Letting Go (Chapter-41)

Edmond

Killing someone by smashing ten sleeping tablets into powder and mixing them with honey and oatmeal was not the classiest way of doing it, but it was cheap, and Edmond didn’t want to waste the rest of his fentanyl on an old woman. There was always the option of using a gun, but they were too loud, too quick, and too cowardly. Killing at a leisurely pace allowed him to relish every moment of the process, which was why drugs and fire were Edmond’s preference. But people were more afraid of guns, which was why he kept a pistol under his bed for those rare occasions.

When Edmond got back to Vera Robert’s condo that morning, his plan came to him quickly and clearly. Maybe it was the sunflower wallpaper, or the sound of Vera’s snores erupting from the sweat-stained couch - but when Edmond walked in, the thoughts came to him like a gift from God, or, in his case, from Satan. He smiled as he made his coffee, then went to his room to retrieve his pistol and a jacket. When he returned to the decrepit woman in the living room, his smile faded. I’ve got to take care of her, he thought to himself, before I do anything else.

It upset Edmond that he didn’t have the time to stay and watch Vera die. He turned up the television volume and waited for her to finish half of the oatmeal before grabbing a pen and small piece of paper, putting on a hat, and leaving. The bus stop was three blocks away, and the ride to Woodland Hills no longer than 20 minutes, so Edmond made it to the Century Peak 21 Real Estate building by 9:30am.

The building was tall with shades pulled down over every window to shield the sun. Edmond walked in, checked the directory, and took the elevator to the fourth floor, Suite 403.

Patrick Tryniski was the first person Edmond saw when he walked in, sitting at an oval shaped reception desk with his ear pressed against a phone. Though his hair was gelled back, and he was dressed in a white button up shirt and tie, the dreariness in his face and the lackluster tone of his voice eliminated any effort of professionalism.

As Edmond waited for Patrick to finish the phone call, he glanced up at a small camera located in the top corner of the room and pulled his hat down slightly.

“Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

Edmond walked up to the desk, pulled the folded piece of paper from his pocket, and handed it to Patrick without saying a word. He could feel his heart race as Patrick read what he had written on the slip of paper, knowing that the boy’s reaction to the note would either set his plan in motion, or bring it to a sudden, dire halt:

Hello, Patrick.

Read carefully. I have a gun and intend to kill you and everyone in this establishment unless you follow these instructions. You will call your supervisor from your desk and tell him you are too ill to work. You will follow me outside, walk me to your car, and drive me to a different location without question.

If you follow these instructions, I will not kill you or your coworkers.

If you do not, I will kill all of you.

Give me the note.

Patrick swiftly handed back the note, looked straight into Edmond’s eyes, and dialed the company phone.

“Umm hello Garrett I--I’m not feeling very well.”

Edmond glared at Patrick as he listened to his supervisor’s response.

“Yes-yes I know I’ve called off. I-- I think I just need one more day. Yes, I know. I know.”

Edmond glanced at the clock and started feeling anxious - he didn’t think the phone call would take long. He looked back at Patrick and could see beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead.

“Yes - yes, sir. I know. Yes, I understand. This will be the last time. Thank you, sir--”

Patrick pulled the phone from his ear, stood up, and quietly followed Edmond out of the door.

Minutes later, Patrick was walking Edmond to his car. The moment he sat beside Patrick in the passenger’s seat, he pulled his pistol from his jacket pocket and pressed it firmly into Patrick’s side. It amused him, the way Patrick’s body tensed at the feeling of a pistol. Amazing how scared they are of guns, Edmond thought.

“Now pull out, drive straight, then turn left at the stop sign,” Edmond jabbed Patrick harder in the side, “that’s it, now right at the light.”

They arrived at the destination within 15 minutes. It was a side street beside an old toy store that had gone out of business a year before.

“Park the car.” Edmond watched Patrick put the car into park and place both hands back on the steering wheel. He was grateful for how quickly Patrick was obeying his commands without protest but knew that the next few commands wouldn’t be as easily followed, even with the threat of a gun.

“Okay, now take out your phone, unlock it, and give it to me.”

Patrick hesitated. He kept his hands firmly on the wheel, took a deep breath, and spoke for the first time that morning.

“What do you want? Tell me, please,” Patrick’s eyes remained forward, “is it money? You can have that. It’s in my wallet. I’ll give you everything- credit cards, cash--”

“I told you what I want. Your phone. Unlocked,” Edmond glanced into the rearview mirror and scanned the surrounding area, “I’m an impatient man, Patrick. Don’t try me.”

Patrick paused before finally releasing his right hand from the wheel, reaching into his pocket, and retrieving his phone. Once the phone was unlocked Edmond grabbed it, maintaining the pressure he had against Patrick’s side with the pistol, and searched through Patrick’s contacts for Jilliana.

The text Edmond wrote to her was simple and straight to the point:

hey, my car broke down on bryant. near the old zany brainy. can you come?

“So,” Edmond put down the phone and turned to Patrick, “how’s Jilliana doing these days?”

Edmond watched Patrick’s face shift from pale to a light red. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“Who are you,” Patrick finally said through gritted teeth, “Who. The fuck. Are you?”

Edmond smiled. “Edmond,” he reached across and held out his hand, “Edmond Rowen.”