“Oh, they killed him. After everything else. After raping his wife in front of him and stomping in her face. After force-feeding him shards of glass and trussing him and running a white-hot fire poker up his ass.”
“But they didn’t get his daughter?”
“Well, we never found her. So maybe they introduced her to their film business. Which means maybe they killed her once she no longer proved useful, or maybe she overdosed on the shit they use to keep those kids docile. Either way, she was in hell. Might still be there for all we know. And all because J. P. Schumacher thought the righteousness of his anger was a shield. He charged into a world he couldn’t understand, and it destroyed everything he loved.”
Clem stood up, letting out a low moan as he rose. He lifted his cowboy hat from the table, and slid it onto his head.
“I’m so sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Roger. I hope that later in your life you’ll be able to look back and thank me for it. You choose to stay, you try to fight them, try to force some kind of order . . . it won’t stick. Okay? They don’t have the same laws. Not so sure they have any laws at all. The only truth that matters is that you need to get you and your family as far from here as you can.”
Roger’s head had fallen back into his hands. Clem patted him on the back.
“Yeah. I know, buddy. It’s a shitter, no doubt. And thanks again for the beer. I’ll show myself out.”
IV.
CRAZY OLD COWBOY.
He thought it and did his best to believe it, to no avail. Fact was, the things Clem told him put Roger’s feet back on solid ground for the first time since he’d discovered the crime.
You call what you’re on right now ‘solid ground’? You’re just happy to find some doddering old man as crazy as you are. How do you know this isn’t some form of mass psychosis? Maybe the stained-glass factory a few blocks away let off a bunch of toxic plumes again . . .
Clem’s little talk had eaten up Roger’s chance to call the insurance company, and he’d barely had time to shave and give himself a whore’s bath with a washcloth before bolting out the door to deliver Julie’s plush toy and blanket. He’d slicked back his hair with a wet comb and hoped the wind through the open truck window would help it dry before he saw the girls.
God, I miss them.
He wanted to be fully present for Claire and Julie by the time he arrived, but he couldn’t help obsessing on things Clem had said.
“You’re not going to give them what they want.”
But what could they want from him?
Clem mentioned drug manufacturing. Was there even the slightest chance that someone in that house knew about Roger’s time in Oakland? How dumb and reckless he’d been, and how much he’d risked for . . . what?
Money?
Partly that. Partly the thrill. Knowing he was doing the wrong thing. Knowing he didn’t even need to be trafficking—his college tuition had already been covered and with his work-study job and credit cards he could have managed everything else. But Claire liked fancy restaurants and cruises and how he had a big new truck when most college boys were still driving the busted old sedans they got when they turned sixteen. And her friends loved how he kept an open tab and bought round after round of champagne when they were at the club. It had been easy to win Claire’s interest and her friends’ endorsement, and he truly adored her.
But he didn’t tell her, until much later, about coming through LAX with a thirty-year-sentence worth of ecstasy jammed up his ass. She barely knew about the time a regular buy turned sour and he found out he was capable of violence when threatened (though even the memory of him and Bobby S. kicking Kenny Liedke’s curled-up body and bloodied face turned his stomach and crept into his dreams). And he certainly never told her about the long, terrifying shipment run he made to Utah and back, how he’d never buckled his seatbelt once because he knew that if he heard sirens he’d have to take his own life in a fiery car crash. He couldn’t stand the idea of being caught—he knew the gravity of what he was doing and he sure as shit knew that his reasons for doing it were childish at best. What shame, to have your devil-may-care attitude turn into a devil on your back? He’d rather have died than face his parents and say, “You raised me right and I still did all this dumb shit and I barely even know why.”
Then he and Bobby S. got robbed and beat by a batch of kids with hatchets, and Roger suffered a cracked vertebrae. Doctors told him he narrowly avoided paralysis. Shortly after that Wilson straight-up disappeared and Roger knew it was time to cut and run and never look back. He dodged a multi-pack meetup that turned out to be a bust, but everyone who got clipped was higher up in the operation than him, so he couldn’t imagine them bothering to roll on his name. But he could imagine them thinking he’d been the one who rolled. That night he told Claire that he was in trouble and she told him that she wasn’t some naïve Kansas farm girl and that she’d long-guessed what he was up to. In fact, she kind of liked it. That he was crazy.
He’d bailed north and couch-surfed with friends. Grabbed an easy gig as a lab courier and waited for the other shoe to drop. Claire finished her semester and moved up to join him in a little apartment he’d scored for them on the outskirts of town.
He felt so lucky to discover that she still loved him when he wasn’t crazy. That she’d agree to marry him when he was just another schmo with a nine-to-five.
Roger had been waiting a long time for his past to finally catch up with him, but it felt more distant each year and eventually he guessed that the statute of limitations had passed on the ugliness of his early twenties and he decided he was ready to be a father.
Claire was six months pregnant when Roger’s parents had died in a terrible RV accident outside of Sedona. It crushed him. But he secretly felt a sense of relief: They’d never found out. No matter what happened from then on, they would never know.
Then Julie was born and it shifted the hands of the clock forward, past the time when he was ashamed, past the time where all he could do was grieve, forward to a time where he realized that his past was behind him, and he could be pretty much anyone he wanted to be.
And now, for some reason, it was possible that someone was trying to drag him back to that old, bad place.
Why? Is this really some game? Couldn’t it be that somebody actually wanted a fast way to come up on a TV and some jewelry?
“Night they busted in, you get any kind of weird headaches or earaches?”
How could Clem have known about that? And why did everything he said feel so true?
Roger needed more time to figure things out.
He made the blanket and plush drop off at the in-laws in time— he had to blink back tears when Julie pushed right past the Mr. Scrubbins toy he was holding out and jumped into his arms—and let Claire know that he wouldn’t be able to join them for dinner.
“You’re sure?”
“I’ll grab a burrito on the way back.”
“No, not just about dinner. You sure you should be headed back there? Maybe a night with us would be good for you. You look kind of . . . rough.” She smiled, but it was slight. “Or maybe we should pack in and come home with you.”
“No!” He’d nearly yelled at her. Damn it.
Well done, buddy.
“Oh . . . okay.”
“No, I’m sorry. Don’t know why I said it like that. I really want the place to be dialed when you guys come back, and the dining room is still a blowout. I have to call insurance in the morning. Besides, I thought I might surprise Julie and have a big LEGO set waiting for her in her room. Something nice to help her feel comfortable coming back.”
“Oh, she’d love that.”
“Yeah. So give me one more night to take care of everything and we’ll all hang out tomorrow. I promise.”
“Okay.” Her smile widened. “You sure you don’t have your mistress over? We’ve been gone a long time.” She always joked with him about infidelity. It felt like a show of power from her—he figured she knew deep down
he was like a rescue dog she’d saved and that he’d be forever faithful.
“Damn it, you’ve got me figured. She flew in from Brazil and we still have half the Kama Sutra to work through before you can come back.”
“Well, better get back to it, chief. I know what you’re really up to anyway. The bank called me today to authorize a bunch of your changes. Said I had to sign off since I’m the primary on the account. Hold on, Julie has something she wanted to give you.”
Roger crouched to see what she had in her hands. Some kind of abstract LEGO creation. She made these tiny things all the time and declared them to be fascinating, complex contraptions.
“It’s a Robber Die-erator, daddy. This is the sensor, see, this little yellow part, and it shoots out lasers and if any robbers come in and the sensor sees them then they get lasered in half and they die. So they can’t take away our things anymore! Do you love it?”
“I do, Jules. It’s awesome. Thank you so much!”
“You take it home with you, okay? It’ll keep you safe!”
“That’s perfect. I’ll put it right in my pocket.”
He spent another ten minutes trying to say goodbye without really being able to leave. Finally, Claire’s mom shouted out to the condo parking lot that dinner was ready, and he had to let them go. Once she confirmed that Julie was back inside Claire ran over to Roger and grabbed him and gave him a long, slow kiss. She looked him in the eyes as she pulled away and said, “Thank you for doing all this, baby. You’re the best.” And in that moment he felt like that was true—that he was doing right by her, despite the cost. He felt like a good man.
HE WAS HALFWAY HOME, doing his best to focus on the shiny, rain-slicked road, when he hit a rut and his rear tires exploded.
The truck fish-tailed. Roger tried to compensate and apply the brakes slowly enough to keep from heading into a spin. The rear of the truck made an awful grinding noise that vibrated his teeth as he slowed. Then he veered right too early, and only narrowly avoided the chariot spikes of a neighboring semi-truck’s front tires as he swerved back into the middle lane. Once the behemoth passed he managed to hobble to a narrow shoulder and bring the truck to a stop. Even with the windows closed he could smell the noxious smoke of metal on asphalt.
Fucking Christ, you’re kidding me!
One tire and he would have slapped on the spare and gimped home. Two, though, meant he was immobilized. He put in a call to AAA and let them know his make and model and that he would need two fresh tires.
Twenty minutes later help arrived and had the rear of the truck jacked up. The Incident Response driver was busy removing the blown-out remnants of rubber when he called Roger over.
“Any chance you work construction, pal?”
The man held up a swatch from one of the busted radials. In the headlights of the rescue truck, it was easy to spot all the screws embedded in the rubber.
Motherfuckers.
“Actually, both tires are like this. Whatever day crew you’re paying for site clean-up, you might want to dock their pay or give ’em some better magnet sticks.”
“I don’t work construction.”
“Oh. You do any house projects recently?”
“No.”
“Well, who knows then? I chucked those junkers in the back of your truck, for whatever they’re worth. Your front tires looked clear for screws, far as I could see. Those new ones’ll get you back on the road but you might want to park somewhere different tonight until you get a chance to check your driveway.”
“Sure. Thank you. You need me to sign anything?”
“No. We’re all good. Drive safe.”
Roger got back in the truck, furious.
“Devils love a good game. They love to get you outside your head.”
He pounded the steering wheel with clenched fists until he could see straight.
They almost killed me.
He composed himself. Started the engine. Found his water bottle lodged under his seat. Looked to the floor mat in front of the passenger seat at something scattered there. Hit the dome lights.
The Robber Die-erator. It’d flown from his jacket pocket and crashed to the floor, bright plastic pieces in disarray.
“You take it home with you, okay? It’ll keep you safe!”
He had no idea how to put it back together.
SURE ENOUGH, THERE WAS a profusion of tiny silver screws glinting back at Roger from the lower half of his driveway. He parked next to the curb between his and the neighbor’s house and got out for a closer look.
The screws were sharp and short and it looked like a whole contractor’s box had been emptied behind his truck.
It’s attempted murder, if you think about it. This is insane. Claire and Julie can’t come back as long as things are like this. It’s bad enough they’re doing this shit to me. I’ll lose my mind if they try anything with the girls.
Roger entered the house, relieved to find the interior hadn’t been gutted—Think of the positives!—and grabbed a push broom and red metal dustpan.
I’m keeping all of those screws. That’s evidence. This is a case now.
Some other part of his mind said, This isn’t a case. It’s a game you shouldn’t play. They’re trying to get to you. Clem’s right. You want to end up like J. P. Schumacher?
He took pictures of the evidence with his phone before he swept and bagged it. Then he pulled the truck into its spot, slumped into the house, ate a half-cooked frozen burrito while standing in the kitchen, and staggered to bed.
He was surprised at how quickly he passed out. The room was stuffier than he wanted it to be, but with Roger’s upgrades it now took an act of congress to actually get the windows open, so instead he simply threw off one of the comforters and slid into a much-needed sleep.
EXCEPT: THERE CAME A knock at the front door.
A single knock, thunderous, threatening to crack the wooden door from its frame.
Roger jolted awake, run through with a shock of adrenaline.
It’s them.
This is how it’s always going to be here, from now on, every single night. Any noise will be the end of the world. Everything will be them.
He ran to the front door, stopping only to grab his baseball bat from the dining room. Then he cursed himself for not installing a peephole. He couldn’t throw the door open, not without knowing who was behind it and why their knock might have shaken the house through its frame.
He hopped the sectional couch in the living room and peeked through the slats of the front window shade.
Nothing. Nobody.
He waited, half-expecting a sudden piercing headache to flare up.
Nothing.
Was it the wind? A tree branch that finally fractured and slammed the front door on its way down? Kids out night-knocking for cheap thrills?
Clem really got to you. Maybe he’s right, and there’s a purple light floating around the neighborhood, hoping to claim the first poor soul that answers its knock. Or maybe it’s one of his face-changing squatters trying to provoke you to do the wrong thing. Or maybe it’s fucking Santa Claus, lost and looking for directions back to the North Pole. Christ, Rog you’ve officially lost it.
Or maybe you were just dreaming. Did you ever stop to think of that? Go back to bed.
So he did.
EXCEPT: THE ALARM ON his truck went off.
Goddamn it!
He checked the clock on his bed stand. He’d only been out forty minutes.
Within seconds he had on his jeans and long-sleeved shirt. He slid into a pair of canvas slip-ons in the foyer, grabbed his truck keys and his bat, and charged out into the driveway, heedless of the tremulous knock which had fallen on the front door a short time ago.
His truck headlights flashed on and off. The alarm whooped until he could figure out which worn button on his key fob actually shut off the damn thing.
All the doors were closed. All the windows were intact.
Roger was still wondering what had
triggered the alarm when he heard someone charge over the hedgerow in his neighbor’s yard and bolt out into the street.
He didn’t have to think, because it was night and someone had been terrorizing him and he had a bat in his hands. Claire had told him he was the best and that made him feel strong, like he was ready to put an end to things. He gave chase.
The figure was tall, lean, clad in white pants and a long black hoodie. And they were fast. Roger hadn’t run in months, and he felt the beginnings of a beer belly jostle as he pounded the pavement. If he couldn’t close the distance, he hoped he could at least keep them in his sightline to see where they went.
They made it to the end of 14th and the would-be truck-jacker gave no sign of slowing.
He’s turning left, toward 17 th. Maybe I can catch him out front of the house by Clem’s and give him enough of a scare to make those fuckers back off.
They crested the peak of the street. The road dropped down into a valley and Roger tried to take longer strides, to find some way to let gravity help him catch this son of a bitch and put an end to the whole mess.
It was no use. Whoever it was, they were too fast.
Roger yelled, “Hey, asshole!” hoping the distraction might slow them, or provoke whoever it was into turning around. No use. As if spooked by the sound, the figure suddenly veered right and hopped a neighbor’s fence on 16th.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Roger made it to the fence, but knew he wouldn’t follow. He wasn’t about to risk entering someone else’s property and getting shot for the trespass. He didn’t even know if he had the energy left to hop it.
Was this all some kind of a trap? Is that what they wanted? For me to chase them all the way out here?
There was a foul smell coming from the fence where they’d cleared it in a single easy vault. Roger stepped closer and squinted, and that’s when he saw the dark handprints left behind.
The smudged prints were shining in the moonlight. They were shifting, dripping slowly downward. Blood? Black oil?
Entropy in Bloom Page 24