“Yeah, I’m sorry too. I wrecked my friend’s Mercedes.”
“No, Frannie, I mean it - I’m sorry. I did it!” Peter shouted again. His eyes started rapidly scanning the room as though there were menaces lurking in all the corners.
“Did what, Peter? You’re not making any sense. Why are you shouting? You look crazy.”
“I caused the accident. I dreamed about killing Kathryn in a car accident and you got hurt instead.”
“You’re not making any sense, Peter. How could imagining something break the steering thingy in a car I was borrowing?”
“Frannie, you don’t understand. I’ve been hurting all my friends. I killed one of them. I killed my dog. I killed another dog, too. I’ve got to get out of here!” Peter ran from the room and didn’t slow down until he got to the parking garage.
He got up on the roof of his car and bent over. He banged his forehead against the cool metal. His eyes were wide with fear. “This is not a dream. This is not a dream. I’m awake.” He could smell the oily metallic smell of the parking garage. Tears that didn’t make it as far as his eyes rolled down the back of his throat and the salt gagged him. He could hear the sound of traffic on the nearby street. He banged on the roof with his fists.
Peter screamed inside his head “No, no, no, it can’t be me! I couldn’t do this! I love Frannie. I love Rex. I love Dudley. Marty was my friend. She did this. Kathryn’s the pus bucket, full of hate. She hates dogs and Frannie and me. She’s the one who believes in all this supernatural crap. She’s the one who killed my babies with spray paint and a knife. She’s trying to kill me! I’ve gotta quit writing about killing her and kill the witch for real. This shit’s gotta stop. Hurting Frannie’s the last fucking straw. I’m gonna stop that cunt. Dead …”
Peter’s phone buzzed and it snapped him out of his grief and anger. He looked at the caller ID. “Blocked Number,” it read. It was likely the “nut” again with 3 more cryptic words. Just what he needed. He refused to answer the call and dialed Lisa instead.
Chapter 36
Lisa answered her phone despite the early hour. Peter was surprised as he had always got her machine in the past. Peter took her answering as a good omen. Peter’s belief in the other kind of omen had been cranked up a few notches as of late.
“Lisa, I need to see you. Frannie is in the hospital from a car accident; I was writing about car accidents. It can’t be real. I’ve gotta stop it.”
“Peter, focus on what I’m going to tell you. I can’t see you until our next appointment unless I have a cancellation. I want you to call your family doctor and get a fast-acting tranquilizer and a mild sedative. Will you do that? You can give her the number of my service, and I’ll talk to her. Do you understand? Will you keep me informed that you have done what I want you to do? Will you repeat what I have told you, please?”
“Lisa, she killed my dog and my friend Marty and tried to kill Frannie! She wants to kill me, too.”
“Peter, repeat what I told you.”
“Call my family doc and get some drugs, and have her call you.”
“Are you going to do that right now?”
“Yes.” Peter lied, but he felt slightly better knowing that Lisa cared. He knew there was only one thing that could improve his mood, and it wasn’t drugs or therapy.
“Goodbye, Peter. I expect to hear from your family doctor. Hang in there; I’ll give you first priority on any cancellation. Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll be okay.” Translation: “I’m going to kill the witch. This has got to stop.”
Chapter 37
Peter immediately phoned Elaine for a date. He didn’t even realize how bizarre this was in the state he was in. Peter needed sex. If he couldn’t get it soon and free, he would pay for it.
“Elaine, guess who?” Peter sounded calm and affable. He somehow walled off his craziness for the duration of the call.
“I have call display. What do you want, Mr. Broviak?” Elaine sounded calm but pissy.
“Dinner. You said we could have dinner.”
“Yes, I did. Let’s get it over with. I’m free tonight at 18:15. Meet me at my office.” And with that, Elaine hung up without saying goodbye.
Peter couldn’t wait for 18:15 hours. Visions of ripping off her blouse danced in his head. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on what he knew lurked underneath - large, perfectly round and firm fake breasts. Eros was trumping terror in the war for Peter’s sanity.
Chapter 38
Peter drove home. When he got there, he could not remember having driven. Time dragged for the rest of the day. Peter felt like a little kid waiting for Christmas. His mind was focused on Elaine. Everything else was walled off. After talking to her, he began fantasizing about her in earnest, and he didn’t feel bad any more about anything. He didn’t realize how odd that was.
Peter had no appetite and couldn’t concentrate. His only thought was of the naked lawyer riding his cock, her eyes looking down at him from between her impressive breasts as he pleasured her from below. All thoughts of witches and death and destruction were banished by his thoughts of Elaine - thoughts so pleasant they almost hurt. Peter paced around his house with a partial erection most of the day, grinning and laughing.
Finally, it was time to drive back to town and meet Elaine at her office. Peter put on his best cowboy shirt and his tightest and newest trousers. He put a fresh shine on his boots. He sparingly applied some cologne, though he didn’t generally approve of scent on men and didn’t appreciate it at all on women. He even brought a jacket, in case the restaurant demanded one.
He showed up at exactly 18:15 and walked right in to Elaine’s office. She was seated at her desk doing nothing and glanced at her watch as he stood before her. “Right on time. I love a man who can obey instructions.” She smiled for only the second time in Peter’s recollection and looked him right in the eye and asked, “Are you hungry?”
“Not particularly. Are you?” Peter was excited to see hunger in her eyes, and he recognized it as not-for-food hunger.
“I’m not particularly peckish either. Mr. Broviak, are you an adult?”
“Yes.”
“I too am an adult and I suggest we begin the evening with some adultery. Will you lock the door, please, and join me on the sofa?”
“Yes, it would be my pleasure to help you work up an appetite.”
“Mr. Broviak, I have appetites that don’t need any working up. Shut up and get over here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It was 21:10 before they left the sofa for dinner. Peter was still not hungry but needed a few drinks. He could not come up with enough superlatives to describe the passion of this tough old lawyer. Peter had never seen anyone but working girls with such an outrageous breast augmentation, and so skillfully done. She’d had a lot of other cosmetic work done as well; Peter knew all the places to look. All of this made Peter’s head swim. He was a fan of surgical creations. More than a fan, he was an addict.
At dinner, when Peter complimented Elaine on her choice of surgeon, she said, “If I can’t win with my wits, I’ll use my tits. It’s all about winning. I get what I want, Mr. Broviak. I got you without using, or even exhibiting, the slightest bit of charm or playing any coy little games. Do you think I could have done that with an ‘A’ cup? Not on your life, bub.”
Peter was in love, or what passed for love in his present state. He downed two quick Anchor Steam beers and began to feel like he was returning to this planet. He ordered a dozen Malpeque oysters with freshly grated horseradish and lemon wedges, and some yellowtail sashimi with diced chilies. Elaine had one double Beefeater martini with no garnish or ice in a water glass, and a chef salad. They talked very little. Peter never thought to bring up Frannie or witches or any other troublesome topic. The two of them didn’t flirt with their eyes. There was nothing to flirt about. They knew they had an “arrangement.” They ate and drank with purpose until Elaine said, ”It’s past my bedtime; I’m going
to ask for the check and leave.”
Elaine continued, after motioning for the check, “I have one, or occasionally two, evenings a week free and we can meet at my house. You are never invited to stay overnight and I want you out by 9:30. I was right in my assessment that cheaters are the best lovers. You will not cheat on me, however, or you will cease to be my lover. Is that clear? I’ll call you before noon any day that I have an evening free. I enjoyed myself and expect to enjoy you more as time goes on.”
Peter looked at her and grinned from ear to ear. “Where have you been all my life?”
“Right here in town trying to avoid men like you …”
They said a quick goodnight and didn’t kiss. Instead, she stuck out her hand and thanked Peter for the dinner, even though she had insisted on paying half.
Peter drove home in a state of bliss. Sex with a beautifully manufactured woman was the most powerful drug Peter could think of, and at some time or other, he had used most of them.
Chapter 39
Peter floated out of the car, still intoxicated by his evening with Elaine. When he got to his back door, he saw the three holes left by the knives his stalker had planted there. Some of his intoxication vanished.
Peter opened the door and his mood darkened further. Peter still expected Rex to be there to greet him and there was no Rex. He passed through the dining room and knew that his defaced paintings were looking at him, although he refused to turn his head.
On his way upstairs, Peter heard a car pass on the street from the direction of the living room. The noise was unusually loud and crisp. It sounded like a front door or window was open, but Peter could see that the door was closed and knew the big picture window in the living room didn’t open.
Peter rushed to the living room and stopped as if hitting a wall. All of his intoxication vanished. His picture window was gone - smashed and scattered all over the floor. He flicked on the room lights and saw the mess in detail. In addition to the glass, there were three rocks on the floor, all about a large as baseballs. One was reddish, one was almost white and the third was almost black. Since the nearest source of rocks that size was a stream a mile away, Peter knew this was not a random act of vandalism. These were not rocks that kids had found on his front lawn and chucked through his window out of boredom. This was a clear message. This was Kathryn hard at work, trying to drive him crazy with her weirdo threats. Tonight the threats were not working, if their point was to make him wild or frightened. Instead, Peter felt his simmering anger reach its boiling point.
Peter phoned a 24-hour glass replacement service and left a message with the operator. He told them to come in the morning.
Peter went upstairs to bed after the call and performed his nightly ritual. He got a shotgun out of his safe and loaded it and put it next to his bed. He crawled into bed and fell asleep after an hour or so, thinking about killing Kathryn up close with the shotgun.
Chapter 40
Peter heard the phone ring at an early hour. He answered it reflexively coming out of a sound sleep and heard, “Feel. Reel. Kneel.”
Peter screamed, “Fuck off!” at the three-word nutcase. His adrenalin immediately rose to a level that made further sleep impossible. He popped out of bed and made espresso for his latte. He glanced at his calendar. He had no work scheduled. The duct-cleaning copy had been sent off. He glanced at his bills and wished he did have some dreary advertising to write or some dull designs to create.
The horrific events of the last while came back in a crash. He had nowhere to go with these feelings. The “Elaine high” had worn off, leaving a hangover of worry and hate - his twin tormentors of late. He was afraid Elaine would never see him again, not to mention Frannie. He was stuck with problems no one could understand, in numbers he was afraid to count. He clung to the only thought of which he was sure: killing Kathryn would solve all of his problems.
He drank his latte and stared at the wall. It was too early in the morning to call anyone but he called Bobby anyway, knowing full well Bobby was not a morning person.
“Hello?” a groggy Bobby answered.
“Bobby?”
“Peter, you asshole, whaddya want? It’s fucking dark outside!”
“Bobby, look, I’m really sorry. The world’s gone crazy and I don’t know whom to talk to. I really need to talk to someone.”
“And I’ll bet your shrink doesn’t work the midnight shift. Let me take a whiz and make a coffee, and I’ll call you back. As much as you piss me off, I’m here for you. God knows why.”
Peter smiled at the phone and put it down.
It rang after 10 minutes. “Okay, tell Auntie Bobby what’s wrong.”
“Thanks, Bobby. Frannie’s in the hospital and I put her there.”
“Did you give her a fulminating case of the clap? Shit, I’m sorry; I’ll be serious. What’s wrong with Frannie?”
“You know how I was writing about shooting the previous administration and then Rex got diagnosed with that bone cancer and I shot him, and then I wrote about poisoning the previous administration and Marty swallowed pills or poison and killed himself, and then I started writing about sabotaging the PA’s car and Frannie ends up in the hospital from a car accident that was probably due to mechanical problems in the steering … These are not coincidences, Bobby.”
“They are coincidences, Peter; you don’t have magical powers. You are an ordinary straight guy. You write mediocre advertising copy and chase plastic women. None of these things indicate to me that you possess magical powers.”
“Look, Bobby, just try to imagine that the PA is doing this - the bitch monster. She always told me she had the ‘powers’ of an angel, but she said she only used them for good things. What if she decided to exchange those powers for evil ones now that she hates me?”
“Well, she does hate you, old son.”
“No shit she hates me.”
Bobby thought for a second and said, “They say love can move mountains; maybe hate can too. But your ex is just a bitch. She ain’t no witch.” After a few seconds, Bobby said in a sympathetic tone, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Defeated in his attempt to find an ally for his witchcraft theory, Peter agreed. “Nothing. Say nothing, Bobby. I just wanted to connect with you.” He couldn’t tell anyone about his horrid dreams or visions, not even Bobby. Talking about that nutty stuff would validate the conclusion that Peter was officially crazy.
“Petey sweetie, I love you,” Bobby said, his voice full of concern.
“I love you too, Bobby. Bye.”
Peter looked at the phone in his hand and realized he had talked to the only person he thought would listen to him, and now he had a whole day ahead of him with nothing to do and nowhere to go. He lay down on the sofa that he and Rex had recently shared. He could still smell Rex if he put his face right down on the cushion. He took a few deep draughts of Rex smell and then sat up with a bolt. He stood up and began to pace. He suddenly knew who could really help him kill her. He just had to wait until a few more minutes to make the killing connection. Peter paced around the house until just before 8 a.m. He hopped in his car and drove to the garage to see Jamie with the bad attitude and the worse tattoos.
Peter arrived at the garage with a bogus story he’d concocted of having misplaced his sunglasses. But he didn’t need to use any pretext. Kevin was out doing a test drive and had left Jamie in charge.
He approached Jamie and said, “I guess I can make good tonight on my offer to buy you a beer after work. I’ll come by.” Jamie looked at Peter like he was a piece of snot. “Sure boss, anything you say.” He returned to his work under the hood of an old Dodge Ram that was covered in primer.
Peter left the shop and returned to his home office and tried to work. He paced around and wished again that he was still a smoker. He couldn’t concentrate so he went for a run, but running didn’t seem the same without Rex.
The hours passed. The glass repairman came and went. Finally, it was time to mee
t Jamie at the garage after work. Jamie was dressed in pressed jeans and a long-sleeved dress shirt that covered his jailhouse tats. He almost looked respectable. He was driving a big old ’80’s Cadillac in need of bodywork. He called it his “project car.” Jamie suggested taking two cars and asked Peter to follow him.
Jamie pulled into McDonald’s and stopped.
Peter got out and asked, ”Are we meeting your friends here?”
“No, asshat, I’m having supper. Stay in the car if you don’t like Big Macs.”
“Asshat?”
Jamie went in and Peter stayed in his car. Peter wouldn’t be caught dead in McDonald’s.
Jamie came out and they drove to an upscale steakhouse in a newer part of town. It was the same steakhouse in Peter’s hallucination about killing Kathryn with mushroom. Peter followed Jamie into the dark and cozy bar area, and they sat at a back booth. The bar was empty except for the two of them. Jamie’s “friends” were nowhere in sight.
Jamie ordered a bottle of Bud and Peter asked for the list of beers on draught. He settled on a Blue Moon with two slices of orange. Jamie looked at the heavy goblet with the oranges floating in it and pantomimed puking. Peter wondered what motivation Jamie had for helping him meet his underworld friends. What was in it for Jamie? It wasn’t friendship. Maybe Jamie got a finder’s fee from the hitmen. Even since they met, Jamie had freely expressed disdain for Peter at every opportunity. Peter settled on money as the motivator.
Halfway through the goblet, Peter saw two men in well-made, conservative suits enter the bar and walk straight to his booth. They were both well-groomed, good-looking and appeared to be in their 40s.
They sat down. Jamie made no effort to introduce them, hardly even looking up from his beer. The two men were forced to introduce themselves, and gave their names as “Brain” and “Angel.” Peter immediately forgot which was which. They both ordered whiskey on the rocks, Jameson for one and Crown Royal for the other. Peter and Jamie both ordered another beer.
How to Kill Your Wife Page 12