Frantic

by Mike Dellosso

  The image of blood spraying from the cop’s head, his eyes wide with surprise, mouth open, kept tramping through Marny’s mind, as did the way the woman slouched to the ground, almost in slow motion, that red stain spreading on her chest. And each time, the images dumped a little more guilt on him. If he’d just done what Gary said, if he’d just gotten into the car and let Gary drive away, if he’d stopped trying to be the hero Esther thought he was, that cop would be going home to his family tonight. His children would run to him, their arms open. His wife would give him a hug and a kiss and ask him how his day was, and he would say that it was uneventful as usual. A few traffic citations, a suspected shoplifing incident. Nothing more. He would eat dinner with them and tuck his kids into bed.

  Instead, because of Marny, his wife would get the phone call no officer’s wife wanted to receive. She’d be making funeral plans.

  And the woman, she was most likely a wife, a mother. Mommy would not come home this evening; there’d be no dinner on the table, no good-night kisses.

  Because of Marny.

  As if he could read Marny’s mind, or maybe only read the anguish on his face, William squeezed Marny’s hand tighter.

  The car slowed and pulled to the shoulder of the road. They’d gotten off the main route a few minutes back, and this secondary road was forested and appeared deserted. Gary shifted the car into park and shut off the engine. His eyes found Marny in the rear-view mirror.

  Marny’s heart thudded in his chest, and his hand closed around William’s.

  Gary tossed the keys onto the passenger seat and opened the door. He got out of the car and walked around to Marny’s side. Marny looked up and down the road. Not a house in sight, not even another car.

  Gary stood by Marny’s door, both arms hanging casually at his sides. Behind him, across the road, the deep forest seemed to creep closer and box the car in. There was no escaping. For a moment Marny thought the bigger man was going to put his hand through the window and strangle him right there in the backseat. Instead he opened the door, snatched a handful of Marny’s shirt, and yanked him out of the car.

  “Get out here,” he said. His voice was strained and raspy, laced with hate.

  Gary was a big, thick man. His forearms were the size of Marny’s thighs. Marny was no match for him one on one. Gary turned Marny around and grabbed his shirt in the back, between the shoulder blades, so he could control him like a dog on a leash. He pushed Marny forward, toward the woods. “Walk.”

  Marny stumbled and tripped over his own feet, but he was able to remain upright as they tramped through underbrush and a carpet of fallen leaves. About thirty feet into the woods, with the road now barely visible, Gary pushed Marny against the rough bark of a tree, face first. Gary’s hand found Marny’s neck and tightened. He had such strength that Marny knew if the man wanted to, he could squeeze the life out of him right there. Swift and easy. Instead, something hard nudged his head.

  The pistol.

  Gary’s mouth was next to his ear. “I’ve had enough of you.”

  Rage is a dangerous yet liberating thing.

  Gary held the gun to the punk’s head and pressed the barrel against his skull.

  Off its leash, rage could be devastating, could destroy one’s soul in a matter of seconds. It was a monster on a rampage, acting without thought, fueled by instinct and desire and hunger. But tethered by self-control, rage freed the emotions, was a vent for the deepest seated frustrations and annoyances of a man. It was anger given permission to act without pause, but only within the confines of set moral boundaries.

  What Gary experienced was the monster brand of rage, unleashed and unharnessed. He was out of control, and it scared him.

  He wanted to shoot the punk, put a bullet in his head, not only because he was a threat to the safety and security of William, but because Gary genuinely did not like him. He hated him, in fact. The punk had forced Gary’s hand, pushed him into killing the cop and a woman.

  Gary pressed the side of the punk’s head against the tree. His face was turned toward Gary, and there was fear in his eyes. No, more than fear—there was terror. This is what it looked like when someone saw their life flash before their eyes, when they saw the end of all things upon them and they were about to enter into eternity unprepared.

  Normally, the thought would have sickened Gary. He didn’t relish taking lives; he did it only because it was the only way to protect William. Normally. But what Gary felt here, the rage that had unhinged his moral restraint, was anything but normal. He could feel his pulse through his palm and all the way into his trigger finger. He imagined pulling that trigger, feeling the gun jump in his hand, feeling the relief that comes with venting rage, with satisfying an unbearable itch. He wanted to do it.

  He would do it.

  He leaned in toward the punk’s ear and whispered, “May God show no mercy on your soul. I now usher you into the endless corridors of eternity.”

  But before he could squeeze off a round and quench his hunger, a voice stopped him.

  “Don’t do it, Gary. You can’t.”

  Gary turned and found William by his side. The boy was like an angel. The very sight of him held such power over Gary. He was Gary’s purpose for being, his reason for existence.

  “Why?” Gary asked. “Tell me why.”

  “Because I need him.”

  Gary shook his head. The boy didn’t need him. He needed Gary and only Gary. He was the boy’s protector, his shepherd. The good shepherd. “No, you don’t. You don’t need anyone except me.”

  “I need Esther too, Gary. You know that.”

  No, he thought he needed them, but he didn’t. Gary knew what was best for William, what he needed and didn’t need.

  “You don’t need anybody but me.”

  Gary repositioned his hand on the punk’s neck and pushed his head against the tree again. He was ready to do it, despite what William said. He didn’t need this punk. Not at all.

  But what stopped him this time was not William’s voice but his touch. The boy rested his hand on Gary’s side, just above his hip. “Gary. Please, I need him. He has to help us get to Esther.”

  Right now Gary didn’t care about Esther. Harold could have her. For that matter, he didn’t care about Harold either. Sooner or later their confrontation would come, but it could be later. This was the first time William had ever intentionally touched him, the first time he’d voluntarily made contact. It was a breakthrough Gary had never imagined. He looked down at William’s hand. He’d touched him with his withered one, his special one.

  Heat like warm water spread out from William’s hand and radiated through Gary’s body. His entire body relaxed as if soothed by the trained hands of an accomplished masseuse. The gun suddenly felt like it was cast from the densest iron, and he almost dropped it.

  William’s eyes were relaxed and calm; he showed no emotion. “He can’t die, Gary. Please.”

  But Gary no longer thought about the punk and whether to kill him or spare his insignificant life. He thought about William and his withered hand and the touch of the anointed one. He wanted more of this; he needed more of this. It was like a drug that hooked its user on the very first dance.

  William pulled his hand away, and immediately the warmth dissipated.

  Gary did drop the gun this time and reached for William’s hand. “No. Don’t let go.” He was frantic, desperate to restore the touch, the feeling. The drug had a hold on him already, and within seconds he had suffered withdrawal. He groped at the air for the boy’s hand.

  William yanked his hand away and stepped back. He tripped over a branch and landed hard on his butt.

  Gary realized then what he had done. He’d gone too far. He’d let down his guard and crossed the line. He’d given in to his emotions and offtended the anointed. Grief washed over him like a wave of nails, pricking at his flesh and leaving open, raw wounds. He fell to his knees before William and rocked back and forth.

  “I’m sorry. I’
m sorry. What have I done?”

  William climbed to his feet and brushed off his pants. The dolphin on his shirt was twisted to one side.

  Gary reached for the boy, then pulled his hands back. “Are you okay? I’m sorry.”

  “I’m fine, Gary. We should probably get back on the road, though.”

  Gary retrieved the gun, stuck it in his waistband. He stood and faced William. Shame overtook him. The shame he felt so long ago. But there was no condemnation in William’s eyes.

  “Yes. We will,” Gary said. He stole a glance at the punk, who was still hugging the tree.

  William walked over and touched the punk’s back. “It’s okay now, Marnin. We need to get to Maine. There’s not much time left.”

  They trudged back through the woods, Gary first, then William, then Marny. At the car Gary waited until the punk and William were in the backseat, then got in behind the wheel. He said nothing to either of them. He’d been shamed because of his failure. But with every shaming came an opportunity to regain honor.

  And he would regain his very soon. But for now, he needed to move. After what happened back there in the town, the cops would be on his trail soon enough.

  Chapter 49

  THERE ARE TIMES for talking, and there are times for running.

  Mr. Karsten appeared to move faster than his size would allow. At the window he peered around the frame, then cursed. He turned to his wife.

  “Lydia, show Esther the cellah.” Then he turned to Esther. “You stay quiet down there, and I’ll handle this.”

  Mrs. Karsten led Esther out of the living room and into the kitchen, where she opened a door that led to a wooden staircase to the cellar. The walls on either side were covered with pegboard, and on pegs hung a broom and dust pan, extension cords, hand tools of all kinds, and some iron skillets. Mrs. Karsten hit the light switch on the wall, and a hanging bulb illuminated at the bottom of the steps.

  “When ya get down there, the switch for the rest a’ the cellar will be on the wall on the right.” She put her hand on Esther’s back and rubbed. “It’ll be okay. Ya just stay quiet and let my Chris handle it. Okay?”

  Nosey was there too, looking up at her with thoughtful eyes. He blinked once, chuffed, then went back to the window and resumed his barking.

  Esther nodded. Fear had so clutched her in its grip that she could not speak. Her hands and feet felt numb and heavy. Her throat had swollen shut so she could not even swallow.

  Down the steps she went, into the bowels of the house. Mrs. Karsten closed the door behind her, and Esther heard it lock. She didn’t like the sound of that. She didn’t know the Karstens except what she remembered from her childhood friendship with their daughter. For all she knew they were the ones Harold had received the phone call from back at the house, the ones he was later meeting. This could all be a trap.

  But she had nowhere else to turn. And besides, she was here now, nothing she could do about that.

  At the bottom of the stairs she found the light switch on the wall and flipped it. Three fluorescent tubes stuttered to life and lit the entire cellar area. It was cluttered but, like the first floor, not unclean. Everything seemed to have its place. There was a fishing boat supported on cinder blocks, stacks of plastic containers lining one wall, an extensive workbench and tool collection lining another. Over to the left, around the staircase, were the furnace and water heater, and farther back the washer and dryer.

  To Esther’s left she found what she was looking for: a way out. Two doors, French style, opened to the outside.

  Above her, on the first floor, a knock sounded on the front door, and Chris Karsten’s heavy footsteps pounded across the wood flooring and shook the crossbeams.

  Esther moved quickly to the double doors. She checked the lock and disengaged it. She would wait, see how things went upstairs.

  Nosey barked continuously until Mr. Karsten shouted, “Lydia, keep that dog quiet.”

  The front door opened. Esther could hear clearly what was said.

  “Sorry to bother you folks. I’m Harold Rose. I used to live down the road a bit and recently moved back into the area. My daughter, Esther, has gone missing, and I was wondering if you’d seen her. Early twenties, brown hair, slight build.”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen no one ’round here.” Mr. Karsten’s voice did not sound relaxed.

  “I see. Maybe you don’t understand … she’s ill, mentally. She has delusions, paranoia, bouts of psychosis, manic depression, you name it. She’s not well at all and has a tendency to wander.”

  “Maybe you don’t understand. I said we haven’t seen no one ’round here. No one.”

  There was a pause in the conversation. Esther’s mind swam in circles. She wanted to open the door and make a run for it while Mr. Karsten had Harold preoccupied. But then she’d be right back where she was, on the run in the woods with nowhere to go. And if Mr. Karsten succeeded in getting rid of Harold, then her father would still be back on her trail. She decided to wait and see what the outcome of the confrontation brewing upstairs would be.

  Harold cleared his throat. When he spoke he sounded different, authoritative. He used his cop voice. “I know she’s here. I don’t know what she told you, but you can’t believe her. She’s ill. She comes up with crazy ideas. Now I’d like my daughter back.”

  “Mister, are ya deaf? I said there ain’t no one here. Now I’ll ask ya to leave.”

  “I was hoping we could avoid this.”

  Feet shuffled quickly.

  “Lydia!” Mr. Karsten’s voice came out high-pitched and strained.

  Mrs. Karsten screamed. Nosey began his barking again.

  Then there was a series of grunts and thuds and curses. The two men were wrestling, fighting. Glass broke. Wood splintered. More thuds and curses. And through it all Mrs. Karsten screamed and Nosey barked.

  A gunshot erupted and seemed to shake the entire house.

  Mrs. Karsten cried out like a woman in labor.

  “Where is she?” Harold sounded out of breath.

  More screaming from Mrs. Karsten.

  Another gunshot sounded, like a crack of close thunder, and the screaming ceased. Esther jumped, and above her something hard hit the floor.

  Esther fumbled with the doorknob, turned it the wrong way.

  Nosey snarled, and the click of nails moved across the floor. A sharp yelp, followed by a third gunshot, then nothing.

  Finally Esther got the door open, slipped through it, and ran for the forest. Halfway across the clearing she looked over her shoulder, back at the house.

  Harold was at the window, watching her.

  Chapter 50

  FOR THE SECOND time that day Esther hit the tree line running.

  And for the second time the trees welcomed her freely. They did not judge, did not reject, did not wish violence and destruction upon her. But behind her the man who did was on her trail once again.

  Without looking back, Esther pushed through the forest, deeper and deeper until she no longer knew where she was. She dared not stop, dared not even pause to catch her breath. She had been given a head start and needed to use every second of it.

  She came upon a slope, a sharp decline in the topography of the forest. At the bottom was a creek, not five feet wide. Down she plunged, her legs trying desperately to keep up with the pull gravity had on her body, her hands dancing from sapling to sapling, keeping her on course. The ground rose quickly to meet her, and at the bottom she nearly stumbled but caught herself on a thickly barked white pine. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed what she had hoped to see: no Harold.

  Here she paused for a few seconds to catch her runaway breath and ease the burning in her chest. Her legs throbbed with lactic acid and begged for rest. But she had to keep moving. Harold’s voice from the past rang in her ears.

  It’s no use to hide. You know I’ll find you.

  For a brief moment she again entertained the thought of giving up, letting Harold take her. After all, he was he
r father. Surely he didn’t have thoughts of murder concerning her. But he’d so easily taken four lives already, five counting poor Nosey. What would one more be to him?

  Deciding Harold’s intentions were not honest or fatherly, Esther once again made her legs move, willed them to move. She had to keep running, keep gaining ground, until … until what? When would she be safe? How much distance was enough distance?

  In an instant, all her questions were answered.

  “Esther!”

  There would never be enough distance.

  Harold’s voice tore through the stillness of the forest, a harpoon lancing her through the heart and dragging her back toward that ship of despair and desolation.

  Esther turned her head, caught a glimpse of her father on the ridge, a hulking, evil figure, and promptly tripped over a decaying stump. She went down hard, but the bed of pine needles cushioned her fall.

  Another glance back showed that Harold was on his way down the slope, gaining ground quickly.

  She scrambled to her feet and took off. Tears of panic pressed on her eyes, blurred her path. She screamed to relieve the pressure building in her chest.

  A rocky outcropping sat just ahead, like some cancerous graying wart. Reaching it, she dodged behind one of the boulders and found a broken tree limb, about three feet long and as thick around as her arm. She huddled down in a nook and waited. She could run forever and never lose Harold. He’d always be there, just on her tail, and would eventually catch her anyway. Her only hope was to make a stand. She knew a stick was no match for a handgun, but if she caught him by surprise …

  Trying in vain to settle her breathing, she crouched low, stick held shoulder high. Harold’s footsteps came into hearing distance and slowed. She could distinguish each individual footfall, soft and even, coming closer, closer, until they were just on the other side of the boulder.

  “Esther.” Harold’s voice was thick and gruff. “You know you can’t hide forever. You know I’ll find you.”

  Esther crouched lower, afraid he’d catch a glimpse of her head or shoulder peeking out from around the rock. He started walking again, toward where she was hidden. She had to time this perfectly.