by Jack Kinsley
Travis closed the door softly behind him, not wanting to introduce any foreign sounds into a movie Devon had surely seen a hundred times and memorized — he could unconsciously pick up on a scratch in the record and wake up.
The little pup was already at the slider, up on his hind legs and scratching furiously at the glass. A strange face was a welcomed face — almost anyone could treat him better.
"I'm coming for you, boy," Travis whispered, and carefully made his way through the piles of shit over to the slider. It was like walking through a minefield, every scrap of debris a potential alarm clock. First, it was a wad of bubble wrap hidden under a shopping bag (he only popped a couple before seeing it), then a cheap plastic hanger that snapped instantly under his weight, and then he just missed crushing a glass picture frame with Devon's father smiling out. Blake Cunningham's grin seemed to say, I caught you.
Within feet of the slider, the pup became ecstatic and lost control of himself; he barked behind the glass and shot a few squirts of piss at it. Travis tried to shush him with a finger to his lips, but knew it wasn't going to happen. When he opened the slider, the dog dashed into his arms and proceeded to lick himself into a frenzy, slapping his dry tongue on any bare skin he could find.
Travis caught sight of a makeshift water bowl out on the balcony. It was a Styrofoam hamburger container that was dirty and bone dry, and there wasn't a morsel of food anywhere, not even a trace. An inferno exploded inside Travis — a dangerous mix of Adderall and rage. It was an intensity he'd never felt before. Travis could feel the skeleton inside the pup's ragged coat as he squirmed in delight and licked some more. He couldn't have been more than three months old, and was about half the weight he should have been.
The movie that had been blaring in the room was now almost silent in a hushed scene of dialogue, someone rambling about the power of the force. It was an inopportune time for their escape back out through the minefield, but there was no time to wait — Nathalie could be back at any moment.
"It's okay. Shh," he whispered into the pup's ear, and received a lick of understanding back — letting him know he was on board. Together, they began slowly heading for the door as Travis tiptoed through the garbage, watching Devon for any movement. Devon's face was sweaty and pale, the dark bags under his eyes now leaning toward a blue-ish hue, as if he'd been in a street fight.
Travis kept his steady path and then spotted a white shoebox half buried in a heap of other packages at the end of the couch near Devon's sleeping head. Oh, the shoeboxes of this world, he thought, but there was no chance this pup would fit inside it. Next to it was an oatmeal handle bag that looked big enough and strong enough to carry the pup. He needed something, as he didn't want to be seen carrying the dog from the complex. Like a shoebox, a shopping bag could contain anything.
To the right of the shopping bag was Devon's camouflaged drawstring sack with its red, candy corner. The mouth of the bag was wide open and empty. He looked at Devon's head hanging just feet from him off the couch, and then at the terrible state the dog was in. He suppressed the urge to stuff the scumbag's head into the dirty sack. No time, he reminded himself. Nathalie could be back any minute.
Just get the dog and get the hell out.
He squatted next to the shopping bag, placed the dog carefully inside, and then tried pulling the handles together. The dog made it clear he wasn't on board with this part of the plan — it could have been his coffin for all he knew — and let out a high-pitched yelp that was drowned out by a bunch of CGI robots storming a planet in a galaxy far, far away, where Liam Neeson and some blond kid were trying to escape. Stupid goddamn movie.
"It's okay," Travis tried to reassure his little friend as he attempted to close the bag again, but the pup wasn't having it. This time, he let out an ear-piercing squeal that even Travis winced at.
Travis flicked his eyes at Devon. The man began to stir, and Travis knew his eyes were getting ready to open.
Fuck! It wasn't going to be a clean exit. Travis grabbed the sack with lightning speed and in one perfect, lucky motion threw it over Devon's head and pulled the drawstring tight around his neck.
The scumbag was now very much awake, kicking and swinging wildly around him. Unluckily, Travis hadn't been quick enough to get clear and Devon caught him on the jaw with a long, dirty fingernail. A trickle of blood ran down his neck. This only enraged Travis. The Adderall and the fury coalesced, all the wrongs of the past year racing through his mind: the separation, child custody battles, alimony, financial stress, the threat of losing Bella, of losing his business, the legal intimidation from this bastard's father, Devon's lurid and disgusting come-ons to Sarah, the death of Little Jack, and now the inhumane treatment of this pup. All of it culminated in a freakish sense of power and thirst for violence he'd never known before.
Devon was on his feet now, still swinging blindly, screaming, all the while tugging at the cord around his neck with one hand. Travis stepped back and watched, waiting, calculating his movements. Then, he delivered a blow with all his might straight into the middle of the sack. It landed square and on target. He heard Devon's nose crack under the polyester sack; the force of the blow sent the prick flying onto his back, where he bounced off the couch and then crashed into the coffee table.
Travis thought he had knocked him out cold, but the son of a bitch sat up screaming and started working his fingers at the strings around his neck again.
Is that right? Need a little more?
Blood seeped through the sack where Travis had hit him, and it became a freshly painted target. Travis went after it, operating at a level of controlled anger and laser focus. He grabbed the back of the sack in his left fist, feeling Devon's hair in his grip, and then slammed two more rights into the blooming bloodstain. He then twisted his two fists inside the front of Devon's polo shirt and threw him across the living room floor, parting a heap of garbage that created a runway of what looked like dirty snow. Devon remained half buried at the end of it, but was still conscious and slowly began to roll from side to side.
Travis went over for another round. This is catharsis, he thought, complete and utter purification.
The little pup was surprisingly quiet, sitting out of the way and safe on the sidelines. He was on board with this part of the plan too, though. Travis was sure of it.
Travis picked Devon up by the collar with one hand, hearing him moan a bit through the sack, and gave a last jackhammer into the target. At last, his body went limp and Travis dropped him onto his back. His once-wild arms lay still at his side and his legs were slightly apart and at rest, as if he was ready to create a dirty snow angel. Travis didn't like the look of him lying there. He dragged Devon effortlessly back to the couch and tossed him into the same position he had been in while sleeping. The sack was now a crimson red.
Travis dabbed at the nick on his jaw with the back of his hand and realized Devon had shaved a decent chunk from him. It was already beginning to coagulate, and he was sure a good-sized scab would live there for a while. Travis had to find the shopping bag. Devon's head-first dive into the heap of trash had shot it somewhere into the abyss. He eventually found it under a pizza box along the edge of the wall, lying next to Devon's light saber. The case was open and his adult toy was tucked in a tight display box of custom-grey foam. Travis shook his head at it in disgust.
He called the pup over to put him back in the bag, and then noticed Devon starting to stir again. He wasn't a threat anymore — Travis couldn't believe he was even still conscious — but he might make a last attempt to loosen the cord.
"The bastard isn't human," he whispered.
And then a wicked, perverse thought came to his mind. He considered it; almost discarded the idea — and then the word catharsis came to mind again.
Travis went over to the light saber lying at the base of the wall, removed it carefully from the foam, and inspected it. He found the switch on the high-grade aluminum handle and fired it up. The length of it glowed a bright neo
n red and gave the dimly lit room a dramatic quality.
He'd never used a light saber before, but he certainly knew how to play golf. It was similar in size.
He first made sure the pup was clear, held the handle of the saber like he would a driver, and then positioned himself in front of Devon's noggin, hanging off the arm of the couch. He recalled his golfing lessons from six months ago: spread the feet approximately shoulder's width apart, tilt forward at the hips (and not his waist), and then adjust the correct amount of knee flex for a smooth torso and hip swivel. He drew a slow backswing, transferring weight from his front foot to his back, and then executed a perfect downswing that rounded up and across the top of Devon's head. It even sounded like a golf ball cracking off into the distance. Devon's head clicked from one side to the other and he was fast asleep — a beautifully executed swing with a nice follow through.
"That one was for you, Little Jack," he said, and then told the pup, "and for you, too."
He stretched and twisted his back a couple times in the opposite direction of his swing; it had been a while since he had played a game and his muscles were a bit tight. He looked over the tip of the saber for any cracks. None were found.
Customer satisfaction guaranteed? Yes, I think so. He turned off the light saber, returning the room to only a TV presence, and then placed the saber back in the case.
He turned the coffee table right side up, surprised to see it had survived and was still in relatively good condition. He reached into his back pocket, produced the bindle of meth (compliments of Dallas), and tossed it onto the table. Okay Nathalie, explain that one to dear Daddy. What he thought might be needed as leverage was now pointing a finger at an entirely different perpetrator.
A pack of squashed Marlboro Lights on the carpet caught his attention. He took out a single cigarette, gently straightened it with the tips of his fingers, and then tucked it behind an ear. It had been at least a couple years since he'd smoked, but it would have to wait a little while longer.
He took the pup, gave him a much-needed kiss on the head, and then carefully placed him in the shopping bag. The pup gave no refusal this time. He lay quiet, looking up at Travis submissively as he pulled the handles together.
Before leaving, Travis opened the balcony slider a bit more, made sure he left the front door cracked open as well, and then he and the pup descended the stairwell together.
— — —
His first order of business when they got home was to tend to the pup's immediate needs. He had made a trip to PetSmart before making the rescue and had probably overbought. First, he poured some room-temp Fuji water into a proper bowl, the same kind Travis used for his morning cereal, and then served him a plate of LOVE DOG FOOD from Honest Kitchen. He read the label out loud.
"Gluten-free dog food, dehydrated Midwestern beef and produce like dandelion greens, sweet potatoes, and papaya. I think that's a good step in the right direction," he told the pup. He was careful not to allow him to eat or drink too much, wanting to avoid any digestive upsets, and he was encouraged to see the little guy had an appetite. It let him know he wasn't too sick, although he had suffered some hair loss and his eyes were a bit runny.
Travis considered spot-cleaning him with a baby wipe, but then opted to give him a bath in the kitchen sink. He turned on the central heating in the condo for five minutes to take the edge off the cool night, then ran him a lukewarm bath. The teenage girl working at the PetSmart recommended a low-skin irritant puppy shampoo; it took a generous amount to get the suds going and start working at his sullied coat. The little guy pissed in the middle of his bath (absolute no bladder control, which was expected with everything he'd gone through) and Travis had to run him a second bath; he was glad he had heated the condo prior.
He then carried him into the bathroom, swaddled in Egyptian cotton. Only his wet brown eyes were visible, looking up at Travis and then into the drawer he opened. With one hand, Travis took out Bella's Hello Kitty hairdryer and shook the wrapped cord loose from it and plugged it in. The pup gave a low instinctive growl at the picture of Hello Kitty on the side of the pink dryer.
This made Travis laugh. "You just cool your jets, little fella," he told him. "You're way too young to be prejudiced." He sat him on the marble counter and gave him a low-heat dry, which probably was a first for him, but he took to it like a baby to a nipple. He even lifted his chin for Travis to get under there too.
When finished, Travis used a wire-pin brush with rubber-tipped ends to comb out his fur. The pup sat patiently while all of this was being carried out — he had gone from the depths of hell to the penthouse of heaven. And he was going to be just fine.
Travis wrapped him loosely in a fresh dry towel, and then caught his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. The cigarette was still planted firmly behind his ear; he'd forgotten all about it. He also noticed a small pool of dried blood in the cup of his collarbone that had stained his shirt.
Back in the kitchen, he gave the pup more water, which he lapped at briefly, and then brought him into the living room and rested him on the couch. Within a minute the pup was sleeping contently in a crescent-moon position, his tail tucked up and over his hind legs.
"You rest, little one," Travis told him. He gave him a last pet on the head, and then went into the laundry room adjacent to the kitchen. He undressed down to his devil-printed briefs (his last Christmas gift from Ana), and soaked his shirt in cold water.
He inspected the cut on his chin in the bathroom mirror. There was a second small gouge next to the larger one; the bastard had managed to get him with two dirty nails. It looked less like a shaving nick and more like he'd caught a cheese grater in the face, but he was still going to stick with the shaving story. A Band-Aid should be enough cover to sell it convincingly.
It was five to midnight and he needed a shower, but Travis decided to first smoke the cigarette out on the patio, where he could keep an eye on his new friend sleeping on the couch. The cigarette tasted like shit at first, and he couldn't remember why he had enjoyed smoking for so many years. About halfway into it, he began to enjoy it again and felt the familiar hooks driving into him.
Through his plumes of smoke, he recalled the guilty pleasure of manhandling Devon earlier and how easy it had been — and how good it had felt. The double dose of Adderall had definitely taken him to a level outside himself, physically and mentally — as if he was just a spectator to the event, with no moral obligations. It had been an impulsive goal, set in motion and accomplished without remorse or fear of consequence. If he could carry out such an act of violence spur of the moment, then he could surely devise a plan to remove the one person who was going to rob him of everything he'd ever worked for.
His first thought was to poison Ana, but he quickly discounted it as amateur. There was always the autopsy, and the inevitable whodunit police investigation. And the husband was always the first suspect — especially an estranged one.
Then he considered the gun temporarily in his possession, but that was messy and loud. And then there were the other questions: Where would he do it? How would he get her alone? And what would he do with the body? The possible complications seemed insurmountable, and so his mind raced around another idea.
He could formulate some kind of planned suicide on Ana's behalf; write a goodbye-cruel-world, bon voyage letter from her email and send it to himself. She hadn't changed her password on her Gmail account. He had just logged onto it yesterday, tracking her planned exodus. But then he remembered those damn IP addresses. It would have to be from her laptop, and he didn't know the password for that. Damn. He'd probably already left a digital trail from his snooping, so he discarded that idea as well — not wanting to bring any more attention to a technological world that could nail him with some unforeseeable blip of data.
The biggest problem was going to be the body. The dead always gave silent witness to their perpetrators. And he could imagine her lying there dead in a room full of investigators, still flapping he
r broken jaw and pointing around the room at the shit he hadn't planned for — See that crappy fake sculpture over there? Well, it was recently cleaned, but not completely, and it's not only my blood on there. And don't forget to look under my nails, too. Go on, have a look.
Suddenly a wave of fear swept over him as he dabbed at the nicks on his chin with the back of his hand. There was sure to be some of him under Devon's nails; a little piece that could scream guilty from the microscope of a DNA specialist. Although he was certain Devon was alive, negating any reason for a forensic sweep — and the scumbag probably didn't even realize he got a piece of his attacker. Travis hoped, anyway.
It wasn't until he was ready to give up completely that lightning struck and a plan with the stink of simplicity began to form. Was it too simple, though? He played it and replayed it in his head, adding a detail here and there, a solution to a what-if, and didn't come up with any hidden traps or major complications.
He flicked the long-extinguished cigarette butt he still held between his fingertips into the planter, and thought, It could work. It could definitely work. It was a great plan that only needed a little polish.
Two things were made certain that night: Travis had started smoking again, and he was going to get rid of Ana.
Chapter 10 / Two Dumbbells Should Do It
Travis normally slept another five to ten minutes while his obnoxious alarm clock buzzed like a nuclear reactor on the verge of leaking. But this morning, his wakeup call came in the form of incessant whining at his bedside. It was still dark, but Travis could see his new four-legged friend looking up at him restlessly. There was no time to hesitate. The pup was actually doing him a favor — alerting him before he was going to shit all over the house.