.

“I didn’t bring them to you, but I gave them to your mother to give you. Romance novels. I remembered how much you loved them. So I gave them to her. I’ve been good to you, Joe, even after all the bad things you’ve done. Please don’t hurt me.”

Melissa looks at me for guidance, and I realize this is all playing right out in front of me—there’s no dream, no difference in time. The Sally gave my mother those books, not Melissa.

“That was your message?” I ask. “You were the one trying to help me escape?”

Melissa looks confused, which is exactly how The Sally looks too. “Escape?” Melissa asks, then she looks back at The Sally. “You were trying to help him escape?”

The Sally doesn’t answer, so I answer for her. “There was a message in the books,” I say. “She wanted me to show the cops where Detective Calhoun was buried, and she was going to help me escape, only my mom didn’t give me the books in time and . . . and . . . and I thought they were from you. Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask Melissa.

“You were given medication,” she says. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I am!” I say, louder than I wanted to. I grit my teeth and inhale deeply, and I notice there is no pain in my shoulder. Whatever drugs they gave me I want to keep taking. “They were romance novels. She picked specific titles, but my mom messed it up.”

“Your mother?” Melissa asks.

“Please,” Sally says to Melissa, “all I’ve ever done is help Joe. I helped him last year when you crushed his testicle, I saved his life when he was arrested, and now . . .”

And now I’m no longer listening. I’m thinking of my trip into the woods. It was The Sally who was planning my escape. Me and The Sally, running through the forest and leaving behind a pile of dead cops, me and The Sally sitting in a tree, K-I-L-L-I-N-G, we’re running toward our future, only a future with Sally is about as appealing as . . . well, as having my testicle crushed, as being locked away in jail, as being given the death penalty, as being a father.

“Joe,” Melissa shouts, and I realize she’s said my name a few times now. “You’re still thinking about those books, I can tell. She wasn’t trying to help you escape.”

“I . . . I don’t understand.”

“Did you give him the books he’s talking about?” Melissa asks.

Sally nods. “He likes romance novels,” she says, looking at me and talking to Melissa as if I weren’t in the room.

“There was a message,” I say, and my words don’t even convince me.