CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was a nice change of pace not to sit in the parking lot of a medical facility to wait for his next victim. Even being in the immediate vicinity of hospitals or medical specialists made him feel ill. For some reason, he’d always viewed such places as even worse than cemeteries. The reek of death and sickness just seemed to emanate from them.
Now, though, he was sitting in a place that was the exact opposite of a hospital. He was parked behind a club, not a large one but not just some small, hole-in-the-wall dive, either. It was the type of place that would have a bar stretched out across the back wall, and a large stage for live music on the other end. With his windows rolled down a bit, he could hear a grinding bass line and a slightly off-time drumbeat. The band, according to the club’s website, was called Ruckus and they played a variety of ’90s alternative music.
His next target was inside. He knew this because the idiot had posted it on Facebook. He was looking at the post on his phone right now, the smiling moron standing right in front of the club with RUCKUS on the marquee behind him. His post simply read #bucketlist.
“Bucket list,” he muttered ironically.
He understood the appeal of bucket lists but also thought such a popular term should serve as a wakeup call to humanity. If people would just live their lives to the fullest from the start, there would be no need to push exciting events or desires back further and further until you realize your days are indeed numbered. Anyone keeping a bucket list and touting it as this noble thing to keep up with was, in his opinion, wasting their life.
Like his next victim. Twenty-nine years old and diagnosed with a mild liver disease. It was mild, but there was also no cure for it. From what he gathered, the man would have another two years to live…maybe two and a half, depending on how he responded to the experimental medicines that were supposed to help slow the progression of the disease.
This man, Troy Hetfield, was at the very bottom of the Life Fulfilled list. He’d just gotten on the waiting list five days ago qhich would usually not make him an instant target. But when a new waiting-list member was so ignorantly posting every detail of his very short life on social media, making it easy to track him down, what was the sense in waiting?
He had no idea how long the concert would last, so he’d been parked behind the place, three cars over from Hetfield’s for the past hour and a half. Ruckus was apparently a decently popular band; he estimated that there had to be at least a thousand people or so inside, which was probably flirting with the maximum occupancy numbers for a place of this size.
The current song came to an end and he heard a muffled roar of applause as the opening riff to the next song kicked in. He actually knew it, sort of. Some song by Nirvana. The crowd went nuts. He hoped it was a sign that the band was nearing the end of their show.
He sat and waited. He checked Hetfield’s Facebook feed again and saw that he’d posted pictures of himself with a girl he’d apparently run into at the show. He was near the front of the stage, tucked in tightly among other sweaty concertgoers.
He then looked to his list, which had been growing over the past several weeks. He had it all typed into the notes app on his phone, an exact copy of the physical copy sitting on his desk at home. He had been checking names off as he eliminated them. It was then, as he looked over the shortening list, that the Nirvana song ended. The crowd cheered and within about three minutes, he noticed people starting to come walking around the side of the club. Many of them were heading to the parking lot across the street, and into the adjoining parking garage. But Hetfield would not be headed that way. No, according to the Facebook post, he’d been granted backstage access. Even though he was not yet officially under the umbrella of Life Fulfilled, he was still getting favors here and there due to his recent bad news.
So even with the concert over, he figured he had a while longer to wait. The again, with a liver disease, he doubted Hetfield would do any drinking—so what else was there to do backstage at a rock concert?
He sat in his car as midnight came and went, watching traffic trickling out of the parking garage and lot across the street to his right. He wondered how many people behind the wheels of those vehicles had close loved ones who were terminally ill or on the cusp of receiving that sort of news. He knew it was morbid, but he thought about the speed and suddenness with which life could go from happy and thriving to on the brink of death. Often it was as simple as a single doctor’s visit—and he found that both fascinating and horrifying.
As he considered all of this, he watched as one of the back doors to the club opened up. A man came out—a man who was not Troy Hetfield. The man looked around the parking lot, stepped beside a dumpster, and unbuttoned his pants He urinated quickly and then stepped back inside.
Not too long after that, maybe three or four minutes by his estimation, the door opened again. This time, Troy Hetfield did step out. He was accompanied by the young lady that he’d taken the latest Facebook picture with. They walked together to his car and stood outside of it for a moment. As he watched, Troy and this woman spoke and then kissed for a bit, only to speak once more and then focus more on the kissing part of things.
It was getting so hot and heavy that for a moment, he wondered if they were going to end up having sex right there against the car. But in the end, the woman broke away with a huge smile. He used this moment as a distraction, quietly opening his door and stepping out into the night. He crouched and remained low, hiding between his car and the one parked next to him. Hetfield’s was just two cars beyond this, allowing him to hear the end of the conversation the couple was having.
“…and next weekend,” the woman was saying.
“Yeah, I think that should still work. But, you know, you can come with me now. To my place.”
“I want to, but…you know that’s not a good idea.”
“Sounds like a great idea to me.”
The woman giggled again, but was not giving in. “Patience, Troy.”
“I know, I know.”
The woman’s shadow passed by his car as she made her way back over to the parking garage. When she was far enough out of sight, he feared that he’d missed his window of opportunity. He was going to have be a little risky, he supposed.
He stood up and saw that Hetfield was watching the woman go. He’d not yet even made a move to get back into his car. Hetfield appeared to be deeply in love or very horny—or maybe a touch of both.
Hetfield slowly turned his head, having seen the flicker of motion as he’d gotten to his feet.
“Troy, what’s up?” he said.
Hetfield smiled for a moment, tilting his head. “Hey. Do I…do I know you?”
“Nah, not well.” He walked around the front of the first of the two cars that were separating them, keeping his left hand low and just slightly behind him. He offered his right hand, though, as if wanting a shake. “I don’t know if you remember or not. We met at that other show not too long ago. But I don’t remember the name.”
He had advanced to within hand-shaking distance and Troy, still smiling slightly and clearly confused, started to shake his head. “What show would that b—”
He brought his left hand up, bringing the leather sap up with expert speed and precision. The sound it made against Hetfield’s head was a hollow thunk that was not terribly unlike the muted bass drum coming through the club’s walls. Not being a leftie, he knew he didn’t get his full strength behind it, so as Hetfield tottered and reeled back, almost falling over, he swapped it over to his right hand.
The second attack was much stronger. It caught Hetfield right in the center of his forehead, right between the eyes. There was a crunching noise as the bridge of his nose was pulverized. With that, Hetfield’s knees gave out and he went to the ground right away.
Standing there and looking down at Hetfield, he regretted that he had to move away so quickly. God only knew who else might come out of that backstage door and even now, there were cars coming out of the parking garage, their headlights coming dangerously close to skirting over the scene of the crime.
He left Troy Hetfield on the ground, walking back over to his car. He stuffed the leather sap beneath his driver’s seat, started the engine, and pulled out onto the street. He’d sat and waited for nearly two hours and the act itself had taken less than five seconds. Still, it was worth it. And he could hardly wait until he got to the next red light so he could wipe yet another name off of the Life Fulfilled waiting list.