by G L Rockey
At his apartment, he entered her cell phone number. No answer. He called the Ann Arbor Sheraton, no Rachelle checked in. Had she said the Sheraton or … piss on it. He dialed her cell phone again. No answer. He fixed himself a drink and fell asleep on the sofa.
Gray morning light through the window, a loud clap of thunder awoke Carl. He checked the time, 9:30 A.M. He undressed, showered, shaved and went out for breakfast at Mort's dinner, a block away.
Returning to his apartment building just after 10:30, he was greeted by the security guard: “Mr. Carl.”
“Right.”
The guard pointed, “They's someone waiting in the lounge area to see you.”
Carl looked. A redhead woman sat in a maroon chair holding a camcorder.
He said, “Don't know her.”
“Says her name is Laura, she from Lansing.”
Carl stepped to where she sat, “Guard says you wanted to see me.”
Laura, holding out the camcorder, “Sure do, have some video to show you, ever been to Houghton Lake?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Her body melded with Seth's, Rachelle opened an eye and glanced at the clock - 10:45 A.M. She yawned and Seth opened his eyes.
She said, “We better get up.”
After a leisure breakfast, packing to leave, Seth dressed in the same outfits he had worn on the trip up, Rachelle wore her white Bermuda shorts, a yellow polo shirt and, sans socks, her Adidas. Just before noon they departed the cottage and began the two-hour trip to East Lansing.
Rachelle driving, windshield wipers on three-second pauses, she and Seth touched fingertips.
Rachelle said, “What are we going to do?”
“You're the professor.”
“Smarty.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to do what you said. Go away, get lost, but how?”
Discussing the options, the problems, they concluded they had to do something. How long could this go on? Sooner or later Carl would find out. At one point she had begun divorce proceedings but....
“But what?”
She explained and concluded, “And I’m the professor.”
As they talked, time had chased past them and they went under an overhead sign—LANSING 30 MILES.
Dropping Seth off at his apartment, before parting, she said she would call him.
Driving home, her thoughts were on a way to make this happen. It wouldn't be easy. There must be a way. It was then she remembered: She had forgotten to insert a cervical cap before leaving for Houghton Lake. She wondered if 'forgot' was as in Herr Freud. Then she wondered if she had lost her mind.
Of course you have, and gloriously!
Home, she pressed the remote for the garage door. As it opened her mouth sagged in shock. Carl's BMW sat in its familiar slot.
Zombie-like, she pulled inside, stopped, and turned the engine off. Frozen, she listened. Silence except for the ticking of the Saab's engine cooling. She began a quick rehearsing of what to say: The meetings were a bore, I mostly did some reading, caught up on some writing.
She took her overnight bag and went to the stairs to the kitchen door. She tried the door but it was bolted from the inside.
She went outside and walked up the side stairs around the deck to the front entrance. On the welcoming mat she saw T.S. Eliot stretched out. He looked like he was sleeping. She wondered, he was a house cat, never went outside. She went to him. He didn't move. She touched him. He didn't move. She rolled him over and the sight gagged her. T.S.'s belly sliced open, he had been gutted. She looked to the left. His food bowl contained his innards. She fell to her knees and began to vomit.
The door opened. Carl, hateful eyes, in nothing but Jockey shorts, a glass of rum in his hand, glared down at her. He slurred, “`umb cat `issed on my Gucci loafers.”
Sobbing, she picked up T.S.'s limp and bloodied carcass. “You bastard, you.”
“Playing for keeps, Doc.” He cocked his right index finger and wagged it back and forth, “Come see what I found.”
Clutching T.S., she followed him inside, spitting at his back, “You filthy sick, sick bastard.”
Chuckling, he sauntered to the kitchen counter and pointed to her journal which lay opened. “What the `uck is that?” He said.
“You bastard.”
“Whore.” He slapped her face. She crumpled to her knees. He laughed, “and come take a look at what else I got.” He took her arm, pulled her to the great room bar. There sat a camcorder.
He pushed a button. Video of her and Seth lying on the deck of Esther II played on the camera’s LCD video display.
Carl said, “What the fuck is that?”
Over her sobs, he shoved the camcorder in her face. “What the fuck is this, huh, huh, whore bitch.”
He pinched her nose roughly. “Huh, huh?”
She fought off his hand, “You're hurting....”
“Hurt my ass. Who the fuck is this whore with, huh huh!”
He smacked her face with a crushing blow. “I called the Sheraton, brilliant PhD, get the story straight, never checked in.” He mashed the camcorder against her face.
Clutching T.S., she ducked and ran toward the spiral staircase. Up three steps, Carl reached through the railing and grabbed her by the ankle. She kicked between the railings, hitting him in the face.
Startled, he grabbed his nose, looked at his hand, blood covered it. She ran to the top, darted to the bathroom and locked herself in.
He broke down the bathroom door. Rushed toward her. She sidestepped him and ran back downstairs.
Breathing heavily, cursing under his breath, he was behind her. T.S. under her left arm, she ran to the fireplace, grabbed the poker and, as she turned, Carl lunged for her. She sided-stepped and, air-born, he came to a thumping stop when his head hit the stone of the fireplace.
Rachelle, breathing deeply, studied Carl's motionless mass.
She wiped sweat from her face and, poker in hand, edged up to his side. He didn't seem to be breathing. He reeked of alcohol. She looked at his chest. He wasn't breathing.
In a surreal daze, she wrapped T.S. in a white towel, laid him on the front seat of her car and drove through pelting rain to Seth's apartment.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Filled with dizzying thoughts of a future with Rachelle—her smell on his fingers—Seth unpacked and thought: Carl. I have to get her away from him as soon as possible.
Unpacked, thinking of places they could run off to, there was a tapping at his apartment door. Antenna up, his first thought—Laura.
He opened the door.
Rachelle stood like a melting ice sculpture. Dark glasses askew, yellow polo shirt soaked, wet hair hanging around her face, ugly bruises on her cheeks, she cradled a white towel that appeared to be soaked with something red.
“Rachelle.” He took her by the arm. “What on earth...?” He took her sunglasses. Her eyes red, swollen brown circles had begun to appear.
He led her inside and closed the door.
Clutching the bloody towel to her breast, she fell into a kitchen chair.
Seth said, “What is that you're holding?”
She lay the bundled towel on the table. “Carl killed T.S. Eliot.”
“Whhaat!”
She loosened the towel.
Speechless, Seth stared at the dead carcass.
Rachelle stood and walked to a window. After a silent moment, walking back through the kitchen, she went to the bathroom sink and began washing her hands.
Seth, beside her, she said, “I think Carl is dead.”
Speechless, he stared at her.
She talked: “When I got home his car was in the garage. The kitchen door was bolted from the inside. I went to the front door....” She choked back a sob. “I found ... bastard told me T.S. had messed his shoes....” She studied Seth's eyes, “He had a video of us at the lake.”
“Video?”
“On Esther II.”
“That speed boat....”
/>
“He hit me, I got away, ran, he dove at me, hit his head … he wasn't moving when I left … I came here.”
“Did you call 911?”
She looked at him pathetically.
“I don't know.”
“All I could think of was coming here, you. I thought he was going to kill me, it all happened so fast ... I came here.”
He took a towel and dried her.
She said, “Hold me.”
He did and after some time, she said. “We have to go to the house.”
“We?”
She locked his eyes with hers, “You chickening out on me?”
“No, but....”
“You wanted to run away, goddamn it, now we can.”
“But, think about how that would look?”
“What?”
“Perception.”
“Perception!”
“You're not thinking clearly.”
She picked up the towel with T.S. in it and walked to the door. “Let's go braveheart, we're in this together now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
T .S.'s swaddled carcass placed in the trunk, a fierce thunderstorm pummeling the area, Seth beside her, Rachelle drove to Lake Lansing. The garage door left open, Carl's car still there, she pulled in and stopped. The Saab engine idling, Seth reached to the ignition key and turned it off. He touched her arm. They got out and she stopped.
The kitchen door was ajar. It had been bolted from the inside before.
She said, “We better go in the front door.”
They walked to the front entrance and, the door unlocked, Rachelle went in. Seth followed. Inside, Rachelle stopped and put her hand to her mouth. Carl was not sprawled on the floor where he had been when she left for Seth's.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, “he's not there.”
It came as the sound of a rushing wind at first then a blood thirsty scream.
She turned.
Carl—forehead crusted with blood, grotesque rage in his eyes—charged from the kitchen. A butcher knife raised over his head, he slashed at Rachelle, nicked her arm, tripped, the knife flew across the floor, and he landed on his face. Instantly, as if from a blind-sided tackle, he sprang up and seized Seth by the throat.
Seth gasping, face ashen, Rachelle screamed, pounding on Carl's back.
Carl's fingers like sharp teeth clutching Seth's throat, Rachelle leapt on Carl's back and began pulling his hair, screaming at him to stop.
He didn't.
She bit his ear hard. Blood flowed.
His fixation on Seth broken, he released him and, smiling broadly, swung violently around. Rachelle flew to the floor. He lunged for her. In a darting move, she rolled to the side, stood, and to lure Carl away from Seth, ran up the spiral stairs.
Carl ran after her. Caught her at the top. She fought free, ran to the bedroom. He caught her beside the bed, punched her. She kicked him in the groin. He doubled over. She ran back to the balcony overlooking the great room and turned to him.
Seething, lumbering, cursing under his breath, he lunged for her. She sidestepped. He hit the railing. It gave way. He teetered back.
Rachelle stepped behind him, whispered, “Playing for keeps,” and shoved hard.
Screaming, flailing arms, he fell to the first floor.
Rachelle stepped to the broken railing and looked down. Carl lay sprawled out with his head, neck, and shoulders at a tortured angle.
She saw Seth step to Carl's side and look at him.
Breathing labored, Rachelle made her way down the stairs, walked to Carl, kicked him hard, “You son of a bitch, get up.” He didn't move. She kicked him again. “Get up.”
He didn't move.
She looked at Seth. “Are you all right?”
Rubbing his throat, “Yes.”
Breathing less labored, she bent over Carl and listened. Nothing. She reached an index finger to Carl's carotid artery. Nothing. She looked at Seth who was still rubbing his throat. She went to him and led him to the sofa, sat with him. She kissed him. “Are you okay, my love?”
“Yes.”
“What did you see?”
“When?”
“Just now, Carl.”
“I heard him screaming, then I saw him hit the floor, very hard.”
She was not going to tell him she helped with a shove. That would remain her secret forever. “He fell, it was an accident, I'll handle it and you don't exist. I'm going to call 911, you must better be leaving.”
“But....”
”No buts. Best we don't see each other for a few days. I'll call you.”
“But....”
”I love you, Seth, soon you will have your wish, now please.” She took him by the hand and led him to the kitchen door that led to the garage. “Go out this way through the garage. And Seth, if anyone has happened to see you leave, us drive in, you are a student of mine, we were collaborating on your manuscript. Go.”
“What about that Houghton Lake video of us … you said....”
“I’ll take care of it, go.” She opened the door. The rain had slackened to a steady pour. She said, “I'm sorry you have to get wet.”
He kissed her and stepped down to the garage.
She whispered, “Wait.” She went back and got a newspaper, returned and gave the paper to him. “Cover your head. I'll call you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
After Seth left, Rachelle took the SD card from the camcorder, put it in her pocket, and stuffed the camcorder in a drawer. The sight of Carl's body, what he had done to T.S., she wanted to kick him again. She went to him and again searched for a pulse. None. She opened his eye lids. Blank. He was dead.
She said to his face, “How's the heat down there, you bastard?”
Before calling 911, she went to the kitchen, sat at the counter and went over a story in her mind:
Carl out of town, I went to Houghton Lake, went there often to relax, do some research, writing. When I returned, I found him like this. I saw the upstairs railing broken. He probably, from the looks of it, stumbled, fell accidentally. He has been distraught, frustrated with everything, the Senate investigation, his job in jeopardy, he has been drinking heavily.
She thought of T.S. Eliot in the Saab trunk and began to sob but stopped abruptly and said, “Call 911.”
She started for the phone. Stopped. Change your clothes.
She showered quickly, dressed in white slacks, maroon short sleeve shirt, deck shoes, then, in the kitchen, dialed 911. Within minutes an emergency vehicle arrived. The paramedics pronounced Carl dead. Shortly thereafter two police officers showed up, were informed of the death, and notified the proper officials. The officers advised Rachelle that a detective was on the way.
Rachelle went to the kitchen and micro waved water for a cup of hazelnut cappuccino. Her mind raced with surreal images, thoughts darted in and out of reality:
I didn't mean for it to be like this … what if the press … M.S.U. Professor Dr. Rachelle Zannes, wife of sport's icon Carl Bostich, caught playing around with a student, Carl finds out, conveniently has an accident....
She put her finger tips to her lips. “You pushed him.”
Don't tell me you think this was your fault? Just stop it! The bastard gutted T.S. Eliot! He tried to kill you! But if I hadn't … hadn't what? Hadn't what, Z? Sinned? Don't be turning this into a novel. He was a philandering abusive son of a bitch. What did Seth say about the Egyptian army being drowned in the Red Sea. That was deliberate. This was an accident, he fell, that's all (I pushed him). He would have fallen anyway. It was only a nudge. Last great tackle in the sky. Not funny. He killed my T.S., he was trying to kill me. I'd do it again. Bastard!
She whispered, “Seth.”
Half hour later a detective by the name of Nick Frajoli, arrived with Medical Examiner Judy Filheart. While Filheart did her work with the corpse, Frajoli began to ask questions.
Rachelle invited him to the kitchen.
He looked at her admiringly, then f
ollowed her, she asked if he'd like some cappuccino.
“Sure.”
“Please sit.” She got a cup and prepared his drink.
He sat, “So what happened here?”
Rachelle brushed an imaginary tear and requested a moment.
“Sure, sure, take your time, I understand.”
Preparing his cappuccino, she told him the out-of-town story, Carl gone away, Frajoli must have seen the news about the Senate investigation, NFL insider gambling.
He had seen some of the stuff on TV.
Rachelle put the cup of cappuccino in front of him, sat at the table, and continued: She had gone to their summer cottage on Houghton Lake, relax, do some quiet work. Returned, found Carl, railing broken....
She put her fingertips to her lips.
“Take your time.”
Rachelle, “He had been drinking heavily for the past few months and … I can't believe that this is happening.”
Frajoli, making notes, noticed T.S. Eliot's food bowl. “Who's T.S. Elliot?”
A pause then Rachelle said, “My cat.”
“No kiddin, I got two cats, I love cats, where is the little bugger?”
Rachelle looked around, “He's probably upstairs, under the bed, doesn't like company.”
“Yeah, I understand.” Frajoli made a few notes, then stood and called to Filheart. “Where are we in there Filly?”
Filheart called from the front door, “Morgue boys are here.”
Filheart then appeared and said as if ordering at a drive-up fast food window: “Neck is broken, spinal shock, died instantly.”
Frajoli turned to Rachelle, “Morgue boys will be taking the body, autopsy has to be done, red tape, you know.”
“I understand.”
Frajoli closed his report book. “If there are any questions we'll be in touch, looks like an accident, open and closed to me. We’ll see what the coroner’s office says after the autopsy, but I don't see any problems. I'm sorry. Will you be okay here, I mean, do you have family?”