Messages, a Psychological Thriller

by Chris Dougherty

  “Quiet!” James yells in her face, silencing her. “I heard something…someone is here…”

  Lacey shakes her head. “No. I didn’t hear anything. It’s just mice or something, you have to calm…”

  He thrusts his face into hers, letting Arch go and grabbing her shoulders. “Which is it, then?” he hisses viciously. “Mice…or nothing? Which did you hear?” His face is so close to hers that his features are a blur, and his fingers bite into the soft spots at the backs of her arms. His raging, staring eyes fill her vision.

  “Nothing! I didn’t hear anything…I meant if you heard something…that it could have been mice, or the wind, or I don’t know, but I didn’t hear anything–”

  He pushes her roughly away, and she falls back onto her elbows, yelping in pain. He reaches behind himself, under his shirt. He pulls the gun from where he’d stashed it in the waistband of his jeans.

  “I heard something all right…and it wasn’t a mouse.”

  He stands in one quick, easy movement and backs away until he is concealed in darkness.

  Lacey scrambles up and over to Archer, wrapping her arms behind him, feeling for the rope around his wrists.

  “Lean forward. I think that’s my friend Henry. He’s going to help us. We’re going to get out of here.”

  Arch leans away from the wall, giving her access to his hands. “Henry?”

  “Yes, it’s complicated. His parents live behind the Simonellis’. He saw James there the morning that the Simonellis were killed…”

  Archer sits up sharply, nearly pinning her hands behind him. “Henry Savion?” he says, trying to see into her face.

  “Yes,” she says impatiently, “now sit forward so I can–”

  “That’s my brother,” Arch says, leaning forward. Lacey stops fumbling at the rope and looks at Arch, her features drawn down quizzically.

  “Your brother?”

  Archer nods and moves his hands up slightly. “Undo me.”

  “Yes, of course,” Lacey says, going back to work on the knot. “I met your brother at the Simonellis’ funeral today.”

  “Henry was there?”

  “Yes, and I was–”

  There is a sharp grunt and the sounds of a scuffle. Lacey’s hands pause for a split second, and then she redoubles her efforts, beginning to pull the knots apart. As he feels the rope begin to loosen, Arch pulls his hands up as high as he can, trying to give her the best advantage. His head swings left and right to the black ends of the counter, looking for movement. The sounds of a struggle continue, but he can’t decide which direction they are coming from. Suddenly, his hands are free, and he reaches for the rope at his ankles. Lacey is breathing hard at his side and looking up into the darkness past the counter. Her eyes are enormous with panic.

  Archer finishes with the knots at his ankles, and then they both startle at a thud so heavy it shakes the floorboards under them. Someone just went down hard. Arch reaches past Lacey for the lantern, but she puts a hand on his arm. “What if you ruin his advantage?” she says, practically hissing it into his face.

  He pauses, trying to think. Panic washes through him steadily, wave after wave of it, making him want to move. There is another thump, and someone cries out in pain. “I think we have to…we don’t have a choice. I have to help him. Here…” he thrusts the lantern into her hand, and the shadows dance wildly around them, giving Lacey a sense of vertigo and instant nausea. “You hold this up when I say. If it confuses them both, then I’ll have the advantage. I’m going around the end of the counter…okay?”

  She nods and takes the lantern. He turns and crawls to the end of the counter, then looks back at her. He nods and mouths ‘now’. Lacey stands, holding the lantern high. The light washes out over the shop, illuminating James and Henry, who are wrestling on the floor. The gun is eight feet beyond them, lying in the broken glass by the front door. It gleams dully as the lantern light flashes over it, the glass particles sparkling all around it.

  Henry sees the gun first, but he is under James, unable to reach for it. James sees it and tries to thrust himself forward, but Henry locks his legs around James’ leg, holding him. James bucks, trying to break Henry’s hold.

  Archer darts from behind the counter and throws himself forward, reaching for the gun, but James gets a knee up and mashes it into Henry’s groin. Henry groans, and James bucks again, breaking his hold.

  James’ hand closes over the gun, the glass grinding into his skin, laying his knuckles open to the bone. Archer’s hand falls over James’, but James pulls back and rolls away, putting distance between himself and the other two.

  Henry groans again and rolls onto his stomach, trying to get his legs under him. James leaps to his feet, pointing the gun back and forth between Archer and Henry. His features are pulled taut. The bandage on his head is askew and bright red with fresh blood where his cut has torn open.

  Arch keeps an eye on James but scrambles to Henry’s side. Henry’s eyes round in surprise, and he says, “Archer?” Bewilderment and pain wash over his face. He has a large cut on his forehead where James had hit him with the gun before it had popped away from them in their struggle. His eyes are both black, the right nearly swollen shut.

  Arch nods, getting himself under Henry’s shoulder, trying to help him up.

  “Get away from him!” James’ voice is a roar, a bellow of panic and rage. He takes three sharp strides forward, his finger squeezing the trigger reflexively.

  Henry sees and rasps out–“safety’s on”–and lunges forward. Arch is pushed aside by Henry’s sudden leap, and James’ eyes go to the gun in his hand. He reaches down, pulls the safety back and fires again. This time, the gun discharges. Henry, caught mid-leap, is batted to the side, as if by a giant, invisible bear paw.

  Lacey screams and drops the lantern. For an instant, the room is pitched back into blackness, and then the lantern breaks, releasing fuel across the countertop. The last flicker of flame from the wick contacts the kerosene, and the counter bursts into bright flame.

  Lacey throws herself down and back, feeling singed, her face hot and itching. Arch is yelling, “Henry! Henry!” his voice cracking and breaking like a much younger boy’s. Lacey pushes herself blindly forward, the heat from the burning counter cooking her shoulders and back. She gets just beyond the edge and feels blessedly cool air against the side of her head when she is grasped by the back of the shirt and pulled roughly up. She scrambles to her hands and knees, the neckline of her blouse cutting into her throat.

  “Get over there with them!” James yells over the increasingly loud crackle of the flames. Then he pushes her forward. Lacey overbalances and crashes back onto the floor, crying out. She can’t open her eyes, but can tell the room is getting brighter, hotter.

  “I can’t see! James, please! I can’t see anything, my eyes…”

  She feels warm hands in her armpits, struggling to pull her up. She panics and lashes out, but Arch dodges her easily and puts his mouth against her ear. “It’s me, Arch, I’ve got you. Let me lead you.”

  The flames are getting louder. Arch puts his arm around Lacey’s back, and she stands, blindly leaning into him. She feels his slightness, feels him bracing himself against her weight. She opens her eyes a crack, and everything swims in a blurred mixture of light and dark. She lets Arch lead her.

  “There! Right there! Don’t go any farther!” James’ voice is right behind them, bellowing, making her jump and cry out.

  Arch jumps too, nearly pulled off his feet from the combination of her weight and his own fear. Lacey kneels, and he kneels next to her and then turns to his brother. Henry is huddled on his side, faced away from them. Arch turns him over, shaking, expecting the worst. But Henry’s eyes are open, and he grimaces in pain. “Fuuuck!” he moans out, putting his right hand to left shoulder. “Some fucking…cavalry…I turned out to be.”

  Arch moves Henry’s hand. Henry’s heavy, leather motorcycle jacket has a hole about six inches above his heart. Arch peels
the jacket back, and Henry’s shirt is red with the blood pouring from the wound.

  “Lacey? Give me your hands. I need you to press down…”

  She turns to the sound of his voice and holds her hands out. He pulls them over, and she feels the slimy cotton of Henry’s blood-soaked shirt, and she presses down. Henry moans again, and Lacey hisses in a sympathetic breath.

  “Sorry, Henry, sorry,” she says and presses down harder.

  He groans again, even louder, almost a scream, and she is shocked to hear it end in a chuff of laughter.

  “Henry?” she says and tries to open her eyes again–everything is still swimmy, but a little less so.

  “I guess you…” His voice is barely a whisper, but still has the thread of a laugh running through it. She bends closer. “Guess you met…my brother…” he says, and his voice dies away. In a blur, she sees his head fall to the side. He has passed out.

  She presses down harder, until she can’t feel any more blood tickling under her palms. Lacey blinks her eyes again and again until they clear enough so that she can just make out Henry’s features. Arch is huddled beside her, his shoulder bumping into hers as he fishes through Henry’s pockets.

  “What are you looking for?” she asks.

  “I think he carries a knife…”

  “Back away from him! Toward me!” James yells, the gun at the back of Arch’s head. Arch stills and puts his hands out. He shuffles back, staying on his knees.

  James comes from behind them, his gun still trained on Arch.

  “Lace, get up. Come over here. Those two are dangerous,” he says. He is not yelling, but his voice is strung through with tension and fear.

  “I can’t, James. He’s hurt. We have to help him.”

  “He’s….he’s hurt?” James’ voice wavers with uncertainty.

  Lacey squints, trying to bring James into focus. She can feel the flames getting hotter and hotter at her back. She needs to get them all out of here. Right now.

  “Riddel shot him! No reason! Just shot him!” she says, putting incredulous indignation into her voice. “We’ll never get the answers if he dies!”

  James’ features contract. “It’s not him we need! It’s the other one, Lace!”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “This one is the one!” She nods down at Henry. “He’s the one that knows! How do you think he found us? He controls Archer…but he’s…he’s sick, James, he’s very, very sick.”

  James’ eyes are pinned to Henry. “He knows?” he asks quietly.

  Lacey nods emphatically. “But you can save him! You can save him, James! And he’ll be indebted to you forever. He’ll have to tell you! Then you’ll have all the answers!” She is nearly shouting, partly for emphasis but also to make herself heard over the flames. They are greedily consuming the back of the building. Having taken down the counter in a matter of seconds, they are now going after the back wall, the kitchen, the wooden shelves. Everything in here is flammable, she thinks, including us.

  James hesitates and then waves the gun toward Archer. “He controls you? He has the answers?”

  Arch glances at Lacey and then back at James. He nods.

  James stands, considering. He looks from Lacey to Archer to Henry.

  “He’s sick? He really is?” he says to Lacey. There is a note of pleading in his voice, almost childlike.

  “He really is, James. He’s burning up. I think he has a fever,” she says. Willing herself to stay calm, they are almost out.

  “Okay. You,” he points to Archer with the gun. “You carry him out. Lace, come over next to me. I don’t trust them not to hurt you.”

  Lacey reluctantly drops her hands from Henry’s chest as Arch stands, slipping his hands under Henry’s arms and gripping them together over his chest. He lifts and begins to slide Henry toward the front door. He has to lift him slightly higher when they get to the lip where the glass had been broken out. He hopes there isn’t any more glass caught in the frame.

  He looks back and sees Lacey pressed up against James, his arm around her, pulling her tight to his side. As he watches, still struggling with Henry, he sees her arms come up and go around James. They are in silhouette, back lit by the wall of flames–to Arch they look like a poster for an action adventure movie. He lowers his head and continues to pull Henry out.

  James leads Lacey out just as Archer is dropping Henry back to the ground and leaning over to press his hands to Henry’s chest.

  “Now we’ll have some answers,” James says, taking his arm from Lacey’s side and going to Arch, pointing the gun at his head.

  “James!” Lacey says. “I told you, we have to get the other one’s help! He’s the one who–”

  “Shut up!” He turns the gun on Lacey, and she steps back, bringing her hands up. They are balled into fists, as if to punch any oncoming bullet away from herself. “You think I don’t know what went on in there? Well, listen up, lady. James may be a fool for you, but I sure ain’t. I’m a cop! A policeman! Do you know what that means? That I’m a good guy! That I stop the bad guys!” He gestures to Arch and Henry with the gun, flinging it wildly.

  “You’re not!” Lacey screams, throat tearing, tears springing to her eyes. “You’re James! You’re not Riddel! How did you know where LuLu’s dishes were? If you’re not James?” Her throat is raw and burning; she can taste blood on the back of her tongue. “You knew right where to look! When I mentioned them…James, please…I know you can hear me…please, James, please…I know it’s you…” She bends double, sobbing, retching, her hands balled at her stomach.

  James’ features cloud over, drawing down into rage. He shakes his head once. Twice. His features soften, and he laughs and shakes his head again. Then they squeeze together in disgust. His eyes glaze over, and he lowers the gun, staring off above the line of trees. He puts a hand to his own chest.

  “I don’t feel very good, Ma,” he says. His voice is small, quiet.

  Lacey takes a step toward him, and he wheels and trains the gun on her. Archer jumps up and throws himself toward James, falling short by six feet, landing heavily in the dirt. James steps back and laughs again. Then he sobers. He tilts his head and purses his lips.

  “Fuck it,” he says, raising the gun to Arch’s upturned face. “I don’t wanna know anymore.”

  “James! Look!”

  James’ head snaps to the direction of her voice, and Lacey is standing close to the door of the burning shop, holding out her hand. James blinks and sees…

  himself standing in the dirt parking lot surrounded by the trees a man lying on his side off to the left the boy next to him crying hands up warding off the gun and lacey before him the flames at her back and she is beautiful and in her hand the object is glowing glowing and spinning so slowly and it is warm and soft and safe and good it is good it is good for him it takes away the sickness makes him all better he wants to be all better he loves the object it is everything to him…

  And then he blinks again, and Lacey is turning, her hand going back and then snapping forward, and the object is flying through the air, through the door and into the flames.

  James drops the gun and sprints forward, bunting her aside as he runs into the shop.

  Lacey turns and runs to Henry and yells for Archer to get up! Get up! Let’s go! Realizing, he scrambles up, and together they drag Henry to the Impala. Lacey tears open the door, and they bundle him into the back. She runs to the driver’s side as Arch slips into the passenger seat. Lacey’s hands flutter over the steering wheel and down the stock, and they are shaking madly. She sobs out in rage when she doesn’t feel the keys. Then Arch’s hand is on hers, leading it to where they key is dangling from the ignition; she just missed it in her panic. She heaves in a breath and glances at him.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  “Yeah, now go,” he says, and she keys the ignition.

  She turns the Impala in a large circle, pulling on the lights as they go. They sweep across the front of the building, and for
an instant, she sees James inside, and he is leaping about wildly in his search for the object. It is as though he is dancing among the flames; a joyful, showoff devil, glad to have the floor to himself. Happy at last in the all-consuming flames.

  Chapter 36

  Lacey checks the time on her computer, hits save, and closes what she’d been working on–a four-page, monthly newsletter that goes to every employee. It is ‘her’ project. The design she’d submitted had won out over all fifteen that had been up for consideration.

  She makes a few quick notes about whom she wants to sit and talk with when she gets back to work on Tuesday–the offices will be closed on Monday for President’s Day–and the questions she wants to ask. She’d had the idea of doing a ‘getting to know you’ type column in every issue, and the art director told her afterwards that it was one of the things that had swayed upper management to her design. Seems everyone wants a chance to be ‘interviewed’.

  And it turns out that Lacey is a good interviewer. Very good. She knows not only how to listen to the things people say but also to listen even more closely to what they aren’t saying. The columns she puts together are much more interesting than birthdates and favorite colors…the people she interviews tell tales of teachers who’d influenced their current careers, or a parent who had overcome difficult odds to send them to college, or how their lives changed forever the day they’d met their spouse or new baby.

  Lacey has developed three very good friendships with women who’d opened up to her during the interviews. She has lunch with them on a regular basis, and they’ve even met outside of work. Henry gets along well with the women and their husbands, especially Lacey’s friend Aggie’s husband…he has a Harley and Henry can’t get enough motorcycle talk. They’ve even begun discussing a bike trip to Atlantic City once the weather gets better.

  In the cubicle next to hers, Mary–Lacey’s former ‘partner’–is explaining changes to a night shift person, and Eugene–her other former ‘partner’–stands by, impatiently shifting from foot to foot. Standing to leave, Lacey nods and smiles at them both and then sends the nighttime person a kind, commiserating look. The entire night staff had given her a party at an after-hours bar when she’d been moved to days. None of the daytime people had been invited.