Calling Mr. Nelson Pugh

by Christopher Opyr

  Those words froze me still as a corpse.

  “You really should answer me.” Did I recognize that voice?

  The quiet stretched out once more, as if each of us willed the other to speak first. I knew that I would lose this battle. Even in this stranger’s silence I could sense his resolve and it frightened me.

  I wavered, uncertain of what to do. Then an idea struck me. This wasn’t so much a light bulb of an idea, but a bright flashing neon sign of an idea. My name did not appear in Eleanor’s phone. She had me listed as ‘Husband.’

  “You know me, don’t you?” I had to know him. It made sense, right? Crimes are most often committed against you by people you know; that’s what the reports say. Stranger danger is but a misdirection clouding us from the real threat – the anger and jealousy stirred within our own very personal relationships. Yes, I must have known this man.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You must know me,” I continued. “You know my name.”

  “Names are easy to come by.”

  “But you called me Nelson. Not Mr. Pugh, not Mr. Nelson Pugh, but Nelson.”

  “Don’t delude yourself. You cannot control this situation. You cannot spin the tide in your favor.” So calm. So calculated. And why had he mentioned the tide of all things?

  My mind raced through the possibilities. Who could want to hurt me, to hurt my family? Who could I have hurt to such a degree that this seemed an appropriate recourse?

  Suddenly the alarm bells went off. One person had a reason to hate me. I had betrayed our friendship of nearly fifteen years. By convincing Mr. Rochester to keep me on staff, I had cost Stan Meyers his job. After Rochester let Stan go, or let’s be blunt, after Rochester fired Stan, his life had turned to shit. His marriage had collapsed under the strain of supporting a family on unemployment. His drinking had grown out of control and he had fallen into a downward spiral. During that time, I had been unable to face him, even upon that one chance encounter. I still couldn’t. I knew I should have been there for him, but I didn’t know how to look Stan in the eyes knowing what I had cost him. Stan Meyers had reason to hate me. He bore a wound both recent and brutal.

  “Stan?”

  Silence. I wondered if I had guessed right. Had I ferreted out the man on the other end of the line? Being caught would he call it a bust, turn, and run? I had to hope. Then came the reply.

  “Have you honestly lived such a malevolent life that you can so swiftly arrive at one who wishes you this level of harm?”

  No. I was wrong. This man wasn’t Stan. He couldn’t be. The man on the other end of the line had a sophistication and a madness to him that were both beyond the simple life of Stan Meyers, no matter how badly that life had been shattered. His speech pattern was all wrong, and his voice too low and guttural. No matter how hard Stan tried, he wouldn’t have been able to pull off that voice.

  I had to forget about who and seek the answer to a more prominent question.

  “Where are you?” I asked. I didn’t want to hear what this man had to say, but I also didn’t need an answer. I knew where he was.

  “You tell me,” he said.

  I did not answer. He was in my house. Even if I knew his name it would not save my family. My throat began to constrict and my mouth to dry. I tried to wet my lips, to say anything, but I couldn’t.

  “Say it.” His voice came through so soft and calm, almost like he was speaking to a child.

  I could feel the water forming in my eyes. My chest still throbbed, but the pain had dulled at least momentarily. Even my stress faded, an utter hopelessness leaching in to take its place. There was nothing to be done; I cracked and let forth an audible sob.

  Again, came that voice. Calm. Quiet. Without an inkling of compassion. “Tell me where I am, Nelson.”

  That voice rose ever so slightly this time. At first, I thought that perhaps I had made the man angry, whoever he was, but that was not it. That rise, that came from delight. He spoke like he was speaking to a child in tone, yet that voice held within it its own childlike anticipation. It built in the man’s voice with the utterance of each word.

  I had heard it before in Erica and later in my youngest, Marie. Whenever I told Marie a secret, she would find her mom and the guessing game would begin. She always wanted someone to guess. With each try, she would become more excited. She’d smile and laugh with her secret knowledge, but she would prod her mother more, desperate for that attention, holding to it and squeezing it for every last drop. That was the rise that I heard in this man’s voice, and it broke something in me.

  “No.” As I said it, I let out another sob. I wouldn’t say it. I could not give this man what he wanted; I couldn’t give him that pleasure.

  “Say it, Nelson. Tell me where I am.” His voice had not changed, a childlike playfulness hiding just beneath that malice.

  I did not want to play his game.

  “No. I won’t say it.” The dam had collapsed, and I sobbed full on, now, my cheeks slick with tears.

  “Listen closely, Nelson.” I did as I was told, but I heard only silence. If there had been anything more to hear I could not have heard it anyway, not over the sound of my own crying.

  “Tell me what you hear,” he continued.

  Fighting was pointless. I answered. “Nothing.”

  “You’re not listening. Stop your incessant wailing and listen.”

  Again, I heard nothing but silence. This man wanted me to listen, but I did not know what he wanted me to hear, only that whatever it was would surely crush me. The answer petrified me, yet equally frightening was the thought of what would happen if I continued to disobey him. I swallowed and wiped at my eyes, forcing back the tears. A drip of snot leaked from my nose, but I paid it no mind; I listened. As I did, I began to make out more noises just beyond the silence. Not noises. Words. Distant. Faint.

  “… to sleep, Erica. Daddy and I were just having a discussion.”

  I hadn’t needed to hear Elly to know that this man was in my house. I had known that for some time. This man knew that, and yet he still wanted me to hear my wife.

  “Now say it. Tell me where I am.”

  “Why? What’s the point?” The torture, and that is what this was – pure psychological torture – weighed too heavily. I could feel myself cracking.

  “Do you know what it feels like to have your abdomen slit open? To have a blade slice you up from gut to sternum, Mr. Pugh?” He pronounced my name with infinite disgust, or at least when I think back on that conversation that is how I hear it. At the time I barely noticed my name. The question itself had stopped me cold.

  “Nelson?”

  “No.” There was nothing else to say.

  “No is not an answer. No is the utterance of the feeble and the insipid. Do you know what it feels like to have your gut opened up while you’re still breathing, fully cognizant of every inch gained by the blade as it slices that tender flesh? Do you know that type of pain, Mr. Pugh?”

  I couldn’t even fathom that kind of pain. Suddenly I broke, bursting into sobs. I could see no way out. The wave I had ridden had left me and soon I would be asleep and my family would be dead. My train of thought completely derailed and I could not answer. I don’t know if the man forgave me that, so much as he gave up on a reply knowing that it would not come, that it couldn’t. He moved on.

  “I ask,” he said, “because if you do not tell me where I am, Nelson, then I will gut your wife and kids and I will do it slow. There are drugs that can keep them awake for every excruciating moment. Imagine that as the last minutes of life for your precious daughters, Mr. Pugh, and then, for the last time, answer my question.”

  No answer would come. I hung up the phone.

  ONE

  As the line died, I swiftly switched over and dialed the home line. I had one chance. As the phone rang, I tried to think about what I would say, but all conscious thought had long since left, replaced by instinct. On the second ring Elly picked up.

  I di
dn’t let her even start to speak.

  “Get out now. I was right.”

  “Nelson --”

  “Don’t argue,” I said, cutting her off. “Get mad later if I’m wrong. Right now, get out. Get the girls and get out!” I don’t know if it was my persistence, my uncharacteristically raised tone, or if she just didn’t want to fight anymore, but I had her.

  “Okay,” she said. Her voice shook with that one word. She was on board, finally.

  As Elly gathered the girls, I only half-listened over the line. I heard her call their names each in turn, but something tore at my attention.

  I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled to the nightstand. My head spun with the movement, still reeling from being slammed against the wall, but I had a task that had to be done. I balanced as best as I could, my knees wobbling with each step. I knew that I didn’t have much time left before the medication and the liquor won out – that or the pain in my chest.

  I grabbed the bedside phone, slid back down to the carpet, and dialed 911.

  As the hotel line rang, I could hear our daughters’ voices over the cell as they stirred from sleep. Their words spilled out groggily, weighed down by their broken rest.

  “What’s wrong?” Erica. She had a way of getting to the point of things.

  I didn’t hear Eleanor’s response. Emergency dispatch had picked up and beckoned me to the other line.

  “911. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “There’s been a break-in. Someone is in my house and he’s going to kill my wife and kids.” Saying it out loud, the horror of the situation became more real. The bile rose. I needed to vomit. With effort, I swallowed it back down and plowed on, quickly giving the dispatcher my address, home phone number, and my cell phone. Perhaps she was thrown off by the non-local emergency, I don’t know, but I had to trust that she could patch it through to the appropriate authorities.

  “I’m away on business,” I continued, “but I’m on the phone with my wife. She needs help. Now.” I stopped, checking the other line. I couldn’t hear anything. The nightmare scenario flashed by – she was dead, wasn’t she? I pressed the phone closer. Still nothing. In my other ear I could hear the dispatcher asking questions, but I did not care. I looked at the readout on my cell. I had lost the call.

  I dropped the hotel receiver. The emergency dispatch operator still spoke, probing for more information, struggling to regain my attention, but for me that call was over. I dialed home. With each ring my fear mounted. You’d think dead was as far as fear could take you, but it’s not. There are so many worse scenarios and my mind ran through all of them that I could fathom. Finally, on the fifth ring, someone answered.

  “You shouldn’t have hung up on me.” The man’s voice.

  “Don’t hurt them.” Meek and pleading. What defense did I have left?

  “I asked you to answer a simple question.”

  “You’re in my house.”

  “It is too late for that, Nelson. I asked you to answer, but you didn’t. There are no second chances.”

  “Please.”

  “Do you have so feeble an understanding of the situation at hand that you honestly believe you can sway me with a simple please?” He stretched out the last word, pronouncing it in a shrill childish squeal.

  “I’ll give you anything, anything that you want.” I knew begging had no real chance of success, but I also didn’t know of any other options.

  The other end of the line went quiet, as if paused after my pleas; then the man began to chuckle – not laugh, just a light, grating chuckle.

  “I’m in your house, Nelson. I’ve seen the second-hand clothes, the store-brand cereals, and even the fake pearls for your sweet Eleanor. You’re broke and you have nothing to give, or at least nothing beyond what I already plan to take.”

  The man tried to bait me, but I couldn’t bite. Neither could I stop. I had to keep the man talking. As long as he was speaking with me, then my family was still alive. As long as I was talking, there was still time.

  “Fine. Not there, but I have savings. I’ve been putting away for a long time, setting aside an unemployment fund – something to cover us when I finally lose my job. It’s only a matter of time really. I have enough to last my family a year, maybe more. Plus there’re the girls’ college funds. It’s all yours.”

  “I don’t want money. Do you really think that’s where my interest lies?”

  A loud ripping noise sounded over the line, followed by a gasp. Then I heard her. Eleanor. Elly. Her sobs echoed out, clear and unmistakable, her voice tremulous and straining through pain. I couldn’t make out her words, but sometimes I wonder if that was a blessing in disguise – a memory with which I am best not burdened. Those times make me hate myself.

  “Just let my girls go. I’ll do anything.” Once again it came down to pleading. “Just let them go.”

  “Do you want to save your wife, Nelson?”

  Obviously I did, but I knew this man had no intention of letting my family live, no matter what I did. The police were on the way. My only hope, my family’s only hope, was that I kept this man talking.

  “Yes,” I said; then yawned. I didn’t mean to yawn. I didn’t even know how it was possible given the situation, but the pills had their hold on me, then. Soon sleep would come. Very soon.

  “Am I boring you?” Anger rippled through that voice then, an anger beyond the usual childish malevolence.

  “No,” I screamed, a little too loud. I had to do anything that I could to fight the pills and stay awake.

  My weak assurance did nothing to allay that anger. “Let’s see if this bores you,” the voice shouted.

  Suddenly a thick, fleshy thunk sounded over the line, mingled instantly with Elly’s screams. Then came something else, a slick noise mixed with what I could only describe as the sound of suction. I didn’t have to be told what had happened. I knew that this man had just stabbed Elly.

  BREATHE IN

  “Now look what you’ve done,” he started. “This is not savoring the experience. This is too early.”

  Something to that effect. I couldn’t have cared less what he was saying in that instant. I snapped.

  “You… You son of a…,” I stammered. “What have you…” The channel kept flipping, rapid, like a radio set to seek. “If you’ve hurt her, then I’ll…”

  The voice on the line calmed, regaining its quiet composure. “Finish a thought, Nelson.”

  Yes, finish a thought. Your wife could be dying. Yet only one thought held firm. I had to speak to Elly.

  “Put her on the phone.”

  “I don’t think she wants to talk right now.”

  “Put her on the phone!” I screamed.

  “You really should watch that temper. Especially as this is your fault. We were having a civil conversation and you had the impertinence to yawn, as if it meant nothing to you. That is not how one carries himself in polite discourse.”

  Perhaps it was my fault. If I had called sooner, if I hadn’t been lost in my own stupid anxiety, if I hadn’t taken my pills, then perhaps I could have seen the signs in time to get Elly and our daughters out of there. Now she was at the mercy of this madman.

  In the background I could hear her. One moment she wailed and the next she whimpered. Back and forth she vacillated between the two, wailing until she could wail no more, then murmuring softly until her strength rebuilt; then the screaming returned. Yet with each scream-whimper cycle her volume lessened bit by bit.

  My throat constricted. I had been married to this woman for eighteen years. She was the mother of my children and the woman with whom I shared a bed. She was the woman who had seen past all of my flaws and found something within me to love. I gathered what strength I could and spoke.

  “Leave her alone.”

  “I doubt that is what you truly want. What do you know about stomach wounds, Nelson?”

  I let my breath slip. The action came automatically. I hadn’t wanted to give this man that
satisfaction, but I knew enough to know that if this psychopath had stabbed my wife in the stomach, there was little that anyone could do for her now. Depending on where she had been stabbed, and how deep, she could have fifteen minutes left, or fifteen hours, but her chances were against survival.

  “It’s a painful way to die. Slow and agonizing,” the man continued. “What you want now is mercy – a quick death If you do as I say, I’ll grant her that. Your daughters, too.”

  Judging from what I had gathered that this man had in store for my family, I knew that he was right; a quick death would be merciful. Yet the police would be on their way by now. I did not hear the sirens, but my family lived in the country, so that did not surprise me. They needed time for the police to arrive, and that’s what I had to give them.

  Time to die slowly and painfully. Time to suffer… time to drift… away…

  Wham! I bit into my lip as I slammed the drawer of the nightstand against my left hand with a sickening crunch! Bones shattered and the flesh bruised, while a fresh stream of blood poured from my severed lip. But I hadn’t screamed, and I hadn’t drifted away.

  “What was that?” the man asked.

  If I was going to save my family, any of them, I had to make this man feel in control. At that moment, I knew it. The man on the line got off on control, no, on power. He was probably hard as a rock just dicking with me, the lives of my wife and daughters in the balance. Yet, control would give them time.

  “I hit the wall. It was stupid. Now please, put my wife on the phone.”

  “First tell me, shall I leave her alone or shall I put her out of her misery. The choice is yours,” came the voice.

  “I need to speak to her first.”

  “And I need an answer.”

  “And you’ll have it. But let me say goodbye.” My voice trembled. I had to speak to Elly. Everything hinged on her.

  A shuffling sounded over the phone, and then came Elly’s moans. They grew louder, but soon they mixed with the man’s voice. I could hear him speaking to her.