The trucker grunted and turned his attention to the road. He pressed the pedal down hard. He hoped he wasn’t going to regret picking this woman up.
Chapter Two
They sat in a quiet corner of the café at the same table they always occupied on most Tuesday nights. Many peripheral relationships became awkward after the divorce, but saving this friendship had been worth it. They were in a comfortable place, and Zach desperately needed the companionship Jarad Anston offered.
“Did you find anything?” Zach asked.
Anston gave an incredulous side glance as he reached into the breast pocket of his sport coat. He pulled out a photocopied paper and laid it on the table. “This is it, Zach, all that I can give you. Now, how about telling me what’s going on here? Sharing sensitive IRS data with a private citizen could land me in prison, you know.”
“I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”
Zach carefully looked at the W4 form in front of him. He had a growing sense of both exhilaration and chilling fear as he gazed at her name. The document provided tangible evidence of Helena Bostwick’s existence and the motivation Zach needed for further investigation.
“Are you certain this woman lives in the 60007 zip code?”
“It’s a suburb outside Chicago called Elk Grove Village. Apparently, her phone number isn’t current, so you'll have to find that yourself. But the address is what she listed on her last tax return.”
Zach massaged the paper as though it might reveal something more than the antiseptic truth of her vitals. The form came from a previous employer and listed her as Helena Morgan Bostwick, with a birth date of December 13, 1981. The address was blanked out except for the city and zip code, and the phone number was also missing.
“This is it? Can’t you give me anything else? Help me out here, Jarad.”
Anston grabbed a breaded mozzarella stick from the sampler platter and generously dipped it in the accompanying marinara sauce. “Awfully odd to tell you the truth. She had very little in her file.”
“C’mon Jarad. You’re a consultant for the IRS for God’s sake. There has to be more on her than this.”
“Sorry buddy. I can’t dig any further without leaving a paper trail, and that’s way too much exposure. But—if you want to tell me what you’re working on…”
“I can’t. At least not yet. I’m not sure if I believe any of it myself.”
Anston leaned back, puffed his cheeks out, and exhaled slowly. “Zach, you’ve got to move on. It’s been over a year and a half. Your doctor has given you a clean bill of health, and this isn’t a good time to regress. The meetings are still on Monday night. You have an open invitation, and…”
“I’m not regressing, Jarad. I’m not hallucinating, projecting, obsessing or suffering from a functional brain deficit. I understand what I did, and I’ve come to terms with it. The past has nothing to do with this.”
“Look, I’m your friend, and I’ll help you in any way I can,” said Anston. “But as your support group leader, I have to admit I’m a little concerned. You call me and ask for information on some woman in Chicago you’ve never met. Do you realize—let me pick the words carefully—how unusual that sounds?”
“Ok, I’ll grant you it’s strange, especially in light of my past. But I promise you this has nothing to do with my… illness.”
Anston leaned in closer to Zach. “Did you know Carol is dating?”
The words felt like a knife stuck directly into Zach’s heart. He lowered the tea cup and set it on the table. “She’s dating? Who?”
“Does it matter, really? The point is she's moving on with her life, and Zach, so should you.”
“Well, that’s great. I’m really pleased for her.” Zach ran a finger around the rim of his cup. “Jarad, if you’re asking me if it hurts, the answer is yes; it hurts bad. But if you’re wondering if the pain over my divorce is causing me to relapse, you’re wrong.”
***
Pulling up in front of the Williams Center, Kathy Rodgers realized she had lost track of time. Glancing down at her wrist, her Cartier read 10:32. She was late, but it had become so much of a habit she only felt a twinge of guilt.
Reaching into her purse, Kathy extracted a compact and applied a new layer of makeup. The image looking back from the small mirror was disturbing. The deep, thick lines emerging around her eyes belied the age of a 36-year-old woman. She snapped the compact shut, reached back into her purse, and pulled out a hip-flask of vodka.
The elevator stopped at the 17th floor; Kathy stepped out and walked through the huge mahogany doors into the law firm where she had been employed for the last six years. The golden letters behind the receptionist’s desk highlighted the name of the company and still glittered brightly. Wineskin, Stein and Marshall… How many years had she hoped that one day the name “Rodgers” might find its way onto that wall?
“Good morning Mrs. Rodgers.”
“Good morning Gail, do I have any messages?”
“No, but the partners want to see you in the conference room immediately. I’m to intercom them as soon as you arrive.”
Kathy’s head cocked slightly. “Any idea what they want?
The receptionist looked away. “I’m sorry Kathy. I have no idea.”
She walked down the short hallway to the large conference room reserved for the corporate clients. When she entered, Rodgers immediately sensed the somber mood. “Good morning, Kathy.” Edward Marshall was the Managing Partner for the firm.
“Good morning, Ed.” Then, nodding toward the other occupants, she said, “Good morning, Jim, Larry… Tammy.”
“Kathy, please, please take a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
“No thanks, Ed.” She looked from face to face, reading body language that told her something was very wrong.
“I’ll get right to the point then. We lost Rossier Airjet, Kathy. You didn’t make the court date on the 15th. That’s inexcusable in itself, but you left a client sitting in front of the judge without representation. We’ve looked the other way for almost two years now, but I have to think about the well-being of the firm. Wineskin and Stein employs 27 people who depend on this place for their livelihood.” Marshall made an expansive gesture toward the main office area, which was lined with small, occupied cubicles.
“So what are you saying Ed? Look, let me talk to the client. I know Jim Frontz; he’ll listen to me.”
Marshall shook his head. “No, he won’t Kathy. He says your error cost him millions in the court of public opinion. The media had a field day attributing his no-show to an admission of guilt.” He wrung his hands. “It’s over Kathy. I’m sorry, but we have to terminate you.”
Rodgers smiled and let out a muted chortle, waiting for the prank to be exposed. After a few seconds of ensuing silence, there was little doubt that Marshall’s edict was serious.
“Tammy?” She looked at her friend who continued to avoid eye contact.
“I’m sorry Kathy. We’re unanimous on this. You had so many chances. This is a business after all.”
Rodgers felt light headed and she staggered a moment. Could it be the stress of the meeting or the effects of the vodka?
“Er, Kathy, you’ll have to excuse me, my 10 o’clock has arrived,” said Ed Marshall.
An awkward silence fell over the room, punctuated by the whirring of the mainframe and the muted sobs of Kathy Rodgers. Finally gathering herself, she straightened her back and wiped the smeared mascara from her face. She pushed the conference room door open and spoke without facing her former co-workers.
“I will pray for you all today despite what you’ve done to me. I will pray none of you will ever endure a tragedy like I have. For if you do, perhaps you’ll understand what compassion truly means.”
Then, turning toward Tammy Adams, “You of all people. I thought you were my friend. You said you understood what I was going through, and you acted like you cared. Go look in one of your Latin books and see what, ‘et tu Brute’ mea
ns.”
Her sense of satisfaction faded by the time she reached her car. Kathy Rodgers, the one-time rising star of the Arizona legal community, was homeless, penniless and now unemployed.
She slammed the car into gear and turned out on Shea Boulevard without any particular destination in mind. She might have driven for hours, but Rodgers was oblivious to the passage of time. With her foot planted firmly on the accelerator, she kept waiting for the nightmare to end. Irrational thoughts bubbled up through her subconscious. Perhaps more speed would obliterate this false veneer and send her back to the privileged life she once knew.
The speedometer read 95 and rising, but she couldn’t outrun the gloom that had smothered her life. She turned on route 87 heading north through the Tonto National Forest toward Payson.
The desert remained hot, dusty and forsaken. Its hostility was palpable and evident in every unfriendly plant and venomous animal. Time slowed and the landscape darkened, providing a rare moment of complete clarity. Kathy fully recognized the hopelessness of her situation.
Without an actual conscious thought, she made a nearly instantaneous connection between the car and a huge ironwood tree that stood towering against the backdrop of the Black Mountains. A sly grin crossed her gloss-painted lips, and she turned the wheel slightly, which put her on a direct path with the tree. Kathy tossed her head back, shook her long blonde hair and screamed as she slammed the accelerator to the floor. The vehicle plunged into an unexpected dark abyss.
Oooooo, death by blunt force trauma. I haven’t been in a car wreck for some time. Not original but still exciting.
The voice came simultaneously from the passenger’s seat and from inside her own head. In slow motion, Kathy turned to look at the slight, ghastly, pale figure that sat beside her. She smiled at the man, convinced he was merely a hallucination. Her mind was clearly unraveling.
The car swerved violently, and for a painfully long moment, Kathy thought she would lose control. Two wheels came up off the ground and then slammed back down with a hard thud. The Jaguar skidded to the side of the road and gently came to rest against the ironwood tree, hidden in a thick cloud of brown dust. The paint on the car was barely scratched.
For a long moment, Kathy looked curiously at the passenger. He continued to stare back with an unwavering grin, and he periodically licked his thin lips.
Finally, he waved his hand and looked to the sky as if he was searching for the right words. “You know, I enjoy watching somebody’s skull get crushed against a windshield as much as the next person. But perhaps, Ms. Rodgers, you would like to consider something different…”
***
Zach sat in an oversized chair looking out over the triangular park that anchored downtown Albuquerque. It was a vibrant city these days, and the pace of change was breathtaking. Only a half million people lived here when Zach had migrated from Southern California, but when the fuel cell industry had decided to call New Mexico home, the population had exploded in just 10 short years.
The downtown Albuquerque library was the only place he could think of where he might find an out of state address. He tried the internet, but neither free nor paid searches yielded anything useful. Zach brought his focus back to the 5-year-old Northwest Chicago suburbs phone book that lay open on his lap. Running his finger down the long page of names, he felt a growing sense of excitement and apprehension. Boston… Bostros… Bosttus… Bostvock; and then he found it. He stared at the name for what seemed like an eternity, almost refusing to believe his own eyes.
Helena Bostwick, 501 Bianco Dr., Elk Grove Village Illinois, 60007.
Slowly, he moved his finger to the other side of the page and stopped directly over the phone number. Zach sighed and gently rubbed his temples. He found her contact information, but what should he do with it?
For several minutes he sat quietly, absorbed in the muffled sound of his fingers rubbing against the page. He knew he should just walk away from this. Chicago was a huge place, and the odds of finding any imaginable name were pretty good. Even with an address and phone number, the whole episode was probably nothing more than a bizarre coincidence.
Still, the compulsion grew stronger; an itch he somehow had to scratch. Zach negotiated with himself. If he called her, and she answered the phone, that would be the end of it. He would contact Dr. Hankar first thing in the morning and make an appointment for a complete physical. In fact, Zach hadn’t told anyone about the visions. Maybe Anston was right. Perhaps he was regressing.
Zach fingered his cell phone nervously before bringing up the call screen. He stabbed at the digits as they registered across the top bar. A brief unsettling moment of doubt made him hesitate before he finally pushed hard on the send button.
A long pause followed as the satellites locked in sync, and the familiar click of a successful connection came through the ear piece.
One ring… Well, at least he had a working number, which was an encouraging sign.
Two rings… Zach drummed his fingers and rocked back in the chair nervously.
Three rings… The woman was probably at work or out having dinner. Maybe he called too late. What was the time difference between Albuquerque and Chicago anyway?
Four rings… She must… “Hello?”
Zach’s throat closed tightly; he couldn’t find the words.
“Hello? Is there anyone there?”
In almost a whisper, he said, “Ah, yes, Ms. Bostwick?”
“Yes?”
Zach exhaled and collected his thoughts. Either the visions were a fraud, or there was another Helena Bostwick living in Elk Grove Village.
Just to be sure, “Is this Helena Bostwick?” There was no reply. He wondered if the line had disconnected.
“Ms. Bostwick?”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Zach Randall, and I’m, ah, an old high school friend of Helena Bostwick. I’ve been trying to find her for some time now. I hired one of those internet companies, and they gave me a list of possible contacts. You were on the list. I hope I’m not bothering you, but did you go to high school in California by any chance?”
She spoke between whimpers and full-fledged sobs. “No, my sister went to school here in Illinois. Now if you’ll pardon me, I have to go. My sister, Helena—she, passed away last evening.”
Zach’s pulse quickened, and his breathing grew shallow. Bostwick died last night just as he had watched it unfold. All at once the visions had meaning. He had so many questions to ask.
“Ms. Bostwick, are you there? Ms. Bostwick?” The line was dead. Randal hesitated but then hit redial.
She answered after a single ring. “Hello?”
“Ms. Bostwick, it’s Zach Randall again. I need to ask you a couple questions if it’s all right.”
“Why are you calling here, Mr. Randall? I told you Helena went to school in Illinois. Can’t you see we are grieving?”
“Well yes, of course I can. But I have to ask you—I know this is unusual. Can you tell me how your sister died?”
She muttered under her breath. “Who are you? How can you barge in on our time of grief and start asking those kinds of questions. Are you from the insurance company?” The woman’s voice remained level, but smoldered with underlying rage.
“No, no it’s not like that at all. You see, I have these visions… Last night I had one about your sister. I saw something in the vision that led me to her. Pills. Ms. Bostwick, did she kill herself with pills?”
“… How dare you, Mr. Randall. I have caller ID, and I know your phone number. I’m calling the authorities immediately. You ambulance chasers will do anything to dig up filth on the dead. Let me tell you something you dirty lawyer. Your client can claim innocence until the day he stands before God’s judgment, but it won’t change anything. Helena didn’t commit suicide. She took those pills because those bastards ruined her life. So help me, they will pay.”
There was only a muted click, but Zach instinctively knew she had slammed down the phone with
force. He sat for some time gazing absently at the rows of books that lined the aisles of the library. His visions were genuine, and the bone chilling reality was almost beyond comprehension.
As the most perverted of all voyeurs, he had intruded on the saddest and most intimate final moments of eight people. The trauma and pain on their tortured faces seared deep into Zach’s psyche and tore at his soul with new meaning. The episodes could no longer be dismissed as mere hallucinations.
Zach stood up and steadied himself by grabbing at the corner of the desk. He felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. No matter how he tried to hide from it, the visions weren't going away. He was compelled to learn more, and the thought frightened him to the core of his being.
Chapter Three
The room was dark and silent. The only illumination came from a couple bulbs in a flashing sign from a Mandarin restaurant across the street. The woman's face was exposed as a ghastly, emaciated silhouette against the intermittent light.
In her mind, it had been a completely wasted life. Compromised, languid, settling for less when she could have achieved so much more. This would be her epitaph and her legacy.
In her lap lay an old yearbook turned to a page that showed the picture of a beaming teenager holding the class president’s gavel. Underneath the picture was the caption, Most likely to succeed. She glanced at the picture and still felt sorrow even after 30 plus years.
Where and why had everything gone so wrong? The answers still eluded her. At 51, how could she have ended up here in a run down two-flat on Badura Avenue in Las Vegas?
She rose from a creaking rocker and walked over to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on a light. Reaching into the rusting medicine cabinet over a stained basin, she extracted two items: a brownish vile filled with green, round pills, and a blade from a safety razor she used for shaving her legs.
With one item in each hand, she turned and headed back toward the rocker, her slippers shuffling against the tiled flooring. The ragged robe dragged along behind her, silently mopping up the accumulated filth.
The Suicide Society Page 2