He was driving, and his face had this weird contortion on it. He thought they called it a smile. He sped towards her corner, hoping she’d be there and he wouldn’t have to wait. He had so much to tell her. So much had happened; he was like a changed man. No, he WAS a changed man.
His foot was heavy on the pedal, and he knew it. He guided the BMW through the streets, streetlights passing like the notion of wiping the smile off his face had. Five more minutes. Five more minutes.
He could hardly believe what he’d done to Jasmine; he’d never known he had that kind of bitterness in him. But that bitch had deserved it. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel absently, then realized that he had a radio in the car and flipped it on, singing loudly to songs he didn’t even know.
He could see her corner, and he started to slow down. Didn’t want to seem in too much of a rush. He could see Amaya out the windshield. She was bent over on the corner. There were other people there, too. He recognized Jackie’s pimp and a couple of the other regular girls from the area. They all seemed to be standing around one circle. His stomach sank. It sank straight through the seat and the car and was now being dragged along the concrete below him. His foot was again heavy on the pedal. A couple of the girls were crying, he could see. One seemed to be getting sick off to the right, and another girl was consoling her. The pimp had his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, and he was shaking his head.
Where the FUCK was Jackie?
He pulled the car to a stop right at the curb and turned it off in one motion. Amaya looked up. Her face was streaked with tears, her mascara running down over her cheeks in rivers of pain. His face was so grief-stricken. He knew it was her.
“Amaya,” he whispered.
“Justin,” she cried.
“Amaya, what . . . ?”
He began pushing people out of the way.
“Move,” he whispered. “Move. God don’t let it be her!”
“Justin, don’t!” Amaya’s voice was way in the background. He couldn’t even hear her.
A strangled sound escaped his throat. He fell to his knees. He tried to speak. He tried to voice an “Oh, God . . .” but his vocal chords had ceased to exist. His eyes blurred at the vision in front of him. His hands reached to touch her face, and they came back bathed in still-warm blood. He could hear himself making the most horrible noises. He was wheezing, and the sounds that came out were strangled sobs, smothered tears. He bent over her body and took it into his arms. She was gone. He started rocking back and forth, tears flowing slowly down his cheeks. He tried to breathe. He looked up into the face of her pimp. The man’s eyes were cloudy, his pupils dilated. Fucking high bastard.
His chest began to heave, and he closed his eyes, squeezing the tears, trying to strangle them. He took a deep breath. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth and screamed. He just screamed. It was the howl of a man in pain. A man in such immense excruciating pain, it could not even be imagined.
He heaved in another breath. “GET AWAY!” he yelled. “GET THE FUCK AWAY!”
He was vaguely aware of Amaya whispering his name over and over and over again, sobbing behind him. Everyone had backed off. Now, he could only cry. He could only cry over her dead body. “Oh, Jesus,” he repeated over and over again. “No.”
It seemed like hours passed when he felt Amaya’s hand on his shoulder. He gently placed Jackie back onto the pavement. Sobbing, yet wiping away his own tears, he stood. Amaya stood next to him, and they both watched the body lying disfigured on the pavement.
“Who did this?” he asked in the most chilling voice he had ever heard in his life.
Amaya sniffed. “He . . . he drove a red Camero. He . . . he was the guy on 20th and Park . . .”
“How did she end up back here?”
A sob escaped Amaya’s throat. She gestured to the road. “He just drove by and he . . . he just pushed . . . pushed her out the passenger door and drove away. Oh, God . . . . she wasn’t even dead yet.”
His eyes welled with new tears. He got on his knees again. “I will not let you down,” he whispered in her ear. He pulled the necklace he had given her from her neck and rose. “See that she gets a proper burial,” he whispered to Amaya. “God knows she deserves one.” With that, he turned and went to his car, opening the door and slipping inside silently. Why did this day have to come?
He started the car and punched the radio when it started blaring some happy song into his ears. It went off and he slammed his foot on the gas, leaving tread marks on the street behind him. He drove blindly, yet he still knew exactly where he was going.
Before he knew it, the car was stopped, and he was staring straight ahead at a red Camero. He nodded slowly, biting his bottom lip.
The blood on the interior had been washed out, he could see. The upholstery was still wet. His feet carried him up the stairs of the building. He entered the foyer silently, being careful to close the door behind him. He didn’t know how he picked the right door, but he did.
It was unlocked for some strange reason, and he pushed it open, standing in the doorway with his feet shoulder-width apart. He could hear a TV blaring inside the apartment, and he narrowed his eyes. What a sight he must have been. He was covered in Jackie’s blood, his hands balled into fists at his sides, his face an unyielding wall of hatred. He took a step inside, and closed the door behind him.
He went to the kitchen and saw the knife that he must have used to torture Jackie, and he picked it up. He continued forward, towards the sound of the television. He made his way into the doorway of a living room, and sure enough, there was the bastard sitting, drinking a beer, giggling at the TV screen. He stood there for about a minute, hating this man more and more every second. He began to step forward when his foot caught on something. Oh, Jesus, her shoe. His face contorted into a sob, but he gasped it back and looked away.
“Mind turning that down?” he asked menacingly, standing directly behind the man’s chair.
The guy gasped and jumped, hitting the mute button automatically. He sprung out of his seat and stood, facing Justin. “How did you get in here?” he demanded.
“Was led here by a trail of blood.” His eyes burned into the man.
The guy’s face showed so much fear.
“Just tell me why,” he whispered.
“Listen, man, I don’t know what you’re talking . . . .”
“DON’T TELL ME YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” he screamed. He sighed, tears running back down his cheeks. “Her shoe is right there. Just tell me why.”
The guy’s eyes shifted from Justin, to the floor where her shoe was lying, back to Justin. “Listen, she was just a prostitute. I mean, I was just having a little fun and things got a little out of hand. I didn’t mean to kill her.”
Justin’s jaw clenched. The words were so hard to say. “You disfigured her. You sliced up her face. You fucking sliced up her face. You gouged out one of her eyes!” He forced himself to calm before continuing. “Don’t tell me you didn’t mean to. You meant to.”
The guy’s eyes shifted, as if he were looking for a weapon, something to fend off this creature in front of him.
Justin was standing so still. So still. He didn’t move a muscle, except to swallow tears. “She was on her way out,” he whispered. “She was going to come with me. I was going to take her to see the world. I was going to give her the life she’d never had and always wanted. And you fucking stole that from her. You stole that from me.”
“Dude, truly, I’m sorry, ok? I really am. I didn’t think anybody would miss . . . .”
“I MISS HER!”
He was silent for a moment. “She was only a whore . . . .”
Justin nodded slowly, bringing the hand holding the knife up to his face to wipe away his tears. He could feel the guy recoil. He was really fucking scared. He could see the blood smeared all over. “Yeah, she was only a whore,” he whispered.
Justin advanced. The guy backed up, stepping on the remote. The TV began to blare again. And not a sound was heard. Not a sound was heard.
“Amen,” uttered the preacher. He advanced towards Justin, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, son.”
Justin didn’t even respond.
Slowly, the casket was lowered into the ground, and he watched it go, the white roses adorning the polished brown of the case disappearing slowly into the blackness. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he didn’t bother to wipe it away. Slowly, he turned. He began to walk towards the men he knew had been standing there, watching him.
“Mr. Timberlake?” asked one. “I’m sorry, son, you are under arrest for the murder of Joel Brown. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an . . . .”
The rest faded out, and he just stared at the gravestone in front of him as they handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Nothing left to give.
“Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“Yes,” he whispered. He lowered his head. And again, a single tear rolled down his cheek.
She sighed and pulled out another manila folder. It was just as old and worn as the one she had just replaced. She tossed it across the room and it floated like a feather in the breeze, lying itself neatly in front of her chair.
In big black lettering, right on the front, it stated incontrovertibly what was inside.
The Chris Files.
The Justin Files Chapter Directory
Jones' Main Page
Home
Enjoy the story??? Send feedback: Jones