“We have no idea what they’ve got planned. We need to take action.”
“Honey, we could get shot. We could be killed.”
“Stanley, the big guy—he won’t fire.”
“How do you know that?”
“When we were upstairs before, the guy on the computer told him to hit me… and he faked it. He pulled his punch. Have you seen the look on his face? He’s terrified. He doesn’t like this any more than we do.”
Shins cracking against the edge of the steps. Crown of her head a constellation of pinpricks, screaming pain. Tugging, scrambling, hand grasping at the arm yanking her up the stairs.
“I’m gonna teach you a lesson, you dumb old whore.”
Shrieking to let her go, calling out for John, feet looking for purchase, slipping, howling, balance eluding her. Dragged to the top of the stairs.
“We need you to come with us, Doc.”
“Where?”
“Don’t worry about that. Stanley’s gonna untie you. No sudden moves.”
“All right.”
“Dresden?”
“What the…”
“What the hell’s going on with her?”
“Stop that!”
“Val! Honey, are you all right?”
“She’s faking it.”
“No, man, I think she’s having a seizure.”
“Cut out the act!”
“Let me help her.”
“You stay right there!”
“She’s swallowing her tongue. She’s gonna choke.”
“Stay away from her, Stanley.”
“I’m gonna untie her.”
“Stay away from her!”
“Let me have a look at her.”
“Stand back, Doc!”
“You want to shoot me, you shoot me! But I am going to help my wife!”
Feet slipping on the hard wood, ankles rolling, a hard, bony arm pressing into her ribs. Half lifted across the floor. Down the corridor. Through the great room. Toward the staircase.
Vision coming into focus. Ears clearing. No one else here. No John. No Stanley. Just her, dragged by him, headed for the second floor…
“Bend over, honey… I need to clear her throat…”
“NOW…”
“What?”
“Jesus!”
“Don’t fucking fire!”
“Let go of me, Stanley!”
“Go for the door, John! I’ll get the panic button!”
“Stop them!”
“Don’t fucking shoot anybody!”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Stan! You get the doc, I’ll get her!”
Thrown into the guest room, shoulder slamming into the floor.
“You thought you had me there, didn’t ya?” Door closing behind him. “I’ll admit, that was some trick you pulled, that Jiu Jitsu shit or whatever, crouching down like that.” Coming towards her. Moving to hands and knees. Hands shaking. Legs shaking. Everything shaking.
“I gotta tell you, I’ve had all sorts of stunts pulled on me, but that is the first time someone’s ever tripped me down a flight of stairs.” Standing over her. Breathing, swallowing, sweating. “You catch what I did, though? How I turned it around on you? You remember? ‘Cause I think you mighta blacked out for a second.”
Crouching down close to her. Blood in his gums. Bile in her mouth.
“You coulda got away, you know. You had the jump on me. But that wasn’t enough for you. You had to get in a little kick—” rapping knuckles against his forehead, demonstrating “—try to knock me the rest of the way down the stairs to the basement. That was your mistake. ‘Cause I got hold of you. And you were the one ended up on the concrete instead of me. What I would call that is a lack of self-control. Which is a subject I know a little something about. And you know what happens when you demonstrate a lack of self-control? And I speak from personal experience when I tell you this—you know what happens?”
Standing up slowly.
“You get fucked.”
Undoing his belt.
John makes a right turn by the rock garden and heads for the narrow patch of woods north of the house. The road would be too obvious. If he’s lucky, that’s where they’ll look for him.
His foot lands on a jagged pebble. His knee buckles, slowing his gait to a hobble for half a dozen steps. His friend Ron’s voice rings in his head, extolling the virtues of barefoot running.
“I’m telling you, John, there’s nothing like it. Takes a couple of months to build up solid calluses, but once you do, any rocks you hit are like a little massage.”
Sure, Ron. How ‘bout they switch places now and see how that works out for him?
A scream comes from inside the house. Val. He looks back, searching for shadows, silhouettes in the lighted windows. He can’t make anything out.
Then he sees a form coming out the side door, onto the lawn. A big form, hulking.
It’s Stanley. He’s coming closer. Shit. Maybe the road would have been a better idea. It would have been easier on his feet, that’s for sure.
He takes off toward the trees, keeping low to the ground, moving as quietly as he can. Coming to the edge of the woods, he slows his pace, stepping carefully to avoid impaling his arches or cracking any branches. He ducks behind a white pine and peers back around the trunk. Stanley is near the edge of the woods. He’s looking around, not cutting a clear path. He doesn’t see John. But he might have heard him.
John watches for a moment, willing Stanley to look in another direction.
As if granting his wish, Stanley turns and starts across the rock garden, heading in the direction of the barn. John almost chuckles. It’s the second time tonight that Stanley has done exactly what John wanted him to do. Then again, the medical kit hadn’t done him any good.
John turns and looks through the woods. On the other side of the narrow stretch of trees live the Hendersons, their neighbors around the bend on Cherry Lane. A porch lamp shines at the side entrance to their house, about a hundred yards away. The length of a lacrosse field. Back in college, he could have made this run in under 12 seconds.
He takes an exploratory step. A twig cracks loudly. He freezes.
The sound of leaves crackling behind him. Sliding down the side of the tree trunk, he glances back and sees Stanley, rifle in hand, approaching the edge of the woods.
Remember what happened before. No time to dilly-dally. No room for hesitation.
With any luck, Val has made it to the panic alarm. But if she hasn’t, she’s going to need help—stat. This may be the last chance they’ve got.
Rising to the balls of his feet, imagining the polished leather of his old cleats embracing his arches, he takes off, arms pumping like pistons, weaving between birches and pines, ignoring the twigs and rocks and burrs assaulting his feet, flying for the lamp’s beckoning light.
“Rich! Riiiiiiiiiiich!”
God. Fucking. Damn it. Now? Really? Holly has a way of picking literally the worst times for everything. And this just takes the proverbial cake.
Everything has been shaping up so nicely. The timing couldn’t have been better, the targets’ kids being away the same weekend as Rich’s parents (his dad attending a conference in Chicago, his mom slutting it up with her girlfriends in Atlantic City). The months of careful cultivation, cruising alt-political chat rooms, creating a convincing on-line alter ego, is finally coming to fruition. The agents have been stirred to a boil, the information has been gathered, the plans have been laid.
The structure has come together perfectly over the past few months, every module locking into position. There was the tour of the house from Clara, complete with glimpses into the security system’s central command in the basement and opportunities to film her keying in the security code (there are benefits, it turns out, to being stuck in the ‘friend zone’)—not to mention the supplemental intelligence procured from her, ahem, boyfriend for the bargain-basement price of 20 ecstasy tablets, laced (unbeknownst to said boyfriend) with pseudoep
hedrine, dextromethorphan, 2C-I, and phencyclidine (a.k.a. PCP, Angel Dust).
The whole operation has felt, frankly, as if were meant to be. It’s like that Radiohead song—a jigsaw falling into place. Piece by piece by piece, everything has stacked up just the way it’s supposed to.
Then his sister goes and gets herself dumped by her bro-tastic boyfriend, a Ryan Gosling wannabe from Rhode Island of all places (who the fuck is from Rhode Island?), which of course means that she can’t handle the “emotional burden” of being in college right now. So that means a semester off, back at home, sleeping in ‘til 2pm, lounging around the house hopped up on whatever sedatives she can get her hands on, getting up in his grill about fucking everything like they’re back in middle school, and it’s like, seriously? He doesn’t know why his parents condone this juvenile behavior from their elder child. Then again, it’s not like either of them—his parents—is home enough to feel the dull, enervating weight of her presence in the house. He’s mostly been left to deal with that by himself.
Now here she comes pounding at his bedroom door, just as the game is kicking into overdrive. The night has been going so well, a few little kinks notwithstanding. Rich may, for instance, have gotten slightly frazzled—slightly—in his on-line chat with the female target, and as a result it’s possible that he wrote certain things that ventured slightly—slightly—outside the bounds of respectable gamesmanship. (Two of the other froggers thought the slap had been a bit much.) But he pulled it together in the end. Anyway, the structure they built around this thing is made to accommodate little unforeseen slips—like those buildings in Japan that sway when an earthquake hits. And now it’s getting so good, so freaking good—watching Agent #1 try to deflect the officer’s questions, his fellow gamers trying to find out who tipped off the cops in the first place so they can plug that leak. He’s getting super-charged now, gearing up for the next level of the game, his brain humming at an ultra-high frequency, his veins pumping pure amphetamine, and—
“Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiich!”
“God damn it.” He yanks off his headphones and crosses the room. He cracks the door. “What the hell is it?”
“I need you to take the garbage out.”
“I’ll do it later.”
“I need you to do it now. I’m trying to get ready, but it fucking stinks. I swear to God, I’m gonna hurl.”
“Take it out yourself.”
“Did you hear me? I just said I’m gonna hurl. You think it’s gonna help if I have to take out the garbage?”
“Holly, listen. I’m a little busy right now, all right? It’s not a good time.”
Holly scoffs. “What are you busy with? Jacking off to anime porn with your gay-ass little computer buddies?”
“Go away, Holly.” He starts to shut the door. She blocks it with her foot.
“Jesus, Rich, I was kidding. Look, I’m going to a party with Genie in an hour. Just do this for me so I can get ready, and then I’ll be out of your hair the rest of the night.” Beat. “Or we could just hang out here if you want. Have a little dance party downstairs.”
Oh, God. He literally cannot think of a worse idea than that. Genie is reasonably stickable (he doesn’t mind catching the occasional glimpse of the junk in that particular trunk), but considering how brutally she has rebuffed his past advances he knows he’s not gonna get anything from her—certainly not anything as interesting as what’s already going on right here, right now, on his computer.
“Okay,” he says, stepping into the hallway. “I’ll take out the fucking trash. But I swear to God if I hear from you again tonight, I will hire the football team to gang-rape you.”
“That is not funny!”
“Who’s joking?”
He closes the door and takes off down the hallway.
Of course, it’s not as simple as it ought to be. Things never are with this bitch around. A brown puddle has formed around the base of the trashcan, and the lid is stuck at a forty-five-degree pitch, propped up by the overflow of take-out containers, plastic soda bottles, and paper towels.
“Jesus,” he says, “what the hell did you put in there?”
“I think it’s Thai.”
“You’re supposed to dump the liquids out in the sink before you put the containers in the trash.”
“Oh, like you’re in a position to proliferate on standards of cleanliness.”
“Proliferate?”
“Yeah. What?”
“Oh my God, you fucking illiterate whore. It’s pontificate. Pontificate.”
“Screw you. Proliferate is totally a word.”
“Yeah. That means something else. And even if I’m not exactly the Maharishi of cleanliness—”
“What the fuck is a Maharishi?”
“—I at least can distinguish between (a) what is likely to cause me and those around me extreme fucking headaches in the immediately foreseeable future, and (b) what is not.”
“Okay. Well, you know what, Rich? I know you think I’m an idiot, but irregardless—”
[various non-verbal expressions of exasperation from Rich]
“—I’m not the one who needs me out of here tonight. You are. And I’m not leaving until this mess is cleaned up.”
Nostrils flaring with total desire to stop this bitch’s breath (but knowing it’s not a viable option), Rich pulls up the rim of the trash can and grabs the bag’s red ties. As he’s lifting it out of the metal base, the bottom of the bag falls clean out, spilling the stew of kitchen waste all over the floor.
“Fucking hell!”
Holly’s hand goes over her mouth. “Oh my God…”
On the edge of the heap of garbage, Rich spots the culprits: a cluster of double-A batteries, leaking frosty acid out of their seams, has burned through the bottom of the bag.
“Jesus,” he says, “what were you doing, emptying out your vibrator? Christ, how much power does that thing need?”
“Shut up, Rich, I’m serious. I’m feeling sick.”
“There’s enough voltage in there to start up a jackhammer.”
“Oh God,” she says, clutching her stomach, her chest and throat lurching. She starts in the direction of the bathroom, only making it as far as the hallway before a soup of what looks like Gatorade and Triscuits erupts from her gullet, splashing onto the floor in a small torrent. “Rich…”
Rich sighs and closes his eyes. He would like nothing more than to point out how not his problem this is, but there’s no use arguing with this stupid cunt. That would only make matters worse. If he ever wants to get back to the festivities that he’s spent literally months arranging, he’s just going to have to clean this up. He tosses the torn trash bag on top of the slop on the kitchen floor and starts for the linen closet.
“Help…” Holly sputters, hunched over.
“Shut your dick hole,” he says, “I’m going to get some towels.”
He returns a moment later with a couple of the hand-woven Japanese bath towels their mom special ordered back in the spring and tosses them onto the chunky, pinkish fluid in the hallway. Holly sits against the wall, whimpering. While the towels are doing their work, he heads for the garage to grab supplies to handle the unholy mess in the kitchen.
As disgusting as all this is, it’s nothing compared to some of the disasters he’s cleaned up on-line, hauling in or obfuscating vast tracts of code, leaving the scene without a trace of his or his associates’ presence. Lysol, plastic gloves, and contractor bags in hand, he goes back in and gets to work without a word, just trying to get this shit done as quickly as possible.
When the floor is cleared of garbage, he cinches up the contractor bag and heads toward the porch at the side of the house, where the housekeeper keeps the garbage bins.
As he approaches the door, there’s a knock—almost a pounding. It’s fast. Insistent. Scared.
Rich stops. His stomach does a back flip. He takes a step toward the door, the black bag full of slop hanging from his fist.
The pounding con
tinues. Someone really wants in here—or away from something outside. Something tells Rich he ought to go check his computer, check in with his buddies/co-conspirators. At least check his phone.
He reaches for the door and opens it.
The last time he saw Clara’s parents in person was back in the spring. He remembers her father being taller, which might owe to the fact that he was wearing shoes at that time. Now he’s half-naked, barefoot, dirty and sweating, the image of his trembling body far more vivid and visceral in person than it’s been on the screen.
“Rich!” says John, “call the police! Now!”
Rich looks past John. Agent #2 is lumbering across the yard toward them, rifle in hand.
“Rich! Please! Are your parents home?”
“Is there someone at the door?” shouts Holly from the next room.
“No,” Rich calls out. John’s eyes widen as he slams the door in his face, locking both the knob and the bolt.
The pounding and cries for help keep up for a few seconds more, followed by a struggle, then silence.
Rich passes Holly on his way to the stairs.
“Are you just gonna leave those towels on the floor? Rich? Rich?”
But he’s not listening. This shit just got another kind of crazy.
Why would Rich have shut the door on him? Was he scared? He didn’t look it. Surprised, for sure, but not scared. Not even alarmed. He looked almost bemused to see John standing there, as if it were unexpected but not for the reasons that John imagines. Maybe he’s calling the police. Maybe he’s getting his parents. Maybe help is already on the way.
It doesn’t feel that way, though. The way Rich looked at him—looked past him—he didn’t look concerned. He looked pissed off. Like he was put out or inconvenienced by what was happening.
Stanley shoves John through the door, into the mudroom. He almost falls to his knees, his hands once again bound by a plastic zip tie, unable to catch himself. It’s almost heartbreaking, the circularity of it—coming in once again the same way he did at the beginning of the night, retracing his steps.
Is there a chance he’ll find this funny one day? Picture himself going back-and-forth, in and out of the side entrance to the house, the whole wackadoodle action set to the Benny Hill theme music? Tell their grandkids about the whole affair— “And I said to myself, ‘Here we go again!’” —grinning and shaking his head at what memory has transposed from the crisis of their lives into an evening of outsized shenanigans? Will they ever be able to put this behind them?
Reclamation Page 18