“And now I’m telling you to leave.”
Fabler didn’t leave.
Presley lowered her rifle, with the intent on stowing it back next to her headboard, and grabbed it by the top Picatinny rail, her hand on the mounted flashlight/laser sight combo. The pressure turned the 300 lumen tac light on, piercing the dim room.
A millisecond later, the breath was knocked out of Presley by a blow to the chest, and she sprawled across her bed, Fabler above her, his knee digging into her sternum.
“What the hell, Fabler?”
“I was putting the gun away, you freaking psychopath.”
Fabler’s hard face cracked, his eyes widening slightly.
“Get off me.”
Fabler didn’t move.
Pinned down like that, Presley couldn’t reach any of her three holsters.
She thought about Grim, hoping he was watching this, hoping maybe he could get here in time to do something. Then she remembered ripping the bedroom camera off the wall.
Her anxiety doubled. Then tripled.
There’d been many frightening moments since moving in with Fabler, but all passed quickly, too fleeting to provoke symptoms. Presley always maintained full control.
But the combination of Fabler holding her down and not listening to her made Presley’s whole body feel like a spring wound too tight.
She began to hyperventilate, her breaths sounding like whistles.
Fabler immediately got off of her, raising up his hands.
Fabler appeared out of it, confused, detached. “I thought… I thought you were…”
“Me?” It came out high-pitched, almost a scream. “You’re the one with the gun.”
Fabler stared at his hands like he’d never noticed them before. His eyes got big when he saw his .45.
Presley’s chest tightened and her airway shrank.
“Presley… you okay?”
“Get out.”
She’d attempted a scream. It came out as a wheeze.
Fabler hesitated, then left the room, pulling the knobless door closed behind him, and Presley scrambled for her running shoes, the baggie of pills hidden in the toe. She took two tablets out, chewing to ingest them quicker, and swallowed, the pieces bitter and dry and sticking to her throat like hooks.
But the breathing exercise didn’t work. The football pads and belt and rig smothered her, squeezing tighter and tighter, and Presley fought against them, the girdle a bear trap, the holster a boa constrictor, and then, nearly naked and soaked with sweat, the Xanax finally, finally, began to kick in.
Then the tears came, so hard she shook.
FABLER ○ August 9 ○ 7:19am
Breathing labored, sweat streaming down his face, Fabler came to a stop in the yard and held his knees, trying to cool down.
He didn’t even remember his morning jog. Staring at his shoes, he saw the mud on them.
Fabler checked his watch.
He noticed the ground around his feet. Ripped up, chunks of grass and mud clods, like a plow had furrowed through.
Fabler turned a circle, getting his bearings.
Fabler had dug it up. Roughly ten square meters of earth.
And he couldn’t remember doing it.
GRIM ○ August 10 ○ 10.35am
Grim’s mouth tasted like someone stuffed it full of dead mice while he slept. He peeked his eyes open, staring at the familiar sight of his fish tank.
Well, his fish tank box. Arrived over a week ago, and Grim hadn’t unpacked it yet. He planned to return the tank, in the hope PetSmart would give him a cash refund even though he used his credit card.
He went into the bathroom, staring at the Osmonds in the bathtub, doing a quick visual count to make sure they were all still alive while he urinated in the toilet. Then he smelled himself—his hygiene had waned since Donny and the band changed venues—and decided he needed deodorant. Grim sprayed it everywhere he stank, which was pretty much everywhere, and then he went into the kitchen to grab his phone, charging on the breakfast bar.
A message blinked at him. His friendly neighborhood financial institution, kindly informing Grim his checking account was overdrawn.
“Hell.”
He logged into the bank website to view his savings account balance, knowing he had less than two hundred bucks left, but hoping there might have been some electronic banking website foul-up and the money fairy had accidentally deposited ten thousand dollars, hopefully from some unaware rich guy who beat his children and deserved it.
No such luck. He was in the red one hundred and eighty-six bucks. The money fairy hadn’t complied.
He stared at his phone, not wanting to see what Fabler was up to, wishing he could erase the guy from his brain and get on with his life.
Grim held out for eight seconds. Then his sad, pathetic, unstoppable addiction took control, and he clicked on the app.
Fabler cranking out pull-ups in his bedroom.
Presley wasn’t with him.
Grim set the phone down.
This time his self-control enabled him to hold out for nine seconds. Then he searched for Presley.
In the kitchen.
Drinking coffee.
Scowling directly at the camera he’d hidden atop the refrigerator, like she knew he was staring at her.
Grim shut off the app.
Grim had lost his health insurance with the job.
He walked back to his sofa, staring at the fish tank box.
“Today is the day. I’m returning it. I’m gonna do it.”
Grim felt his resolve slip the moment the words left his mouth, but he recalled the time that Lori had bought him the original tank. To help get him out of a funk caused by his last girlfriend, who’d left him for—wait for it—the mailman.
While he’d been at work, Heather had been screwing the guy who delivered all the bills that Grim paid.
But instead of falling into that self-pity hole yet aga
in, Grim remembered some motivation advice from his sister.
They’d been doing a 5k run for one of her charities, and Grim had partied the night before and had the kind of hangover that caused so much pain it made Ebola envious. After stopping for the third time to vomit, Grim told Lori he couldn’t go on, and she pulled some inspirational tripe out of her butt.
“You can give up, tomorrow. Today, keep fighting.”
Nonsense that she probably read off a bumper sticker. But he finished the 5k.
He checked the time. A little after noon.
“Okay, Lori. I won’t give up. Not today.”
He put on various articles of clothing scattered around the living room floor, then muscled the large box outside, over to the stairs.
In the lobby waited Mitch. The mailman.
“Howdy, Grim.”
“Go choke on a bag of dicks, Mitch.”
Mitch waved an envelope. “Got a certified letter. It’s from the bank.” He shrugged, but still looked amiable. “Sorry, buddy.”
“I’m not signing for it.”
“Doesn’t need a signature. You need help with that box?”
“No.”
“You can’t get that down by yourself, buddy.”
Grim sighed. “Fine. Grab the bottom.”
Mitch helped him carry the aquarium down the stairs and to the Bronco. After they hefted the box up to the tailgate, Mitch blew out a deep breath and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “So, did you hear?”
“About what?”
“Me and Heather.”
“Did she give you super herpes and your balls fell off?”
“Ha. Super herpes. No. We’re getting married in the fall.”
Grim slammed his tailgate door closed. “Congrats, Mitch.”
“Thanks. You’re invited to the wedding. We know about your financial problems, so don’t worry about getting us anything.”
Grim pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache coming on. “Mitch, can you please stop treating me like we’re still friends?”
“We grew up together, man.”
“You nailed my girlfriend while I was at work.”
“I know. But bros before hoes.”
“Mitch, bros before hoes means you don’t nail your bro’s girlfriend.”
“But it’s different now. We’re getting married. We’re in love, Grim.”
“Step away from my truck, Mitch. Or I’m going to punch you in the head.”
“Heather’s pregnant.”
“Congrats. Now step away from the truck.”
Mitch stepped away from the truck. Grim had a quick daydream about running Mitch over, then had a better daydream about Mitch running him over.
Then Grim headed for town, anxious to see what other treats life had in store for him.
FABLER ○ 11:15am
After picking up a Daisy Powerline pellet gun and some fly paper, Fabler took his time selecting the correct color paint chips at a local hardware store.
The guy behind the counter at the Army Surplus store had white hair and a black Special Forces tattoo on his forearm. Fabler knew him as Hardigan. He’d had the shop since Fabler’s mercenary days, and while they weren’t quite friends, Fabler had dropped a lot of money there over the years, and Hardigan remained cordial even when the murder trial circus was in full swing.
“I need something like this.” Fabler handed him the sketch.
“I’m guessing you want the real deal, not some cosplay?”
“What?”
“You know. One of those costumes they wear to those comic book conventions. This from some videogame or TV show?”
“This isn’t a costume. I need it to be functional.”
Hardigan frowned at the sketch. “I know someone. Clever fellow. I can call him.”
“I can wait.”
Fabler browsed the aisles for thirty minutes. He wound up buying some pre-packaged water pouches and a box of energy bars after confirming with Hardigan that the silver packaging was UV proof. He also spent some time inspecting an old mannequin, dressed in Vietnam era fatigues, a dusty M9 strapped to its back.
The clever fellow eventually arrived. Forties, glasses, his nose hair needed a trim. He went by the name of Jamal.
After scrutinizing Fabler’s sketches, he nodded. “These are good. Your design?”
Fabler shook his head.
“Good coverage. Good mobility. What do you want? Aramid?”
“Can you do Dyeenma?”
Jamal clucked his tongue. “Be expensive.”
“Money isn’t a concern.”
“Good on you, brother. For me it’s always a concern. Gore-Tex for the joints?”
“Whatever gets it to Level IIIa.”
“It’ll be hot.”
“I drew venting.” Fabler pointed to the pencil marks. “Line it with Coolmax.”
“You know your materials. You want Level IV for the vitals?”
“Yes.”
“Steel? Or ceramics?”
“Whatever’s lighter. As long as they’re rated the same.”
Jamal peered at Fabler down the end of his nose. “Should I be worried?”
The question took Fabler off guard. He waited.
“Man needs something like this, I’m wondering if he knows something I don’t. Like ISIS is planning to invade.”
“So I don’t need to make one of these for myself?”
“Anyone in your family have red hair and blue eyes?”
Jamal made a face. “You joking? Brown eyes, black hair, going all the way back to mother Africa.”
“Then you’re probably safe.” He reached into his pocket. “Also, I need it to be this color.” Fabler handed him the paint chip.
Jamal blinked. “Is this some white power, KKK crapola?”
“Of course not.”
“You expecting snow?”
“It’s an off-white. It’s called eggshell.”
“You expecting… eggs?”
“Can you match that shade?”
Jamal shrugged. “I can get pretty close. Do you want me to add any sort of pattern? Maybe camo?”
“I’m looking for that exact color. Monochrome.”
“Okay. Whole thing?”
“No. This piece needs to be this color.” He pointed at his drawing and gave Jamal the second chip.
“That’s not eggshell. Looks silver.”
“Grey.” Fabler knew the color well. “Flat grey.”
“I’ll need a deposit to buy materials.”
Fabler nodded. “I need it in as few pieces as possible.”
“You’re making it harder and harder for me.”
“And I need two of them.” Fabler handed him another piece of paper. “Here are the sizes.”
“When do you need them by? Lemme guess; by next week.”
“By August 25th.”
“Might as well be by next week. But, if you pay me enough, anything is possible.”
Fabler paid the man enough.
GRIM ○ 11:49am
As Grim drove, he kept checking his gas gauge needle, which wiggled a few millimeters below the big E. He coasted into Wichita on fumes, rolled up to a pump, and tried to figure out what to do.
The day before he’d spent his last five dollars on a six pack of Busch Ice. He had maybe eighty cents left.
<
br /> So he got out of his truck and searched under the seats for loose change. He found six quarters, four dimes, a nickel, and a dozen pennies, as well as a handful of petrified fast food French fries, a ketchup packet, assorted Tic Tacs and Skittles, lots of pebbles and fuzz, his high school class ring
Grim counted up his change. Two dollars and eighty one cents. He briefly considered filling up and taking off without paying, then remembered, painfully, that gas pumps had video cameras.
So he tried to put exactly two dollars and eighty-one cents’ worth of fuel into the tank, but the pump handle’s sensitivity wouldn’t comply and Grim pumped four cents more than he had in his pocket.
The pudgy cashier wore so much rouge she looked like a circus clown. Grim plinked his coins on the counter, sheepish.
“Pump six.”
He turned to leave.
“Hold on, gotta count it.”
Grim stood there, in misery, as she took ten seconds to add up all the change.
“You’re four cents short.”
“Your pump is touchy. I got as close as I could.”
“The law is the law. I don’t make the rules.”
Grim glared at her. “I don’t have any more change. What are you gonna do? Call the police?”
She smiled at him, but it was an icy smile. “Well, if I did, I sure couldn’t call you. Could I, Officer Pilgrim? Since you got fired and all.”
“Do I know you?”
“You busted me and my friends two years ago in the back parking lot of the Gas ‘N Sip. Underage drinking.”
“Miss, underage drinking is a serious—”
“Gimme a break.” Her sneer could break world sneering records. “You didn’t arrest us. You didn’t give a shit. You just took our beer. Which I know you drank yourself.”
Grim didn’t remember the girl, but that sounded about right. After Lori vanished, he’d been in a pretty bad place.
“Want to know what you said to us when you took the beer?”
Grim didn’t want to know. But he stood there and took it.
“You said, the law is the law, I don’t make the rules.”
“Look, I was doing my job.”
What Happened to Lori Page 13