Messages, a Psychological Thriller

  “That’s why you broke things? Took things? ’Cause you were angry?”

  She hadn’t missed the first things he’d said. She was just fishing through, putting the pieces together. “Yeah, I think so. He never…my stepdad…would never give me anything. No money to go do things. I know we weren’t rich or anything, but I couldn’t…everyone had some money, you know? Enough for a slice of pizza or McDonald’s or something. I’m not crying about it, but I mean…nothing? Not even an allowance for chores or whatever?” Henry hates saying the word ‘chores’, it had such a Cosby Show ring to it, and his family had for sure never been anything like the madcap Huxtables. “But just a few bucks, especially when I got a little older. You hang out with your friends, you know? And they all had to pay my way. Every time. And he wouldn’t let my ma give me anything, either.” Henry feels the helpless rage building in his stomach. Any time he thinks about any of this, he feels like that powerless, angry kid again. “So I started taking it. But anyway…yeah. I guess that’s why I pulled all that shit.” He sits back hard, shaking the booth.

  She is poking at her fries now, searching for the crispiest ones. “I know what you mean,” she says, and all at once, he relaxes. He didn’t even realize how tense he’d been holding himself, waiting for her to jump up and run out the door. But she just sits, thoughtfully swirling a pattern into the salt spilled next to her plate.

  “It’s like you get stuck in someone else’s version of who they think you are, right?” Lacey says, and now she is still, looking at him steadily.

  Henry nods. Her eyes are so green. So pretty.

  “So, I guess, that’s how that guy–your boyfriend–makes you feel?” He doesn’t want to say his name. It would feel wrong on his lips.

  “Yes, but it’s my fault, too. For letting it happen. When we started out, we were really good together. I think I was good for him…made him forget some of his craziness, his rules and obsessions. But it was like, as time went by, his original track was so deeply ingrained that he couldn’t pull free. And eventually, I got pulled down with him,” Lacey says. She looks at Henry, head tilted, tears lying on her lower lids, refracting the light. “Why do you think it always seems like one person is stronger in the relationship than the other?”

  Henry shakes his head, disturbed by her tears but unable to comfort her because the tears are for the other guy. He changes the subject.

  “Listen, what do you want to do now? Call the police? I could tell them what I know, and you could tell them what you know.” He doesn’t really like the thought of talking to the police. His experiences with them have never been positive. He’s not even sure if they’ll believe anything he says. He has lied so much.

  Lacey shakes her head. “No. I still don’t think…I mean…it makes no sense. I just can’t…James is odd, but he’s not a killer,” she says and then sits straight in the booth, putting her feet back on the floor. “I’m going home to talk to him.”

  Chapter 25

  Lacey drops Henry at his mom’s house on Oak. She waves and smiles as she pulls away, and he gives her a short wave in return and then jams his hands in his pockets. He stands at the apron to the driveway and stares down the street in the direction her car had gone.

  He hadn’t been happy when she said she was going home to talk to James, but he’d tried to keep it to himself. What business was it of his? He had nothing to do with the girl. Not really.

  He turns abruptly and heads to the house, skirting the Taurus and noting with automatic caution that the truck is gone. He would grab his ma’s keys and head over to dipshit Mark’s house. Crash there again tonight. He’d have to see about getting his own place. He’d been kicking the idea around for a while, but with one thing and another, he’d never gotten around to it.

  Henry had officially left home when he’d turned eighteen. That’s when Chuck said the free ride was over–free ride, what a laugh. He’d given Henry two choices: military or job. Mary Ellen had wanted him to go to college. She was always harping about how he’d been a straight A kid until sixth grade. But Henry didn’t know how to go about even looking into a college–what was involved and what you had to do. He’d fucked around so much through high school, barely squeaking by to graduation, and he hadn’t paid any attention to the guidance counselor’s crap about his aptitude and potential. Henry’d sat sullenly through all such meetings, hating being told who he was, what he was, what he should do. Back then, it had all seemed like a continuation of the way Chuck constantly rode him at home.

  Well, too fucking late, Henry thinks, fishing the extra house key from under the back door welcome mat. I’m good and fucking stuck now. But even as he thinks it, he wonders if he could do better. Ask for a raise. Tell Mack the idea he’d had about changing their ordering process–he’s pretty sure he can get the bulk stuff cheaper by ordering online and negotiating the shipping.

  He navigates the back porch in the dark, stumbling over boots and a case of beer, and opens the door to the kitchen, wondering why the light isn’t on. It’s only eight thirty on Thursday night. Arch is probably out roaming with friends or hanging out at Brother’s. Usually his ma leaves the light on for her baby chick. Henry snorts laughter at the picture of Mary Ellen dressed in a chicken suit, sitting on Arch as he struggles to breathe. Then Henry recalls the funeral from this morning, how broken up Arch has been since he found the Simonellis, and he knows Arch isn’t out gallivanting with friends.

  “Ma? You here?”

  The kitchen is dark, too. Completely dark. Even the light over the stove is off and Mary Ellen always leaves that light on. Chuck had always complained because the little bulb burns out every six months or so.

  An electric shiver runs up Henry’s spine. Something isn’t right. He lets his eyes adjust to the dark, standing stock-still, taking small, shallow breaths. He can feel the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stirring as it rises.

  As his eyes adjust, the details of the kitchen begin to come together. The brown, particleboard cabinets with their faux Tudor hardware; worn, cream linoleum countertop scratched from years of knives; and the appliances which are at least forty years old and in a green color Sears hasn’t made since the early eighties, at least. There is a round table on the opposite side of the kitchen, nearer the living room doorway. It is where Henry remembers taking meals since before he can remember, the dining room off limits except for the one time they’d hosted a Thanksgiving dinner for Mary Ellen’s family.

  He sees that one of the kitchen chairs is on its side. Mary Ellen’s purse is on the floor next to it, the contents vomited out over the linoleum. Beyond the contents of the purse, just crossing the threshold into the kitchen from the living room, is a bare leg and a foot with purple-painted toenails.

  Henry takes a sharp step backward, a barked “Ma!” startled from his throat. He flicks on the kitchen overheads, and now he can see the rest of her, sprawled out in the living room.

  The foot in the living room is still slippered. Her nightgown is rucked up to just past her knees, and her varicose veins stand out in dark purple squiggles. Her arms are spread wide, hands palm up and covered with blood so fresh and thick it looks like red finger paint. There is blood on her face from her nose to the neckline of her nightgown, where it has bloomed red flowers into the soft cotton. Her head is turned, almost looking backward into the living room, only half her face showing.

  Henry stands frozen, his hand still on the light switch. He can’t breathe. Can’t move. He hears a strangled, gargling sound and thinks it is him, and he holds his breath. The noise continues. It must be her. The realization frees him, and he is across the room, grabbing the telephone receiver from the wall as he scrambles past the overturned chair. He falls heavily to his knees next to her as the phone cord pulls tight across the table, tumbling another chair over with a clattering bang.

  “Ma?” he says, even as the 911 operator starts speaking into his ear.

  “Ma? Ma?” Henry says, cradling the phone between hi
s shoulder and ear and reaching out to Mary Ellen.

  “Sir? What is your emergency? Sir?” the operator squawks in his ear.

  He puts a shaking hand to his mother’s face and turns her head so that she is facing up. He can still hear the strangled breath sounds. Her nose has been squashed almost flat and red bubbles of blood and mucous pulse slowly at her nostrils. Henry recognizes a broken nose, a black eye. He takes in the split lip and the large blue knot forming at her hairline. He knows her injuries are the result of a beating. Chuck flashes into his mind, fists raised, beery and sullen. Chuck had never laid a hand on Mary Ellen, nothing serious, nothing more than shoves, really. But Henry knows that there can be a breaking point, that men like Chuck, especially, are prone to the break.

  “Sir? Sir?” the operator continues, neither patient nor impatient, sounding almost like a machine.

  “Yes. I’m at 18 Oak Avenue in Essex. It’s my ma, my mother, she’s been beat up. She’s hurt real bad, her nose is broken and…”

  “Sir, can I have your name, please?”

  “Yes, it’s Henry Savion. My mother’s name is Mary Ellen Savion. We’re at 18 Oak Avenue in Essex. She’s bleeding very badly…”

  “I have an EMT on the way, sir, please stay on the line with me.”

  Mary Ellen’s head turns slowly side to side, and her lips move. Henry bends closer, gently wiping the mucous and blood from her nose, clearing her airway, putting a relieved stop to that frighteningly thick, bubbling sound. “Ma, it’s me, Henry. You’re gonna be okay, Ma.”

  Mary Ellen’s eyes squeeze closed even tighter, and she shakes her head again. Her lips part, and blood is smeared onto her teeth. “Arch…Archer…”

  Henry feels a black arrow of jealousy shoot through him. Still the baby, he thinks, it’s always about the damn baby. I’m here, I’m helping her, but it’s still Arch, Arch, Arch.

  “Henry,” she whispers, as if in contradiction of his thoughts. She opens her eyes, the right one staying mostly closed, swollen shut. She looks past Henry and reaches out. Henry grabs her hand, it is cold and slick with blood, and her eyes shift to him. He watches her iris contract as she focuses on his face. “Henry,” she says, choking on the word, coughing out a thin spray of blood. Henry runs his sleeve over his own face, absently wiping away the blood.

  “It’s okay, Ma. The ambulance is on its way.”

  Her hand clutches his, and he is reassured by the strength he feels in it. She struggles to pull herself up, her neck straining, and Henry pushes her gently back down. The phone tumbles from his shoulder, hits the floor, and springs backward, pulled by the too-taut cord.

  “He took Arch,” she breathes out, almost sighing as she crumples back onto the floor.

  Henry has his hands on her shoulders, holding her down and supporting her at the same time. Her hands come to his wrists and grip on like panicked bird claws. “He took him.”

  “Who? Chuck? Chuck took him?” Henry feels confused and angry. The combination is not helping him think straight. “He took Arch?”

  She closes her eyes and relaxes all the way back, no longer struggling against him. Tears squeeze from her eyes, the right side cutting a clear track through the blood.

  “I don’t know who it was. Some man. He came in, had a gun, and was pointing it at Arch, saying, ‘I’m a cop, come with me,’ and I said, ‘Arch, no!’ and I tried…I got in between them, didn’t want Arch to go with him, and then it was like an explosion in my head. I think he hit me, punched me or something. I fought him.” Her eye opens and blazes at Henry, and her hands tighten their grip on his wrists. “I fought him, Henry, and he kept…hitting me…and…” The fire leaks out of her eye and out of her voice, and she relaxes all the way back, hands falling away from his wrists. Her eyes close, and she lies still. Henry realizes she passed out. He feels for the pulse in her neck: strong and steady. Then he turns and knee-walks to where the receiver lies. He can hear the operator’s voice as he gets closer. He lifts the receiver to his ear and speaks over the operator, “You need to send the police, too. Someone took my little brother.”

  Chapter 26

  James stares intently at the traffic light, willing it to change: go green, go green, dammit. Muffled thumps are coming from behind his back seat, and he cuts his eyes to the car next to him to see if anyone notices. Luckily, the weather has changed again, and it’s too cold to have the windows down. The driver in the next car turns to him, and James gasps, hands tightening on the steering wheel. The driver has no face. There is just smooth, blank whiteness where the features should be–an alien! James’ heart pauses in its rhythm. The driver turns again, and now James sees her features. It’s just a lady; he’d been looking at the back of her head the first time. Her long blonde hair. She smiles at James, and he tries to smile back, but it sits oddly on his face. His body is still thrumming from excess adrenalin. Her features contract in alarm, and she involuntarily shoots forward, almost hitting the car in front of her before engaging her brakes.

  The light changes, and the lanes move. James feels relief flow through him, and he also notes that the thumping has stopped. At least for now. He looks to his right to the passenger seat. There is a gun on the seat, its barrel streaked with blood. James shudders and faces forward again.

  Riddel had come to him with the plan to get a hold of the kid from 18 Oak Ave. Riddel said he would get the kid to go down to the station with him, get him into an interrogation room, and see what he knew about the object. Find out what his involvement with the Simonellis amounted to.

  James had agreed to the plan but balked when Riddel asked him to ride along to the kid’s house. (Arch, thinks James, glancing toward his back seat, the kid’s name is Arch, you heard his mom say it, stop calling him the kid.) James had wanted to know why, and Riddel had again expressed the sensitivity of the investigation. That he was keeping it to as few people as possible.

  “I might need you, who knows?” Riddel had said, checking the gun. He’d been sitting in the passenger seat of James’ Impala. James eyed the gun with alarm and fascination. It looked just like the gun he’d bought ten years ago, before he’d moved into the gated community. He’d gone to the range a few times, just enough to feel like he’d be able to shoot the damn thing should the need arise, then he’d put it away and forgotten about it. Funny how Riddel’s gun looked exactly like it.

  “I’m not going in the house with you,” James had said, still unable to tear his eyes off the gun.

  “You won’t need to,” Riddel had said, sighting down the short length of the barrel. “It will only take a minute. Then you can drive us to the station. It’s right up the road. No one will be the wiser.”

  But it hadn’t happened that way. Everything had gone horribly awry. Riddel was MIA, the gun was sitting next to him covered in blood, and the kid…Arch, dammit, his name is Arch…was in the trunk.

  At first, James had panicked, driving aimlessly, considering and discarding idea after idea. He realized his thinking was as circular as his route, and he’d pulled into an empty parking lot to get himself together. Get this figured out. He’d decided he couldn’t go to the police–he had no idea who knew what; what Riddel had or hadn’t set in motion. Going directly to the police might make everything blow up in their faces. He couldn’t take Arch back to his apartment; he’d scream bloody murder, and it would leak right through the shared walls and into his neighbor’s ears. Finally, he’d decided on the one place he knew that was remote, deserted at this time of year, and out of the elements. And he turned the car around, heading southeast, deeper into the rural areas of South Jersey.

  Much of South Jersey was still farmland, a lot of it bordering the wooded portion known as the Pine Barrens. The heavy forest of the Pine Barrens runs all the way from Atco, just outside Essex, east all the way to the shore and south almost as far as Delaware.

  Because the climate of South Jersey is a northern clime, the growing season is relatively short and farms function mainly with itinerant labor, boo
ming spring to fall and becoming lightly manned through the winter.

  There is an apple orchard where, during the off-season, it is more than a light operation, it is a dead operation. The big red barn–with the grinning, apple-cheeked apple painted on the side–is completely deserted from winter until late spring. It is further isolated by its surrounding acres of dormant apple orchards.

  James pulls off the main road onto a dirt track. The sign is gone, put away for the season, but James is familiar enough to remember that this is where to turn. He bumps along the track, his bouncing headlights picking out rows of apple trees in the dark that disappear into black where his headlights don’t reach. They look twisted and spooky, their trunks weeping shiny dried sap and distorted limbs seeming to reach for the car. James has a fleeting wish that he’d brought the object with him instead of leaving it at home in the office, sensing that it would offer him protection of some kind.

  He’ll get Arch stowed away and then find Riddel and get this all sorted out. Maybe he’ll go get the object and bring it back. Show it to Arch. Maybe that would convince him to talk, to tell James what it is he knows.

  Because Arch is definitely part of the plan.

  The track opens up onto a dirt parking lot, and his headlights shine across the front of a large barn. The lot is deserted as James had expected. He drives across it to the barn and pulls to a stop at a log that designates a parking spot. He is parked right at the glass double doors that lead to the retail shop for the orchard. The glass cases that used to hold cider and cider donuts, pies, sweet breads and cookies are empty, cloudy with dust. A ‘Closed for the Season’ sign hangs askew on the inside of the right hand door. There is an apple illustration below it with a hand lettered ‘See You Next Year!!’ arching over the apple’s waving, white-gloved hand.

  James douses the lights and exits the car, taking the keys around to the back where he stands looking at the trunk. He shivers lightly in the cold. He hasn’t heard anything from Arch in…he can’t remember; but it’s been a while. He takes a deep breath and opens the trunk.