On Tenterhooks

by Greever Williams

  Julie’s office told Steve that they would begin the process first on the criminal suit and involve him later in the civil suit. Since Steve wasn’t at the scene, all he could do was answer the police questions about Julie’s health and habits. Her health was excellent; she was drug-free and her alcohol was limited to the weekend bottle of wine they’d share. She’d been an active, fit and outgoing woman, a victim of circumstance. The detective who interviewed Steve the day after the accident knew it.

  Since the interview, Steve had had little contact with the police or Cautela. He had been able to cut them out along with the rest of the world. He divided most of his time between the couch and the bed. He wept openly and often. The recurring nightmare chased away any rest. Each day became a monotonous routine of broken sleep and bouts of grief. Smiles, even the faked ones, were rare and painful.

  Trips to the grocery store were automatic. He restocked the items that would sustain him with little effort on his part: milk and cereal, canned spaghetti, bread.

  Behind his glasses, his eyes were puffy and bloodshot, accented with dark circles. His normally clean-shaven face was stubbly with two weeks’ worth of growth. The beard was salt and pepper grey—like his temples. Steve stared at it in the bathroom mirror.

  For years, Julie had tried to get him to give up the clean look, mix it up a little to make himself more “sexy.” Steve had refused, thinking it made him look “unprofessional.” As he surveyed himself in the mirror, he knew she would have approved of the stubbled look. He could imagine what she’d say:

  “Sweetie, the beard is hot. I’m serious! It looks great! But you need to do something about the red eyes. And you need a haircut. And a shower wouldn’t hurt, either.” And then that wonderful grin.

  He laughed with the memory of her, staring at himself in the mirror. But it was weak laughter. Like everything else in recent memory, it turned into a silent sobbing.

  Chapter 3

  Abby cursed her luck again as the university marching band finished playing the school fight song for the fourth time. It was only the beginning of the third quarter, so she knew she’d have to listen to it several more times before the game ended. The brass was clanging in her ears, even through her thick earmuffs. She sat in the bottom row of the bleachers, directly in front of the band.

  I have GOT to start leaving home earlier. This is ridiculous!

  She had arrived at Botten Field too late to get a good seat, which she defined as anything above the level of the band. Looking behind her into the stands, she saw a sea of blue and silver. Southwest Texas Tech’s school colors were well-represented. It was a home game, with the Armadillos on a major winning streak and the S Tech crowd came out in droves to support a team that, until last year, had been the division underdog.

  She knew that her brother, Zack, was a major reason the team had been able to dig itself out of its decade-old losing streak. He was young for a quarterback, only a sophomore, but age didn’t deny his talent. He could throw farther, run faster and call plays better than his older teammates. Fortunately for him, and the S Tech fans, his coach believed in playing talent over seniority.

  “Coddle with your mommies or cuddle with your girlfriends, I don’t care. Out here, we play football.”

  Abby was proud of Zack. He’d accomplished so much already during his short time in college. Grades in his pre-vet classes were steady and strong, and his football reputation opened doors for him wherever he went. He always made sure to include his “li’l sis” whenever he could, and Abby adored him for it. He was already a big man on campus, and her frequent visits got her close to living the college life before she was out of high school.

  She loved these home games. The cold biting air and sting of the metal railing on her bare hands was exciting. The frigid aluminum bleachers made her feel like she was perched on the tip of an iceberg, but she didn’t care. She could smell the burned buttery popcorn and cheap hot dogs piled high with canned chili. She heard the echo of the announcer’s voice, as it rang across the open expanse of the field between plays. She even enjoyed the fight songs from the band when the trumpet wasn’t located immediately behind her head. The football games filled her senses like nothing else she’d experienced in her 18 years. Everywhere around her were things to see, hear, smell, taste and feel.

  She hadn’t missed a home game yet. She’d tackle the hour-long commute to cheer Zack on even when her parents couldn’t make it. When they did come, she’d drive herself, because Mom and Dad didn’t care to stay for the late-hour victory parties.

  She had even traveled out of state for two away games. Losing their home field advantage hadn’t slowed the team down, and Abby had cheered twice as loud and twice as obnoxiously to make up for the smaller Armadillos crowd. “Come on guys, their big crowds are just to compensate for small talent!”

  Tonight was no different. Zack was in solid form. He’d already thrown for three touchdowns and had run for over a hundred yards. Their current victims, the Jersey College Devils, were doing their best to defend against an S Tech powerhouse that would not quit. Zack worked the field, left to right, and kept the Devils guessing.

  The game was going well, but Abby had something small tugging back in a corner of her mind. It was like an itch between her shoulder blades—annoying, but just out of reach.

  Ten minutes into the third quarter and S Tech was 1st and 10 on the Devils 20-yard line. The Devils’ coach called for a time out. As the Armadillos huddled around their coach, Abby could hear the Jersey College coach screaming at his team from across the field. The Armadillo coach was calm, collected and brief.

  He’s gonna call in Bastille.

  Bastille was the second-string quarterback for S Tech. Before Zack had joined the team, Bastille had been top dog. As the lead quarterback, he had expected to reign from the driver’s seat during his junior and senior years. But early in the past season, Zack had shown his mettle and the coach had bumped Bastille down, relegating him to second string. It was a harsh spoonful of nasty to stomach, and Bastille had made no secret of his disgust for Zack. On the field, they worked well for the team, but off the field, they seldom spoke. Zack had attempted to smooth it over several times. He gave up only after Bastille had made it clear that he wasn’t interested. Abby didn’t like Bastille. She knew that he was looking for an opportunity to get back to the top, and she didn’t put it past him to be deceitful or play dirty, if that’s what it took to get there.

  Bastille was big enough to be a linebacker, but he had the speed and the arm to call the shots behind the wall. His giant, crooked nose sat tightly between two tiny eyes. He was ugly, and he was mean. He was fast, and he was good, but not as good as Zack. It now looked as if he would have to ride out his college career as second fiddle.

  The coach called Bastille in and benched Zack for the rest of the quarter. Abby knew he had done it only because they had a comfortable lead, and he wanted Zack fresh for the final quarter. She couldn’t blame him.

  Zack took off his helmet and filled a cup from the cooler. He was mid-field at the bench. Abby was near the end of the bleachers, almost to the Home end zone. He smiled at her from the water station and jogged across the track that surrounded the field toward her seat in the front row. He stopped beneath her and grinned up to her. She was 10 feet above him, leaning over the railing to hear him over the crowd and the band.

  “Heya, Gabbs!” he yelled up to her. Sweat matted his blond hair, but he was smiling as always.

  “Hey you!” she replied. “Bastille gettin’ the glory again, huh?”

  Zack smiled and turned back toward the field. The teams were lining up for the play at the far end.

  “Naw,” he said, turning back to her. “It’s all good.”

  “Just keep an eye on him, Zack,” she said. “I don’t trust him.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, nodding back. “You’ve only told me that about uh, I don’t know, every time you see me! You stickin’ around for the victory bash?”
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  The referee blew the whistle for the game to begin.

  “Wouldn’t miss it!” she called down.

  “Staying here tonight?”

  She had to strain to hear him over the blaring PA system speakers behind her.

  BASTILLE HAS THE BALL IN HAND, BUT HE’S RUNNING BACKWARDS. THIS PLAY HAS GONE TO HELL, FOLKS!

  “S’long as your couch is available!” she said.

  “Good deal! I got a history paper to do tomorrow, but we can go somewhere nice for breakfast before you head back!” he shouted.

  BASTILLE IS LEAVING THE FIELD, PAST THE SIDELINES. WHERE THE HELL IS HE GOING?

  “What’d you say?” Abby shouted down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a streak of blue coming down the track next to the field.

  LET’S GET ZACK THE ATTACK BACK IN THERE BEFORE THIS GAME GOES TO HELL!

  Abby heard a buzz of angry voices behind her. At the sound of his name, Zack turned back toward the field. Bastille was charging at him, only thirty feet away. He had dropped the ball, and he had his helmet in an outstretched hand. He was spinning it round and round. Over the buzz of the crowd and echoing PA system, she heard the whooshing from the helmet. Bastille’s arm whirled like an out-of-control windmill. As he got closer, his arm sped up until it was a blur of blue and silver. The helmet was no longer even visible. Abby felt the prickly pinch of fear at the nape of her neck. Now she remembered.

  “Zack!” she screamed. “Run! Run!”

  Zack stood frozen, smiling at the whirling onslaught only a few feet away.

  WELL THIS GAME HAS COMPLETELY GONE TO HELL; SORRY YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS FOLKS!

  Bastille reached Zack and brought his whirring helmet down on his younger teammate’s head.

  Thok

  Abby felt the gruesome crunch and saw Zack’s cleats sink into the earth. The whirling slowed, but with each revolution, Bastille brought his helmet down hard. Abby screamed. The crowd in the stands pushed forward, and she was pinned against the railing.

  Thok thok thok thok

  Bastille’s silver helmet turned to a deep red as hammered it down again and again. Zack’s ankles disappeared into the soil. Abby clawed at the people around her, trying to get to the steps leading down to the field, but the mass of squirming coats and arms didn’t budge.

  Thok thok thok thok

  Bastille buried Zack to the knees. Under the now-oozing flesh, his eyes were still open, but they stared wildly, unfocused. Bastille’s tiny eyes were bulging, and he had a lunatic’s smile as he looked down on his victim.

  IT’S ANYBODY’S GAME NOW — SURE AS HELL!

  “Zack!” she screamed. She punched out around her. The crowd crushed her against the railing, and she could barely turn her torso. Agonizing seconds passed.

  Thok thok thok thok

  Zack’s body was buried to the waist. His head rippled with each blow, like a deflated basketball.

  DAMN, THAT’S GOTTA HURT LIKE HELL. WHAT A GAME FOLKS, WHAT A GAME!

  “Zack!” she screamed again. Tears fell as she watched Bastille pummel him. She tried to bend down, hoping to drop below the front of the bleachers. She couldn’t even twist her small frame enough to slide behind the handrail.

  Thok thok thok thok

  Only Zack’s shoulders and head remained, as the wicked onslaught continued. Bastille was John Henry, and Zack was simple steel. Bastille crouched and continued his windmill assault.

  “Somebody, please help him!” Abby screamed. “Help him; help my brother!”

  WELL, I’LL BE DAMNED!

  She punched at anything within reach. The crowd had become a faceless sea of soft coats and jackets. There were no faces of concern, no ears to hear her pleas. The weight crushed her thighs against the rail.

  Thok thok thok thok

  Abby wanted to cover her ears, to block out the wet and spongy pummeling. Only Zack’s head was visible.

  “No!” she screamed. She was sobbing. “Zack, I love you!”

  Thok thok thok THOK

  With a final, powerful turn of the windmill, Bastille buried her brother’s face into the earth. Abby’s legs were numb. The weight of the coat-crowd behind her curled her over the top of the railing. Bastille stopped his spinning arm and stood up.

  WELL, THAT’S SURE AS HELL ONE OF THE WORST PLAYS THIS ANNOUNCER HAS EVER SEEN.

  He turned and looked at Abby. Only it wasn’t Bastille. It was an old man—an impossibly thin and tall man. Bastille’s uniform hung off his skeletal frame like massive folds of blue and silver extraneous skin. Shoulder pads jutted off his narrow shoulders like the small plastic wings of a toy dinosaur.

  I DON’T KNOW HOW THE HELL S TECH’S GONNA PULL THIS ONE OUTTA THE FIRE NOW!

  The man had an unkempt and greasy shock of white hair. His skin was translucent under the powerful stadium lights. A long, hooked nose and bulging hateful eyes sat over a sneering mouth. His pointed, yellowed teeth gleamed above a gray tongue. He was laughing at her.

  Rut rut rut rut

  Abby felt the snap of metal reverberate through her numbed legs. She fell forward from the stand. The fall happened before she could get her hands up to shield her face. She tasted the grass in her mouth as a thousand coat-people crushed her into darkness. . .

  She woke up to excruciating muscle spasms that wracked her body. She was conscious, but had to fight her own body to regain control. She was buried in a mound of pillows, wrestling her comforter on the carpet next to her bed. Tentatively, she sat up on shaking legs. Her calf muscles burned, just as they had in her sleep, just as they did every time she had the nightmare.

  She pulled herself up with a grunt and lay gasping on her bed, rubbing at her sore muscles. It was the same thing, over and over: a vivid and violent nightmare, a painful wakening. She had grown tired of this nearly nightly ritual.

  In real life, her intuition typically served her well. But in these dreams, it never kicked in early enough to save her brother. Of course, it was a dream, and not at all like his actual accident. But somewhere inside, she was convinced that if she could find a way to get to Zack before Bastille (or the old man) did, she would save him. What had terrified her at first now left her frustrated and angry. She felt like the team player who could win the game, but the coach always failed to put her in. After Zack had died, she had felt that same nagging apprehension she always felt in her nightmare—that she was supposed to be doing something, but she didn’t know what it was until it was too late. It wasn’t something to discuss with her parents or something a counselor could diagnose. It was just a general feeling of disorientation that came and went, as if she were somehow out of phase with all of the things in motion around her.

  Abby hadn’t discussed the dreams yet with her parents. A few weeks before Zack’s accident, she had spent time with her mom, watching a show about chefs who competed by making outrageously beautiful, but impossibly fragile, works of art from water, flour and sugar. For the final portion of the competition, the chefs had to load these unstable creations to a moving cart and bring them to the judges. Sometimes, the cakes never made it to the finish line. They might implode or sway and fall. The movement was too much for their fragile frame. That was Abby’s mom. If you kept her still, she was solid and beautiful. But when you intruded on her grief, she’d collapse. It wasn’t a dramatic response, but she’d retreat to her bedroom for hours, clutching a box of tissues on the way.

  Abby became aware soon after Zack’s death that you didn’t mention his name. Her mother had to initiate the conversation. If she mentioned Zack’s name first, you had a green light to proceed. It was a painful learning curve for Abby.

  She found that dealing with her dad was less confusing, but just as painful. The grief had cut him to ribbons inside, but that was rarely visible. Instead, he had become his wife’s shield. If anyone got too close to her mother’s grief, he’d shut them down. Abby knew that he loved both of them fiercely, now more than ever. Her own pain ran deep, but so did her strength. Her dad knew she
was strong enough to handle the situation. But since neither of them was as confident about her mother, he spent most of his time in the role of spouse-protector.

  Abby didn’t believe that telling them about her dream would help, but she knew it could hurt, so she kept the nightly terrors to herself. She also was painfully aware that the long nights and dark circles would catch up with her eventually.

  I just hope I can stop that wicked old man before then.

  Chapter 4

  With each stair he climbed, Martin’s feeling of déjà vu grew stronger. Of course, he’d climbed these steps many times before but today it felt different. Something was a little bit off. He couldn’t pinpoint it— just a nagging feeling of concern.