Messages, a Psychological Thriller

  Lacey had nodded her appreciation and taken a seat, flipping through magazines while she waited for Henry. She’d called into work and talked to her dayshift partner, Mary, who’d relayed the information to her other partner Eugene even as Lacey relayed it to her. Eugene had made no comment that Lacey could hear, but she could imagine the irritated tightening of his lips and roll of his slightly bulbous eyes. Mary hadn’t sounded particularly happy about it either–it meant she’d have to hold her changes until next week or do them herself tomorrow–but neither did she sound particularly upset. Really, it seemed as though neither one of them cared very much. Which made sense, Lacey thought, sighing after she hung up the phone. Night shift production people were easy to come by. If she disappointed too much, they’d just campaign for a new nighttime person. Then she’d be out.

  “You can go out back there with Henry, if you want,” Mack says from the cash register by the front door, startling her out of her reverie. “I’m headed home.” He slams the drawer closed in a final sort of way, and Lacey looks around and notices that the shop is dark; closed for the night.

  She looks back to Mack, who is shrugging into a light jacket and pulling on a red Phillies cap. “Got your coupons?” he asks her. She smiles and nods, patting her purse.

  “Right here.”

  “Good girl. Door to the back bays is right here. Don’t brush up against anything–we keep it tidy, but a garage is a garage after all, and you’ll likely ruin your clothes. Henry’ll lock up, he knows the drill.” Mack is halfway out the front door, still talking, when he turns. “He’s a good guy. He gets a bad rap, but…” he nods deeply and gives her one more of his sober-serious winks, “I’d trust him with my money; know what I mean?”

  Lacey nods, not really sure what he means; she really doesn’t know anything about Henry. Other than that she likes him.

  She pushes the glass door halfway open, and the strong odor of oil and grease wafts over her on a cold current of air. The garage is tidy, surprisingly tidy to her eye. She expected calendars picturing half-naked girls lolling on the hoods of cars or at least scatterings of black-encrusted tools, but everything seems to have a place, and each thing looks relatively cared for.

  There is a sharp clank, and she hears Henry curse softly and without vehemence. She begins to grin, forgetting work for a moment, forgetting James and the apartment, and she is taken back to high school and the shop class and her first really serious crush, Dom Vincenze. She’d spent hours, so it seemed now, sitting on cold cement, handing him the tools he asked for as he cursed and cajoled pieces into place. All the while talking with her about the things her friends said and did, the things her parents said and did, what her teachers said and did. Those had been satisfying days and once again, she realizes she didn’t appreciate them nearly enough while they were happening. Sometimes, she thinks she’d give up anything to be back there, talking of inconsequential nonsense, while the world was bolted into place, curse by soft curse.

  Her phone rings in her purse, and Henry looks up, startled. He hadn’t known she was halfway in. In his surprise, his face is open, young, with a smear of black under one cheekbone like war paint. Lacey feels a stir deep in her lower belly. Then her phone rings again.

  She looks at the caller ID window. It’s James’ number. Her current life tumbles back down around her like bricks, and she glances once more at Henry, gives him a small half-wave, and turns back into the dark shop, answering her phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Lace, Lacey…are you at work?” His voice in her ear is frantic, almost panicked. She grips her phone tighter and sits back down in the chair she’d just left.

  “What’s wrong?” she says.

  “Are you…am I bothering you at work?”

  “No, I’m not at work, I had a problem with the car. James, what’s wrong?”

  “When are you coming home? I need to see you. I know things have been strange, that I’ve been…a little…strange, but…” His voice trails off to dead silence, and Lacey frowns and pulls the phone from her ear, wondering if she’s lost the connection. The little counter ticks off the seconds…1:13, 1:14, 1:15. Then she hears him and puts the phone back to her ear.

  “…sure if this is safe talking. I mean, is this an open line?”

  Lacey tilts her head, confusion tightening her features–is he talking to someone there with him? She tries to listen harder, but hears nothing. She checks the counter again…1:21, 1:22…

  Faintly she hears, “Lace? You there?” and puts the phone back to her ear again.

  “Yes, I’m here, I thought…were you talking to me? Just now?”

  “Yes, but I’d rather you just come home. We’ll talk at home.”

  Lacey shakes her head. “James, I have to tell you something…I…when I left this morning, I packed a bag…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says, overriding her. “Just come home, Lace, I need you.”

  She feels pulled two ways at once. Angry that he cut her off but drawn by the need limning his voice. “James, I’m not coming home tonight. I need to think about us and about…everything.”

  Lacey doesn’t hear anything and looks at the call timer again…2:12, 2:13, 2:14.

  “…mind about that…”

  “James, what did you just say? I’m sorry, I was looking at the call timer; I thought we’d been disconnected. What was the last thing you said?”

  There is another long pause, but this time, Lacey waits, listening. She can hear James breathing. A wave of cold rolls up her back, and she turns to see Henry push through the glass door to the bays when James says, “I said you might be forced to change your mind about that.”

  Then James hangs up.

  Chapter 23

  James takes the object and stashes it in the back of his middle desk drawer, locks the drawer, and drops the key in his pocket. He stands to leave, hesitates, and gives the drawer three quick pulls to check that it’s locked.

  It is.

  He gets halfway to the door when he checks the key in his pocket. It’s there. But he is suddenly afraid it is not the right key. He goes back to the desk, taking the key from his pocket, and slides the key into the lock on the middle drawer. The drawer opens, and he peeks at the object, then closes and locks the drawer. He drops the key in his pocket with a deep sense of satisfaction.

  He gets all the way to the door before something whispers…you didn’t lock the drawer…and he thinks it might be the object itself, whispering to him, alerting him to its vulnerability. He goes back to the desk, slides the key in, and opens the drawer. But he can’t be sure if the drawer was locked or not; he forgot to check it first. He shakes his head. Doesn’t matter. He closes the drawer, turns the key, tries the drawer–locked–stands, drops the key in his pocket and is halfway to the door when he wonders if he put the key in his pocket or left it lying right in the middle of the desk. Where anyone could find it. And unlock the drawer. And get at the object.

  He puts his hand in his pocket and feels the key just as he looks back at the neat, blank top of his desk. The key is in his pocket. The desk surface is clear. But he can’t shake the image of the key, held in a spotlight, shining on the desk like a grail.

  He grips the key tighter, letting the edges dig into his palm, his fingers. He holds his breath and stares at the desktop until he can feel his pulse in his head. His vision blurs slightly with each heartbeat, the desk vibrates minutely and then settles. Vibrates and settles. Vibrates and settles.

  There.

  Is.

  No.

  Key.

  Except.

  For.

  The.

  Key.

  In.

  My.

  Pocket.

  He resists adding the letters, dividing the syllables. He has to get going. He doesn’t have all day to fool around like this. He forces himself to turn, to pull the office door closed behind him. He pulls his keychain from his other pocket–his key pocket (that’s why the drawer k
ey feels so strange, he thinks, why I can’t get my head around it…it’s not in my key pocket!) and locks the office door.

  He gives the handle three quick turns, checking. That’s all he needs to do for the office door. He’s been locking it for weeks and knows through repetition and routine that it is locked. Really knows. He nods as though agreeing with this sentiment, as though it is something he hears from an outside source, not as a thought in his own mind.

  Then he turns and unlocks the door. His eyes are blank. He hums. He puts the key in his pocket and turns away from the office door.

  Then his eyes snap back into focus.

  The phone call to Lacey had been upsetting. He knows that’s why he is having–difficulty–leaving the object behind. He hadn’t meant to hang up on her. But he’d been getting that feeling, that heaviness in his chest when it seemed that she might not come home. He had broken out in a sweat, his hands clammy, slow drops tickling down the sides of his chest from his armpits.

  After he’d hung up, he’d stared at the receiver. He’d wanted to call her back, try and explain, but he couldn’t. A wave of something, almost faintness, had come over him, and he’d had to lean back in his office chair, taking even breaths. His chest was heavy, but at the same time, he felt as though he’d float away if he didn’t grip on to something.

  He’d wrapped his hands around the underside of his office chair. His arms locked tight to his sides like steel bands. His palms pressed into the stuffed leather while his fingertips found the ragged edge and staples and then the smooth surface of the wood frame. It occurred to him that the wood frame beneath the leather and padding was the truth of the chair. The truth of what the chair was.

  He’d smoothed his fingers over the wood, liking the feel. He’d tilted his head back and closed his eyes, hoping the heaviness would pass. A vision of Lacey had come into his mind, bag packed, ponytail swaying, walking away. Her flip-flops said scrape-slap, scrape-slap, scrape-slap. He said her name, “Laycee,” unaware that he spoke it out loud, unaware that in his mind, he has changed the spelling of her name. He does not like to see her back, going away, the sway of hair, and the shuffling scrape of the flip-flops.

  “Laycee,” he’d said, eyes closed, misery filling him like liquid lead, pushing him further into the chair. Soon, he’d be too heavy for the floor to hold him. He’d crash through. Into the earth, Into nothing. He’d tried to struggle up, to push away from the hardwood frame, and then he felt too light, that he might fly suddenly up and crash into the ceiling. His hands had gripped the chair, knuckles going white with strain. He’d felt suspended, precarious, very afraid.

  “Ma!” he’d cried out, one strangled, dusty croak from the back of his throat.

  “Yes, Baby?” his mom said, and she’d been there, next to him, her hand on his chest. A comfort. His fingers gripped the wood slats of the crib. Gripped and released, gripped and released, a pulsing need.

  “I’m sick, Ma,” he’d said, eyes closed, willing his mom to stay this time, just stay.

  “Baby, are you sick? Don’t feel very good?” she’d said, her hand on his chest, smoothing a large circle over and over. Her hair a big soft puff, haloed by the ceiling light. An angel. A red angel. “You don’t feel very good,” she’d said, and now he could feel her breath on his face. Close, intimate. The tickle of her hair on his cheek. “You have to eat, Baby, it will help,” she’d said, the words buffeting against his ear like dandelion fluff.

  And then food had been there, the smell rich and enticing. His stomach had cramped, beyond mere growling, beyond hunger. A warm sip of liquid slid down his throat, his greedy lips gripping the wooden spoon, gripping and releasing, suckling, wanting more. Then the spoon was gone, and he’d panicked, instant tears squeezed from his eyes, but then the spoon was back, more liquid, rich with flavor. His stomach had cramped again, waking up, and then roared its approval. The hand on his chest, smoothing and smoothing. The red hair, the angel halo. The food. His tiny fingers gripping the wood and releasing. Gripping and releasing.

  “What a good baby,” she’d said, “eat it up…yum…” her voice a tickle, a giggle sparking bright notes through her words. He’d begun to smile, gummy and toothless, and the spoon was back, more liquid sliding down, filling him. Filling him up.

  Sitting in the office chair, he’d smiled, unaware he was doing so. Unaware he’d fallen into a trance-like state. He could once again feel the light, rough texture of the wooden spoon on his lips. Hear her voice counting, counting out the spoonfuls, not understanding what numbers are yet. Wanting to understand the numbers. Needing to. He could feel the liquid filling him, nourishing him, and he slid deeper.

  “One more, Baby,” she’d said, “One more little bit for Mommy, darling Baby,” and he’d opened his mouth to the spoon. The liquid this time was cold, thick, but he swallowed convulsively, and it slid down his throat. The taste was terrible, the smell in his nasal cavities even worse. He’d been fooled again. But how could he not be fooled? He wanted the food, wanted it desperately. He never knew when the change was coming.

  His stomach had cramped again, a different cramp this time, trying to reject the last thing. And then everything had come up. His tiny body contracted with the force of it. He’d relieved himself at the same time. Hot against his back and buttocks, pooling beneath him on the rubber sheet.

  Then it was her hair, darker red and no longer haloed, swaying, going away, and he’d cried out in terror and pain. Then she had come back, and he felt soft cotton wrapped around him, the pressure holding him together. And then being lifted. So rare, being lifted. Only at these times, after vomiting, after the fooling. And then…

  In the office, he drew his arms tightly to his sides as though wrapped in a blanket. A snug, soft cotton baby blanket. The sensation of swaddling equalized the inside and outside pressure. He opened his eyes.

  The object was floating three inches above the desk, rotating, glowing. It cast waves of warmth over him, soothing the cold clamminess away. He was grateful. Relieved.

  Beyond even what Riddel had said, James knew this object had to be kept safe. It was sacred. Something to be treasured. He felt the obligation of it like a weight. That’s why it was so…difficult…making sure it was safe. Locked up tight. He didn’t want anything to happen to it.

  He sits in his car, hands tight on the steering wheel. He doesn’t remember the trance, only waking to see the object, hovering, almost as though it were watching over him. Protecting him.

  “You called her?” Riddel asks from the passenger seat.

  James nods, hands getting tighter for an instant and then releasing as he sits back with a sigh. “I had to. She deserves an explanation. And I don’t want her to leave me.”

  Riddel is in street clothes again, and James is glad. It might look odd to his neighbors if they happened to look out and see a cop in his passenger seat. They might think he’d done something wrong. He marvels about the level of misunderstanding that can occur. No one has any idea what he has accomplished. The great strides he has made not just in the past year or past six months, but just in the past three days!

  Well…Riddel knows. There’s that.

  “Did you find out anything else at the station?” James says.

  Riddel shifts and nods. He crosses his arms over his chest and then turns his head to consider James with his sober, gray eyes. “I don’t know if you realize how much danger you were in with that Simonelli character. He was a real monster…worse than we thought with the prostitution and drugs. You know what else he was associated with?” Riddel squints at James, and James shakes his head. “That sick fuck was into kids. Kiddie porn. How’s that for the worst of the worst? I’ll tell you what, James,” Riddel says. “You really did everyone–especially us, the police!–a real favor by taking that old monster out. I can’t imagine how many lives that guy has ruined. I don’t know how you knew about him, how that object you found works into this whole thing, but you’re a damn hero. And once this is over with a
nd we can come forward, I’m going to make damn well sure that everyone knows it.” He put his hand on James’ shoulder and squeezed.

  James feels himself blushing. He looks up and sees one of his neighbors, Mrs. Allen, walking her little dog. She waves congenially at James, but then her eyes slide over Riddel and away as she walks quickly past. James has noticed that people do that a lot with Riddel. It’s like no one wants to acknowledge a cop when they see one. Must be a bunch of guilty consciences out there.

  “Was he involved with any kind of…I don’t know…government technology or anything? That might explain the object,” James says. At the mention of it, he sees it in his mind’s eye, spinning calmly.

  Riddel is shaking his head. “I don’t know that yet. I have to talk to a few more people, go higher up. I might have to get the FBI involved in this, you know. This could be big, really big. Bigger than just the two of us.”

  At the mention of more people, the FBI, James feels a shiver of jealousy run though him. The object gleams in his mind, a mellow treasure. “It’s something to do with me,” he says, not looking at Riddel. “I was the one it wanted, I was the one who put it all together…” the hand again, on his shoulder, clutching and releasing, clutching and releasing. Riddel’s hand.

  “I know that, James, and believe me, that’s foremost in my mind. But it might mean I need to…” his voice trails off, but he is staring at James intently.

  “Might need to what?” James said.

  “I might need to look into you a little bit.”

  James feels an almost sexual thrill of response to Riddel’s words, his lower belly tightening and tingling. The deep itch returns to his mind. He hasn’t felt the itch since he found the object.

  “Into me? But I didn’t have anything to do with it…I just…I just…”