Not a Murderer
by Maryanne Knight
Janey recognized the man in her doorbell camera from the police photo. Housewives had been warned not to open the door for solicitors, and asked to report any they saw. Sightings led to manhunts, lockdowns that inconvenienced residents, while the killer remained free.
After her cousin’s murder, Janey hung a “welcome!” flag on the door, planted petunias to lure him to her house, took the weekend night shift, to be home when he hunted. Camry in the driveway, hospital parking pass hidden in the console. Surprisingly, it worked.
She buttoned the house dress over her workout clothes, stun gun in the pocket. She pressed the mic on her phone. “Yes?”
His smile was broad, charismatic. “Howdy, Miss. I’d like to show you the patented new technology from Vikingware. Our blades, which never dull or stain, will literally cut your cooking time in half.”
“You look parched. Come in out of that hot sun.” She fussed, opening the door. “I’m brewing some sweet tea. You must have a glass before you show me anything. Two minutes, then I’m yours for the afternoon.”
“Sounds divine,” he said, with a sly twist of his lips that made her shudder.
Alone in the kitchen, she scooped sugar and crushed pills into a glass and microwaved it with tea from the fridge. Ambien, Xanax, Vicodin, whatever she could get prescribed since her cousin’s death. She’d been at Charlene’s house that day with the cops, learned about the empty tea glass at each scene, with the killer’s fingerprints and DNA. His signature, a detail withheld from the press. Drugging his tea became central to Janey’s revenge fantasy after that. The rest of the plan remained to be sorted out.
She took three deep breaths. You can do this. For Charlene.
#
The killer took up the whole couch. His wide-faced smile made him seem honest, the glint in his eyes easily mistaken for charm. The knives on the coffee table, a large boning knife of a higher quality placed above the others, within easy reach.
Janey handed him the sweet tea and took the chair closest to the fireplace. The poker handy but hidden from view, her phone tucked in the cushions.
“Not many door-to-door salesmen anymore,” she said. “Gotta be tough work.”
He took a sip. “Delicious. Thank you. To be honest, and, I know it sounds corny, but, it feels like a mission to me. God’s work, if you will. Now, you might be thinking, what do knives have to do with the Good Lord?” He picked up the boning knife and rolled it in his hand. “Well, doesn’t matter what I’m selling, or if I make a sale at all.” He put the knife back down, and drummed his fingers on the table. “It’s about connecting with people, especially those who don’t get many visitors. My way of paying God back for all he’s given me.”
Janey nodded. Charlene’s blood-soaked ”God is Love” pillow flashed in her mind, along with the desire to force it down the killer’s throat. “Company is nice. I do get lonely with my husband working so much.”
That sly twist of the lip, again. “That’s why God sent me here today. Maybe you buy a knife, maybe we just talk. Doesn’t matter. This is what God wants.” He pointed at her and back at himself. “People, connecting.” His fingers drummed.
Her anger boiled. She covered it with a smile, feigning interest in his well-rehearsed story. “I hope you like that tea,” she said. “My husband thinks I over sweeten it.”
He drank some more. “No, ma’am, it’s perfect. You’re mighty kind. Remind me of my own Mother.” Another sip, and he tasted something in the dregs, sucking at his lips as he twirled the liquid, a frown pinching his eyes.
“You fuck-king...” The glass dropped. He gripped the boning knife, tried to spring from the couch, wobbled and fell back. Dazed, but conscious.
Jesus, pass out already! Janey trembled with rage, hand tight around the poker. Jerking it from the rack, the rest of the tools fell with a clatter.
“Trying to kill me?” He seemed amused. Leaning forward, he attempted to stand.
Janey lunged, swinging the poker like a club with both hands. The killer grabbed it, pulling her onto the coffee table. Cheap knives pressed into her knees. Even drugged, he was stronger, more practiced at violence. His knife slashed her left arm, blade along the bone, blood splattering everywhere.
Screaming, Janey released the poker and fell forward, face on his thigh, right hand on the floor between his legs. She knocked a steak knife off the table before he clamped on her ponytail, pulling her head back, forcing her to look at him. The glint in his eyes had dulled.
“Think ya outsmart me?” He snickered.
“Yes.” Janey surrendered to her fury, driving the steak knife straight up into the back of his leg. He howled, loosening his grip enough for her to pull away. The stun gun had slipped out of her pocket onto the table. She grabbed it, the movement sending a shockwave of pain from the deep gash in her arm. She blasted him for three seconds.
That was when she noticed the blood. Too much blood. Soaking into her couch, pooling on the floor. Her random stab must have nicked an artery.
I’m about to kill a man.
Everything she should have done ran through her mind. What Charlene would want her to do. The right things. Not this. No. Never this. She needed to fix this. For Charlene.
She pulled the house dress off and tossed it to him. “Tie this around your leg. Lie down. Elevate the wound.”
“Too…chicken…?”
“Now, or I’ll shock you again.” She backed up to the chair, left arm tight against her chest. She pulled her phone from the cushions and dialed.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“Send an ambulance,” Janey said. “The Housewife Hunter is bleeding out on my couch.”
Maryanne Knight’s short stories have appeared in the Santa Barbara Literary Journal. Born in Brooklyn and raised in Vermont, she lives and writes in Southern California. You can reach her at MaryanneKnight.com.