Messages, a Psychological Thriller

  “It is a joke? Are you playing a joke on me because I don’t get it…” she says. Her head is swimming, spinning.

  James squats next to the chair and takes her wrist between thumb and forefinger. He times the beats against the watch on his own wrist, frowning. Then he places a hand on her forehead. “Your pulse is a little weak; do you have low blood pressure as a rule?” He is looking at her with concern, but Lacey recognizes it as a generic kind of concern–concern but at a remove–the way EMT workers, nurses, doctors and…police…behave when dealing with the public at large.

  “James,” she says again, tears spilling down her cheeks, and for an instant, she sees a flicker of recognition in his eyes; he is back, he is James again, upset for her, worried…but then he blinks, and that look of blank concern comes over him again.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “He’s outside in the car. That’s the third time I’ve told you that. Have you had a blow to the head recently? Trauma of some sort?” He tilts his head quizzically, and smiles a false smile. “Well, no matter. We’ve got to get rolling here, get out to the orchard, and see about that boy.”

  “Boy? What boy?” Lacey asks, fresh alarm sparking in her brain.

  James stands and steps back from her chair. “Can you walk? Because if not, then I’m going to have to carry you. Or drag you.” He barks out one harsh, choked laugh.

  “I can walk, I’m fine,” Lacey says and gathers her strength. If there is someone else involved, a boy, then she’ll have to stay alert. Do something. She can’t let James hurt anyone else. “Officer…um…Riddel, was it?”

  “It’s Sergeant Riddel, ma’am,” James says, watching her warily as she stands, straightening her clothes and hair.

  “Oh, sorry, Sergeant Riddel.” She flashes him a small smile. “Who is this boy that…James…wants us to see?”

  James’ shoulders jerk once, and then he is still. He puts his hands in the air near his head, fingers pinched together, and twists his hands. Lacey can see him adjusting the imaginary hat as easily as if the hat were actually on his head.

  “Well, it’s the boy that led him to the Simonellis’ garage. The final piece of the puzzle, I guess you’d say.” He has gone back to parade rest, and he stares past Lacey, his eyes clouded and thoughtful. “You know, I think if we can get that kid to tell us who was giving him instructions, then James might be able to put all of this behind him. He’ll have it all figured out, and we can all just…move forward. Put the past away once and for all.” A soft smile curls his lips, and tears shimmer in his eyes. Lacey imagines James, tiny and scared, hiding behind the eyes of Sergeant Riddel. A deliberately sickened baby, a tortured child. But what had finally pushed him over the edge? What had made him act out in this ghastly way to bury a past that no one should have to claim as his own?

  James’ eyes snap back to hers, and he stands at attention. “Ready?” he asks, his voice gruff and hearty, another laugh undercurrenting his words–a man on the verge of an epic adventure.

  Lacey nods and tries to pin a smile to her own face. She is aware of every muscle it takes to achieve that one small turn of her lips. She is suddenly very tired, overwhelmingly so, but aware that she may be at the last hours (minutes?) of her own life or someone else’s. And she wants to try and make a stand. She wants to do the rest of this–whatever it turns out to be–with her eyes wide open.

  She cuts between James and the desk, moving into the short hallway. It crosses her mind to grab her keys–she can just casually pick them up when she picks up her purse–try and make a break for it once she is outside. As she reaches the end of the hallway and it opens up to the combination kitchen/dining area, she reaches out for the purse sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter.

  A hand descends on her shoulder and pulls her back two steps. James pushes past her and picks up the purse. “Let me get this for you, ma’am,” he says and touches two fingers to the brim of his imaginary hat. The keys glint at Lacey from just under James’ elbow. Her fingers itch with the desire to reach out and pick them up.

  James catches the direction of her gaze, and he turns, lifting his arm slightly, and sees the keys. He glances back at Lacey and then puts the keys in his pocket. “We’ll all ride over together,” he says, his voice still bluff and hearty. “That way, no one will get…lost.”

  Lacey forces another smile onto her face. “Of course. Great idea. Thanks.” She turns to the front door but then pauses and turns back, a gut feeling spurring her actions. “What about LuLu, though?”

  James steps around the breakfast bar and looks to where the cat’s dishes are tucked into the hidden nook under the microwave cart. “She’ll be fine. There’s food in her dish.”

  Lacey nods and reaches for the door. She opens it about half a foot, and then James’ hand is on her shoulder again, a leaden, dead weight that leaches the energy from her body. “You stay right near me out there, ma’am,” James says, almost in her ear, his voice low. “It’s late, and a parking lot at night, well, it’ll be deserted and that’s a dangerous place to be…especially for a young lady, such as yourself. I can protect you. See?”

  She feels him shift, the heat of his body lessening as he moves away slightly, one hand still on her shoulder. She sees a dark glint from the corner of her eye…he is holding a gun.

  She stands frozen, her hand on the knob, the words and the gun making her legs and bladder feel heavy, overburdened, and she thinks she might wet her pants or simply crumple to the floor…or do both things at once.

  Instead she nods, her lips tightening, and opens the door all the way.

  Chapter 34

  Henry watches as the door opens slightly and then pauses, a dark line showing no movement within. He holds his breath, and then Lacey comes through the door, and his first feeling is relief, but he sees the hand on her shoulder and then the man behind her. As they step down to the sidewalk, light shines on the gun in the man’s hand. Henry reaches for the door handle again, hot panic rising through his stomach and throat, but then the guy turns to close and lock the door, and Lacey just stands, not making any attempt to get away.

  He can’t see her face clearly from this far away. He studies the posture of her body and sees fear in the careful way she holds herself. His mind flashes back to one of the bad times, back when he’d been involved in drugs. He and Dig Anderson, a friend from high school, had gone to one of the worst parts of Philly and cruised, looking for a dealer. They’d been young–seventeen–and stupid. Very stupid.

  Things had gone wrong, and Henry had ended up with a gun pushed roughly into the side of his head. It was the first time his life had been threatened so concretely, when he could imagine an end to himself. He’d remained calm, though, because by seventeen, Henry already had a deep sense of self-preservation. He knew if he could keep the situation level, there might be another day for him.

  Worse things had happened later on; he and Dig got into tighter and tighter situations until finally Henry had had enough and popped free. Dig didn’t make it. He ended up in the hospital in a coma after being pistol-whipped. He came out of it after a month or so, but when Henry went to visit him at his mom’s, Dig hadn’t really been there anymore. He was strapped into a wheelchair, and he moaned unintelligibly and reached for Henry over and over, his fingers thin and dry, almost skeletal. His mom had come in once, and while she made small talk with Henry, she’d snuck a peek down the back of Dig’s pants. Looking for shit in his diaper, Henry had realized, growing nauseous. The bruises and stitches had healed, but the large dent in Dig’s forehead was a permanent fixture. Henry had stared at it while Dig drooled onto a cloth diaper on his chest, and Henry felt relief–guilty, unmanning relief–that it hadn’t been him, that he’d gotten out before any lasting damage had been done.

  Now he thinks he sees in Lacey’s bearing that she is waiting, preparing herself, looking for a chance. She is keeping the situation level. So, Henry decides, he will do the same. He will tag along and see if he’s needed. Or not.
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  Chapter 35

  James drives under the ascending gate and onto the main road. He is deeply preoccupied and doesn’t notice the car pull out behind him, but Lacey sees it. She’d noticed it when they went by, probably because it is parked on her side of the road. She’d caught a quick glance of the driver’s profile as he pushed himself back and down…Henry! A small thrill had burst through her, like a flock of tiny birds taking off all at once, but she controlled her features, keeping them even and still.

  “…hiding something?” James says.

  She turns to look at him, her mouth opening slightly. “I’m sorry, what?”

  He smiles. “I said are you mad at me for hiding something? I felt bad about that. I really did. At least I had Sergeant Riddel to back me up. I mean, I know you were having trouble…believing me. It certainly helps my credibility that I have a cop on my side. Right?” He looks into the rearview and nods, as if in acknowledgement to someone in the back seat.

  “Oh…yes…I see what you mean,” Lacey says with relief. “I was having some trouble believing. It’s difficult stuff to believe, it’s so…fantastic, really. So incredible,” she says.

  He takes a hand from the wheel and reaches across to squeeze her fingers. She wants to scream at his touch, but she remains calm. She slides her eyes to her side mirror…the headlights are far behind–but still there.

  James’ face is in shadow; the rural roads they are on only have streetlights at intersections. He has been mostly silent for much of the ride, but the tension radiates from him like a palpable thing–like heat or sound waves. She watches as his hands twist and grind on the steering wheel, his knuckles white with effort.

  “Once we figure out what Archer knows, how this all got sent my way, well…” James’ features turn down, and passing a streetlight, Lacey can see that he looks confused and angry…and lost. “Well, then we’ll know, won’t we?” he finishes uncertainly and glances at her.

  “Yeah, sure. Then we’ll know,” Lacey says, and a shiver runs up her back. She crosses her arms over her chest and checks the side mirror. No headlights. But they are in and out of wooded areas now and the road bends…long, shallow curves around copses of trees that would effectively hide a car driving any distance behind them. But she shivers again anyway, feeling sick. She didn’t realize until now how much faith she is putting in that car. How much she is staking her life on it being Henry…even though a part of her knows what a ridiculous thing it is to hope for.

  She makes an effort to pull her eyes away from the side mirror. If it is Henry, she doesn’t want to give him away. If it isn’t anyone, then she needs to stop thinking about it, be ready when her chance comes. She thinks of the phone in her purse. Her cute little flip phone that has gotten her out of any number of jams–late to work, flat tire, something she needed James to pick up on his way home–the dilemmas that were all so solvable with one quick call. Now it is barely three feet from her, tucked in her bag behind James’ legs, and completely useless.

  The car slows until they are barely doing ten miles an hour. There are stars, sharp pinpoints of light in the cold night sky, but no moon, and it is very dark. Even with the headlights, it is tricky finding the entrance to the old orchard. Finally, there is a break in the trees and a wide dirt track, and James pulls onto it. They bump along slowly, headlights catching on the twisted limbs and trunks at either side of the path.

  He is staring out at the misshapen apple trees, entranced, so Lacey risks another look into her side mirror. Behind them is unrelieved black. She can barely discern the outline of the trees against the sky. She feels the hopelessness filling her again and wonders briefly how much she can take. When will she reach the limits of her fear? Then there is a faint glimmer, starlight on chrome, and her heart lifts in her chest, and without thinking, she smiles.

  She is slung forward against her belt as James slams on the brake. They hadn’t been going fast in consideration of the dirt hardpack, but it is still enough to snap her head forward and back. Dirt filters up in front of the headlights, dancing hazily in the light breeze.

  “What?” he asks, tension pulling his mouth back, making his grin that of a lizard, just as cold and hard. “What did you see?” He twists so that he is staring over the seat, his arm going over it and behind them. He is looking back the way they had come. His grimace is pulled even tighter as he strains. “Did you see anything?” he asks.

  “I didn’t see…” she says.

  “Not you,” he says, his voice tense, made angry by panic. “I was talking to Riddel.”

  Lacey looks in the back seat, too. The conviction in his voice is so strong she does it reflexively. Then she sees the gun in his hand behind the seat. He is holding it with his forefinger jammed into the trigger guard, and he is squeezing, squeezing.

  “James, be careful,” she says and sits forward in her seat, trying to put as much distance between herself and the gun as she can.

  He looks at her, startled, and then follows her gaze down to his hand. Surprise flows over his features, and he fumbles, almost dropping the gun. Then he brings it over the seat, holding it carefully in his open palm, cradling it in two hands, obviously uncomfortable with it.

  “Lacey, I’m sorry…I didn’t realize…Riddel must have handed it to me, when he thought someone was back there, following us.” James looks into his rearview and sighs. “Well, we’ll let him handle that, and we’ll go see Arch, how about that?”

  Lacey feels slow, muddled, and she tries to keep up. “Riddel got out of the car? He isn’t in the back seat?” she asks. Her voice is shaky and unsure.

  James smiles and tilts his head at her. “You didn’t see him get out?”

  “Oh, I …yes, I guess…I did, I saw him get out. Does he think someone is behind us?”

  James sits back and faces front, his expression squeezing into something like pique. Then he blinks and, without turning his head, looks at her from the corner of his eye, and he nods. “Oh yes. He does think it. He thinks someone is following us. Because of the object, Lay-cee, they all want it. But we have it, don’t we, Lay-cee? We have it, safe and sound, right? Just you and I. And Riddel. Just…us…babies…” He blinks again, and his eyes face front.

  He sits quietly, and Lacey sits beside him, shivering. It is as though he’s gone into some kind of trance. His eyes are distant, reflective. He brings a hand to his chest and rubs a small circle.

  She reaches out slowly, fingers fumbling for the door handle. In her panic, she can’t remember where it is, and her fingers search and search, then slip over the cold metal, and as she curls her fingers around it, his body jerks violently, and she cries out, snatching her hand away from the handle. Then he jerks again, more forcefully, his body spasming, waffling up and down in the seat, his teeth clenched. He jerks again and again, a gargled, humming noise coming from deep within his nasal passages. Lacey reaches for the door handle again and jerks it up, but the door doesn’t open, and she cries out in frustration and terror. She puts her hands to her mouth and stifles a scream, tears running down her cheeks. He jerks again and barks out a single syllable, “Ma!”, and then he is still. His eyes are open, the gun clenched in his hands. Then he relaxes all at once, every muscle letting go, but he still holds the gun.

  Lacey is crying, hands jammed to her mouth. Her teeth cut a deep line on the back of her right hand. This, she thinks, this must be it, the limit of my fear. Then she realizes that if she can think this coherently, then it could probably still get much worse. That thought sobers her, and she lowers her hands. They are layered across the knuckles with saliva and a film of blood where she’d bitten her skin open.

  She reaches behind herself again, slowly, keeping the movement to a minimum, not taking her eyes from James, and she finds the door handle. She pulls it, but the door doesn’t open, and she reaches higher, straining her arm up behind her back and feels around for the automatic lock. Her fingers skate over it and come back, recognizing it. She starts to push down when James si
ts bolt upright. She lowers her hand, bringing it around to sit innocently in her lap. He turns to look at her, and his expression is confused, almost sleepy.

  “Hey, uh…you ready to get going?” he says.

  Lacey nods and smiles, her hands clenching together. Tears are still flowing down her cheeks, but she lets them. She couldn’t stop them if she tried. James leans over, the gun forgotten in his lap, and wipes the tears from her face. His features are soft, concerned. “You okay, Lace? Listen, I know this is a lot, a lot to take in…but everything is going to be fine. I promise you that, okay? That’s a promise from me, Lace.”

  She nods, crying harder, and he leans forward, eyes closing, about to kiss her.

  “Be careful, James,” she says. He pulls back, startled.

  “With what, Lace?”

  “The…the gun…it’s in your lap.”

  He looks down, and the surprise is back. He picks the gun up by the butt. “Thanks. I forgot it was there. I’m going to end up killing someone if I’m not more careful.” He looks at her again and smiles. “I guess we better get going, huh? Get this finished up?”

  She settles her head back against the seat, sighing, putting her hands over her eyes. She wonders fleetingly again about the limits of fear, of desperation and pain. Wonders if there even is a limit, a point at which your brain gives up once and for all. Cries uncle. Abandons all hope. She wipes the tears from her eyes and turns to look at James.

  His expression is one of caution, wary and tense. She thinks she knows what he wants from her. Even if he doesn’t know it himself, yet.

  He wants her to stop him.

  “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go. Let’s finish it,” she says.

  They pull into the parking lot area of Jersey Jerry’s, and James switches off the lights. There must be water nearby, a pond or stream, because she can hear the chirping of early spring frogs. She is surprised; she would have thought it too cold for them, with their cold blood. She feels James’ eyes on her.