* * *
Gwen Steffani and I were having lunch at an outdoor Parisian café when a shrill ringing pulled me from the dream.
I groped for the phone, knocking the Tess Gerritsen novel I’d been reading before bed to the floor. Finally my hand found the receiver and I brought it to my ear. “Hello,” I mumbled, my mouth tasting foul.
“Can I come over?”
I bolted to a sitting position as if pulled by a string, an icy breeze blowing away the last of the sleep-fog that shrouded my brain. “Dusty, what’s wrong?”
“I just can’t stay here.”
“Well, if you want to come over, you’re more than welcome.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I made a pot of coffee while waiting for Dustin to arrive. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be getting any more sleep. I thought of what he had said before: You know, most men would have bailed on me by now. I would have been lying if I didn’t admit I had considered it, but I was too invested now. Although Dustin had not repeated his profession of love, and I had yet to make one of my own, I knew that I did in fact love him.
When I opened the door for Dustin twenty minutes later, I had to stifle a gasp. He looked haggard, large purple bags hanging under his eyes like rotten fruit. He was wearing a dirty pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and he carried a duffel bag.
After I sat him down at the kitchen counter and gave him a cup of coffee, I stroked his hair and said, “Did you see him again?”
Dustin closed his eyes and nodded. “I woke up around half past one, and I could sense someone else in the room. You know, that prickly feeling you get on the back of your neck when someone’s watching you. I turned on the bedside lamp, and he was just standing there at the foot of the bed, staring at me with this blank expression. He head was busted open like it was after the accident, and blood had dribbled down over his face. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak. He had me pinned down with his eyes. Then he just sort of sank down behind the bed, out of sight. I was afraid to get up for a while because I thought as soon as I put my feet on the floor, he’d reached out from under the bed and grab me.”
Dustin paused, gulping down the coffee. Turning his hollow gaze on me, he said, “He won’t leave me alone. He must know how sorry I am, but he just won’t leave me alone.”
“Dusty,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “maybe you should see somebody.”
“A shrink?”
“I’m not going to push you; I just want you to think about it.”
“Can I just stay here for a while?” Dustin said, his voice full of pleading, like a child begging to stay up past his bedtime. “I feel safe here with you, like maybe he can’t follow me here.”
“You can stay here for as long as you want. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Dustin stared down into his empty coffee cup and said, “I do love you, you know.”
“I know, and I love you too.”
“How can you love a basketcase like me?” he asked with a humorless smile.
“Guess I’m just a glutton for punishment.”
* * *
After two weeks, it became apparent that Dustin and I were living together. He wasn’t just a guest, a temporary lodger; my home had become his home. Gradually, we had moved most of his clothes out of his old apartment.
Dustin was a bit more comfortable in my apartment—which I was starting to think of as our apartment—but I could still detect a hint of paranoia, a resistance to being left alone. Even though I felt it was important for Dustin to discuss the accident, to confront his guilt, I avoided the topic. He seemed to be getting better, and I didn’t want to do anything to upset him. He had been through enough.
We started to sink into a comforting domestic routine. Dustin was a skilled cook, and he introduced me to many dishes that I—who survived mostly on take-out and delivery pizza—had never tried before. We rented a lot of movies, spending nights cuddled up on the sofa, sometimes watching them, sometimes letting the films play as background to our lovemaking. I was naïve enough—or perhaps just blinded by love, as is prone to happen—to believe that the worst was behind us. As it turned out, two weeks of domestic bliss was all we were to have.
Our insular bubble of tranquility was shattered on a Friday night, two and a half weeks after the night Dustin called me in the early hours of the morning. I had worked late doing inventory at the bookstore where I was a manager. I’d spoken to Dustin on the phone, letting him know of the delay; he’d said he would make me a late dinner, something special. So when I walked through the door a little before nine, I was expecting to be greeted by the aroma of something delicious simmering on the stove. Instead there was only silence and shadow. Most of the lights were out, and the apartment felt empty.
“Dustin,” I called out, making my way through the living room and sticking my head in the kitchen. Nothing was cooking. I began to grow concerned.
I flipped on the hallway light and headed toward the bedroom at the far end. As I passed the closed bathroom door, I heard a quiet whimpering from the other side. “Dusty, you in there?” I asked, knocking lightly. “Can I come in?”
There was no answer. The knob turned easily in my hand and I pushed the door open. The light above the mirror was shining, shedding a frosty glow throughout the room. A residue of condensation clung to the mirror itself, and yet the steam that had fogged up the glass had dissipated. The shower curtain was pulled shut, but it was clear plastic and I could see the distorted shape of Dustin huddled at the back of the tub.
I pulled the curtain aside, but Dustin did not look up at me. He was naked and shivering, his legs pulled to his chest. His eyes were red and raw, but he was no longer crying. Instead he was making an animalistic mewling sound in the back of his throat, rocking back and forth. I immediately knelt down and placed a hand on his shoulder. He shrieked and pulled away, as if just now noticing my presence.
“Dusty, what’s wrong?” I said, leaning over the side of the tub to deliver a gentle kiss to his right temple.
“He was here,” Dustin said, his voice hollow. “I had thought maybe he wouldn’t follow me here, but he did.”
“Who?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
“The boy, the one I killed. I decided to take a quick shower before starting dinner, and I noticed a figure through the curtain. I thought maybe you had returned home earlier than expected, perhaps to surprise me. I pulled the curtain aside, but it wasn’t you standing by the sink. It was him, the little boy. His skin had turned blue, and the wound in his head was caving in on itself, his brain playing a game of peek-a-boo through the gaping hole.”
I grabbed a towel from the rod by the shower and wrapped it around Dustin’s shoulders. It took some coaxing, but I managed to get him to his feet. After helping him out of the tub, I led him to the bedroom. I dressed him as if he were a small child; he did not resist me, but he did not aid me either. When I was done, he sat there on the side of the bed in a pair of jogging pants and an oversized T-shirt. His hair, which had dried during the time he spent cowering in the tub, was sticking up in wild tufts and corkscrews.
“Dusty,” I said, sitting next to him and taking his hand in my own. “I think we need to talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I thought I was finally free of him, safe, but it was all an illusion. The boy will never stop haunting me.”
“Chris.”
“What?” Dustin said, flinching as if I’d raised my hand to him.
“The boy’s name, it was Chris McGuire. You never say his name.”
“He doesn’t have a name anymore,” Dustin said in a hoarse croak. “Because of me. I took away his name, his future. I killed him, and now he’s punishing me.”
I took a deep breath and said, “Or maybe you’re punishing yourself.”
Dustin looked up at me with eyes so wide and hurt that it pierced my heart with a vicious barb. “You think I’m imagining all this, do
n’t you?”
“I think you want to suffer for what happened.”
“I deserve to suffer,” Dustin said, turning his gaze away from me. His chest heaved with sobs, but his eyes remained dry. Apparently he had exhausted his well of tears. “It’s all my fault.”
“It was an accident,” I said, wondering how many times I had to repeat this before it finally got through to Dustin. “You are not responsible.”
“I didn’t even see him.”
“I know,” I said, placing a hand on the back of his neck and massaging. “He came out of nowhere.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I was…I was trying to change the CD.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dustin doubled over as if experiencing severe abdominal cramps. “I wanted to listen to my Bonnie Raitt CD, so I had one hand on the wheel, the other trying to get the CD case open and get the disc in the player. I wasn’t even watching the street. I felt the impact and slammed on brakes, thinking I’d hit a dog or something. When I saw the boy lying in the street, it felt like the world was capsizing. I think I went a little insane.”
“Dusty,” I whispered, wanting to say more but finding no words.
“If only I’d been looking at the road,” Dustin said, the anguish in his voice so sharp that it cut into my flesh like a blade, “then maybe I would have seen the boy. Maybe I could have put on the brakes in time to avoid the collision altogether. Maybe the little boy would still be alive.”
My mind was too full and empty at the same time. I heard what Dustin was telling me, but I wasn’t sure if I was truly comprehending it. He had not told me this version of the story before, and I knew he had not told it to the police either. It was still an accident, it wasn’t as if Dustin had murdered the boy, but Dustin was no longer so blameless.
“I should have told someone, I know,” Dustin said when I remained silent. “But I was scared. I panicked and just told the police that the boy rode out in front of the car before I could stop. I was a coward, a coward and a liar, and now the boy is making me pay for it. He’s punishing me for my sins.”
I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees, my hands dangling between my legs, staring down at the carpet. I felt sympathy for Dustin’s pain, but I was also a bit repulsed by him at the moment. I could not deny that.
“I won’t blame you if you hate me now,” Dustin said, his voice strained, as if each word caused him physical pain. “I’ll pack up and move back to my apartment if you want me to.”
I still did not trust myself to speak; there was too much for me to process all at once. I reached out and put my arms around Dustin. He fell against me gratefully, and he clung to me like a life preserver. I did not whisper assurances or platitudes, but I did hold him, and for the time being that seemed to be enough.
* * *
Over the next week, I mulled over what to do about Dustin. I loved him, that had not changed, and I would stand by him no matter what, but he needed to get help before the guilt ate him alive. I was of the opinion that he needed to come clean about what had really happened that day on Claremont Avenue. I wasn’t sure what would happen to him, but it couldn’t be any worse than what he was doing to himself. I wasn’t Catholic, but I did believe that confession was good for the soul.
When I came home from work the following Thursday, I brought a bottle of wine and a dozen roses. I felt it was important for Dustin to know that my feelings had not changed since he’d told me his secret shame. I wanted him to know that I was still on his side, and I would not abandon him.
The first thing I noticed when I walked through the door was the sound of music playing softly from the bedroom. I walked down the hall, my steps faltering as I recognized the distinctive, passionate voice of the singer. It was Bonnie Raitt, crooning tenderly, an impassioned plea to a lover who would never return her feelings. I began to go numb, the roses slipping from my grasp, as I stepped into the bedroom.
Dustin was on the bed, lying on his back on top of the covers. I would like to say there was at least a moment when I thought he was just sleeping, but I knew immediately. Like the roses before it, the wine bottle fell to the floor, shattering at my feet and drenching my shoes. I crossed the room in a daze, not even aware of my feet moving, as if I were gliding across the floor. I placed a hand against Dustin’s cheek, and the skin was cold.
On the nightstand by the bed was an empty bottle of sleeping pills and an envelope with my name on it. I took out the single sheet of paper inside, Dustin’s farewell letter, and sat on the edge of the bed. I held one of Dustin’s cold, unresponsive hands as I read his final words to me.
Dear Paul,
Please do not be angry with me for what I have done. I know it seems cowardly, but I did what I had to do. The little boy came to me again today, and though he still said not a word, it suddenly became clear to me. Like the clouds parted and the sun shone down, and there was the answer right in front of me. The boy was not here to pass judgment on me; he was inviting me to join him. It is the ultimate penance, and I will pay it freely. You may not see it, but it is the right thing to do. Don’t cry for me too much. Know this: that when the end came, I was not afraid. Chris was here to hold my hand and guide me over. I love you, and I hope to see you again someday.
Sincerely,
Dustin
I knew that I should call someone, but I could not bring myself to leave Dustin’s side. I remained on the bed, gripping his hand as if I could somehow yank him back from the other side. I brought his fingers to my lips and kissed them, holding his palm to my face. Bonnie Raitt continued to serenade us; when the song ended, it looped and began again. I didn’t know how much time passed, but I no longer cared. I would sit there forever if I had to.
I wasn’t sure if I really believed that the boy had been haunting Dustin, but I found myself suddenly desperate to believe. I wanted to believe in everything—Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, God and sonny Jesus, guardian angels, Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, aliens among us, Elvis alive and well, death by Pop Rocks and soda—because belief seemed my only hope at the moment.
If I could somehow believe that Dustin had actually seen the boy and not just imagined him, then I could likewise believe that I had not seen the last of Dustin.
SNUFF
Troy looked through the square, wire-mesh reinforced window at the top of the door at the naked girl in the empty room. She was huddled in the far corner, legs drawn up to her chest. “Think she has any idea what’s about to happen to her?”
Deacon shrugged, rubbing idly at the scar that ran along his jaw line. “Since I stripped her nekkid as a jaybird and locked her up, I’d say it’s a safe bet she figures she’s gonna get raped. Whether or not she knows she ain’t walking outta that room alive, can’t rightly say. I’d guess she suspects but probably don’t really believe it. No one her age really believes they’re gonna die. She probably won’t believe it ‘til you get started on her good and proper.”
“Where are the cameras?”
“Got one up near the ceiling in ever’ corner, and one smack dab in the center attached to the light fixture. Plenty of coverage, so you feel free to drag her ass all over the room as you see fit. We’ll catch all the action.”
Troy looked down at the plain brown paper bag at his feet, filled to the top with cash. “Man, I can’t believe I’m actually getting paid for this. Who knew snuff was so lucrative?”
“Never done anything like this before?” Deacon asked.
“Well, not on film or nothing, but…”
“Hey, you ain’t gotta tell me if you don’t wanna.”
“No, it’s cool. See, there was this little bitch a few years back, thought her shit didn’t stink and she was too good for me. Well, I found her stumbling home piss-drunk from a bar one night, easy enough to get her in my car. Took her out on this secluded dirt road, nailed her real good, showed her who was boss. Now, she was only semi-conscious through most of it, but she woke up real fast when
I wrapped my hands around her throat. Struggled a bit, but wasn’t much she could do. I came in her just as she checked out.”
Deacon laughed and nodded approvingly. “Nice. And ya never got caught?”
“Didn’t say that. I’d nutted all up in her and my fingerprints was on her neck. My ass got hauled into court posthaste. I said the sex was consensual and we was doing some of that autoerotic asphyxiation that I’d just seen talked about on some trashy talk show, and it just got outta hand is all. The jury bought it hook, line and sinker on account of the bitch having a reputation around town as being a little tramp and several of her ex-fucks testified that she liked to great freaky in the sack. Involuntary manslaughter, served less than a year.”
“Pretty slick.”
“It was a rush, I’ll tell you that. I didn’t even intend to kill her when I got started, but feeling her all helpless under me and shit…well, just couldn’t stop myself. It was a better high than any drug I ever tried, and I’ve tried a lot.”
“Well, this time’ll be even better,” Deacon said, clamping a hand on his shoulder. “’Cause this time you get a mountain of green for your trouble.”
“Damn, I’m already hard just thinking about it. When we start?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Oh, I’m ready. Just let me at the bitch.”
Deacon smiled wide and threw back three large bolts. The heavy metal door scraped along the floor as he opened it just enough for Troy to squeeze through. “Try to draw it out a bit. Wanna give folks their money’s worth when they watch the DVDs we make of this.”
Troy nodded then slipped inside. The door slammed shut behind him and he heard the bolts being slid back into place, sealing him inside with the bitch. If she’d had half a brain in her head, she’d have lunged for the door or something while it was open. Even if escape seemed unlikely what with Deacon and Troy both standing between her and freedom, someone with sense would have at least made the attempt. Instead, she didn’t move an inch, all folded up in the corer staring at Troy with wide, frightened eyes while she made soft whimpering noises in the back of her throat. Some people just didn’t have a survival instinct.
Tales From the Midnight Shift Vol. 1 Page 15