Messages, a Psychological Thriller

  “Ready?” he says.

  She nods and reaches for her door handle, pulls up, and the door opens. She must have pushed hard enough to activate the lock release when James had been having his…fit. She looks at him in the glare of the overhead, and he gives her a long, considering stare. His lips are pursed. “Thought I locked that,” he says, evenly.

  She smiles and shrugs. “Well, it’s open now, so I’m getting out, okay?”

  “I’m not the boss of you. Am I…Lay-cee?”

  Her smile dims, and she hesitates but then opens the door and steps out. She stands in the cold dark of the parking lot, a light breeze cooling her forehead. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She hadn’t realized how close the air in the car had become. This air, with its undertones of soil, sap and even the tang of last season’s cider, is incredibly refreshing.

  James’ door clunks open and closed, but she doesn’t open her eyes, not yet. She wants to hold on to this feeling as long as she can. She breathes in again, filling her lungs, barely aware of James’ footsteps grating around the back of the car. Then his hand is on her shoulder.

  She turns, and he is standing, legs apart, a green, Coleman lantern swinging from his right hand. The bottom of the lantern is shiny with spilled kerosene. His expression is one of patronizing tolerance. “Ready to go, ma’am?” he asks.

  “Yes, Sergeant Riddel,” she says, “I’m ready.”

  They cross the lot, and Lacey can feel the loose gravel through the soles of her thin sneakers. The frogs have quieted, breath held, it seems, in anticipation. She recognizes this place; she and James had been here once. It was country and quaint, exactly what people think of when they think of farmers’ markets. When they’d been here, it had been bright, hot summer just on the verge of fall, and it had been packed with people. The trees in the surrounding orchard had been full of not-yet-ripe apples, and the store itself full of the more conventional produce of a South Jersey summer–corn and tomatoes, squash and peppers. She remembers now that James had said they should come back in the fall, get cider and cider donuts, but they hadn’t. Now she wonders, had he already been in his downward slide? Receiving his secret, preoccupying messages? Is that why he’d come back here?

  James walks her to the front of the building, to the double glass doors, and the glass has been broken out of the right hand door. It glitters in the starlight, like a shovelful of gems strewn through the lot and trailing into the shop. He steps past her and opens the door, which grates across the broken glass beneath it. He admonishes her to be careful, and she tiptoes over the worst of it, taking his arm for support.

  They get five feet into the gloom, and he pushes her hand from his arm.

  “Just stand right here until I get this lantern lit,” he says, his voice going away in the blackness.

  The scent of cider is even stronger, overlaying the smells of hay and wood and the particularly green smell of vegetables that have sat in too warm air for too long a time. Her eyes begin to adjust to the dark, and empty shelves appear and then glass cases across the side wall. There is one long counter across the back, where two registers sit, huddled under filmy plastic.

  There is a click and a hiss, and a light falls across her from behind, uneven and warm yellow; she associates it with camping and fun, staying up later than normal and seeing stars revolve through the sky as a campfire dies away. James holds the lantern higher, and it throws his shadow across the shop as it swings back and forth in his hand. His shadow is monstrous, huge and distorted and dancing crazily around the shelves and empty glass cases.

  There is a thump, thump, and Lacey turns, startled, trying to locate the source of the sound. A muffled shriek ululates from the back of the shop. It is a high-pitched creak of a scream but then drops quickly to rasping, tired sobs. Lacey’s heart jumps into her throat, and then she recognizes it for what it is: a human scream muffled by…something.

  She makes her way to the counter and looks behind it, standing on tiptoe. The counter is wooden and rough, splintery. It is about twelve feet long and creates a recess of about five feet between it and the back wall. The light from the lantern behind her throws a deep shadow behind the counter, and she sees nothing at first, but as James gets closer, she sees movement in the uncertain light–legs in skinny black jeans, tied at the ankle, thumping against the back of the counter. His sneakers have fallen off and detritus from the shelf under the register is scattered across the floor: a half-roll of paper towels, register tape, a dried-out marker.

  James sets the lantern down next to her, and she leans onto the counter, pulling herself halfway over, trying to see. The edge is sharp against her stomach.

  The light shines on a kid, a teenager, lying half on his side with his arms tied behind his back. There is a gag around his mouth–a thin, terrycloth dishrag that James had found in the back kitchen area and ripped into a thinner strip. The boy’s eyes are teary and red-rimmed, blinking painfully in the light of the lantern.

  Lacey pushes herself onto the counter, swings her legs around, and drops to the floor next to the boy. She reaches back for the lantern and places it on the floor next to him. It lights the space behind the counter, softening into blackness at either end. She unties the gag around his mouth and pulls it gently away, mindful of where it has begun to cut into the sides of his mouth. He heaves in a breath and then coughs roughly.

  “Are you okay?” she asks him, trying to keep her voice even and calm.

  He twists and squints at her. “Who are you?” His voice cracks on ‘who’ and by ‘you’ it is barely a whisper of breath. Lacey’s own throat aches in sympathy. She turns to look for James, shading her eyes against the lantern.

  “He needs water,” she says, trying to see into the gloom…to see if it is James or Riddel here with her now. “Has he had anything to drink since you brought him here? Anything at all?”

  There is movement just outside the lantern’s reach, and Lacey is startled when James’ face appears over the counter. It is unnerving; his face seems to float in the gloom, Cheshire cat-like.

  “No, nothing.” His voice is fearful, nervous. His eyes switch rapidly from Lacey to Archer. “Is he okay? I’m sure he’s okay. It hasn’t been very long…let me get some water…there’s a kitchen…” He pulls back, and his voice trails off. Lacey hears a clatter off to her left and then sees a quick flash of movement as James passes through the doorway to the back room and kitchen.

  She leans closer to Archer and whispers, “He’s dangerous. Try to stay very calm. I’m going to…going to…” She stops and listens. Cabinet doors are banging shut, and then she hears water running.

  She looks back at Arch, and his eyes are pinned to her, desperately round. “You’re Archer?” Lacey asks, and he nods, fresh tears falling from his face to the dusty wood floor. “My name is Lacey, and I think a friend of mine followed us out here, too. James is going to ask you about an object…he’s obsessed with it, and…”

  “Lace?” It is James’ voice, and it is coming from just over the counter. She freezes, and Archer’s body jerks in surprise. She turns toward the voice, shielding her eyes with her hand and squinting into the gloom. She is trying to judge how far away he is…if he was close enough to have heard the last thing she said.

  “Did you bring water?”

  There is a deep silence on the other side of the darkness, a thinking silence, it seems to Lacey. Panic tries to worm its way into her again, and she decides to try and take some control.

  “James! Do you have the water? He can’t tell you anything if his throat is too dry for him to talk.”

  There is another pause, but this one strikes her as alert and considering. Then a glass of water is pushed from the dark across the counter. It grates on the wood, and the water sloshes unevenly. The glass is dirty, and the water has become slightly murky. The lantern light shines on the bubbles that have gathered at the edges like dusty flotsam. She reaches for the glass, her fingers straining, and nearly screams when Jam
es’ hand descends on her wrist, pinning it to the rough wood.

  “What were you saying to him? I heard you saying something.” James’ voice floats to her in the dark, his fingers squeezing her wrist compulsively.

  “I told him that we were here to question him. That he better cooperate. But I have to give him the water first. He’s too sick to…”

  His fingers tighten agonizingly around her wrist, and she stands to compensate for the pressure, gasping in pain. Now she can see James…barely…standing just outside the light. His face has turned down into a horror mask of fear. “He’s sick?” James asks, his voice faint, laced with unease and something else…some emotion she can’t quite put her finger on…anticipation? Was that it?

  The report flashes through her mind. His terrible mother, the torture he’d endured at her hands. Making him sick and then ‘saving’ him, coming to the baby’s rescue. The attention she must have craved from doctors and nurses driving her to hurt and hurt and hurt…Lacey thinks she can use this information, but how? She’ll have to be very careful…she doesn’t want to set James off, make him spiral even more out of control.

  “Yes, he’s sick, James, but not too badly. He just needs a little water, a sip or two. Then he can talk to us. Tell us what it is he knows…all right?”

  He nods–one slight movement–and pauses again. Then he releases her wrist and takes two steps back until he is enfolded in the darkness. Lacey stands watching until he is out of sight, then she bends to the boy at her feet.

  She feels herself becoming attached to the area behind the counter…to the light and the coziness of the space. The warm flicker of the Coleman makes it seem like a tent, a fort, some place fun and innocent. She feels safer back here even though she knows the feeling is not based in reality.

  “Here, take a small sip.” She holds the glass to Archer’s lips, tilting his chin gently with her other hand. He takes two small swallows of water, and she pulls the glass back. He moans in protest.

  “Just relax a minute, and let that first bit settle. You don’t want to throw up,” she says.

  He closes his eyes and lays his head back down. His lips look less chapped, and color is returning to his cheeks now that he has unrestricted air. He sighs, and it turns into a small, hitching sob, and he opens his eyes again. They are deep with tears, almost black with fear and despair.

  “What’s your name?” he says, and now his voice is less raspy, and she puts the water to his lips again. A small dribble escapes the side of his mouth and slides down his face onto the hand she has cupped around his chin.

  “I’m Lacey,” she says in a normal tone. “We’re here to talk to you.” Then her voice quiets into a whisper. “This isn’t going to make any sense to you, but you have to trust me. He thinks he’s two people–sometimes James, sometimes a cop named Riddel–he thinks you have information about an object he found, something to do with leading him to the Simonellis’ house.” Archer’s eyes go round with shock.

  “What do the Simonellis have to do with…”

  “Listen to me…just listen…I’m going to try and see if he’ll let me untie you…then maybe…”

  “Ma’am?” The voice is stern, cold, making her jump. Water spills from the glass onto the floor. “You shouldn’t promise the boy things you can’t deliver. He’s not going to be untied for his comfort. He’s a…a…prisoner. Yes. He’s my prisoner, so…he–and you–will both do exactly as I say.” He’d stumbled through the middle of his speech, but at the end he’d gotten on top of it, sounding more sure of himself.

  James steps around the counter behind Lacey, and before she is even aware that he is there, Arch starts to scream and thrash, trying to push himself away. Lacey falls back from his whipping legs and turns, trying to get to her feet. James is standing just within the perimeter of the light, the gun pointing at her. She freezes mid-crouch and then loses her balance and topples back onto her ass.

  “Quiet!” James commands, and Archer stops yelling, stops moving. He’d managed to twist over onto his stomach and push himself halfway to the far end of the counter, dirt and cobwebs smeared across his wet face. He lies still and hitches in breaths, trying to control his crying.

  Lacey stares at the gun in James’ hand. “Sergeant?” she says, her voice faint. “The gun is, it’s pointed right at me and…you’re scaring me.”

  He glances down and then trains the gun on the floor. “Sorry about that, ma’am. It’s pretty shadowy in here, even with the lantern. I couldn’t tell what was what back here.” He pushes past her and grabs Arch by the back of his shirt. He pulls him back and up, leaning him against the wall. Archer draws his knees up to his chest and lays his forehead against them.

  James squats next to Archer. “Son,” he says, his voice low and calm, “I’m a policeman. My name is Sergeant Riddel. I’m here to help you…if I can. Now, it’s important that you tell me the truth–no jerking around. Think you can do that, son?”

  Archer looks up and nods. His mouth hangs open, and his face is smeared with gray dust. Mucous has mixed with the tears and dirt, and he looks like a small child, all played out, scared of a monster.

  “Okay, that’s good,” James says and puts a hand on Archer’s shoulder–high up, almost on his neck. His thumb sits at the base of Arch’s throat. “I just have some questions for you, and then I’m going to take you back to the station. I was going to take you there last night, but things got…complicated, out of hand. You understand? It was all beyond our control.” He squints into Arch’s face and raises his eyebrows. “Do you understand?”

  Arch nods again and swallows. He glances at Lacey, and the thumb at his throat pushes in, surprising him into a gasp.

  “You’ll want to keep your eyes on me, son, okay? I’m the one in charge here, not those two.” He nods toward Lacey, and confusion flickers over Arch’s face.

  “Those two?” he says, and he sees Lacey shift in his peripheral vision.

  “James and Lacey,” James says. “They’re just civilians, like you. So I’m in charge right now. James had nothing to do with this…with taking you…I mean, he took you, I know that, but it was my fault. It was…he had to…I didn’t leave him any choice, you understand?” His words had speeded up, falling over each other, and he leans closer to Arch.

  Arch pulls back as far as the hand at his throat will allow and nods–frantic, neck-snapping nods.

  James relaxes, his shoulders coming down. “Okay, that’s good. Now, let’s get to it, shall we?”

  Arch nods again, not taking his eyes from James.

  “James has been receiving the messages that led him to the object that was being held by one William Simonelli in his garage at…” James trails off and fishes in his pocket. His hand comes out empty, but he makes a flicking movement, like flipping open a small notepad. James consults the imaginary notepad. “…at Willow, directly behind you, and you…uh…reside at 18 Oak Ave? In Essex?”

  He looks from his empty hand back to Archer, and Arch is staring at him, wide eyed, mouth hanging open almost to his knees. When James gets no response, he prods the base of Arch’s throat, and his mouth closes with a snap. Arch nods, his eyes dazed and trying to stray back to Lacey.

  “Look at me, son,” James says sternly. “Pay attention. Pay close attention. Don’t look at her again. Just answer my questions. Answer them truthfully and…to the best of your knowledge, and they won’t be used against you in a court…of law, or…” James shakes his head, one brisk shake as if to clear it. “Now, listen! I have three questions, and I want you to think carefully before you answer me…one, who gave you the message to give to James? Two, how did you know James was the one to send to the Simonellis? Three, how did you know the object was at the Simonellis?”

  By the beginning of the third question, Arch is shaking his head. Under the dirt, his skin has gone dead white with shock, and his mouth opens and closes, opens and closes.

  “It was you,” Arch whispers. “You did it…you killed them…” Ar
ch is trying to struggle away, trying to get his feet under him and pushing away from the wall, and James’ hand tightens on his throat.

  “Hey!” James yells, his voice elevated more by panic than authority. “You just calm down now, mister.” He struggles to push Arch back down. Lacey marvels as James takes two seconds to flip closed the imaginary notepad in his hand, pocket it, and then put his other hand on Arch’s other shoulder. The skinny kid is no match for James, and with both hands, he holds him in place easily.

  “James didn’t kill him! Simonelli was a bad guy! James had to kill him!” James says, contradicting himself, not seeming to realize it. He is yelling into Arch’s face, and Arch has closed his eyes and turned away. He is crying again–big, broken sobs that shake his body. Lacey reaches forward and puts a shaking hand on James’ arm.

  “James…Riddel…please, stop, you’re….you’re scaring him…he won’t be able to answer your questions if…” She chokes on her own words, her hand curling around James’ upper arm, trying to calm him, keep him from hurting Archer. “Sergeant, please…if you’ll just…just let me…” She pauses to take a breath, trying to find the right words.

  A sliding, grinding noise, the sole of a shoe on glass, comes from the dark front of the building. James freezes, staring wildly into the dark. Arch sobs again, and James gives him a light shake.

  “Be quiet,” he says.

  Lacey freezes, too, listening. Another grating, rustling sound–secretive and sly–comes from the front, and suddenly Lacey knows that Henry had followed them, had been waiting for noise to cover his movements.

  “Listen to me,” she says, her voice loud and carrying as she manufactures anger to cover her fear. “I told you to stop this, you won’t get anywhere scaring the kid to death! You have to calm down so we can–”