Going Insane by Tim Kizer Read Free Book Online Page B

that forty people might have gotten poisoned today, assuming the Clostridium botulinum bacteria had grown in her canned beans. Yeah, this would be a fun weekend for many of them. Of course, not all of those coffee drinkers would die. Chances were, most of them would survive. Did George drink coffee? Yep. Did he drink from the pots in the kitchen? Most likely, never. His secretary brewed him coffee in the coffeemaker in the reception room. Well, it appeared Leslie would have to break a sweat and take care of George after she neutralized Kathy.
    Leslie’s brain had barely finished this thought when the world around her turned black.
    #
    #
    When Leslie regained consciousness, she could not recognize the place. They were in some rundown empty warehouse—at least it appeared to be a warehouse to her—and it was not Kathy, but Leslie who was duct-taped to a chair now. Two fluorescent lanterns on the floor were the only sources of light. Kathy was standing several feet away from Leslie with a compact digital camcorder, apparently viewing a recording.
    Damn. Something had gone terribly wrong.
    Leslie tried to move her legs only to find out that they indeed were fastened to the chair just like her arms. She could see her wristwatch, which was not buried under the layers of duct tape. It was a quarter to midnight. Judging by the fact that she did not feel particularly hungry, Leslie concluded it was still Friday and she had been unconscious for about four hours.
    How the hell did she remove the duct tape? Did she chew through it? This fucking old rat.
    “How are you doing?” said Kathy, shutting the camcorder screen.
    “What does this all mean?” Leslie nodded towards the walls.
    “We’re not in Long Beach anymore.” 
    “I can see that. What the fuck is going on?” Leslie was feverishly attempting to recall the events right before she had fallen asleep.
    “There was something in those cigarettes, right?” she asked.
    “Yes. A sedative, to knock you out.”
    “Do you even smoke?”
    Kathy shook her head.
    “So you kept them for me, huh?” Leslie heaved a defeated sigh. “Is that what you put in my coffee that day?”
    “It was a sedative, but a different kind.”
    “So I was right about you. And you lied to my face. You shamelessly lied to my face.”
    She was out for four hours. How far were they from Long Beach? They could have been in some industrial ghetto in Los Angeles. Or a dozen other places in the county featuring abandoned properties.
    That boy must have lived in Redondo Beach. Kathy used to live in Redondo Beach, too. Leslie was about to connect the dots. Too bad the revelation came twenty minutes late, after she had begun smoking that cigarette.
    “What do you want from me?” asked Leslie.
    She did not hit that boy on purpose. True, she was a little buzzed that morning. Maybe a wee bit more than buzzed; the party in Manhattan Beach had gone on all night. She was headed to Rick’s place in Torrance. You see, she did a responsible thing back then: instead of driving thirty four miles to her own condo, she chose to go to Rick’s, just minutes away.
    “You don’t remember the last two hours?” asked Kathy.
    Accidents happen all the time. And they are not anyone’s fault. That’s why they are called accidents.
    “I remember you asking questions.”
    One moment she was looking at her cell phone to see if there were any new text messages, the other moment she was hurling that boy’s body down the street. It was like he had appeared out of thin air. She hit the brakes, stopped the car. When she saw that boy lying on the asphalt, she immediately realized he was dead. She had to make a decision in a space of seconds. She had alcohol in her system. Her career, her freedom, her reputation were on the line. She wanted to get away. And she did exactly that.
    Fortunately, there was no blood on her Land Cruiser, but she still washed it at a self-service car wash within an hour of the accident, just in case.