by Aven Jayce
“Shh.” Jack lowers his head, looking past Dylan and up to the second floor of the house. He studies the front door, the fence, the surrounding houses, then asks, “How big is this guy?”
“Huge, now drive,” Quinn says.
“Dylan, compared to you... what’s his size?”
“Eh, not much bigger, maybe another twenty or thirty pounds. He’s got a beer gut.”
“Weapons?”
“Be quiet,” Quinn says to Dylan. “Jack, drive. I’m not going in and you’re not bringing him out.”
“Weapons?” he repeats.
“He’s got a revolver on his nightstand.”
“On it, or in it?”
“It’s always out.”
He puts on a pair of black leather gloves, a dark baseball cap, and gets out of the car, walking around the front while rolling the sleeves of his T-shirt over his shoulders. He stops next to Dylan on the passenger side and asks in a barely audible voice, “What about a dog?”
Dylan shakes his head.
“That knife I asked you to hold onto earlier, give it to me, just in case.”
He puts it in Jack’s gloved hand... and in that one action, becomes the dumbest person I’ve ever known.
Jack scans the exterior of the house once more, humming the song.
His song.
That “House of the Rising Sun” song.
It’s happening again.
Wade’s gonna die.
He walks through the small yard and tries to open the front door, checks the two front windows, glances upward, then disappears around back.
“He’s going to kill him,” I say, sounding dispassionate, alarmingly dispassionate.
Dylan turns with a look of disbelief. “What for? No, I bet he’s gonna rob him.”
“Are you stupid? Why would he rob someone? He’s loaded. He’s going inside to kill him,” I insist, unsure what the fuck I can do to stop him, and why I’d want to, other than the fact that it’s another human life that’ll be lost at the hands of Jack Jameson. “This isn’t a robbery. He said I should run when I hear that song, and he killed Trent while he was humming it.”
“He doesn’t have any reason to kill him,” Quinn says.
“Hello?” I look at both of them like they’re dense, taking forever to understand what’s happening. “The knife? The gloves? What the fuck? He’s gonna do it.”
“Nah.” Dylan waves his hand, blowing me off like I’m the one who’s being absurd. “He’ll bring him down to talk to Quinn and force him to apologize, or rough him up in front of us to even the score.”
“Even what score? And what do you know anyway? Being here is so damn easy for you, since you never had any problems with Dad.”
“The fuck I didn’t,” Dylan snaps. “Where the hell were you when I had a busted lip every other week? And remember my broken arm? I had to tell CPS I fell off my bike.”
Quinn gives him a fierce look. “So why’d you tie me up then? What are you doing to me?”
“Yeah, untie us before Jack gets back. You can say we took off and you couldn’t catch us.”
Dylan taps the door while staring at the house. “Why should we care if he kills him?”
“What? Don’t you care about anyone? Isn’t every life precious?” I ask, watching for any movement and listening for any sound from within the house.
“Not Jack’s... and why is... why is our dad’s? What good does either one of them bring into the world?” Quinn answers, although he was hesitant when he spoke, so I’m not sure he believes what he just said.
“Wait, so only ‘decent’ lives matter? How do you know who’s good and who’s evil? Who makes that decis—”
“Dylan, untie us.” He avoids answering and turns the conversation to getting free. “Now, hurry.”
“Yeah, we need to get the hell out of here before we’re next.” My voice cracks as I plead with him.
He faces the house, snubbing us.
What a bastard.
I take matters into my own hands... or I should say, my own feet, using my toes to open the door. It opens a crack and I lean into it, forcing it wider. “Quick!” I say, making sure Quinn follows, only to have the door slammed in my face and the window smacked with Jack’s palm before we have a chance to escape.
A bloody handprint is left on the glass, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end.
“Dear God.” I slide away from the door and huddle next to Quinn.
“Shit,” he says. “Dylan... look.”
Jack hums and wipes the print with his forearm, smearing it until it becomes a dull and somber cloud.
He walks to the driver’s side and removes the gloves at window height, making sure the three of us have a clear view of the blood. He gets in and tosses them into Dylan’s lap, pats him on the shoulder and sings...
“They call him the rising son. He’s been the death of many a poor soul...”
“You killed him?”
“No.” He grins and starts the car. “You did. And now you’re mine.”
“I knew it. I just knew it.”
“Fucker.” Quinn kicks Jack’s seat then raises his foot higher, trying to kick him in the back of the head. Dylan grabs his ankle and gives it a quick twist.
“You should be thanking me, not trying to knock me out.” He starts to drive, as relaxed as ever. Killing someone, once again, puts him at ease. “When was the last time you told your dad you loved him?”
Quinn tugs his foot away and leans back.
“I asked you a question.”
“I never did. Not once,” Dylan says.
“Answer me back there. Did you love the guy, or not?”
“No. I didn’t love him,” he whispers. “Dylan was the only family I had growing up.”
“That’s what I thought. I was hoping you weren’t lying when you said you never wanted to see the prick again.”
He flips through a playlist, selecting “House of the Rising Sun” as we drive through the downtown area.
“You heading to the river?” Dylan asks.
“No, south on I-87. I have a place for these two. After they’re taken care of, we’ll head back to Afterglow.”
“What kind of place, another one of your retreats? I thought we were just getting rid of the body,” I say.
“Can I listen to my song?”
“I think too much when I’m quiet, so no, you can’t. I’m not shutting up.” I’m actually panicking... is he really going to kill us? “You said you never killed a woman?”
“No.”
“So, can Quinn and I get out here? Can you pull over? We’ll go our separate ways and forget any of this ever happened.”
He laughs and removes his baseball cap, running his fingers through his hair then around his ear.
“You don’t have to try to scare us... uhh, Jack? Okay... it worked. I’m scared. You can turn around now. I’ll do whatever you want at Afterglow.”
“Quiet down.”
Quinn ducks to read the signs passing overhead, then looks behind us, his face lit by the approaching cars. “I’m calling your bluff. If you killed my dad because of what he did to me, then it doesn’t make any sense to kill me, or Addie. Why bother? I mean, why bother with him if I’m going to be dead?”
“I didn’t kill that drunk bastard because of you. I killed him for your mom and other women.”
“What?” Dylan shifts and looks at Jack. “Our mom? What do you know about her?”
“Not much. But online—”
“Online?” I cut in. “Is that all you do? Spend all your time surfing the web? Most of what’s on there is crap. And you shouldn’t be so nosy. It’s creepy, like... you’re a stalker. You knew Nadine was my aunt and you found the article about the death at the river. You researched stuff about my mom, where Wade lived, and now you have information about their mom? Jesus. Why don’t you read a book or, or, or... like your dad said—stay
out of our business!” I can’t believe how much he’s getting on my nerves. “Where are you taking us? Where? Where? Where? What are you going to do? Tell me!”
The car’s silent. Jack stops to take the ticket for the toll road, then lights another cigarette and heads south on I-87.
“You done?” He presses his lips firmly around his cig and lifts his chin, eyeing me in the mirror. “I can wait if you have more to say. These are your last words, so make ‘em good.”
“These aren’t my last words because you don’t kill women.”
“If you were a real woman you would’ve already sucked my dick, so I don’t think you have a chance of playing the gender card on me.”
“Fuck you.”
Dylan laughs and takes one of Jack’s cigarettes, getting his wrist seized before he can light it.
“Ask, always ask before you take my shit.”
He holds up the cigarette and lighter, asking if he can have one, receiving a nodding response.
“Not everyone should be allowed to have access to the internet,” I say. “It’s rarely put to good use.”
“Not everyone? So then who? You?”
“What were you gonna say about our mom?” Quinn asks, giving me a look that I should bite my tongue.
“How’d you guys get to my retreat?” Jack asks Dylan, ignoring the question.
“Those two walked.” He gestures over his shoulder at us. “Trent and I got a ride from his cousin.”
“Cousin? Where’s he?”
“She.”
“Another woman? So does she live in Albany? I need to know everything. All traces of this group stay close to home, not my business. I don’t want any tracks leading there.”
“I wouldn’t worry about her. She gets into trouble with the law more than Trent ever did. She won’t mention anything to the cops if they come sniffing. Especially taking us anywhere in her car without having a license or insurance. Trust me, she never even saw us. Like the rest of us, she’s running away from the cops.”
“Well, I’m happy you surround yourself with the cream of the crop.” He smiles, the hint of sarcasm obvious.
The song on his system ends; then repeats. He sings, replacing the words with his own, sounding just like the voice on the system. It’s an impressive song, just not with Jack’s lyrics.
“You’re ruining my love for The Doors by changing the words. Just sing it the right way,” I say.
“The who?” He listens intently to my response with a creased forehead and tight lips.
“Not The Who, I said The Doors.”
He swerves to the side of the road and hits the brakes, skidding on the pavement. The car comes to a halt, thrusting us forward then back.
He dashes out and paces in front of the headlights with his head down and his hands running through his hair.
He’s crazed.
Completely losing his shit.
“What the hell did I say?” I whisper.
He kicks at non-existent stones as cars pass. I hope a cop comes. There has to be a state trooper around. Someone’s gotta see this.
“The Doors? The nerve of some people. There’s so much ignorance in this world. I should kill her right now.”
I follow his frantic pace, left, right, left, right, like he’s marching.
“Dylan, this would be a great time to cut these ropes.”
“And lock the doors,” I add. “Lock him out and drive away. Be in control. Since when are you second in line? I can’t believe you’re following orders instead of giving them.”
“Second in line? He wants me to protect him, not the other way around. That means I’m stronger. I’m the one in charge.”
“It means you’re being played.” I slide between the front seats, trying to get to the driver’s side door panel. “This guy’s a madman. What makes you think he’s not gonna kill you, too?”
“What the fuck are you doing?” He grabs my arm. “Sit back.”
I squirm and fight my way to the side, locking the doors with the touch of my nose. In less than a second, Dylan reopens them and shoves me to my seat.
“What’s he doing?” Quinn nods toward the front.
I look up and see Jack with his arms crossed, legs spread, and rage seeping out of every pore.
“Planning,” I say. “That’s the look of someone who’s plotting to take me down.”
“Just you?”
“He’s not looking at us, bro. And if you kept your mouth shut and let him finish his game, this wouldn’t be happening.” Dylan takes a drag of his cig and scratches the back of his crew cut. “Let the guy have his fun, then he’ll take us back to Afterglow. Just go along with whatever he wants.”
“Do you know something we don’t? Because to me, it sounds like you’re the only one going back there with him,” I say.
A car slows then speeds away when Jack raises his middle finger at the driver. He comes out of his zone and pounds his fist on the hood, walking to my side and pacing next to the door.
“What’s he so upset about?” I ask.
“It’s the song. He sounds exactly like that guy singing. I think you offended him by not knowing who it was,” Quinn says.
The music fades and Jack’s ringing cell comes through the system with the word “Dad” appearing on the screen.
“Great, one Jameson leaves and another shows up. They’re everywhere... well, answer it. I want to talk to him,” I say, leaning forward.
“This oughta be good.” Dylan takes the call.
“Jack?”
“No. Your son’s outside acting like a savage nutcase,” I shout.
He opens the door and covers my mouth, his sweaty hand smelling like skunk and scrotum.
“Ow, you fucking bit me.” He holds his finger between his legs while his dad’s harsh voice pervades the car.
“Jack, why’s your car stopped on I-87? And where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“What?” He looks curiously at the dash, slowly lowering his hands to his sides. “Did you put a tracking device in my car?”
There’s no response from the other end.
“You’re seriously trailing me? So then you lied earlier when you asked if I was driving? You knew. You fucking already knew.” He sounds devastated. “Son of a...”
He reaches under Dylan’s seat then feels under his own and pulls out a roll of duct tape.
“No. Don’t. I’m sorry, I didn’t mmm-mmm.”
Damn it.
Damn him.
He taped my mouth.
I think I’m going to cry, but if I do, my nose will get stuffy and I won’t be able to breathe. What’s happening? Fuck!
“Mmm-mmmph-mmph.”
“You don’t deserve to speak, or live, if all you’re going to do is talk shit.” He slams my door and gets back in the driver’s seat, hangs up on his dad and hits the gas, flying back onto the Interstate.
I rest my forehead on Quinn’s leg and he presses his soft lips to the back of my neck, attempting to soothe my panic.
Help.
Help!
My muffled words are incomprehensible.
“The Doors? The Doors, my ass. Get your bands and singers straight. And you.” He points to Dylan. “Don’t fucking answer my calls. Stop touching my stuff. All of you... listen to me. Listen.” He pounds the steering wheel. “This is The Animals. It’s Eric Burdon. It’s not The Doors. It’s Eric fucking Burdon!”
Oh, dear Lord, someone smack him upside the head.
I roll, looking up at Quinn’s face, then at the cars passing by the window. One Mississippi... count them and try to calm down. Two Mississippi... three Mississippi... four... five... six... seven passes of glowing lights next to us.
Quinn notices my watery eyes and bends over, biting the corner of the tape to try to tug it off. It’s too sticky and his teeth can’t get a hold without biting my cheek. After multiple attempts, he sits back, discouraged.
“Sorry.”
He peeks at the vanishing city then leans forward, inspecting the front. The sorrow in his face reveals what I already know—we’ve come to a dead end.
There’s no way out, nothing we can say or do.
Nothing.
Quinn slumps back and says, “Tell me about our mom.”
“Yeah, alright.” Jack lowers his seat and gets comfortable, rubbing his chin before he begins. “You can fend for yourself, so I didn’t kill your dad to help you out in any way... although I’m not a fan of him being a homophobe, so maybe it was partly for you.”
“Our mom,” he demands an answer.
“Okay, okay... she had a restraining order against him. Wade was a dick to women.”
“That’s no surprise,” Dylan says, his smile wide from being stoned, sending the impression that such a serious subject is a joke to him.
“Every five years,” Jack says. “Like clockwork. He’d stay away from her, but would become a nuisance once that time was up. The reports said he’d hang out totally wasted in the parking lot where she worked, then would call her a bitch and a whore when she came out, following her all around and grabbing at her arm. Another restraining order would be filed and he’d wait ‘til the year was up, or she’d get it changed to five years... and he’d follow it—must’ve been afraid of the cops—then it’d start all over again. It’s like he spent over fifteen years sitting around, waiting to get his life back. I guess it was golden until she left.”
“No, it wasn’t. Life was never good. That’s why she left. He only cares about ownership and control, not love,” Quinn says. “Where does she work? Has she looked for us? Does she know I’ve been living on the streets because of him?”
“Hey, I never met her. I just saw your dad’s record, that’s all. Two other women filed similar reports. The guy had a problem with his grabby hands when he’d been out drinking.”
“Nah, I bet those women came on to him, then had second thoughts and wouldn’t spread their legs. He hated that shit,” Dylan says.
My God. What? Wha-what? I need to respond to that comment. That’s a terrible thing to say. Terrible. And when their dad saw me in his kitchen, he said, “Bitch gonna put you away” like Quinn was going to get slapped with a restraining order, too. Let me speak. I need to talk about this.