Psychosomatic

by Anthony Neil Smith

  “Look,” Terry pointed back at the van. “It’s only a year or two old compared to yours, which is maybe ten, it looks. You’ll want to get rid of it soon anyway, so you get the best of both worlds. A van to drive in for a while, and better trade in value when you’re ready to dump it.”

  The woman rolled the window up. Terry still heard her through the glass. “Please, get away from my truck. I need to buy a Pepsi, okay? I don’t want your van.”

  Terry backed away from the truck, hands up to show he was cool with it. She watched him, shooed him back a couple of times until there was at least fifteen feet between them. She opened the door, holding it in case Terry was to lurch forward, he guessed. Then she stepped out.

  Terry said, “Please, I know it’s not normal, if you could take a minute to listen—”

  “No, okay? Stop it already.” She stalked into the store, careful to keep her eye on Terry until she was inside. The clerk must’ve been watching because the two started an instant conversation, both turning and gesturing at the parking lot, a few long glances.

  He’ll call the cops, Terry thought.

  The clerk lifted the phone. Terry gnawed his lip and jittered, sharp breaths before he quick walked towards the van. Time to get on the road and try another method of getting a new ride.

  That’s when the van’s side door slid back and Lancaster was out like he was flying, walking fast with the gun in his hand to the front door of the store. Terry froze in place and watched the horror show.

  Lancaster pushed with his shoulder, slammed hard and shook the whole storefront—it was a pull only door. He shoved the gun in his sling, threw the door wide, then lifted the pistol and shot the clerk twice. Firecracker noise. He turned to the woman, who fell to the ground and wailed siren style. Three shots. The first shut her up, took it in the head, and Terry heard but couldn’t watch the next shots. No need for so many bullets. No need for any of it.

  He turned back to the store in time to see Lancaster stand up from a crouch, keys in hand. He kicked the door open and headed for the woman’s truck. Terry started for it slowly, hoping passive resistance might end this sooner. You don’t want to get caught, he thought.

  “I also don’t want to keep going,” he mumbled as an answer.

  Lancaster waited for Terry to come to the driver’s door so he could hand over the keys. Terry took them.

  “Your way sucked, you cunt.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t think the point was to kill everyone in our way so we’ll never get out of jail.”

  Lancaster smirked. “Where the hell else would you want to be? We’ll be fucking legends, man.”

  Terry fell into the driver’s seat without another word. Lancaster lingered too close for a moment too long. Terry pretended to adjust the rearview mirror until Lancaster stepped back with a loud sigh and slammed the door. Flinch, reflex, like a scary movie moment.

  Lancaster made it to the passenger’s side, tapped on the window, and Terry flicked the auto-unlock.

  “We’ll have to dump this one sooner than I thought,” Terry said.

  Lancaster sat down and closed the door, big grin stretching his skin all wrong. “Sounds fun.”

  He played with the radio while Terry backed out and started to weave up back streets on his way to the Interstate.

  Fun.

  Terry remembered the look on the girl’s face as he held her down so Lancaster could fuck her. The way this woman in the store convulsed when the gun blast hit her. Then he caught his reflection in the rearview. Puffy purple cheek. Jesus, Lancaster’s idea of fun.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Alan stared at the arrivals and departures in the Delta terminal at Louis Armstrong International Airport. The Big Easy treated its jazz stars like royalty. Other than the name, though, it was a goddamn airport like other airports, crowded and everyone on edge except the business travelers who played at being bored. Still, Alan thought they were all staring at him, fish out of water, big fish out of his small pond. He wiped sweat from his face and crossed his arms, deciphering the numbers that flashed and changed before his eyes.

  They were looking at him. The guard with the beer belly, the kids sitting with their mother on molded blue plastic chairs, the guy in the suit with the cell phone. The glass doors kept sliding open for people to enter and leave. Alan was convinced that every slide would bring the cops with handcuffs. Two pair linked together, the only way they’d fit. Hell, a couple months ago, even that might not have worked.

  It didn’t look like the Southwest was a good option that night. Instead, he was thinking about the flight to Miami. Go there, lay low, get some new ID, and then find a way out of the country with Lydia. He would find her another set of beautiful arms and legs, then buy her the finest silk dresses, the best wheelchair, a house overlooking the beach. Mexico was obvious. Alan was thinking about Costa Rica, Cuba, or to really stretch it, Fiji. Way off the map, no more crime or gambling or shady friends.

  And when he made some money, he’d leave her.

  The thought had been showing up more often the past few days. At first, he shook it off like it was Satan offering an apple, then it started to take root, all the alternative lives he could be living, the places he could go. Lydia gave him the confidence to be this new guy, so it was her own fault Alan wanted to flaunt it for other women, those he would never have dreamed of approaching before.

  When the thought came recently—leave her stumpy ass, go be James Bond or Magnum PI somewhere—he let it sit there and grow before coming back to earth. Tough call, because it wasn’t only sex or a crush. This was a serious relationship, and Alan could barely imagine life without her. Didn’t really want to. He remembered all the shit he’d put up so far, feeling like she held his balls in one of those fake hands—except she could really squeeze. Little moments of life without that stress were looking not so bad.

  Like that moment staring at the Delta departures.

  Miami. A flight out at 9:35.

  He thumbed through his wallet, hoping he had missed something so he wouldn’t have to go up there and ask to buy two tickets, cash, no ID. Yeah, sure. Not these days.

  It was hidden in the back because he only used it once, after losing some weight on the Atkins diet Lydia told him to try. A fake ID, Ronnie’s driver’s license with Alan’s photo on it. He did it to use a Discover card Ronnie had left at Lydia’s place. She gave it to him, told him to get some new clothes for his new body.

  Alan glanced down at himself, the gut still flabby though much smaller, the khakis snug instead of monstrous. Sweat stains under the arms more from nerves than body heat.

  The Discover card was paid down, something Lydia handled, so maybe that would work. It was the last thing to try. He thought driving was still a better idea. Lydia was signing their confession wanting to fly.

  Fuck it.

  If he got caught, he would spill on Lydia so fast, cut a deal, get himself in good with the prosecutors, all the work he had done for so many Gulf Coast wiseguys bound to pay off at last. Like someone told him once: Hope for the best, expect the worst.

  He stalked toward a Delta desk, hoping for Miami, expecting jail.

  *

  Megan strolled over to Lydia, one foot carefully in front of the other like a debutante, fingers laced behind her back, little schoolgirl smirk. Lydia’s stare was powerless. Her quick breathing gave her away. Damn it, that wasn’t the way to control things. Lydia was truly fucking scared of this girl.

  It was her first time to really take in little Megan, scrawny bird legs with scarred knees and shins, sort of neo-punkish beauty the kids went for, all retro Seventies except for girly barrettes and goth hair dye. The blonde looked real enough, pink residue on the tips, Lydia noticed. The girl’s eyes were dead. Lydia could do the dead-eye look, but Megan’s was a natural thing. What the hell was she doing here? It showcased a flaw in Alan’s programming—not killing her on the road and dumping her body in the woods. He wasn’t that tough yet. Maybe he would never be.
<
br />   Megan’s tiny steps closed in on Lydia, the girl’s blouse brushing Lydia’s shoulder. She rolled her head to the other side, the only move she had in the arsenal. If not tied to the chair, maybe she had a lurch or two left in her. She should have asked Alan to untie her, lay her on the bed. Visions of prison nightmares sparked in her head.

  Megan stroked her fingers through Lydia’s hair.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “No one’s paid attention to your hair. It needs brushing,” Megan said.

  “It’s fine.”

  Megan went to the overnight kit on the dresser, opened it and fumbled through. She pulled out a brush and stepped back Lydia’s chair, stood behind her and brushed. She caught a tangle, yanked, tried again.

  “Not so hard.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Megan said.

  So fake.

  “It’s hard to tell, you know. I’ll be careful. Speak up if I’m rough.” Megan eased the brush into Lydia’s hair and was much more gentle, holding the tangles in her free hand to avoid hurting her. The bristles felt a little rough on her scalp, but it wasn’t so bad. Lydia even closed her eyes a moment, remembering how Alan loved to do this almost every night. She almost asked Norm that one night he fed her peaches, then decided to keep that between her and Alan—one of those special small things.

  Megan did a nice gentle job. Lydia had never been with a woman sexually, imagined if it was this soft—the feeling of brush and thin fingers on her scalp, the girl’s perfume clean in the air. Lydia’s mind wandered and she saw herself, long arms and legs, with this naked skinny nurse on top of her, kissing her breasts, the warmth between them comfortable like a long bath.

  Megan said in a low voice, “He can’t always be around. You need someone like me along.”

  “I know,” Lydia said, the spell then broken. Fucking little manipulator. If only she would’ve kept her mouth shut. Everything with these kids was melodramatic, music video obvious. “I need a good nurse and a friend.”

  “I’m not a nurse, you know.”

  “Hm?”

  “I can learn what to do, I guess.”

  What was the uniform all about? What the hell was her game? Lydia thought. Funny how people assume so much on looks alone. Funny how no one thought she was anything but a curious nurse. Even funnier she would confess it now, unless the girl really wanted to be accepted.

  “How’s Norm?” Lydia said.

  “Norm?”

  “I thought I heard you talking to him. Why were you running the water?”

  “I don’t know. Poor guy.”

  Lydia knew he had been hurt, didn’t know how bad it was. Alan said something about not having to kill him if things kept going the way they were. Must’ve been terrible. “You like Norm, then?”

  “He was sweet. Ugly, but sweet. I don’t know. Not really my type. I could’ve seen being interested if he looked better.”

  “He looked better when he was younger.”

  “Maybe he kept up with the styles a little more back then.”

  Lydia noticed she talked about him in past tense, wondered if it meant something or if the girl didn’t see a difference—past, present, future, same shit, different day.

  The brush sliced through, followed by Megan’s fingertips, such a delicate touch. Lydia was lulled again, eyes closing involuntarily, thoughts again drifting to Megan’s affections.

  “You think Alan’ll leave you?” Megan said.

  “Why?”

  “Do you think he’ll be desperate for, I guess, like, a touch or something? Would you let him have someone else occasionally to satisfy that if you knew he still loved you?”

  The image in Lydia’s mind, the naked Megan, was the one speaking. Lydia felt powerless to this little angel, fingers gentle and knowing.

  “You mean you?” Lydia said.

  “No, not me, I wouldn’t do that. Anyone else?”

  “We don’t even think like that. It’s real love, sacrificial love. I’ve never felt it this way before.”

  The brush slowed.

  “Megan?”

  “Hm?”

  “What if I said I wanted it to be you? Because I know you don’t love him. For me, would you do that?”

  The girl giggled a little. In Lydia’s mind vision, Megan rolled her head on her shoulders, lifted her arms and stretched, arched her back, Lydia loving every curve, every pale inch of the girl’s body.

  “What if it were all three of us?” Megan said.

  A mind reader, Lydia thought. Where was the harm? It was only talk.

  “All three. Tell me more.”

  “Candles. I would light so many candles, and I would undress you while he watched. And then—Jesus Christ!” Megan’s voice caught.

  Lydia opened her eyes and snorted a sharp breath. A sad imitation of Norm stood in the bathroom doorway. He could barely hold himself up, leaning heavy on the jamb. He was soaked head to toe, white like death, and one of his hands was wrapped in a thick towel, cradled on his stomach.

  *

  The fog lifted and Norm let out his breath. The water drained slowly until there was a sucking sound at the drain, so close it brought him fully back. He blinked and huffed heavily until he could see without clouds, double vision. His hand was only there in pain, no other feeling, not able to flex. It felt asleep and on fire at the same time. He was cold, sticky. He grabbed the faucet with his good hand and pulled until he could inch over and sit on the edge of the tub. That was all right. His legs felt strong enough. He lifted one leg over the tub to the tile floor. A towel was bunched down there. He lifted it, wrapped it around his mangled hand.

  Then the voices from the other room, light and sweet. Megan and Lydia. Norm stood. A little nauseous, not enough to heave. He made small steps to the door, leaned on it, and saw Megan brushing Lydia’s hair, both women with satisfied expressions, the world at peace for a change. Then Megan saw him, strangled out a few words. Lydia opened her eyes. He wondered if this was pity, fear, hate, a mix.

  Whatever it was, it gave Norm the strength to believe he would live. A useless hand, and a new start from scratch. With these two women in his life, he knew he would be okay.

  Megan started towards him. “What is it? How are you doing?”

  Norm cleared his throat and whispered, “Can I get out of these clothes and climb in the bed?”

  Megan grinned enough to make him happy. She rubbed his shoulder and said, “Welcome back.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Two cars later, Terry drove a black Camry into the rest area a few miles past the Louisiana state line. He parked, got out and stretched. Lancaster was out of the car heading for the bathroom in record time. So he had to piss, okay, though after the horror show of a day he'd been through, Terry didn't want to take any chances. He followed, Lancaster already out of sight by the time Terry made it up the sloping path curving to the side of the building, the restroom entrance.

  Inside, Lancaster was leaning over a urinal, cast resting on the porcelain top, while another man, bulky in an Ozzfest T-shirt, washed his hands and inspected his beard. A third guy stood at the urinal farthest from the door. If there was going to be trouble, it would be with this guy, maybe in his fifties and dressed in tan slacks and a designer sports shirt. Rimless glasses, cell phone clipped to his belt. He probably carried a money clip and a few high-limit credit cards.

  Terry turned into the nearest stall and closed the door, hoping Lancaster had missed him. He tried to take a piss. Nothing came. Dry, dry, dry. He hopped in place, trying to bounce out a nervous stream. Only a few drops sputtered. He zipped up, stepped away, and the automatic flush kicked in. Terry ducked his head low to see if anyone else was in a stall, felt misty flush drops on his cheek. The other stalls were empty. The parking lot had been mostly empty, and daylight was finally gone except for a dark dim gray that only helped gauge where the treeline stopped. He thought about the cars in the lot, the Audi sedan probably belonging to this fancy guy in the restroom. Any family waitin
g? Kids and wife? Maybe inside the main building or in the other restroom. Lancaster won’t care.

  Before, this situation would have been handled with a little patience. Terry needed to get a lay of the land before deciding how much muscle was needed. Most times, a subtle hint was enough, and they could’ve left with the fancy guy’s car, money, phone, without feeling rushed. The story was the thing, not the threat. People listened, believed.

  Starting with that trooper, when the story was falling to pieces and Lancaster shot him instead of letting Terry find a new angle, everything began to change. He could tell that Lancaster was itchy at the pool guy’s house, holding it in. After getting shot, though, Lancaster acted on impulse, much like he did when he and Terry first teamed up, back when he was a simple convenience store robber barely making a living. Terry changed that, gave them a steady income, extra cash, relative safety. The last several hours had seen them tally up more felonies and dead bodies than during the entire partnership, going on six years. Terry had never been more afraid.

  One urinal flushed. The other right behind it. Terry heard a scuffle, an apology, then a Hey! quickly muffled. He peeked out of his stall to see Lancaster holding the guy against the wall, cast pressed against his throat and free hand over his mouth.

  Lancaster turned his head and said, “Keys!”

  Yeah, he had seen Terry try to sneak in. Should’ve known better. He played brawn but had a bright criminal’s brain lurking under the impulsiveness. Terry stuck his head out, looked left and right. The bearded guy was gone. No one else around. How much longer?

  “We don’t need it,” Terry said. “We’re fine until we get there.”

  “I like it. Leather seats. I like that. What the fuck does it matter?”

  Terry stepped over, getting a whiff of a clogged urinal along with Lancaster’s slick unwashed body, musty. He felt the fancy guy’s pockets, not knowing why he felt that way about this man, wearing the same things Terry liked to wear most days—Polo and Tommy and A&F, and nice brown Dexter boat shoes. There he was, ten notches down on the class scale, rifling through the guy’s pockets like a fourteen-year-old gang member.