Messages, a Psychological Thriller

by Chris Dougherty

  Arch is curled up, knees pulled to his chest, arms tied together at the small of his back. The tight black jeans and thin white T-shirt make him look small, skinny and pathetic. The duct tape that had been over his mouth is hanging loosely from one cheek, and there is a puddle of vomit under his head. His eyes are closed, the eyelids a bluish tone, and a knot of fear tightens James’ stomach, scrambling his thoughts: he died, he was in there too long, he choked or suffocated. He gives Arch’s shoulder a panicked shake. Arch moans, and his eyes open to slits, and James breathes out a long sigh.

  “The fuck, man?” Arch’s voice is faint, rough. He tries to bring a hand around to wipe his face and remembers where he is. His eyes fly open, and he yells, struggling to sit up, but James reaches into the trunk, pushing him back down by the shoulder.

  “Listen, my name is James, and I’m not gonna…” James starts to say, but Arch kicks one leg out, connecting with James’ stomach. If he’d had his motorcycle boots on, it might have done more damage, but he only wears thin sneakers, and he’s canted at an angle that gives him no leverage. James tilts sharply forward as though he were bowing to Arch, and whoofs at the impact. Arch scrambles, trying to turn over on his back, trying to get both legs up for a stronger kick. James grabs Arch’s legs and pushes them back into his chest, crushing Arch into himself against the rear wall of the trunk. Arch rocks awkwardly, trying to get purchase, and his breathing becomes labored as his legs are shoved relentlessly into his diaphragm.

  The smell of vomit underlaid by car exhaust causes Arch to gag, and he turns his head back and forth, trying to get air, trying to twist his torso and relieve the pressure on his lungs. He gasps a small sip of air in, and then everything seems to tilt, and he vomits again, a large glurt, hot on his face and shoulder, and the pressure disappears as James steps back, trying to avoid the vomit.

  Angry and panicked, James reaches back in and grabs Arch by the shoulders and pulls him forward over the lip of the trunk. Arch lies limp and groaning, vomit dribbling from his mouth.

  “Relax, I’m not going to hurt you,” James says, shoving Arch’s shoulder roughly as if in denial of his own words. “I just want to talk to you.”

  Arch moans again, and James reaches further into the trunk and pulls Arch’s legs forward and then rolls-pulls him over the trunk lip. Arch would have landed face-first in the dirt, but James catches him by his shoulders. Arch kneels, arms behind his back, leaning against James and moans again. He hitches in a breath, and his diaphragm clenches, sending another hot snake of vomit up his throat and onto James’ legs.

  “Christ,” James says, under his breath, shaking his head. “Are you kidding me?” The vomit is warm on his thigh, seeping into the fabric of his slacks and spattered on both his shoes. “Can you walk? Arch, can you hear me? You need to walk.” He puts his hands under Arch’s armpits and pulls him up, glad the kid is skinny.

  “Walk, okay? Arch? One foot in front of the other, okay?”

  “I’m sick,” Arch says, his voice thin, whispery.

  James stops pulling Arch forward and steps away, releasing him all at once. Arch crumples onto his knees, almost falling forward, but catches himself just in time, twisting to land on his shoulder. He rolls halfway onto his back, stopped by his trussed arms.

  He looks up at James, who has become a statue in the dark. His hands are on his hips, legs spread wide.

  “Man, I’m sick,” Arch says again. He feels helpless tears gathering under his lashes, and he blinks hard. The tears roll over his lids and down his cheeks. They are hot and then turn cold in the night air. I’m gonna die, he thinks, this dude is gonna kill me.

  “You feel sick, Baby?” James asks, and Arch feels another nasty twist of fear. He would have thought that he was as scared as he was gonna get, as scared as it was possible for a person to be…but that question, its flat tone, the weird endearment…

  Arch does nothing, says nothing, staring at the black silhouette, as the fresh fear whips through his body. James bends forward, and Arch can just begin to make out his features. James’ eyes are large and shocked looking, and he is staring through Arch but smiling in an odd, off-center, grimacing way, lips pulled tight over his teeth.

  “You feel sick, Baby,” James says. Now it is not a question, and his eyes are staring past Arch, off into the darkness of the orchard. “We have to make you better, so you don’t feel sick anymore, Baby.” He reaches forward, grabbing Arch under the armpits again.

  Arch shakes his head. “No, I’m okay, I’m not sick, you don’t have to…” The panic bubbles the words from his throat, just like the vomit a minute before.

  “Shhh,” James says, pulling Arch forward and up, making Arch’s head swim again, the motion sickness still strong. Arch’s legs go weak, and James bear hugs him to his chest to keep him from falling over again. “Shhhh…” James whispers into Arch’s ear. “Shhhh, Baby, shhhhh….”

  Arch feels the air being crushed from his lungs, and a gray fog crowds into his peripheral vision. He has a sense of rocking, being rocked, and another shot of adrenalin tries to rocket through his body, the flight instinct telling him to go, go, go…but it is too late, he is too worn, too drained, and he faints.

  James feels Arch’s body go limp, and he stumbles forward, almost dropping him, but then bears up under the weight. “Arch?” he whispers, shaking the boy. “You okay?”

  James can’t remember what just happened, how he is standing here with Arch in his arms…he remembers pulling him from the trunk, helping him from the trunk, and the kid got sick or something? Threw up again? James isn’t sure. But he’s glad that Arch has calmed down. Now he can get him into the store, get some blankets or something on him, let him sleep it off. He’ll feel better after he gets some rest.

  James drags Arch to the glass doors and lays him down. He goes back to his car to grab the duct tape from the glove box and sees the gun still on the seat. Should he bring the gun? He peeks over the roof of the car. Arch is still lying in a heap by the door.

  No, he doesn’t need the gun. He doesn’t want someone to get hurt by accident. He stands and closes the car door. The night is very dark, clouds cruising heavily by, blocking out the stars and moon. James takes a deep breath of the cold night air. He feels okay now. He panicked for a minute or two there, but he’s on top of it again. He tosses the duct tape in the air and catches it on its way down. He laughs.

  He’s going to get this figured out, once and for all.

  Chapter 27

  Lacey pulls into the parking lot of the apartment complex, punching the code into the box that releases the gate. She doesn’t push the button on her visor that will activate the garage door. She drives instead to a visitor’s spot and parks, turning her car off.

  She digs her phone from her purse and checks the time. Almost nine. She glances across the lot and doesn’t see James’ car. Should she wait out here or go inside? She shivers and decides to wait inside. Stupid to sit here wasting gas.

  She exits her car and then turns and bends back in to fish her purse off the passenger seat. A hand descends onto her back, and she screams and jumps, bumping her head sharply on the doorframe. She turns quickly, hand going to her head, but it is only Mrs. Allen, the neighbor.

  “Oh my dear,” says Mrs. Allen, taking a step back, swaying a little on her high heels. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Her little dog, Buster, stares up at Lacey furiously as though Lacey were responsible for the distress in his mistress’ voice. “You’re so jumpy, Lacey, my goodness.”

  Mrs. Allen is in her sixties, trim and well-kept. She reaches out to pat Lacey’s arm. “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Lacey says, rubbing the back of her head. “You just scared me. I didn’t hear you coming up behind me.”

  Mrs. Allen smiles and nods. “That’s all right, honey,” she says, as if Lacey had just apologized for something. “I did just want to tell you about LuLu, though.”

  “LuLu?”

&
nbsp; “Yes, honey, LuLu the cat,” Mrs. Allen says, giving Lacey an odd look. “She’s been crying for hours in there…and I did knock, but no one answered, even though James’ car is here…” she surveys the lot. “Well, it was here, but anyway, like I was saying, I knocked, and no one answered. Except LuLu, of course.” Mrs. Allen smiles at her own joke.

  Lacey nods. “Oh, okay, thank you. I’m going in there right now. I’ll check on her. Gosh. I guess that James…” Lacey looks around the lot, too, even though she knows his car isn’t here. “I guess he…went somewhere,” she says, her voice trailing off.

  “Yes, I guess so,” says Mrs. Allen. “Well, you take care, honey, and I hope LuLu is okay!” She wiggles her fingers at Lacey and then turns and taps away with Buster. Buster watches Lacey with suspicion, craning back over his shoulder, until Mrs. Allen tugs the leash, turning his attention forward.

  Lacey stares after Mrs. Allen for a moment longer and then goes to the apartment. She hesitates at the door, listening. Nothing. But as she slides the key into the lock, a forlorn ‘mrrroooow’ comes from the other side. As she pushes the door open, LuLu darts forward, crying, pushing herself into Lacey’s legs. Lacey bends and starts to pick LuLu up, but she wriggles from Lacey’s grasp and runs to the kitchen.

  Lacey turns and locks the door behind her and then follows LuLu, turning on lights as she goes. LuLu is trotting back and forth in front of her food and water dishes in the little cubby under the microwave. They are both empty.

  Since James already had LuLu when Lacey moved in, Lacey had never paid much attention to LuLu’s daily needs. James had taken care of water and food and litter cleaning (three times a day). Lacey has never seen one of LuLu’s dishes empty.

  LuLu is practically stomping back and forth by now, eyes never leaving Lacey’s face, purring in a desperate sounding way. Lacey bends to retrieve the water dish and is shocked by the hair stuck to the rim and particles of food hardened on the bottom. The food dish is similarly dirtied, even more so. Lacey knows that James washes LuLu’s dishes every day, changing the water at least three times to make sure it stays spotlessly clean.

  She gives the dishes a quick rinse and fills one with water and the other with food. LuLu pushes her face into the dish with the food, ravenously pushing kibble out and over the side of the dish, desperate in her hunger.

  Lacey leans against the counter and folds her arms, watching LuLu eat. “I’m so sorry, Loony,” she says. “I can’t believe he didn’t feed you…” she trails off and glances to the phone where they keep a notepad. Where they’d always left each other messages in the past.

  Her eyes catch on something in the sink, and Lacey frowns, pushing herself away from the counter, stepping nearer the sink. It is a bowl. And there is spoon next to it in a splatter of something, soup maybe. Lacey’s insides go cold. She knows when she’d left this morning, tiptoeing out with her small suitcase, the kitchen had been stringently clean. As always.

  “He really is losing his mind,” Lacey says, staring at the bowl, hands on her hips. She glances around to the cat, who still has her face buried in the dish. “Lu…we might be in some kind of trouble here.”

  Lacey glances back out to the living room, but nothing looks amiss there. She goes to the bedroom, shocked to see the covers on the floor, the sheets a tangled snarl. There is even a blot of blood on James’ pillowcase. The wound on his head must have reopened in the night. She looks in the bathroom…towel on the floor, a blop of toothpaste drying on the sink basin.

  Lacey sits on the bed, facing the open door of the closet and gasps, jumping up again. The closet is torn apart. Clothes are half on hangers and half off; others are piled on the floor. Everything has been pulled from the upper shelves, shoe boxes have all been torn open. James’ belts are on the floor, even three of his watches, and she looks at the shelf above–the wood and glass box he’d always kept them in has been torn apart, too. The padding pulled out, threads dangling wildly.

  LuLu brushes up against her leg, and Lacey jumps again, her hand to her heart. “Lu, shit, you scared the crap out of me.” LuLu stares up at her, cross-eyed, and Lacey bends and pulls LuLu into her arms, pushing her face into the cat’s warm, rumbly side. “Looney, I’m sorry for yelling. I just…look at this mess…James would never do this. God. It’s like we were robbed or something.” Her mind seizes on the idea, even though it doesn’t explain LuLu’s lack of food or the unwashed bowl in the sink.

  She hugs LuLu, kissing her near her whiskers and then puts her back down. “I have to check the office. What if someone took something from James’ office? I have to go look, LuLu,” Lacey says, and LuLu turns in a circle at her feet, still looking at her with cross-eyed concentration.

  Lacey hesitates at the office door. She knocks. “James?” she says. The forlorn quality of her voice spooks her, and she shakes her head. Enough, she thinks. He’s not in there. She turns the handle and pushes the door open, switching on the light.

  The office is as still and tidy as she’s ever seen it. She knows that no one has been in here. LuLu meows at her feet, and Lacey jumps. “LuLu, please, you’re scaring me.” She knows she has no reason to be scared. It’s just an office. It’s not as though she’ll find anything incriminating in here.

  Lacey goes around the desk and sits in the chair (James’ chair, her mind amends). She surveys the room from that perspective. Shelves, shelves, window, shelves. Funny, she thinks, no pictures or prints, nothing personal…I never noticed that before.

  She pulls open the shallow middle drawer. Everything is neatly lined up. Pens, pencils, eraser, extra note pads, paper clips…everything an office should have. Yeah, but, her mind counters, even a work office has some personal stuff. Fortunes from fortune cookies, scraps of paper with phone numbers, a novelty pen or two. There is nothing like that in here, and this is his personal space.

  She closes the drawer carefully, making sure nothing shifts. She opens the deeper, right hand drawer. It is lined with files, neatly labeled: INSURANCE, MEDICAL BENEFITS, IMPALA, PAID BILLS, TAXES 2005, TAXES 2006…nothing unusual there.

  She turns to the left hand side of the desk. There are two drawers, an upper and a lower. She opens the top drawer–nothing. She frowns. Nothing? How long has James lived here? She tries to remember. Ten years? Yes, I think that’s right. In ten years, he’s never found anything to put in this drawer?

  She closes that drawer and pulls out the bottom one. There is a single manila folder lying on its side. On the front is a hand-drawn star in a circle. It looks like it was drawn with a Sharpie, something very black and too thick for regular writing. It looks like something a child would have done. A star in a circle? she thinks. What the hell is that? Then she notices the small, block letters printed around the outer circumference of the circle: S R G T . R I D D E L • P O L I C E M A N.

  It itches in her mind, reminding her of something, but she can’t think what. Something from childhood? Who is Sergeant Riddel? Sorry, I mean SRGT. Riddel. Lacey shakes her head and pulls the manila folder from the drawer. She traces the arc of the circle, the arms of the star, touching each point and suddenly, she sees it…it’s a badge. Like an old-fashioned sheriff’s badge, something for a kid that came in a cereal box or Cracker Jacks.

  She sees more careful printing on the tab: B.B. James. Confused, she opens the folder. The first page is lined paper, like from a kid’s notebook. There are even the three punch holes down the side. The horizontal lines are palest blue with a vertical red line making a neat tab down the left hand side of the page.

  The page is handwritten in black ink, but not the Sharpie from the cover. This looks like regular black ballpoint. Across the first page, extra large, each letter the height of three rows, is:

  EXTRA TOP SECRET • AUTHORIZED EYES ONLY

  FROM THE DESK OF SRGT. RIDDEL • POLICE MAN

  ESSEX POLICE FORCE

  Extra top secret? Extra? Lacey huffs out a laugh. SRGT.? Is this a joke? Some kind of weird prank James is playing on he
r? It might explain some of his craziness…she starts to laugh, liking the idea, needing the easy answer it holds.

  No, don’t keep lying to yourself, she thinks, this is important, Lace, pay attention. He didn’t split his own head open for a prank.

  It is her voice, in her head, but so cold and harsh–so uncompromising–that her mouth drops open in shock. She traces the block printing with her fingertips. Then she turns the page.

  Chapter 28

  The detective steps out of Mary Ellen’s hospital room, closing a notebook and sliding it into his jacket pocket. He is in street clothes, but Henry would have known he was a cop anyway. He nods to Henry, and Henry pushes himself away from the wall where he’d been leaning since the cop showed up. He hadn’t wanted to be in the room while the cop was in there; it made him nervous.

  “You can go back in. Looks like she’s falling asleep.”

  Henry snorts and shakes his head. “I doubt it. Not with Arch missing.”

  The detective nods. “Yes, that’s probably right, but actually a nurse came in and gave her a sedative. A strong one. So she might not have much say in it.” He smiles at Henry. It is a kind smile, but Henry recoils from it anyway, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Okay, well,” the detective continues, “I’m going to get this going, and we’ll start looking around. Your mom is certain it was an Impala, she’d looked out the front window when the car pulled up. She said when she heard it, she thought it was you.” Henry’s stomach drops, and he takes a step back, and the cop blinks at him. An Impala. That’s too much of a coincidence. But it’s also crazy to think that Lacey’s boyfriend…

  The cop continues, aware of Henry’s tension. “She thought it was you coming home, I mean,” he says, misunderstanding Henry’s reaction. “So that’s a good start. I wish she could have described the guy better, but she’s very upset, of course. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow when it isn’t quite so fresh. I won’t ask you to come to the station tonight–you’ll need to stay with your mom–but can you stop down tomorrow?”