The Good Neighbor

by William Kowalski

  Colt hadn’t even looked at his arm yet—he hadn’t been able to bring himself to. He glanced down fleetingly now and saw that it was encased in plaster, and there were two tubes coming out of the cast, each running with a yellowish fluid. Revolted, he looked away.

  “Jesus,” he said. “Are those things coming out of me?”

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  “They’re drainage tubes, the nurse said. They keep you from building up fluid under your incisions.”

  “They look pretty gruesome. Listen, Francie. When this goes to court, what you have to say is going to be important. You have to tell them Flebberman was acting crazy. He was acting crazy be forehand, wasn’t he? I know he came over to the house while they were digging up the—while they were doing the digging. Ranting and raving and so forth. Steinbach told me. And he threatened to kill me.”

  “Well, Colt—you have to see things from his point of view to really understand what was going through his mind.”

  Colt stared at her in disbelief. “His point of view?” he said. “I mean—I’m not saying what he did was right, but—” “But you understand why he did it.”

  “You acted with total disregard, Colt,” said Francie. “Total dis regard.”

  Colt laughed up at the ceiling. “I don’t believe this. My own wife thinks that the guy who kidnapped me at gunpoint was jus tified. Holy shit!”

  “Colt,” said Francie. “I’m sorry you’re hurt. I’m not saying you deserved it. But you did have something like this coming. And you have for a long time.”

  Colt was stunned into speechlessness. He looked at Francie to see if she was joking, but her face was clear and calm. Flebberman had said the same thing, he remembered. So they were all in league against him.

  “Oh, go to hell,” he said. “Get out.”

  “And I still want a divorce,” said Francie. “So I would appreciate it if you would stop referring to me as ‘your wife.’ ”

  “You’ll get your goddam divorce. Don’t you worry about that.” “Thank you.”

  “You’re nuts, Francie, you know that?” Colt said. “Totally nuts.” “No, Colt, I am not nuts,” Francie said, as she headed for the door, “at least not according to the way I see things. Maybe in

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  your world I am, but then I never belonged in your world. And you never belonged in mine.”

  “You got that right!”

  “And let me tell you one other thing,” Francie said. “What.”

  “This could all stop right now, with you. You can make this all go away.”

  “How?” “Forgive him.”

  “Forgive him? Francie, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! I don’t want to forgive him! I want to kill him!”

  “Then it’s not going to stop,” said Francie from the doorway. “It’s going to go on forever. I can tell you that right now.”

  “Nurse!” Colt shouted, coughing, his throat sore again. “Nurse!”

  The nurse came bustling in—a different one, a black woman with rustling starched skirts. “I hear you, honey,” she said. “I hear you. What is it?”

  “Get that crazy bitch out of here,” Colt said. “Who? Your wife? Why you wanna get her out?” “She’s not my wife,” Colt said. “She’s my ex-wife.” “I was just leaving anyway,” Francie said.

  “Maybe you better, miss, wife or no wife,” said the nurse. “We can’t have him gettin’ too upset.”

  “No, we can’t have that, can we?” Francie said. She left the room without a backward glance.

  “My, my,” said the nurse. “Can’t have this. Can’t have this at all.” She deftly injected something into the IV tube in his arm, and immediately Colt felt his head begin to swim.

  “What’s your name?” he asked woozily. “Betty.”

  “Betty? What is that stuff you guys keep giving me?”

  “You sleep now, honey,” said Betty. “It’s just a little special somethin’.”

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  “Did you whip it up yourself?” Colt asked, drowsing off. “Or is it a pharma . . .”

  He slept again.

  ❚ ❚ ❚

  “No,” Colt said. “I refuse to be back here.” He turned to see Joe by his side again, wearing his suit. “Joe,” he said, “tell them I refuse to be back here.”

  “He heard you,” Joe said wearily.

  “That’s really too bad,” said the judge—he, too, sounded tired now, though how a shadow could grow tired Colt had no idea. “It’s time to get started. First witness?”

  “Wait a minute,” said Colt. “There are no witnesses! There is no trial! I question the authority of this court! I question you!”

  There was dead silence. He could feel the shadow scrutinizing him.

  “Hm,” it said. “That’s interesting. What about me do you ques tion, exactly?”

  “I question your ethics,” said Colt. “And I question your mo tives. You won’t even show your face! You’re nothing but a shadow!”

  “Colt,” said Joe warningly, “be careful.” “Shut up, Joe. You’re fired.”

  Joe stood up abruptly, snapping his briefcase shut. “Best news I’ve heard all day,” he snarled. “Now I can go fishing. See ya when I see ya, Coltie.” And, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

  Colt gulped.

  “So,” said the shadow, “you want to see what I look like, is that it? You want to know who I am?”

  “You got it,” said Colt. He stood and crossed his arms, the left one of which was miraculously back to normal, with a brave defiance he did not feel. “Or I’m outa here. And nothing can stop me.”

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  He could hear murmurs coming from the jury box, but he didn’t even look in their direction.

  “Very well,” said the shadow.

  The darkness lifted slowly. As it did so, astonishment came over Colt’s face.

  “Oh, my God,” he said. “You?”

  “Yes, me,” said the judge. “Who the hell else did you think it would be?”

  Colt blinked several times, but his eyes were not playing tricks on him. He was looking directly into his own face—and into his own eyes. The judge was him, and he was the judge. And the longer he looked at himself, the more he forgot who was who.

  “Is this hell?” he asked miserably. The judge, smiling, nodded.

  ❚ ❚ ❚

  “Yup,” he said. “Sure is.”

  When he awoke a third time, it was to the sound of voices in the hallway. Now he could see daylight trickling in under the shades, and he raised the head of the bed with the remote control. There were two women arguing outside his room.

  “Hey,” he called. “What’s going on out there?”

  Yet another nurse stuck her head in the open door.

  “Mr. Hart,” she said. “There’s a woman here to see you. She says she needs to talk to you right away.”

  “Well, who is it?”

  The other woman in the hallway also stuck her head in. Colt didn’t recognize her, but he thought he had a pretty good idea of who she might be. In the half-light he could see a flowery print housedress under a fake fur coat. Tears were streaming down the woman’s face.

  “He din’t mean it!” she said.

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  “Ma’am, you cannot disturb the patients,” said the nurse. “Now if you’ll just—”

  “It’s all right,” said Colt resignedly. “Let her in.” “All right. But the children have to stay outside.” “Children?” Colt said. “What children?”

  “You three siddown and shuddup,” said the woman over her shoulder. “Momma’ll be right out.” Colt could hear small voices raised in protest, and the exasperated sigh of the nurse.

  “Not even supposed to be on this floor,” she said. “I don’t know how you got them this far.”

  “Please,” said the woman to Colt, standing in the doorway. “He din
’t mean to do nothin’ but scare ya!”

  “Mrs. Flebberman, I presume,” said Colt. “I—yeah—yes, sir. I’m Randall’s wife.” “Charmed.”

  “I’m here t’ask ya—quit it!” She said this in the direction of her feet. Colt could see a small pair of hands reaching through the doorway and clinging to her ankles. Mrs. Flebberman shook her self loose and came further into the room, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Please,” she began again. “Randy don’t have a mean bone in his body. He just—”

  “He could have fooled me,” Colt said. “I’m not sure we’re even supposed to be talking about this.”

  The woman nodded, crying harder. “I know it,” she said. “But I had to come down. It’s just—Mr. Hart. I’m here ta make a—a emo tional plea!”

  “An emotional plea?”

  “I got four kids,” she said, gasping. “If he goes ta jail, I don’t know what we’re gonna do! We’re gonna be broke!”

  Colt rolled his eyes. “Don’t you think he should have thought of that sooner?” he asked. “Before he decided to break into my apartment and kidnap me with a gun? Jesus, lady! Your husband isn’t too bright, is he?”

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  The woman sniffled.

  “Maybe he din’t go ta college like you,” she said. “But—he was upset. Real upset. He never meant ta hurt ya. He told me he was just gonna make you put them bodies back in the earth, where they belonged. And then—”

  “And then what? What did he think was going to happen next?

  I would just forget about the whole thing?”

  “I know, I know!” said Jennifer Flebberman. “I ast him not to do it! I told him it was crazy, but he was so damn mad, he wouldn’t listen! I never seen him like that before!”

  At that moment a child crept into the room then, a toddler, fol lowed by another. The nurse who had been standing in the hall said, “Now that’s it. Really. You must leave at once, or I’m going to call security.”

  “I’m goin’,” said Jennifer Flebberman. “Just—please under stand. Mr. Hart. Sir. Please. If he goes ta jail, we’re gonna lose everything. Everything.”

  “And you want me to drop the charges,” said Colt. “Just like that. I’ve been traumatized within an inch of my life, and I’m lay ing here in a hospital bed with half a ton of metal in my arm—my broken arm—and I’m just supposed to forget about it?”

  “We’ll do anything,” said Jennifer Flebberman. “Anything you say. We’ll give you whatever you want. Just—”

  “Ma’am,” said a deep male voice in the hallway, which Colt took to be that of a security guard. “If you don’t leave the premises immediately, I’m going to escort you off.”

  “All right, I’m goin’,” said Jennifer Flebberman. “What I want is justice!” said Colt.

  “All he wanted was fer them ta be left in peace!” Jennifer said, before she stepped out into the hallway again. Colt could hear her rounding up her children, all of whom were crying now. He flung his good arm over his eyes and shuddered. Good Lord. What a mess.

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  “Please!” Jennifer Flebberman shouted one more time, as she was heading down the hall.

  The nurse came in again—this time he didn’t even bother to see what she looked like. As soon as you got to know one, she was re placed by another. It was hurting his head to keep up.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Hart,” she said. “She sort of snuck by us.” “Nurse,” said Colt. “No more visitors. None. Please.”

  “All right, Mr. Hart,” said the nurse. “We’ll put a sign on your door that you should be left alone.”

  “That,” he said, “would be greatly appreciated.” “Do you want some more pain medication?” “Jesus, no,” he said. “It’s giving me nightmares.”

  “I’ll speak to the doctor about changing it to something else.” “Never mind,” said Colt. “I’d rather suffer than take the chance

  of going back to that courtroom.” “What courtroom?” she asked.

  But Colt, exhausted, had fallen asleep again, this time on his own.

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  Judgment

  Colt was in the hospital in Allentown for a week. He contin ued to refuse more pain medication; his arm felt like molten lead

  was seeping through it, searing him from the inside out, but he had decided to put up with it rather than take more drugs. The re sult of this was that he was given to letting out screams at unpre dictable moments. He had begun to feel as though he had some form of Tourette’s syndrome. But he remained firm, and refused all further needles.

  The police came to see him one more time, and this time he gave them a full account of everything that had happened, begin ning with the moment he’d woken up on the couch. He talked for an hour, screaming intermittently, making sure they got down every detail. Flebberman was still not talking, they said. He was sitting in a holding cell at the county jail, and all he did was cry. They hadn’t gotten a word out of him.

  “Well, I’m telling you the truth,” Colt told them. “I’m not— gaah!—making any of this up.”

  “We don’t think you’re making this up,” Riller assured him.

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  “Everything we’ve found fits with what you told us.” “So you can put him away.”

  “Well, he’ll be arraigned,” said Witherspoon. “And unless he pleads guilty there will be a trial. But so far, like we said, he hasn’t been talking. He’s not cooperating at all.”

  “He’s scared, that’s why. He knows he’s going down for a long time. Oh, Jesus!” he shouted.

  “He certainly feels guilty about something,” Riller said, edging away from the bed.

  Colt stifled another scream, succeeding in turning it into a groan, and waited to catch his breath.

  “How long could he get put away for?” he asked.

  The troopers shrugged. “That’s not really our area,” said With erspoon. “That would be up to the judge.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just wondered, you know, in your experience . . .” “It would be a long time,” said Riller. “You can bet on that.” “But he might not, too. Right? With plea bargains and all that

  kind of stuff?”

  “You really would have to wait and see what comes up during sentencing,” said Witherspoon. “Remember, it’s federal now. Those guys don’t slap you on the wrist.”

  “Yeah,” said Colt. “The thing is, his wife came to see me.” “She did?” The cops were surprised.

  “Yeah. Asking me for—for leniency.”

  Witherspoon and Riller looked at each other and then at Colt. “He’s got four kids,” Colt said.

  “Yeah, well, he shoulda thought about them before he commit ted the crime,” said Riller.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You dug up his family cemetery, right? That’s what hap pened?”

  “I ordered it done, yeah. Ouch!”

  “People can get funny about that kind of thing,” said Wither spoon. “Some people are really touchy about their families.”

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  “Yeah,” said Riller.

  “So he could plead that he was temporarily deranged,” said Colt. “Right? Or something like that?”

  “Usually that only works in lovers’ quarrels,” Riller said. “I never heard of a case like this before, actually. It’s pretty unusual. There’s been some stuff about it in the papers.”

  “There has?” Colt was surprised. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Just articles. It’s a weird one. No one’s ever heard of anything like it before.”

  “Yeah, well, that goes for me, too,” Colt said.

  “It would depend on if it goes to a jury,” said Witherspoon. “If he pleads not guilty by reason of temporary insanity or something like that. It would be up to the jury to decide if they believe him or not.” “We really can’t advise you on anything,” said Riller.
“Our job is

  to collect information and enforce the law.”

  “But if this guy’s a dangerous criminal,” said Witherspoon, “and you can get him put away, then you have an obligation to do that. For the good of society.”

  “Yeah. I know,” said Colt.

  “You take care, Mr. Hart,” said Riller. “We’ll see you again.”

  ❚ ❚ ❚

  Each day, the doctor who had performed the surgery appeared to check on Colt. He shone a penlight in his eyes, frowned at his arm, and examined the fluid that ran from the drainage tubes into the quart-sized plastic bags hanging from the lower arms of the IV stand. The doctor seemed impossibly young, even though he had already lost most of his hair, and there was a liberal sprinkling of freckles across his face that made him look a little like Howdy Doody.

  After his last examination, Dr. Doody said, “You’re looking good, Mr. Hart. Your bones are knitting, and there’s no infection. I think you can probably go home this weekend.”

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  “What day is it?” Colt asked. “I keep losing track of time in here.”

  “Friday. You could be discharged on Sunday, maybe.” “When can I go back to work? Monday?” “Monday?” The man laughed. “Are you kidding?” “No. I’m not kidding.”

  The doctor stopped laughing. “What is it you do that’s so wonder ful you can’t wait to get back to it?” he asked. “Most people would be asking how long they could get away with staying home.”

  “Stocks,” said Colt. “I’m a trader.”

  “Oh, yeah? Trader, huh? You got any hot tips?” asked Dr. Doody. “I hear the only way to make money on the market is to play with big money. Millions. Otherwise, they say it’s hardly worth it.”