by Tyler Wolfe
I pulled myself back into my truck and slammed the door. I have to get out of here before that fucker drinks some more courage and comes back. The last thing I need right now is the police linking the two of us.
Those cold, hard facts were enough to calm my rage and get me focused again. I did good. I didn’t hit him, I didn’t do anything. I just scared him off.
I knew my reaction wasn’t that unusual. I had noticed how the bikers had gone outside to party without being in earshot of his whining. I had noticed how people had gotten up and left while I had been in the bathroom, most of them leaving half-emptied drinks on their tables. Marlon hadn’t just disgusted me; he had cleared the whole room.
Just like his dumbass son, he didn’t know when to leave people the hell alone.
I drove home very carefully as I was dangerously close to my booze limit. My hands were shaking from the confrontation and my half-drunk mind was racing.
I now felt worse than ever for killing the boy, but not for the sake of some imaginary family shedding helpless tears for their missing son. No. That joke of a man in the paint-spattered jeans deserved to spend the rest of his life in drunken weeping and regret...at best.
All my grief and guilt was for his nameless son now, whom I had turned into an object—something to be disposed of. I knew it wasn’t fair that Marlon was right about the local cops and their racism. But, that very unfairness helped me stay out of prison.
If I ever went before a jury and tried to explain the dozens of terrible things that had led up to the fight between myself and that kid, who would listen to me? My own parents didn’t believe me when I said that I couldn’t stand all the bullying. Why would strangers care that I was defending myself?
Why would they care that I never even meant to kill him?
So why did you strangle him then?
The voice was clear in my head for a moment: the ugly, smoke-filled, menacing rasp that had torn its way out of my throat when I had killed Diasko. A wave of dizziness and nausea hit, and I had to pull over at once.
“I was just trying to make him stop,” I said to the empty car. “I panicked. I lost my temper. I just wanted him to stop hitting me.”
He had already stopped hitting you.
The voice was cold and stony, battering me with facts that I had tried to rationalize away. I questioned my memories of that night. Had I rewritten the story in my head? I clamped my hands over my ears reflexively, but that did nothing to block it out.
You lost your temper. You turned on him. You hit him. You wrestled with him. You got beaten but then you came back and pinned him down.
You hit him more. He started weakening. You wanted to make him stop. That part is true.
But the strangling?
I shuddered, going very cold again, my shirt sticking to me like I had been splashed with icy water. “No. It was self-defense.”
It wasn’t self-defense. Don’t you remember why you started strangling him?
I let out a hollow little sob, and the windshield blurred in front of me as I blinked back tears. “No, please...”
You wanted to win the fight. You wanted to be the bully for once. You wanted to dominate that kid like he tried to do to you. And when you had him pinned, what did he do? He swore at you.
Then you put your hands on his throat and squeezed and kept squeezing because he insulted you.
I sobbed openly, blubbering like a kid with a scraped knee. “I didn’t mean to kill him!”
What do you think strangling does? Discourage someone strongly? You killed him!
“I lost my temper!” I pleaded. “I was scared!”
Lots of people lose their tempers and even get violent, but don’t murder someone.
“I wasn’t myself...”
Well who were you, then?
“Oh God.” I bent over the steering wheel and buried my face in my hands.
Almost at once, I smelled something horrible. It was the awful smoke-and-filth stink of Diasko’s house again. And right behind me, I heard a chuckle.
My head snapped up, and I looked into the rear-view mirror, only to meet my own eyes. The face in the mirror was me, the other me, still in that black hoodie, face hard and cold and smeared with sweat and filth. I could see him so clearly that when I looked down at my ungloved hands it was a shock.
Lie to the police. He said, the raspy voice so clear now that I could hear it with my ears. Lie to your wife. Lie to your neighbors, because you have to. But you don’t get to lie to yourself.”
I closed my eyes on tears...
...a few seconds later, the stench disappeared.
I opened my eyes. Oh God, what was that? I need to get out of here.
Shaking, I started the truck again, and drove the rest of the way home.
I barely managed to get my shoes off before I found myself huddled and shaking under the covers. I didn’t throw up, I just laid there sick and scared, with my heart pounding. Sometimes I closed my eyes for a while, but I was never able to relax.
Finally, I calmed a bit. I didn’t hear the voice again, or see the face in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. I only saw my own: pale, sick, scared reflection.
When Zoe came home, I pretended to sleep until she dozed off. Then I buried my face against her breasts and nestled against her like a kid seeking comfort. She wrapped an arm around me reflexively and breathed a slow rhythm into my hair until I finally fell asleep.
CHAPTER 21
The Awakening
“Good morning, sleepy head.”
I opened my eyes to see Zoe’s face a few inches from mine. She was smiling, the sunlight caught in her hair. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. She leaned down and kissed me on the nose.
“Whoa, what happened?” I mumbled. My mouth was dry and my head heavy from the drinking. My muscles ached in weird places. Jesus those drinks were strong. Guess Luis must be a bigger drinker than me.
“I came home and you were passed out.” She brushed my hair out of my eyes and blinked sleepily, still smiling. “I tried to get your clothes off you but you wouldn’t budge.”
“Oh, man, what time is it?” Yesterday was a blur still. I was caught in that blessed half-awake period where my thoughts weren’t making much sense, and reality was still distant and dreamlike.
Then I remembered: crawling into bed too exhausted and drunk to worry about my clothes, lying there for hours, and Zoe coming in. Curling into her arms while we slept, not wanting to burden or worry her with things I couldn’t tell her.
Honey, I met the father of the kid I killed. I mean, one of the men that I killed. I mean, the one that wasn’t intentional, and I feel really bad about it…I…
“You had me concerned...I can’t even remember the last time I’ve seen you like that. Are you all right?” She petted her hand down my arm, looking worried.
“Been better. Mostly thirsty. Waking up to your face helps though.” I stretched, my joints cracking. Why was I so sore? “Wow, I’ve been asleep since I got home last night.” I tried to remember why. The bar. Strong drinks. “Like fourteen hours or something…I haven’t slept that long since forever.”
The bar. Drinks to celebrate. The offer letter. Did I bring it home? I shoved my hands in my pocket and felt my wallet, keys, and a folded sheet of paper. Phew, good.
“You looked so comfortable that I didn’t wanna wake you. Have you been short on sleep lately?” Zoe was still inches from my face, eyes searching it and looking concerned.
You have no idea, baby. “Yeah, kinda. That’s not why, though.” I sat up gingerly and she sat up with me, rubbing my back gently. “I have good news, but I kind of ruined it by celebrating in a stupid bar. Their drinks were really strong.”
I wasn’t sure if I was making any sense.
I got up, feeling itchy all over from sleeping in my work clothes. I took everything out of my pockets and set the pile on top of the drawers, then stripped down to get a shower.
“So you actually got drunk las
t night?” Zoe’s voice was questioning. I almost never got more than buzzed.
“No, no,” I responded cheerfully from the bathroom as I stood and looked myself over in the mirror. I dumped my clothes in the laundry without looking, then went back to peering at myself.
I looked…normal. My eyes were a little bloodshot and sunken, and I was stiff and sore, but the guy in the mirror didn’t look more than confused and sleepy otherwise. He was not hard or murderous and did not talk to me in that awful other-voice while the phantom stink of a dead man’s house rode my nostrils.
I had no idea how to rationalize last night’s experience. A panic attack twisted by too much alcohol? A breakdown from a mix of guilt and rage? Were my muscles so sore from sheer tension, or had something else happened that I couldn’t remember?
I stepped into the shower to scrub off and wash my hair. “I had about a drink and a half and then realized how strong they mix them. I had to stop or I would be over my limit for driving. That guy throws more shots into a Long Island Iced Tea than I have ever tasted.” No wonder Lucky couldn’t afford a classier bar.
“Our bartenders would get fired if we mixed that strong,” Zoe mused. “What did you say the place’s name was?”
“Lucky’s, off the highway. Kind of a deliberate dive. With not a daiquiri in sight. Give me one sec babe.” I ducked under the shower and rinsed my hair out, last night’s memories filing into place as I woke fully.
The offer letter had started it. Feeling a rare sense of accomplishment, I had gone to Lucky’s to celebrate. Instead, I had sat there listening to that low-life scumbag whine about how he missed the son he had driven away. And how worried he was for him even though he had probably been the biggest danger that kid had ever faced. Well, except me.
But none of that would have happened if he hadn’t driven his son away. Just like none of it would have happened if his son had just stopped hitting me.
The memory of that night haunted me now with perfect, photographic clarity, as if something in me refused to let the recent explanation soften the blow of what I had done. I had been full of adrenaline, panicked and enraged. I had been defending myself...up to a point. I could say that I lost control after being goaded beyond reason...
…But, if I could be goaded into killing someone, if that was my go-to when I lost my temper, then did I really belong walking around free on the street?
No. Whatever. I’m fine. Sure, I’m guilty, and I’ll never let myself forget the worst mistake of my life, but...it will never happen again.
That nagging doubt still lingered, though, distracting me as I turned off the tap. I opened the shower door and stepped out, looking into the bedroom. “Sorry, honey, my ears were full of water. What did you say?”
Zoe was still in bed, looking over at me through the open doorway. She looked worried. “You were at Lucky’s last night?”
I started toweling off, my shoulders and one knee cracking as I bent to dry myself. “Yeah well, not really last night. I stopped there after work, like seven or so…maybe stayed half an hour. Why?”
She stayed very quiet as she slid her legs out from under the covers and sat up on the bed, facing me. Her expression was so troubled that I froze, looking at her in growing alarm.
“There was a thing on the news last night while I was on shift. Some old guy from our neighborhood was leaving Lucky’s around ten. He stepped off the curb and got hit by a truck.” Zoe said, pausing to push her hair out of her eyes before finishing the story.
“Holy shit,” I muttered in an honestly stunned voice. Inside, though, my heart started beating very fast, and that dizzy feeling from last night returned. I turned to my drawers to get something to wear and was digging in the top drawer when she went on.
“The truck hit him going full speed. It was a hit and run. I guess the guy didn’t even slow down—like he had just run over a squirrel or something.” The horror in Zoe’s voice ran cold fingernails down my back.
“Jesus.” I pulled on a pair of khaki shorts over my boxer briefs and grabbed a white t-shirt to throw on and tuck into it. Keeping my voice shocked wasn’t a problem. Keeping myself detached inside...that was a problem. “So they’re looking for this guy?”
“Yeah. It was hours after you were even there, so I guess you wouldn’t have seen anything.” She got up and headed over to give me a hug, probably thinking to comfort us both. I hugged her back stiffly, my mind racing.
“Did he survive?” If he didn’t, should I be happy that another violent scumbag is dead, or angry that he won’t have to live with the knowledge that he lost his son and it’s really his fault?
“No, he was killed instantly. I guess it was pretty gory too. Witnesses say he just stepped off the curb in front of the truck and it didn’t brake at all.”
“If it was the same guy I saw in at seven, the guy was already drunk then. By ten he probably couldn’t see straight. That’s just terrible, though. I think he was a friend of the owner’s.” Was I saying too much? Would she get curious? Go there and talk to Lucky, maybe?
“Yeah, your husband got into a confrontation with the victim in my parking lot, and threatened him. He also drives a truck...”
Zoe, though, was much more preoccupied with another angle on the whole horrible mess. “I swear it’s like this town is cursed or something. First the fire, and now this. Can we just decide on a place for you to transfer to soon, please? I dunno if we should live here anymore.” She shed her brief eyelet nightie, giving me a distracting flash of skin before stepping into the shower.
“Yeah there’s been a lot of weird things happening lately. And yes, we can leave soon. That is if you like Santa Barbara.” I forced a smile into my voice as I reached for the offer letter I had printed out to show her.
She stopped dead for a moment and then leaned out of the shower to look at me. “Was Santa Barbara on my short list?”
“They’re offering me Assistant General Manager. Fifty percent raise plus options and more vacation.” I brought her the letter and she stood there naked and dry in the shower stall, reading it.
Then her squeal of delight bounced off the bathroom walls, and she did a little bouncy dance to go with it. Now, both of us were happily distracted.
“I just have to tell them yes within the next few days, or they’ll move on to the next candidate.” I caught her in my arms as she leaned over and hugged me.
“Well, tell them! Call them now!” She was beaming, her eyes dancing with excitement. Marlon’s death had faded to a bad footnote in a life that we would soon be putting behind us.
For her, anyway. Not for me. I couldn’t even enjoy this victory, not right now. Not even though it was our ticket away from this terrible place.
Under the surface, a cold had settled on me. I was spooked. Marlon was mowed down by a truck at high speed two-and-a-half hours after our confrontation. Was it suicide? Was it a drunk driver? Was it some racist redneck who saw an opportunity? Someone with a grudge against him?
Where was I at ten last night?
I put my sneakers on as Zoe got back into the shower. She always took four times as long as me showering, washing, conditioning and drying her luxuriant hair. “I’ll go call them now,” I told her with a troubled enthusiasm.
“Okay!” She turned the water on.
As soon as I knew that the shower spray would cover the sounds of my movements, I turned and sprinted out of the room, heading through the kitchen and into the garage.
Was I in bed at ten, half drunk and asleep? Was I in bed, stressing over everything that happened and then pretending to be asleep when Zoe came in? Was I sitting in my truck having a complete freak-out and talking to myself?
...Or was I doing something else?
The dark hulk of my truck sat in front of me in the garage. Trembling, terrified of what I might see, I reached over slowly, and flicked on the light.
Bracing myself for horrors, I blinked at...nothing. No dent in the bumper, no scratches in my paint and no smea
rs of blood or anything else. The truck showed no signs of damage or vehicular homicide.
I leaned on the hood, catching my breath, my legs shaking. Thank God. I’m not crazy. I didn’t do this one. I wanted to, but I didn’t touch him.
I straightened up slowly, chest heaving, a warm wash of relief running through me. Marlon’s death had been completely unrelated to me—and completely justified. There had been no witnesses to my argument with him. There was no evidence to point to this being any of my fault.
I’m innocent. I’m in control, and I’m getting the hell out of Lakeland. Smiling, I went back inside to make that phone call.
CHAPTER 22
Goodbye Lakeland
“I can’t believe you’re actually leaving!” Phyllis’s hug was big and soft and overly clingy and smelled of lavender sachet and tequila sunrise. “We’ll miss you so much!”
“You can always call,” I reminded the sad-eyed elderly lady gently. She had known since I put in notice with our landlord, but she kept making unhappy noises about it every time she brought our mail or came to say hello. “And Zoe is on Facebook.”
“That’s right, I am. Let’s get connected before we leave, okay?” Zoe held out her arms and Phyllis transferred hugs while I stepped back smiling a little stiffly. Poor Phyllis. She still saw this as a good town and a good neighborhood, even with everything that had happened. Maybe now that things had died down, it would be again, at least for her.
Not for me though. Never again.
“Oh good, dear, let me just give you my new card. I put my email there along with everything else I could think of.” Phyllis fished in her organizer purse and came up with a periwinkle card, which she pressed into Zoe’s hand.
“Is she going to do that every single time she sees us from now on?” I asked once Phyllis had rolled away and we were back to packing up a few remaining yard items. “I feel like my mom’s seeing me off to college again.”
Zoe laughed a little. “Well, she doesn’t have family of her own, so she clucks after everyone who lives here. I’m sure she’ll adopt whoever moves in in our place.”