Joe Victim: A Thriller

“Can you believe we’re really getting married?” Mom asks, when a guard comes over and tells us our time is nearly up.

“I can’t believe it,” I tell them, and I don’t want to believe it either.

“You don’t have to call me Dad,” Walt says, “at least not yet.”

“He’ll come around,” Mom says.

“Of course he will,” Walt says. “He is your son.”

Mom stands up. She’s carrying a plastic bag full of something. Walt follows her move. She moves toward me and gives me a hug. It’s a tight bear hug in which I can smell old-lady perfume and old-lady soap and old lady.

“He’s so much better than your father,” she whispers. “And I’m glad you’re not gay, Joe. The things the police told us that you did—no gay man would do that.”

“He’s definitely not gay,” Walt says, because my mom’s whispering is loud enough for him to hear. My mom has no idea how to whisper.

“And nor are you,” my mom says, pulling back and looking at Walt. She giggles a little bit. “But after what we tried last night, you wouldn’t know.”

They both laugh. The floor falls away from me and I collapse into the chair. My mom turns to leave, but seems to remember the plastic bag she’s carrying, and hands it to me. “These are for you.”

“What?”

“These. Are for you,” she says, louder and emphasizing each word as if trying to break a language barrier.

I take the bag from her. It’s full of books. Which is great because I need more books—not as much as I need a gun—but it’s still good.

“They’re from your girlfriend,” she says.

For a moment the prison fades away, and I remember myself cuffed to a tree with a pair of pliers hovering around my nuts. Then I remember lying in Melissa’s bed, the way her body felt, the tight curves, the way her eyes would close when she was focusing on the way things felt between the sheets. My heart races and I feel the skin on the back of my neck start to tingle. “My what?”

“She was very lovely,” Walt says, and mom gives him the kind of look she usually gives me—the one where she just bit the end of her tongue and her face scrunches up in pain.

“Who gave them to you?” I ask.

“We already told you,” Mom says, and they start to walk to the exit. A guard moves toward the door to let them out. “We’ll see you Monday,” she says. “It’ll be a small affair. Ten people at the most. You should ask the prison warden today so he’ll have plenty of time to organize letting you out.”

“I’ll be—”

“Your cousin Gregory will be there,” she says. “He has a new car.”

“In court.”

“Joe—”

“I’m sorry,” I say, holding up my hand. “I’m being difficult.”

“You are, but I love you anyway,” she says, and she leans down and gives me a hug and then she is gone.





Chapter Twelve


Lunch is a big breakfast. It consists of bacon and eggs and sausages and coffee—all of it very, very good. A breakfast like that can change the way a man will look at life—at least that’s the blurb beneath it in the menu under the heading “Heart Stopper.” Halfway through the meal Schroder sees no reason to doubt either the blurb or the name.

He is sitting alone at the counter filling the hole that’s been growing inside of him since missing breakfast. There’s blood on the floor and a chalk outline of a body six feet to his right. Two of the tables are overturned and there’s some broken glass. There are fifteen people in the diner and he’s the only one eating. Evidence markers are scattered around the room, photo evidence scales that measure the size of blood drops and handprints and footprints. Fingerprinting powder on various surfaces. Crime-scene tape by the door.

Just like a crime scene.

Well, almost like a crime scene.