“It’s a full-service clinic with a nutritionist, an exercise physiologist, and a counselor. The only secret is this box about the size of a small footlocker that has the words LAST RESORT written on the top. It’s some kind of promotional gimmick but supposedly will work if all else fails.”
The sergeant paused and looked at him. “What’s in it?”
“I have no idea. I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t try to figure it out every time I walked in and I didn’t think about it ten times a day. But it doesn’t look like I have to worry about it now, thank God. But curiosity is eating at me.”
“You know what makes a good detective? Curiosity and patience. Luckily, you’ve always had both. Otherwise we got a couple of missing kids that would never have been found, whole bunch of Ponzi scammers who would still be ripping people off, and a string of unsolved robberies. Your curiosity is something I never want you to lose.”
All the detectives noticed when the youngest sergeant in the history of the detective bureau entered her office. It not only meant the danger had passed, but she kept in shape like no one else. There were a slew of jokes about the pretty sergeant, but when it was time to get things done, everyone looked to her.
Tubman considered the rare praise from one of the tougher cops he’d known in his fourteen years with the Boca Raton Police Department. The agency had a difficult role in the community, which was dominated by demanding rich people but still populated by middle-class families. There were only a couple of bad spots in the whole city, and most of the cops were smart enough to know they had nothing to complain about—especially compared to some of the rough towns just a few miles up US 1. But the city had the unfortunate reputation among law enforcement for being the capital of economic crime. That was what kept Tubman’s mind on little things like the box at the clinic.
Paul Tubman stretched his legs out onto the coffee table while they watched America’s Got Talent. For the most part he tuned out the show, which, along with American Idol, often gave him a migraine. But he didn’t care just so long as he had a chance to smell Maria’s hair or admire her delicate wrists, which at the moment were obscured by the wide gold bracelets he had bought her for the anniversary of her arrival in the United States from Venezuela.
One of Boca’s biggest jewelers gave him a fantastic deal on all the jewelry he bought. The jeweler loved Tubman after he had found the jeweler’s missing daughter eight years ago. Tubman had gotten so involved in the canvass of the neighborhood, looking for the missing six-year-old, and his curiosity had driven him so hard, he’d forgotten to go off shift and had found the girl, lost and hiding in an abandoned store, after more than twenty hours on duty. The jeweler’s wife had made him feel like Superman. Tubman had hung on to that feeling for as long as he could, and sometimes it was similar to how Maria made him feel special. It wasn’t what she said or did. It was more how the other cops looked at him with her on his arm. The thirty-year-old former swimsuit model positively shone. She attracted attention wherever they went.
Now she turned her head on his shoulder and slid her arm onto his belly. As soon as she paused for a moment, then patted his stomach, the excitement grew in him. He’d been waiting for her to comment on his steady weight loss.
Maria sat up and looked him in the eyes. “You’re really losing weight, aren’t you, Paulie?”
“You like?”
“Yes, I like.” He loved the way she made a “Y” sound like a “J.” Her accent wasn’t unusual here in South Florida. It was just unusual for a girl like this to be with a guy like him.
Tubman said, “You wanna see the new me in the bedroom?” He playfully wiggled his bushy brown eyebrows.
She gave him a crooked smile and said, “Not tonight. I want to see who moves on to the next round.”
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.
She said, “How much more are you gonna lose?”
He considered his answer. The chart at the weight loss clinic said he only had ten more pounds to go. All Tubman said was “Some.”
Two weeks later, in early February, as Tubman banged through the front door of the weight loss clinic, Manny sat up straight behind the counter and said, “You’re looking slim, Detective.”
Tubman found it hard to be civil to a guy he’d arrested for everything from check fraud to stealing an old lady’s social security.
Manny said, “The clinic director says you’re almost to your goal and we can cut you loose soon. Very nice. Now do you believe we’re not a scam?”
Tubman eased up to the counter and leaned on it so he could look Manny directly in the eyes. He did notice that his gut wasn’t hanging down like a cow’s udder anymore. “I’ll testify you’re not a scam if you tell me what’s in the box.”
Manny motioned him closer, and when their faces were only a few inches apart he said, “It’s motivational.”
Tubman stood up straight and said, “So it’s empty.”
“Not really, but no one uses it. It’s too much effort.”
“What do you mean?”
Manny shrugged his thin shoulders and said, “Come on, Detective, admit it, the program works. Give your inquisitive mind a break. You’re never gonna need to know what’s in that box.”
He heard the voice and knew it was the sergeant before he even turned from the stand-up copy machine. She said, “Definitely can’t call you Tubby anymore, can we?” To emphasize her comment, she slapped him square on the butt.
Tubman jumped and turned to see his pretty sergeant smiling at him. She’d always acted like one of the guys, and he didn’t take offense at her action. Life was too short to be politically correct every minute of the day. He said, “I wouldn’t mind it if no one ever called me Tubby again.”
“Ever figure out what’s in the box?”
“I talked to one of the assistant state attorneys about the possibility of probable cause for a search warrant to look in it. The clinic claims it’s the ultimate cure. But the attorney said I had nothing. Also, there haven’t been any complaints on the clinic since it opened. I guess the box is a gimmick, but it’s awfully hard to just let it go.”
“Let it go, Tub… Let it go, Paul. Enjoy your life. You shouldn’t let outside influences affect you so strongly.” She threw him a wink as she strolled away.
He knew the sergeant was right. She was smart, a good cop, and had good common sense. But he couldn’t let go of the idea that there was something like that box in his town, and it drove him absolutely crazy. He’d always been by the book and didn’t go for any shortcuts in law enforcement. He wasn’t sure there was a shortcut for this one. He’d been worrying about it for months now. But it had gotten considerably worse the last few days. He realized it had something to do with his continued weight loss. Every pound that disappeared piqued his interest in the box that much more and put him closer to proposing to Maria. Technically, he was already at his goal. There was no reason for him to ever discover the contents of the box at the weight loss clinic.
Then he noticed something on the table next to the copy machine. A Snickers bar. Extra large. Detectives were always leaving candy around the office. It was a staple of police work. He couldn’t help glancing around the D-bureau like he was about to commit a crime. He had the candy bar unwrapped and shoved down his gullet as fast as a kung fu master could throw a punch, but like an alcoholic, he felt himself sucked back into the wonderful world of food.
Two weeks. That was all it took to wreck four months of work. He hadn’t put back the entire forty pounds, but by twenty-one, Maria was pissed. She’d ordered him to get back on the diet or go on a “No-Maria Diet.”
Tubman decided he didn’t get that much from her anyway, so he let his girlfriend put herself off-limits. Until she screamed, “No más. I need someone fit and firm.”
Tubman sipped a beer as he watched her collect a few things from around his apartment, then march out the door for the last time.
Now he was on a mission.
It was late March whe
n he rolled back into the clinic, twenty-six pounds away from his goal. He couldn’t admit to anyone at the clinic that he was tired of his attempt to put the weight back on and would be happy to quit stuffing his face with anything he found. But he was looking forward to slimming down again once he knew the contents of the box.
Manny’s eyes bulged when he said, “What the hell happened to you? You miss a couple of appointments and blow up like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day float.”
Tubman shrugged and said, “You know how it is, Manny, anything can happen on a diet. But now I only have a few weeks to get this excess weight off. There’s got to be something we can do to get me to meet my goal.”
“You bet there is. We’re going to put you on a diet of nothing but protein shakes and work the living shit out of you at the gym.”
Tubman held up one hand and shook his head. “No, Manny. I’m going to need the box.”
“No, you’re not. You proved you can lose weight.”
Tubman picked up on the anxiety in Manny’s voice.
Manny said, “You’re just doing this ’cause you’re crazy. You can’t let it go.”
“Then tell me what’s in the box.”
“I can’t. I signed more nondisclosure agreements than you did.” Manny’s frustration was obvious and growing. “Look, Detective, I know you think I’m a douche bag.”
“More of a scumbag.”
“Whatever. I understand our dynamic, but I need to strongly recommend against the last resort.”
“Why?”
“It’s unnecessary. You’ve already proved your willpower.”
“Then just tell me what’s in the box.” Tubman kept his tone calm and conversational, using his years of interviewing and interrogation to try to coax what he needed out of Manny.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Just like you, I’ve got ethics. I signed on as manager of this clinic, and a lot of people depend on me now. More than I ever realized. If I break one promise or go back on one commitment, I’ll start down the slippery slope. I’m like an addict. It’s all or nothing. I like this life and I’m gonna follow the rules and not tell you what’s in the box.”
“The rules also say it’s time for me to use the last resort.” Tubman was resolute and wanted to get that across in his tone.
Manny said, “This isn’t so much about what’s in the box as it is what’s in you. I think it’s your own issues that have made you fixate on this stupid box. You’re a head case.”
“I’m a customer and a cop. I want to use it. I’ve earned it.” Tubman wondered if Manny wasn’t right. All that flashed through his brain was his urge to see what was in the box. It was blinding him to any sort of rational thought. Could a con man change?
Manny looked around the empty clinic, then said, “I’ll set up an appointment.” The resignation in his voice said it all.
Tubman said, “Bullshit. Let’s do it right now.”
“I gotta make some calls. The medical director is supposed to be present.”
“Really? I thought you were in charge here. Come on, Manny, this sounds like a scam.”
Manny shrugged and slid a sheet of paper across the counter. “Okay. Here’s one last disclaimer.”
Tubman barely read it. It said that the clinic was not liable, that he’d been advised of all the dangers and all the other bullshit that goes along with lawyers getting involved in something simple. He scribbled his name. Then looked up at Manny.
Finally the lean, older man said, “Go ahead. There’s no one else around. I ain’t gonna stop you.”
Tubman took a deep breath as he slowly walked around the counter, savoring his victory. He stopped in front of the box and turned toward Manny. “What do I do?”
Manny tapped the top of the box, where instructions were clearly stenciled on. “Start by sticking your hands through the handles at the bottom of the box, then turn the knobs upward.”
Tubman noticed the seam longways down the box’s lid. He wondered why the box opened in such an odd manner as he twisted the knobs on each side. Turning the knobs with his hands through the straps at the bottom of the box was an awkward maneuver and forced him to lean down close to the box. He felt a series of clicks as some internal mechanism kicked in. As the excitement in him grew, he wondered if this was some ancient secret from the Far East. He loved solving puzzles, and this was one of his biggest challenges. He’d remember this drill for months.
Click, clack, the box was doing something. He could feel it as the knobs came to a stop. He glanced down at the instructions and saw that the last line said, TURN YOUR HEAD TO THE LEFT. Tubman complied.
Then he heard a noise like a heavy spring and out of the corner of his eyes caught the lid bursting open. Then the room swirled and spun as he went down on one knee and then flat onto his ass.
Manny rushed over as Tubman tried to recover his senses. Tubman leaned to one side and realized he was bleeding from his nose and lips, and the pain shot through his head and neck like electricity.
He stumbled back and slowly rose to his feet, staring at the wide-open box. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing. It was just a simple, round leather pad on the end of a heavy spring dangling off to the side like a special-needs jack-in-the-box.
Tubman tried to speak, but he could only mumble. He recognized that his jaw was broken.
Manny said, “I’m sorry, but I promised the clinic owner I’d never reveal the secret. It was too valuable as a motivational tool. But the contract says it is available to clients. You see, Detective, I really do follow the rules now. But I wish you’d listened to me.”
Manny helped Tubman to a chair as he continued. “It’s no great technological advance, Detective. It just broke your jaw, and it’s going to be wired shut for three weeks. I figure you’ll lose about thirty pounds. It’s a tough way to go, that’s why it’s always been the last resort.”
Tubman glared up at Manny, but before he did anything rash, the detective remembered that he was the one who’d asked, “What’s in the box?”
MAD BLOOD
BY S. W. HUBBARD
Two sensations awakened him: wet heat on his leg, sharp pressure on the back of his neck.
Trent opened his eyes to find Ducky wrapped around him. “Damn, Ducky—you wet the bed. My bed.”
No apology. No whimpering. Just her breathing steady and hard in his ear, her little hands wrapped so tightly around his neck he could barely swallow. Then he heard noise from the kitchen: a shout, a crash, breaking glass.
His mother screamed.
Trent tried to pry Ducky off him. “C’mon, Ducks—I have to help her.”
His sister tightened her grasp. The last time Trent had tried to get between their mother and Fredo, Fredo had tossed the boy across the room like yesterday’s newspaper. Trent had hit the radiator hard and blacked out for a minute. When he came to, his mother, Ducky, and Fredo had all been standing over him.
“Told you he wasn’t dead,” Fredo had said, taking a drag on his tallboy.
The incident worried Trent. If he died, who would change the sheets when Ducky wet the bed? Who would get her shoes on the right feet? Who would open her SpaghettiOs? At six, she didn’t know how to use a can opener.
In the kitchen, Fredo’s voice rose from a low growl to a crescendo ending in “Lying fucking bitch!” Ducky flinched, burying her head in Trent’s shoulder. The sharp ammonia smell of her piss filled his throat. The pounding of his heart made it hard to think. What was the likelihood his mother’s phone was on her dresser, not in her pocket? What good would it do to yell “help” out the window at three in the morning in Flatbush?
A piercing shriek rocketed Trent out of bed, Ducky and all. He ran to the kitchen, his sister attached to him like an extra limb. On the threshold he stopped and covered Ducky’s eyes. Their mother lay on the yellow linoleum floor, blood pouring from her neck like milk from a knocked-over half gallon. Drops of red speckled the front of
the white refrigerator and the chrome legs of the table. Fredo had walked through the spreading tide, leaving clear footprints. One hand held the bloody end of a broken beer bottle; the other hand clutched his shaking cell phone to his ear.
Trent yanked his T-shirt over his head and pressed it against his mother’s neck. Her eyes—apologetic, resigned—met his for a moment before flickering shut. Above him, he heard Fredo’s voice.
“You gotta come, Nicky. I just poked her a little bit, but there’s mad blood. Mad blood all over.”
Trent and Ducky went to school the next day; it was the best way to escape the coppery-piney smell of blood and cleaning solution saturating the apartment. Fredo’s brother, Nicky, and Nicky’s wife, Carla, were taking charge. Last night, Nicky had shoved Fredo against the wall, calling him a stupid fuck face and a moron whack job, but when the paramedics arrived Nicky calmly explained how Trent’s mother had tripped and fallen while holding a glass and accidentally cut her neck. His brother, Nicky told them, was too upset to talk about it. After the ambulance left, Carla, a woman who enjoyed giving a room a good cleaning, set to work wiping up the mess.
Now, in second period, Trent eased back in his seat and listened to Miss Snowden talk. Her voice rose and fell like the kind of music that doesn’t have words. Sometimes she got so excited about what she was saying she would wave her hands above her head, then spin around and start drawing on the board. Trent noticed that the old teachers, like Mr. Weiss and Mrs. Bonaventure, hated Miss Snowden.
“So the arteries carry blood away from the heart, bringing nutrients and oxygen to the cells all over our bodies. And the veins carry the blood back to the heart, where it picks up more oxygen and the process begins again.” Miss Snowden smiled out at the class. “I need an assistant. Teesha, come on up here and play the heart while I play the blood.”
All the other teachers knew to leave Teesha alone. Held back three times, she towered over her fellow eighth graders. Her boobs were three times the size of Miss Snowden’s. Teesha’s eyes narrowed to slits when the teacher pulled her to the front of the room. Miss Snowden didn’t care. She ran around the class passing out a stack of construction-paper oxygen molecules. Then she ran back to Teesha and begged for more. Then she ran around again. By the time the bell rang, everyone was laughing, even Teesha.
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Mystery Box Page 12