by Stanley Gray
He reached down and grabbed the white pearlescent handle and turned on the faucet. Putting a hand underneath the heavy stream, he realized he’d accidentally turned on the hot water. Pursing his lips, Tom switched the liquid to the cold side, and splashed his face. Bending his knees and twisting at the waist, he angled himself so that he could put his open mouth underneath the faucet. Tom again felt struck by how clean the entire house seemed to be. Was it just because a woman lived there?
Drying his hands on a nearby towel with flower patterns, he looked at the shower. He felt the sudden need to take one, but decided against it. Instead, he went to the window. He vaguely remembered Delilah tossing his phone out of it. He lifted pane, opening it. A blast of cool air drifted in. The desert could be cold, he knew. But he wasn’t prepared for this. Tom moved closer, shivering a bit as he did so. Something about the freshness of the air, after being cooped up felt good.
Tom closed his eyes. Allowed the breeze to whisper to him as it swirled around him. He inhaled. The mistress of the desert night caressed him as it soothed his pain, telling him soft, delicate secrets in an timeless language. The air seemed redolent of creosote. It felt magical. Tom vaguely wondered if maybe they were due for a rain. He recalled having once read an article or something about the uniquely beautiful scent that rain could bring in the El Paso area.
He heard something. Opening his eyes, he stood upright. He peered out into the darkness. Tom attempted to divine the secrets of the night. He tried to decipher to nuances of the shifting shadows. But he saw nothing.
Tom felt paranoid. He clenched and unclenched a fist, then walked to the door. He hesitated there, swaying back and forth. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He wanted to wake Delilah up, but dithered. Part of him resented this idea, that he needed a woman’s help. He knew deep down that he would be worthless in a fight, but he still wanted to retain his dignity. The desire to remain independent, and to even assert himself and display his prowess proved a strong and irresistible force.
Flipping the light switch, he stood in the darkness for some time. The window remained open, and the fragrance of the desert night wafted in, tickling the thin curtains as it passed through. He pushed the door and slid out, moving through the room and down the stairs with a fluidity he wasn’t fully sure he’d known he possessed until this moment. He smiled. It felt good. For some reason, creeping through a relative stranger’s house undetected felt good. Tom didn’t have the capacity in that moment to realize the irony.
Downstairs, Mike slept on the couch. He, too, snored. Though the sounds of his slumber proved considerably louder than those of Delilah. The soft artificial glow of the television cast a cone of light over the painter’s face. He looked so innocent, even cherubic as he lay there, immersed in dreams.
Tom walked across the floor barefoot, his feet cold. He ignored the frigidity. Going to one of the front windows, he parted the blinds and peered out into the night. His eyes were confronted with an impenetrable blackness, a vast sea of indomitable shadows the refused to yield ground. He wanted to open it. But something told him not to. Perhaps it was the intuition that had both gotten him into this mess and helped save him from instant death in the art gallery. His mother had always had a name for such things, but at the moment, Tom couldn’t think of it.
He crept into the garage. A small door on the side led out into the small side yard. Tom didn’t know much about the layout of the house, but he knew even less about the grounds adjoining the property. Having never seen the external parts of the residence, he remained ignorant. Tom looked back inside. The door that would take him back into the relative comfort of the home’s interior stood open. The white-ish light from the t.v. showed itself.
He felt the need.
It slithered around inside of him, rustling the grasses and flicking its tongue to taste-test the air. Tom needed to venture outside the castle. He couldn’t say exactly why, but he had to indulge the reptilian instinct. Perhaps it was that feeling of helplessness. Perhaps it was the desire to assert his own capacity for self-determination. Curiosity. As he stood there in the dim, drafty garage, each passing moment only served to increase the anxiety that moved around in his gut like some dangerous snake coiling for the fight.
He marched to the exit, hand hesitating once again on the knob. Looking down at it, he gritted his teeth. He forced himself to turn the golden object. Tom pushed the door open and took several steps out into the night. He stood there, staring up at the moon and stars. They seemed to glisten in the celestial marketplace, each of them unique and beautiful.
Stepping through the damp grass, Tom walked towards the back yard. A tall wooden fence rose up to bar his way. He grunted. “Shit.” he said. But when he got closer, he saw that all he had to do was move the latch up and the gate would open. When he walked into the backyard, a bright bulb threw a halo of accusing light around him. A dog began to bark from the house next door. Tom stopped. He felt guilty, sneaking around like this. He hoped no one would wake up because of what he was doing.
After several interminable minutes, the canine stopped its verbal assault. The light, however, remained. Tom wondered if maybe Delilah had security cameras, too. He wouldn’t be surprised if she did. Tom stalked the edges of the property, meandering through the decent-sized, though somewhat disheveled yard. He wanted to know its secrets.
More importantly, he wanted to know what it was he’d heard while loitering upstairs in the bathroom.
Winding his way back to the side of the house, he stopped.
He heard voices. Something hovered in the air, conflicting with the fresh smells of the imminent rain. Tom sniffed. Cigarette smoke. Who would be smoking and whispering here? Moving slowly, Tom tried to avoid making a sound. The sheath of silence protected him.
Pressing himself flat against the wall, he moved towards the sound.
Tom took each sideways step slowly. He tried to hold his breath. To control his breathing.
His heart raced.
Blackness showed at the edges of his vision. He looked up at the stars, inhaling through his mouth. He stood there, rooted to the spot where he stood. Tom saw something.
His pulse accelerated. It jammed its foot on the gas pedal and pushed.
Tom saw the cone-shaped security light. If his movements were detected by the device, it would shine its light all over the area.
He fought the urge to curse.
More voices. Someone laughed. It sounded like a male.
Somehow, Tom knew. He understood, even if he could not yet surveil the activities of the interlopers. They were the police. And they were coming to get him. Tom remained where he was, silent. He closed his eyes. He took slow, measured breaths. He had to keep rubbing his hands on his legs, because they were slick with sweat. Even the breeze could not cool or calm him.
Taking a step, he stopped. Nothing happened. No light broke his cover. He inched forward another step. Again, nothing. Feeling that he had tested his luck enough for the time being, he paused.
Tom felt conflicted. An obscene awareness of his own cowardice gnawed at his insides. He wanted to call out, to warn the other two who slept peacefully, unaware, inside the beautiful home. Yet he couldn’t.
The witch of fear cackled as she leaned over her blackest of cauldrons, the noisome vapors from her poisonous stew rising to shroud her face in an almost ethereal cloud of steam. That evil entity resided inside of him, and it mocked him as it held him captive by its spells. But what was it he feared?
He didn’t know.
Tom took another step forward. He was close to the gate now. He stood on his tip-toes, casting his anxiety aside for a moment, seizing the opportunity. He peeked over the top of the fence. He couldn’t see much, but what he did see confirmed his worst suspicions. Two large s.u.v.s with Dona Ana County Sheriff’s Office stenciled in gold on the side sat in front of the house next door. He saw three bodies close by. One was close enough that he thought he could smell the man’s aftershave.
&n
bsp; Footsteps.
Something crunched in the grass ahead of the gate. Tom looked and saw that someone, wearing a helmet and goggles, was approaching the fence. He turned and began walking away, trying not to make too much noise. As he did so, the door next door took the moment to bark.
Of all the times the canine could have decided to serenade them, it chose that one. Tom wasn’t certain the dog liked him.
Aware that the security lights had flashed on, Tom began to run. He took off towards the back fence, unsure of what it was he was doing, exactly. He just knew he wanted to get away. To flee.
His heart raced. He panted. Tom’s arms flailed as his legs pumped. Reaching the fence, he turned, and saw that no one was behind him. He stopped. Tom stared. The fact that no one followed in hot pursuit confused him. He began to doubt himself. Part of him wanted to begin laughing, to collapse into the manic state that now seemed like his default in times of crisis. Was he delusional?
Doubt nagged at him. But he knew he wasn’t delusional.
For some reason, he thought of the box. The relatively small cardboard box crammed with incriminating evidence. He recalled how he’d tried to trick himself into believing no one had been in his old rental house on Elm Street. How he had wanted to believe the attractive lie that no one was out to get him.
It’s not paranoia when people really are out to get you.
The gate crashed open. Tom watched as it occurred. The sound broke through the night’s quiet, an obscene strain of emo metal in an upscale wine bar. The dog in the house next door seized the opportunity to renew its vicious barking. Tom took the moment to scream. He lifted his head to the sky, closing his eyes and harnessing the raw force and power of the pain and the helpless rage that would consume him if he ever relaxed his vigilance. He bellowed, piercing the darkness with the loudest sounds he could summon.
His throat hurt. But he unleashed another long shout, the plaintive sound reverberating in his stomach and chest as it ripped through his body on its way out. The screams were demons, screeching and howling as they were forced from their hellish home.
Tom felt a profound relief. He panted. Opening his eyes, he almost didn’t care, basking in that moment, if they captured him. The feeling of release, the immediacy of the catharsis was so overwhelmingly intense, his instinct for survival seemed somehow denuded, a secondary influence that deserved no more than an honorable mention.
He blinked. Tom turned. He wiped his hands on his legs. He looked up. A tree offered its thin branches from behind the fence. Reaching up, he grabbed one. He lifted himself, the branch bending under the weight of an adult male. But it did not break.
Tom pumped his legs. He was almost over the fence when something stopped his momentum.
Falling backwards, Tom thrashed. He felt something, someone, an invisible and malignant force, tugging at his waist.
He hit the ground. Pain flooded his senses. He fought to breathe. Tom’s vision went black.
Waking up in the back of a cop car was not his idea of a fun time. Sitting beside him was a disheveled Mike Davenport. “Where’s Delilah?” Tom asked, his voice hoarse.
Tom jumped. A loud sound ricocheted through the small interior of the vehicle. The smell of leather seemed overpowering. Looking towards the intrusive, obscenely loud noise, he saw thick transparent pane of plexiglass.
A male officer in a black-ish uniform with gelled blonde hair and sunglasses hiding his eyes sat in the passenger seat up front, and he looked back towards them. He’d rapped on the glass to get their attention. “No talking.” The officer said.
“Oh? I’ll be talking to my lawyer!” Tom said.
“I’ll be talking to your mother about your filthy mouth and bad manners.” Mike said. Mike suddenly reared back and kicked the barrier.
Tom laughed, and this only served to encourage the gay man to kick the glass again.
“Don’t make me come back there.” the officer warned.
“Delilah is in the other car.” Mike said. Then he kicked the glass again, grimacing as he did so. The entire sports utility vehicle shook from the impact of the blow. Mike cackled and kept putting his foot into the think, durable plastic.
Tom watched it shake violently. He watched the officers in the front. The one in the driver’s seat had some sort of metal clipboard in his lap, and was trying to fill out paperwork. The blonde kid flexed his jaw muscles but didn’t make any other movements. Tom began chuckling. He shrugged. Shifting positions, he began kicking the window, too.
“WHERE ARE YOU TAKING US? I WANT MY LAWYER!” Tom yelled, leaning back against the black leather of the commodious back seats and kicking the plastic so hard it sent ripples of pain vibrating through his ankles and legs.
The two Sheriff’s deputies in the front seats leaned in and conferred. Tom strained, trying to glean even bits and pieces of their conversation. But the details of confab remained between them, as they intended. They retained the upper hand. And they knew it. No amount of temper tantrums was going to do them any good at this point. Tom watched them, breathing hard. He felt like vomiting. Fear ran around screaming like a hungry toddler in his brain and body. The effects of the residual adrenaline forced his limbs to shake. Tom wished he had run. That he had climbed that fence and seized the opportunity when he’d had it.
But then he looked at Mike, who was still kicking the window, though not nearly as hard as when he’d started. Where would I have gone? Tom wondered.
The blonde deputy turned around. “You guys can kick all you want. Still going to jail.” he said.
Chapter 15
The place smelled awful.
Tom sat in a hard orange plastic chair, trying to ignore the discomfort in his lower back. He’d been there for several hours, sitting in the curved chair that seemed to hover just above the tiled floor it was bolted to. Shackles dug into the flesh above his ankles. For a while, his legs and feet had tingled, but the sensation gradually eroded, and now they just felt numb.
Delilah sat in an area across the room from them, by herself. If Tom even glanced her way, he risked the wrath of one of the deputies circulating through the area.
A fat, dirty man sat in the chair to his left. Bald, he continued scratching at his genitals, shifting his weight ever so often to attain a better angle. If anything could smell worse than this gentleman, Tom wanted to know, just out of curiosity. Because it would be a true achievement to surpass the stench emanating from this individual. People screamed and slammed various body parts against metal doors and thick plastic windows marred by layers of etched-in graffiti. A loud buzzing seemed to cut through everything every few minutes, even at the buttcrack of satan in the early morning. Each time, Tom flinched. The sound came from a door being opened, and with each wave of offensive, intrusive buzzing that strafed their consciousness like some ugly Luftwaffe fighter pilot, a cop would enter, dragging a suspected criminal.
Most of the population held in the small intake area of the jail appeared Hispanic. Few of the men around Tom, either in the rows ahead or behind, spoke English. Looking around, Tom saw that most of the signs on the wall were in two languages. The two times he’d been called forward to get drilled with instructions or be manhandled, the uniformed officers had looked at him with surprise writ large on their faces. It was harder to get someone who spoke English to process him into the system than it was to find one of the many translators.
“Martinez, Thomas.” a female voice called.
Tom stood up. His legs shook. It was hard to walk, given that he could barely feel his lower extremities, and the fact that he wasn’t used to shuffling in fetters. Yet he had learned that when someone called your name, they expected you to hurry up. Those who seemed disruptive got placed in one of the secure holding pens, where people were banging their fists and heads against the thick metal doors. Tom shuffled, hearing the metal of his restraints tinkling as he moved. Someone laughed behind him.
Reaching one of the desks at the front, Tom stood, waiting for ins
tructions from the middle-aged gray-haired woman wearing glasses who had summoned him. At first, she stared at an older-model computer screen. She did this for several seconds, and Tom felt convinced this was merely a display of power. Why everyone here had to act like they took particular delight in abusing their authority was an open question. Though, Tom thought, from the large size of the woman’s cheap glasses and her general unkempt appearance, it seemed that maybe she had found the one job in life that would keep her fulfilled.
He chuckled. They say do what you love. he thought. This one just happened to love inflicting pain on captive men.
The chuckling caught her attention. She looked up. She had large, apathetic brown eyes. “Something funny?” she asked.
Tom looked down. “I can’t feel my feet.” he said. Thin blue canvas slippers covered his feet. He wore a yellow jumpsuit that was too tight, and the legs of it didn’t reach all the way down. He could see where the shackles were literally digging into his skin. His ankles were nearly purple.
The white woman behind the desk laughed. She smiled. “Sit down. You’re Thomas Martinez, right?” she asked.
“What about my circulation?” he asked.
“I said sit down.” she responded.
Tom did so.
“Look, if your legs falls off or you need ‘em amputated, we gots medical to deal with all that. If you don’t die in here, or in prison, then maybes you gets yo’se’f an attorney and you sue, mmkay? Until then, my job, my only job is to inform you of the charges against you. Which is really odd in this case, because you and your two little spirited co-conspirators, yous don’t have no formal charges. Not here, anyway. So, my job is to tell yous all yous go’n be here until the U.S. Marshalls can come down to get you.” she said.
“U.S. Marshalls?” Tom asked, incredulous.
“They’re nicer than us.” the woman said. She glanced at her computer. “Davenport, Michael.” she called out. She looked up and blinked. “Yous still here? Get up. Git.” she said.