Sula still didn’t have a plan for what she would do when she had finally worked the tape loose. At the moment, bound and buckled the way she was, all she could do was scream. And screaming inside the vehicle was pointless. It would only earn another blow to her head and more tape across her mouth. She would wait until they reached their destination—wherever the hell that was—and watch for an opportunity.
After a while the combination of the motion and the pain made her nauseated. Stomach acid came up into her esophagus and scared her. Vomiting with her mouth taped could be suffocating. She held still and waited for the sick feeling to pass. The sense of being in the car and being scared and trying not to be sick brought back a vivid memory from her childhood.
Her family was on the way to the reservation to visit Aunt Serena. Dad was driving, mom was in the front next to him, and she and Calix were in back—singing, chatting, and counting cars of a certain color. Sula always picked red. She and her sister paid no attention to their parents’ conversation until they heard the tension. Then they half tuned in, picking up what they could while continuing their own chatter. Experience had taught them that becoming silent drew the tension their way.
Her parents argued about Daddy’s job. He said he had to quit. “It’s killing me,” he whined. Her mother was unmoved. She said “no” and “not again” and “we’ll starve.” Back and forth they went until Dad finally shouted, “I’ll kill us all, right here and now, and get it over with. It’ll be better than the slow death we’re living.”
The old station wagon shot ahead and unexpectedly, they were zooming along, faster and faster. Mother screamed at her father to stop. Sula’s stomach heaved and churned. She tried to be still, but before she could call out or roll down her window, she vomited right into her own lap, right into the pretty yellow dress she’d worn for the occasion.
Calix began to cry and yell at Daddy. Then it was over. The car slowed and they stopped on the side of the road. Mother helped her clean up with the jug of water they’d brought along to put in the radiator because it leaked. Daddy said he was sorry for scaring everyone. It was not first time she’d heard the apology. Nor would it be the last.
Sula pushed the memory aside before it triggered others. She had to stay focused, to keeping working the tape and be ready for any opportunity.
Chapter 36
Rudker turned on Willow Creek, then started watching for the road to the construction site. The entry wasn’t easy to spot in the dark. He missed it and had to turn around in the Prolabs’ driveway. He drove back, pulled in, and started down the gravel road. A hundred yards in, a metal gate loomed in his headlights. Rudker hit the brakes. Shit. When had that gone up? Shit. Shit. Shit. He couldn’t believe he didn’t know it was there.
He put the vehicle in park and walked up to the gate. It didn’t look particularly sturdy; he could probably run right through it. Nor would it present a problem to someone with a pair of bolt cutters. The construction people were probably just trying to keep teenagers from partying or four-wheeling on the site now that it was ready to build. Rudker ruled out crashing through the gate. He didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that someone had been on the property. Scratches to the front end of his rig would look suspicious too.
A six-foot, chain-link fence stretched out into the darkness on either side of the gate. Intuitively, he knew the fence didn’t surround the entire site. It most likely bordered only Willow Creek Road and Prolabs’ adjacent driveway. The rest of the property was open to the tree covered hillside.
The sound of a car coming up the road made Rudker feel exposed, standing there in the beam of his own headlights. He ran back to his big Jeep and climbed in. A quick look over the back seat to check on Sula. Her eyes were closed, but her head was moving. He wondered if she was praying. If so, she would be disappointed. He put the vehicle in reverse and backed out to the road. Rudker gunned the truck and raced up to the Prolabs’ driveway.
His short-lived mental peace exploded in a burst of rage. He hated being locked out. Hated it! It had happened to him over and over again as a kid because he couldn’t keep track of his house key. This was his property, damn it, and he would access it if he wanted to. He raced down Prolabs’ asphalt driveway, eyeing the fence that ran parallel about thirty feet behind the row of blooming shrubs.
He didn’t slow down until he entered the auxiliary parking lot. No cars were in sight. The IT guy had gone home. At the end of the asphalt, Rudker kept going. Then he veered left and drove through a small grove of willow trees. On the other side, the fence appeared directly in front of him. Rudker shut off his headlights. A half moon reflected enough light off the metal to keep him parallel to the chain link. The Commander rolled over the shrubs and bumpy terrain without much bounce. The fence ended abruptly about fifty feet later and Rudker came to a stop.
He decided not to drive onto the site itself. The Commander was big and heavy and would leave distinctive tire tracks in the wet dirt. In retrospect, it was a good thing the gate had been installed. It had kept him from making what could have turned out to be a serious mistake.
Rudker climbed out of the rig. The night had turned cool and he could hear the creek gurgling along the back of the property. The waterway was the only thing left on the ten acres that was still in its natural state. He took a leisurely piss, then opened the Jeep’s back door. He hoped he would be able carry Sula all the way to the back of the site where the factory would be built. He had the physical strength, but maybe not the stamina. Exercise had never been part of his lifestyle.
First he grabbed a flashlight from the jockey box. Before he could fit it into his pocket, the roll of duct tape had to come out. Rudker laid the tape on the front seat. He would toss it in a dumpster on his way home. Then he reached into the back storage area and pulled out the shovel he’d bought at Fred Meyer. He leaned the shovel against the truck, grabbed Sula by the ankles, and dragged her out. He would carry her as far as he could, then rest if he had to.
Robbie was unable to sleep. He’d dreamed for a while in a semi-wakeful state about going back to Prolabs, begging for his job, and being refused. In one dream sequence, his father came down from the executive suite into the factory to personally tell him to get lost. Each time, Robbie ran from the building and cycled away in shame.
Disturbed by the repeated dream rejections, Robbie got up and went out to the living room. He turned on the TV but couldn’t focus on any of the inane, middle-of-the-night programs. The shame of his dream stayed with him. He wished his mother would contact him. She always made him feel better about himself. Why hadn’t she returned his call? His father had been distant as ever.
Robbie felt himself sinking into despair but didn’t know how to stop it. The trial drug he was taking clearly wasn’t working for him, at least not yet. Some meds took a week or so to kick in. He would call the clinic tomorrow and tell them how he was feeling. Maybe he would drop out of the program and get back on the Zoloft.
In the mean time, getting a little nicotine into his system would probably help. It had in the past. Robbie looked for his cigarette pack but found it empty. He would have gladly walked the two blocks to the 7-11 store, but he didn’t have enough cash even for pack of generics. A trip to the ATM downtown was more of an effort than he had the energy for at this hour. He went out to the apartment’s tiny deck and looked through the cigarette can for a decent butt. They’d all been smoked to the nub. Robbie shivered in the cold night air. It was officially spring, but you’d never know it by the temperature.
He grabbed a jacket and his cell phone and headed out the front door. Maybe if he walked around the apartment complex he would run into someone and be able to bum a smoke. He didn’t believe he would get that lucky. It was three in the morning and even most students were in bed. The people who were still awake had better things to do than wander around outside. Yet on campus anything was possible.
Robbie headed upstairs. There was a group of apartments on the fourth lev
el that always seemed to have a late party going.
Climbing the three flights of stairs took all his energy. He’d felt weak ever since his little overdose incident and tonight his legs felt like lead. The fourth floor was as quiet as the rest of the building. Not a single light could be seen behind the individual apartment blinds. Robbie was sorry he’d made the effort.
He remembered the guys in 404 often went up on the roof to smoke. They had nailed a couple of footholds to the side of the building at the end of the balcony. He’d seen them stand on the railing and use the footholds to push themselves onto the roof of the balcony. From there, it was short scoot up to the flat roof surface where he was sure find a stash of cigarettes, maybe even a little pot.
Robbie shuffled to the end of the balcony and stared down at the street below. From this height, if he fell while trying to get on the roof, he would definitely die. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it the other night. If he had jumped instead of taking the stupid pills, it would be over now. There was no guesswork in jumping. And no one to stop him in the middle of a fall.
The girl’s eyes were wide with terror as he lifted her over his shoulder. Rudker had never elicited so much fear in anyone before. He knew he intimidated, and sometimes frightened, his employees, and that had rather pleased him. This was different and disturbing.
He reminded himself that it was a one-time situation. He was acting in self-defense and he was in way too deep to stop now. He didn’t believe in God or karma or have any concerns for his soul, but he would have to get back on his meds. He didn’t want this memory to haunt him.
Sniveling coward. Never worry about the other person. Never show remorse. Didn’t you learn anything from your Daddy?
Oh yes. He’d learned quite a bit from the old man. Lesson number one? Never back down.
The girl didn’t go easy at first. She twisted on his shoulder with a relentless fury for a minute, then seemed to give up. The terrain, although cleared of trees and shrubs, had not been graded yet. Rudker stumbled on a huge dirt clod and almost went down. After another ten steps, he was breathing so hard he had to stop. He kneeled and dropped Sula in the dirt. For a moment, she lay there unmoving. Rudker took a few deep breaths of air. Abruptly Sula rolled away and split the night with a shriek.
Her cry shot through him like an electric jolt. Rudker lunged and landed on her as she rolled again. He covered her mouth with his hand and willed his heart to slow down. Jesus. What if he had a heart attack out here?
Sula finally stopped struggling and Rudker’s pulse settled into a still-rapid, but steady rate. He pushed to his knees so he was straddling her.
Rudker used the flashlight to look around for the tape that had been on her mouth, but it was a pointless search. Even if he could find it out here in the dark, it would be covered with dirt and not likely to re-adhere.
Rudker squeezed her face and leaned in close. “You’re not getting away. Diane Warner didn’t get away and she was a better woman than you are.”
In a quick motion, he pulled his hand away from her mouth and brought the flashlight down on her forehead. Sula’s eyes closed and her head rolled to the side. Rudker peeled back a strip of the tape from her ankles, ripped it loose, and pressed it over her mouth. Letting her scream again worried him more than the possibility she could get away from him out here. He wasn’t overly concerned about either. He had smacked her pretty hard. If she opened her eyes again she would be breathing dirt.
He heaved Sula’s limp, heavy body over his other shoulder. Warner had been much smaller and easier to deal with. That had been an unfortunate accident. She had gone too far with her accusations and he had simply lost control. The fact that Warner had been dressed in jogging clothes made the body decision easy: Dump her near the bike path and hope some homeless crazy guy got blamed. It had worked too. This time he had to be more careful. A second death of a Prolabs’ employee would draw police suspicion. A disappearance was another story.
With a new surge of energy, Rudker pushed to his feet. He had to get moving. He still had a grave to dig.
Chapter 37
Sula thought she was still in the vehicle, rolling down the road, but there was something wrong with one of the tires. It was making a rhythmic “chunk, chunk, chunk” sound. She fought to wake herself up. It was important to keep track of where they going.
As she surfaced, the front part of her brain burned with raw pain. Her eyelids felt sticky, and she struggled to get her eyes open and keep them open. Darkness surrounded her, but overhead she could see stars. She was outside, not in the car. The ground beneath her was cool and damp even through her pants. Her arms, trapped under her back, ached from the strain and weight of her body.
How did she get here? Had Rudker carried her? Where was he? She inched her head forward off the ground. The steady “chunk” sound was louder and clearer now. About ten feet away, Rudker’s form came into focus. He bent over, then straightened up. Then did it again. As her eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight, Sula realized he had a shovel.
He was digging!
Her heart skipped a beat. The bastard was digging a hole to bury her in. Sula wanted to scream, but her mouth was taped and her lungs were paralyzed with fear.
No. No. No. She cried without sound, without tears. She wasn’t ready to die. She wanted to see Tate grow up, even if it was from a distance. She wanted to have a real love affair. She wanted to write investigative journalism stories.
The chunk sounded continued. She could hear Rudker’s labored breath between digs.
A memory, dark and horrible, fluttered around the edge of her consciousness. Sula tried to push it away, but she had no strength, no reserve of mental health to draw from right now. At first the memory floated in and out with brief hazy images, but the sound of the shovel striking the dirt reverberated in her brain. The past flooded into her consciousness in full, technicolor detail as though it were happening all over again.
Sula watched her father from her bedroom window. His tall, thin body hunched over the hole he was digging in the back yard as the wind tousled his collar-length hair. The cold evening air blew the tears off his cheeks as he worked. Sula had cried at first too. Mostly because her parents were upset and bad things happened when they got emotional.
Her mother had run over Patches, her daddy’s dog, while coming down the driveway.
Mom had burst in as Sula and Calix and Dad sat at the kitchen table, eating cold ham sandwiches and corn chips. Her pretty face was twisted with liquor and grief. She slumped at the table and sobbed. All she would say was “I’m sorry.” Sula and her sister refused to give their mother the attention she wanted, but her father, sensing it was more than just another missed dinner, ran out to the driveway.
A loud wail penetrated the thin trailer wall. She’d heard Daddy cry before, but not like this. This was distressing. Calix, older by a year and Dad’s favorite, pushed past their mother and ran out to him. Sula followed, but with a wary caution. She’d learned to distrust high emotion, to shut down her own feelings so she would not be caught up in the drama.
Her father kneeled on the ground next to her mother’s Oldsmobile and cradled the black-and-gray Australian Shepherd in his arms. There was little blood, but Patches was clearly broken. The sight of the injured dog and her father weeping was more than Sula could handle. She and Calix cried with him.
Then abruptly Dad stood. “Calix, bring my pistol.
Her sister’s distress was visible. “Why?”
“I have to end his suffering. Bring it to the back yard.”
Sula could not watch. She went to her bedroom, ignoring her mother’s call for attention. Once there, she stood near the window and peeked out, watching to see if her sister would do as told. Calix, as stubborn as she was beautiful, was often defiant of their parents. Sula preferred peace, even if it meant losing ground.
Calix came into the back yard, carrying the gun as if it were a poisonous snake. Her dad put Patches on the grass, took the pis
tol from Calix, then told her to go inside. Sula turned away from the window. The gun blast was a short, loud pop. Sula wondered if their neighbors had heard. The Crawleys were about a half mile away.
Sula turned back and watched her father retrieve a shovel from the shed. He began to dig. The “chunk, chunk, chunk” sound seemed to go on forever, but Sula could not tear herself away. She wanted to know the minute he was done. She wanted to be ready for whatever came next. Part of her brain said to leave the house, to get far away, but she couldn’t. She loved her mother in spite of her drinking and would stay to protect her if she could.
She returned to the kitchen where her mother sat at the table eating Sula’s sandwich. She no longer wanted it, but it annoyed her anyway. Calix’s dinner was also unfinished. Her sister was in the living room watching TV.
“Hi honey. I’m sorry about the dog. Was this your sandwich?” The smell of gin hung around her mother like a cloud.
“You can have it.” Sula watched for signs of awareness or concern but didn’t detect any. “Dad has been a little high strung lately.”
“I know, honey. That’s why I went to the bar with the girls.”
“This may set him off.”
“It’s only a dog.”
“Maybe we should go for a walk.”
Her mother laughed. “No thanks.”
As Sula started to sit down at the chipped formica table, her mother jumped up. “I’m going to take a shower.” She sashayed away, her jeans hugging her lithe body and her long hair gently swinging. She looked too young to have teenage daughters. People always said so.
The back door slammed. Sula jumped, then glanced over at Calix. Her sister’s gaze never left the TV, but her eyes watched their father as he moved past both of them, gun in hand.
The Suicide Effect Page 23