by J. R. Rain
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m going to kind of feel my way through it.”
“He’ll want to kill you, too, you know.”
“I’m not worried about him.”
She kept holding my hand. Hers, I noticed, was shaking. I shouldn’t have brought her—
But maybe this was a good thing for her. Maybe on some level, she was facing her fears.
Just then the heavy main door into the prison opened and a young, serious-looking guy wearing a correctional uniform stepped into the room.
“Samantha Moon?” he asked.
I gave Monica’s hand a final squeeze before I released it. “I’ll be back,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-five
Ira Lang was shown through a heavy metal door.
Monica’s ex-husband was a medium-sized man in his mid-forties. He was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, and not very well, either. The clothing hung loosely from his narrow shoulders and flapped around his ankles when he walked. He looked like a deflated pumpkin. Ira was nearly bald, although not quite. Unlike my client, Stuart, Ira did not have a perfect bald head. In fact, his was anything but. Misshapen and oddly flat, it was furrowed with deep grooves that ran from the base of his skull to his forehead. What Monica had seen in the man, I didn’t know.
I watched from behind the thick Plexiglass window as Ira was led over to a chair opposite me. I noticed the guard did not remove the handcuffs, which were attached to a loose chain at Ira’s waist, giving him just enough freedom of movement to pick up the red phone in front of him and bring it to his ear, which he did now. I picked up the phone on my side of the Plexiglass.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
I knew the warden was listening. The warden had agreed to let me speak to Ira, anything to make this problem go away. And Ira, with his hell bent desire to kill his wife, was proving to be a huge problem for the prison.
“My name’s Samantha Moon, and I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to protect your ex-wife.”
“Protect her from what?”
“You.”
I sometimes get psychic hits, and I got one now. I saw waves of darkness radiating from Ira. Wave after black wave. The man felt polluted. I sensed something hovering around him, something alive and something alien. I sensed this thing had its hooks in Ira. What this thing was, I didn’t know. After all, it was only an impression I was getting, a feeling. Something I sensed but didn’t really see. Anyway, this something was black and ancient and full of hate and vitriol, psychically hanging on to Ira’s back, digging its supernatural claws deep within the man. I sensed that Ira had let this dark energy into his life through a lifetime of fear and hate and jealousy. And I knew, without a doubt, that whatever this thing was that had its hooks in Ira, it would never, ever let him go without a phenomenal fight. Whatever clung to Ira would cling to him until his death, and perhaps even beyond, a cancer of the worst kind.
These were all psychic hits. Impressions. Gut feelings. I get these often. Sometimes they’re important, sometimes they’re a waste of time. But I’ve learned that I should trust such feelings. And I trusted these.
A smirk touched Ira’s lips. And something ancient and dark swept just behind his eyes. Whether or not Ira was possessed by something, I couldn’t say for sure. But something foul and alive was eating him away from the inside out.
He asked, “So what are you, a body guard or something?”
“Or something.”
He laughed, but his was a dry, raspy, dead sound. “Okay, fine, whatever. So who hired you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
He quit smiling and something passed behind his eyes again, a flitting shadow. Whether or not it was really there, I didn’t know. And whether or not I was making it up, I didn’t know, either. But there was something off about the guy. Something off, and something wrong. The moment passed and he smiled again. Amazingly, he had a hell of a smile. Perfect teeth. Okay, now I could see how he might have been engaging to a young girl fresh out of high school, which was when Monica had first met him.
“So what the fuck do you want?” he asked.
“Gee, you have such a wonderful way with words, Ira,” I said. “It’s almost poetic. Maybe you should write a book of poetry in prison, rather than obsessing about your ex-wife. Call it, I don’t know, Poetry From the Pen or, let’s see, Lock-down Limericks.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It was a poetry/prison riff. Not my best work, but not my worst either.”
He looked at his phone as if there was something wrong with it.
“Lady, either tell me what the fuck you want or get the fuck out of here.”
“Okay, now there’s a slap in the face for you,” I said. “Dismissed by a scumbag who has nothing better to do than to play with his willy.”
“Fuck off, bitch.”
And as he moved to stand, I said, “Leave Monica alone, Ira.”
A long shot, of course, since I suspected Ira Lang spent most of his waking hours obsessing over his wife’s frustrating lack of dying. And playing with his willy.
He sat back down slowly. As he did so, he adjusted his grip on the phone, wrapping his surprisingly long fingers tightly around the receiver. His movements were all slow and deliberate, as if he had practiced them beforehand. He now placed the phone carefully against his ear and looked at me for a long, long time. I think I was supposed to be afraid. I think I was supposed to shrink away in fear. Perhaps he thought I would swallow nervously and look away. I didn’t swallow, and I didn’t look away. I also had the distinct feeling he was memorizing every square inch of my face.
“You want me to leave my wife alone?” he said evenly into the phone. He didn’t take his eyes off me.
“Your ex-wife, and yes.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I said so.”
He stared at me blankly, and then laughed. A single burst of sound into the phone. He laughed again, longer this time.
“You’re funny.”
“When I want to be.”
“You’ve got balls coming in here,” he said. “I’ll give you that much.”
“The world’s worst compliment to a woman.”
“What?”
“Never mind. So will you leave her alone?”
He stared at me some more. I heard guards talking to each other out in the hallway. Ira and I were alone in the visiting room, since it was after hours and I had been given special access. A clock ticked behind me. Somewhere I thought I heard someone scream, but that could have just been my imagination. Or my hypersensitive hearing.
Ira cocked his head a little, and then said, “It’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Never mind that. The bitch shouldn’t have left me. I told her to never leave me.”
“Gee, you’re such a sweetheart, Ira. How could anyone ever leave you?”
He barely heard me. Or heard what he wanted to hear. “Exactly. I gave her everything. The ungrateful bitch never had to work a day in her life.”
“People leave each other every day, Ira. It happens.”
“Not to me it don’t.”
Ira had gotten himself worked up. I knew this because the skin along his slightly misshapen forehead had flushed a little, and he was holding the phone so tight that his knuckles looked like some weird prehistoric spine running along the back of the receiver.
Breathing harder, he said, “I will do everything within my power to make sure the bitch dies. No one leaves me. Ever.”
I realized this was going nowhere fast. I honestly hadn’t expected anything different, but it had been worth a shot.
“I beg to differ,” I said, gathering my stuff together.
“You beg to differ what?”
“Monica very much left you, just as I’m doing now.”
“I’m going to remember you, cunt.”
“Lucky m
e.”
I was about to hang up when he added, perhaps fatally, “And not just you, Samantha Moon, private investigator and bodyguard. Everyone you know and love. You have kids?”
I heard the sound of boots moving along the hallway outside. Apparently, someone listening to us had heard enough. I took in some air and closed my eyes and did all I could to control myself.
But dumbass wasn’t done. He went on, saying, “I see I hit a nerve. So Samantha Moon is a mom.”
“Did you just threaten my kids?”
“You catch on quick.”
I opened my eyes and saw red. In fact, I couldn’t really see at all. All I could see was a blurred image of the man behind the bulletproof glass. And I heard pounding. Loud pounding. In my skull.
The sun, I knew, had set thirty or forty minutes ago. I was at full strength. I sat forward in my chair and leaned close to the thick Plexiglass that separated us. I motioned with my index finger for Ira Lane to come closer, too. He grinned, cocky and confident, and as he leaned forward, something very dark and very twisted danced disturbingly just behind his dead eyes.
His face was inches from mine when he said, “Is there something you want to tell me, you stupid bitch? I bet you’re wishing right about now you never fucked with—”
I punched the bulletproof glass as hard as I could. My hand burst through in a shower of glass and polycarbonate and whatever the hell else these things are made out of.
Bulletproof but not vampire-proof.
Ira screamed and would have fallen backward if I hadn’t grabbed him by the collar through the fist-sized hole in the thick glass. In one motion, I yanked the motherfucker out of his chair and over the counter and slammed into the clear glass barrier. His nose broke instantly, spraying blood over the glass, and two or three of his front upper teeth had broken back into his mouth. His lips were split clean through.
He flailed at my hand, struggling to free himself, but I wasn’t done with him.
Not by a long shot.
Still holding him by the collar, as his warm blood spilled over the back of my hand, I proceeded to slam his face again and again into the glass, breaking more teeth, breaking his face, his skull, his cheekbones, anything and everything, and I kept smashing him into the now blood-smeared glass until I was finally tackled from behind.
Chapter Twenty-six
I nearly killed a man tonight.
Tell me about it.
And so I wrote it up for Fang, telling him everything from my first impressions of Ira Lang, to the bastard being hauled off on a stretcher. It took three huge blocks of text to get the whole story written, and when I had posted the final segment, Fang answered nearly instantly. How he could read so fast, I had no clue.
Were there any cameras in the visiting room? he asked.
No.
So there is no visual record of what you did?
Not that I’m aware of.
Don’t most prisons have surveillance cameras in the visiting rooms?
Not all of them. It’s up to the discretion of the warden.
So no one saw your little, ah, outburst?
No.
When you broke the bullet-resistant glass, did you leave behind any of your own blood?
That was a good question. I had cut my arm while reaching through the shattered glass. However, I hadn’t bled at all, as far as I was aware. I explained that to Fang.
So you don’t bleed?
Maybe, I wrote. But apparently not from cuts along my forearm.
Did the medical staff look at you?
They tried to, but I had wrapped my sweater around my arm, and since there wasn’t any blood, they assumed, perhaps, I wasn’t in need of any medical attention.
Was he in need of dire medical attention?
According to the warden, with whom I had had a long meeting after the incident, the prison doctors had determined that I had broken Ira’s jaw, nose, right orbital ridge, his sinus cavity, and broken out seven teeth. He was going to need countless stitches in his mouth and hours of surgery. I related all this to Fang.
There was a long pause. I looked over at my hotel bed where Monica lay sleeping contentedly on her side. It had, of course, been a long and emotional night for her. She had visited her abusive and murderous ex-husband’s prison. She had waited for me anxiously while the warden pieced together what had happened. She had been given snippets of news from the prison staff, and, she told me later, could hardly believe what she was hearing—that I had put the son-of-bitch in the hospital...even more than that, I had nearly killed him. Later that night, she sat staring at me during the entire ride home from the prison. At one point she reached out and held my hand tightly. She didn’t ask me how I punched through the glass. Or how I had the strength to grab a grown man and bash his face repeatedly against the glass. She simply held my hand and stared at me, and I held hers for as long as I could before I became self-conscious of my cold flesh and gently released my grip. I saw that she was crying, but she didn’t make a federal case of it. What those tears were for, I didn’t know, but I suspected this had been a hell of an emotional night for her. I didn’t tell her the bastard had threatened my kids. She had enough to deal with.
So what did the warden say? asked Fang.
He asked me why I didn’t kill the bastard?
Was he joking?
I don’t think so.
And what did you say?
I told him he should have given me another few seconds.
Jesus. What else did he ask?
He asked me how did I punch through bulletproof glass?
And what did you say?
That I was a vampire, and that if he asked me any more questions, I was going to suck his blooood. (Insert cheesy Bela Lugosi impression.)
Not funny, Moon Dance. You have put yourself at grave risk. There’s going to be legal implications to this. He can press charges. There’s going to be an investigation.
Maybe, I wrote.
What do you mean, maybe?
The warden heard Ira Lang threaten me.
Still, it’s only a threat.
A threat from a known murderer. A threat from a man who has also been known to do anything he could to carry out such threats.
So his threat is much more than a threat.
Yes, I wrote.
So if Ira Lang did press charges, a DA may likely decide not to prosecute.
Right.
So what did you really say when he asked how you punched through the glass?
I reminded him of all those stories of mother’s lifting cars off their injured children and such.
He bought that?
Probably not. He was in a state of shock himself. Everyone was.
So is that the end of the case? asked Fang.
No. Ira Lang made it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t rest until his ex-wife was dead.
I could almost see Fang nodding, as he wrote: Not to mention he could still try to carry out that threat on you and your kids.
Exactly, I wrote.
So what’s the plan? asked Fang.
If he won’t rest until he’s carried out violent crimes against his wife, or even me and my kids, then I think there’s only one answer.
Don’t tell me.
I went on anyway: Perhaps I should hasten his rest.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The backyard to my old house abuts a Pep Boys.
When I say old house, I mean my house of just over a month ago, where I had lived with my kids and husband. A house, by some weird turn of events, I had been kicked out of, even though my husband had been the one caught cheating.
Since our house sits in a cul-de-sac, we have an exceptionally large and weirdly-shaped backyard. In fact, our backyard is bigger than most little league baseball fields, which was always fun for the kids and great for parties.
On the other side of our backyard fence was the parking lot to Pep Boys, with its massive, glowing sign of Manny, Moe, and Jack in all of their homoeroti
c glory. I hated that sign, and thank God they shut the damn thing off at closing time.
It was well after closing time and the lights were off. Thank God. Manny, Moe, and Jack were sleeping. Probably spooning. My ex-partner Chad was happily watching over a sleeping Monica—at least, I hoped he let her sleep. No doubt he was watching her in more ways than one. Let’s just hope he didn’t creep her out too much. Chad was a great guy, even if a little love-starved.
We’re all a little love-starved, I thought.
I was sitting on our backyard fence, my feet dangling down, looking out across the vast sweep of our backyard, toward where I knew my children were sleeping.
Or where they should have been sleeping. A flickering glow in Tammy’s room meant that she was up well past her bedtime since this was a school night. Her laughter occasionally pierced the air. At least, pierced it to my ears. Actually, I could tell she was trying to laugh quietly, perhaps laughing into a pillow, but occasional bursts of laughter erupted from her.
Most remarkable, and surreal, was that my daughter was laughing at Jay Leno. I could hear his nasally laugh and wildly ranging voice—which went from high to low in the span of a few words—even from here.
Jay Leno? Seriously?
And since when did my ten-year-old daughter watch Jay Leno? And since when was Jay Leno ever laugh-out-loud funny? Perhaps a mild chuckle here and there, sure. But ha-ha funny?
At the far end of the house I could hear Danny’s light snoring. His snoring never bothered me, since I was a rather deep sleeper. Supernaturally deep, some might say. Anyway, mixed with his snoring was something else. Another sound. Not quite snoring. No, a sort of wheezing sound, as if someone was having trouble breathing through one nostril. Along with the wheezing was an occasional murmur. A female murmur.
My heart sank. Jesus, his new girlfriend was sleeping with him, in our bed. The fucker. Probably sleeping naked together, their limbs intertwined, touching each other intimately, lovingly. All night long.
Just a month earlier I had been sleeping in that same bed, although Danny had long ago stopped sleeping naked and had made it a point not to touch me.