by Rio Youers
Peter nodded ahead. “Up here at the stop sign, take a right. That’ll send us through Shadeland.”
But Merry rolled right through the stop sign and kept going straight.
Peter turned in his seat. “You missed—”
“You don’t wanna go through town, tiger. Business like yours, it’s best to keep things quiet.”
Peter realized his mouth was hanging open, and closed it, fast. Time to take control of this situation, the voice in his head declared. Show the little cretin who’s in charge. Peter placed his hands on his legs and let his fingers dig in. His father’s voice invariably brought on a sweltering heat in the base of his neck, but that was because the voice reminded him of what he was failing to do. Dammit, he thought. Life was a series of confrontations. In his business dealings, in his personal life. And now with this goddamned kid.
So be it. Peter Zink had worked too hard and was too fucking important to allow this yokel to dictate the terms of their deal, even if the kid was doing him a favor.
“Listen,” Peter began, letting the steel permeate his voice, “I see a security light up there on the left. Pull in there, turn around, and—”
“She knows.”
Peter stopped and stared at Merry. “What are you talking about?”
“Greta,” Merry said. “She knows all about your cheating.”
A freezing tide washed over him. “Stop the car.”
“Under your back bumper, there’s one of them hidden GPS thingies. She attached it back in July.”
Peter stared at Merry, appalled. Back in July? Jesus Christ, that was more than seven months ago. But how . . .
Peter gave himself no time to think. He seized Merry’s shoulder and squeezed. “Tell me who you are. How do you know these things?” God, the kid’s shoulder had almost no meat on it. Just knobs of bone. “Did Greta pay you to follow me? That’s it, isn’t it? You were stationed outside Janice’s house, waiting for me.” He released Merry’s shoulder, punched himself in the thigh. “Of course! That’s how you showed up in the middle of the damned night. I can’t believe I fell for this.”
Merry had said something while Peter was speaking, but Peter couldn’t make it out. “I didn’t hear you,” Peter said.
“Never met her,” Merry repeated.
“Who?” Peter asked. “Greta? Janice?”
“Sarah, Carolyn, Ashley, Michelle.” Merry chuckled. “How ‘bout that escort you hired when you were in Denver?”
Peter’s thoughts pinwheeled. There was no conceivable way. He’d flown to Denver, not driven. Greta couldn’t have known about the “escort,” as Merry referred to her, the stunning blonde with the gravity-defying breasts.
They passed the farmhouse with its dreary security light and were swallowed up again by the stygian darkness.
Peter licked his lips. “Clearly . . . clearly Greta paid you handsomely. I won’t deny anything you’ve said.”
Merry’s lips curved, the ventriloquist’s dummy resurfacing. “Poor Janice, motionless on her kitchen floor.”
Motionless? Peter thought. Jesus Christ. He hadn’t hit her that hard. Surely she wasn’t . . .
“Merry?” he asked.
“Hm.”
“Whatever Greta is paying you, I’ll double it.”
When Merry only laughed softly, Peter pressed on. “I’ll triple it. I’ll . . . what do you want me to do?”
“It’s simple,” Merry said. “When we get back to your mansion—”
“It’s not a mansion.”
“And Janice doesn’t have a house,” Merry said. “She’s got a trailer.”
“What’s your point?”
“You go inside,” Merry continued, “and you grab the keys to that black Hummer you keep in the extra garage. The detached one with the guest house above it?”
Everything, Peter thought. He knows everything.
“Take that gas-guzzling abomination over to Janice’s trailer and go inside.”
But Peter was shaking his head. “I can’t take the Hummer. The engine . . . it’ll wake the kids.”
“Stop acting like you give a shit about your kids.”
Peter’s mouth fell open. “How dare you?
Merry’s easy grin widened.
“No, really,” Peter went on. “How dare you impugn my parenting?”
“‘Impugn my parenting!’” Merry repeated, slapping the wheel. He wiped an eye. “Golly, that’s a good one. ‘Impugn my parenting.’”
A switch flipped inside Peter’s head. Maybe it was having his words thrown back at him. Maybe it was the fact that he was still, no matter how much he’d hated the man in life, his father’s son. Whatever the case . . .
“You’re guilty of unlawful incarceration,” Peter began.
Merry was nodding. “And you’ll sic the police on me, and they’ll lock me up—”
“You’re goddamned right.”
“—and throw away the key. Just like when I snipped Daddy.”
“Let me out of this truck!” Peter shouted. He pounded on the dashboard, kicked the underside of the glove box. “Let me out right now!”
“I let you out, you’ll end up in jail.”
Peter’s breath caught. His lips began to quiver as the images strobed through his mind: Handcuffs, bars, beatings. Even worse, he saw his family without him, Greta marrying some boy toy, some oily-chested masseuse at an all-inclusive resort who didn’t need pills to make his dick stand up, who’d live large on Peter’s savings, while Peter’s kids drove expensive cars too fast and cursed their jailbird father the same way Peter cursed his own father, the Great Peter Zink Senior, who sure as hell belonged in jail, who scammed everybody he knew, who cheated on his wife unapologetically, who smacked his wife around when the whim arose, who taught Peter everything there was to know about getting what you want.
“I said pull over,” Peter said, but the fog had settled over him, a steel-hued panic that deprived him of reason, that reduced him to a caged animal.
When Merry only continued to drive, Peter lost his composure, thrashed in his seat, thumped the window with a fist, kicked at the base of the glove box, and that was when the glove box door flipped open and the glossy black revolver tumbled out.
Peter’s eyes shot wide. Merry hadn’t reacted, but Peter knew he would. Before this deranged idiot grabbed for the gun, Peter lunged for it, got ahold of it, and without thinking he jammed the revolver against Merry’s temple, hard enough to shove him against the driver’s side door. The car slued to the left.
“Pull over!” Peter commanded.
Merry eyed him askance. “Unless you want us to end up in a ditch—”
“Stop the fucking car!” Peter snarled.
“You might wanna think about this.”
Peter thumbed off the safety.
“There’s things you don’t understand,” Merry said. “You won’t get another chance.”
Peter squeezed the trigger.
Merry’s head twitched and a gout of red syrup splashed the driver’s side window. Lolling sideways, Merry’s slack arms hauled the Titan across the gravel road, straight toward the shoulder, and the Titan tremored as it jounced over the shallow ditch and took out a fence post, the attached wires twanging loudly enough to make Peter’s ears ring, and then Peter was wrestling the wheel, the Titan thumping over a lumpy bean field, gradually circling back, nearing the road, then lurching as it bounced over the shallow ditch once more. His whole body numb, Peter crowded Merry’s legs aside, finally located the brake pedal, stepped on it indelicately, and the Titan skidded sideways, two tires actually leaving the road, before slamming back down and shivering to a stop.
The engine light was on, its orange eye blinking. The Titan had stalled.
Peter sat there, the Titan sideways in the road, the sound of trickling liquid just audible above the dinging of the engine light.
Gasoline, Peter thought. My God, the gas line’s ruptured.
Then he grew aware of Merry’s body against hi
s, of the pattering sound. Peter looked down, thought, Blood. That’s what’s trickling. Merry’s blood.
Murderer, he thought.
Self-defense! the voice in his mind responded, but its protest was feeble, the denial of a child with a chocolate-smeared face who claims he never went near the Halloween candy stash.
The reality of his situation flooded over him. Gasping, he shoved away from Merry’s corpse and scrambled toward the passenger’s seat. There was a subtle ticking from somewhere in the engine. Other than that, the night was utterly silent.
Peter swallowed, glanced about, saw they were alone on the dusty road, but for how long there was no way to tell. That was the problem with people around here, always in each other’s business. If someone happened down this country road now, the driver would stop, ask Peter if he needed help. And in Peter’s current state, slathered with sweat and no doubt looking guilty as hell, there’d be no hiding his crime.
What could he say anyway, should someone arrive? Naw, you go on. I prefer to sit here in the middle of the road beside a gore-streaked corpse in a truck I don’t own.
A fit of hysterical laughter threatened to rise up, and he bit back on it.
Okay, he thought. One thing at a time. See if the truck will start.
Keeping his eyes studiously averted from the body, he reached out and keyed the ignition.
The Titan gave a slow, drunken chugging and devolved into a rapid tick.
Fuck!
He was precariously close to hyperventilating, so he closed his eyes, heaved a deep breath. There’s no choice, he told himself. Either remain calm or go to jail.
Or, the hectoring voice added, you could suck on the barrel of that gun. It’d be preferable to facing a trial—
No!
—public ruin—
Stop it.
—seeing your kids’ faces when Daddy gets sent away—
Peter sobbed.
—of Greta’s contemptuous gaze when she learns of your serial infidelity—
Christ.
—and when you’re charged with two murders.
Peter froze, his eyes opening. My God, he’d almost forgotten about Janice. Was it possible she really was dead?
It wasn’t possible. He’d barely hit her!
Impulsively, he reached out, twisted the key, and cried out in relief when the engine rumbled to life. Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes.
He glanced at Merry. Still lolling, still dead.
He couldn’t drive with a corpse practically in his lap.
The truck bed.
Yes, Peter thought. But he didn’t relish the prospect of opening Merry’s door from inside the Titan and watching Merry spill out into the road. Peter opened his own door and hurried around to the driver’s side. No sign of other cars yet.
He opened the driver’s door and still almost missed catching Merry when the dead body slumped sideways. Peter caught the body under the armpits, his back twinging at the sudden load, and managed to backpedal until the corpse’s boots smacked the gravel. Knowing the job wouldn’t be made easier by delaying, Peter dragged Merry’s body toward the bed of the Titan, but there, a new problem presented itself. Merry was a little guy, but Peter figured he still weighed one-sixty or so. The treadmill hadn’t prepared Peter for hefting that much dead weight into the bed of a pickup truck.
The tailgate!
Yes, Peter thought, his spirits surging. He towed Merry’s body around to the rear of the Titan, released the tailgate, and took a moment to catch his breath. He surveyed the road to make sure there weren’t any cars coming—there weren’t—and resumed his grip on Merry’s armpits. His back groaning, Peter hauled Merry’s body higher, higher, and then, miraculously, Merry was facedown on the tailgate, his legs poking over the edge. Wincing, Peter leaned against the Titan, but only for a moment. He had to finish this.
He had to return to Janice’s.
It was a vague notion, but a scenario of sorts had begun to form in his mind. If he could plant evidence that Merry had been at Janice’s, he might be able to build a story around it. He shoved Merry’s legs into the truck bed, slammed the gate shut. He hustled around the Titan and climbed behind the wheel. The Titan’s engine was rumbling softly, so he shifted into gear and began the job of turning around. It took him a good twenty seconds—the Titan was massive and the road was narrow—but he finally managed to head back the way he’d come.
As he drove, he worked out the details:
There’d be no denying he’d been at Janice’s. The affair would come out. He wished he could avoid it, but his fingerprints and DNA were everywhere. God, he hadn’t even used a condom, instead trusting Janice’s birth control.
Forget it, he told himself. Figure it out.
He’d admit to sleeping with Janice: I’m not proud of it, but yes, I was unfaithful to my wife. A corner of his mouth twitched. It could just be the sort of bullshit contrition that would render him more sympathetic to the police. Or a jury.
He’d slept with his mistress and left. His car broke down. He hoofed it back to Janice’s trailer, and there he saw . . .
. . . the Titan.
That’s right, he told himself. It was parked outside Janice’s trailer.
And from within . . .
. . . from within he heard the sounds of a struggle. He rushed to the porch, pounded on the door, but by that time, the sounds had ceased. He opened the trailer door, went in, and saw . . .
Janice’s body.
Yes, he thought, now at the stop sign. He glanced both ways, judged it safe, and continued on, the image of Janice’s prone body floating in his mind’s eye. When he’d left her before, she’d been weeping, prostrate, her pitiful display somehow satisfying in the basest region of his soul. To her he’d been godlike, all-powerful, and even though he’d been wrong to strike her, he knew she’d never tell the authorities about it, knew she was too frightened of him, too worshipful to risk his wrath.
So yes, he’d tell the officers who’d show up shortly after he called from Janice’s landline, we had an affair, and when I returned and saw her body lying there, when I beheld the lunatic who’d struck her the fatal blow, the gun in his hand and a maniacal grin on his face, it broke my heart.
Perfect, he thought. You have nothing to hide, after all. You’ve done nothing wrong.
He’d tell the police Merry had marched him to the Titan at gunpoint. They’d climbed inside. Merry had driven him out to the country for God knew what reason, but Peter had overpowered Merry, had wrested the gun from his grip and shot the man in self-defense. Then he’d motored back to Janice’s in the slim hope she’d still be alive.
He bit his bottom lip. It was outlandish, but the truth was outlandish too. One story was as believable as the other. If he played it right, he thought he could sell them on the fake story.
Stop thinking of it as fake, he told himself. It’s the truth. Merry killed Janice. You merely saved yourself from dying too.
Better still, he reminded himself, Janice might not be dead. He only had Merry’s word as proof, and maybe Merry had been lying. And if Janice weren’t dead, Peter believed he could get her to forgive him. She might even help him. They could wipe down the Titan, drive it fifty miles away from here, and she could give him a ride back to her trailer. My God, if that were possible, the truth about his affair wouldn’t even have to be made public. Life could go on as it had been.
Nodding, Peter depressed the accelerator. Five more minutes and he’d arrive at Janice’s trailer.
Lord, he hoped she was still alive.
***
She wasn’t.
She was just as he’d left her, only now there was a lake of blood surrounding her head, the dingy beige linoleum stained a deep crimson. He swayed in the entryway of her trailer and tried to sort it out. Yes, he’d belted her in the face, but at worse he figured he’d bruised her. When he’d stormed out, she hadn’t even been bleeding, at least not that he could see. She’d been facedown, her shoulders had been rac
ked with sobs, and she’d been undoubtedly, indisputably alive.
How in God’s name had she died?
Maybe, he thought, closing the door swiftly behind him, Merry really had entered the trailer after Peter, really had murdered Janice to frame Peter.
Peter took a steadying breath. He had to learn the truth.
Before he could lose his nerve, he scurried over to where Janice lay, and taking care to keep his loafers clear of the blood spill, he grasped a hank of Janice’s brown hair and lifted.
He gagged.
Janice’s eyes were gone. The hollowed-out cavities gaped at him in messy accusation.
He scrambled away, his loafers skimming the blood pool and leaving scarlet scuff marks in his wake. His shoulder blades connected with a free-standing cabinet, its contents rattling around inside. He clapped a hand to his mouth and stared at Janice. Mercifully, her hair had tumbled over her gory eye sockets.
The implications began to swirl. Merry had killed Janice! He’d killed her and led Peter to believe it had been Peter who’d committed murder.
He drew a hand over his mouth and struggled to process this. He hadn’t killed Janice, and when he’d shot Merry, he’d been executing Janice’s killer.
But how to escape unscathed?
Peter closed his eyes, and now, shut of the sight of Janice’s corpse, a new plan began to crystalize.
Tell the truth.
Well, he amended, the truth with a single fact omitted.
He’d never struck Janice. No, he’d never laid a finger on her, and tragically, after he’d left her trailer, she’d been murdered by a psychopath. After executing Janice and ritualistically removing her eyes, Merry had picked up Peter, whose car had broken down. From that point forward, he’d just tailor the story to make himself the victim.
Peter opened his eyes. It was insane, but it just might work.
True, there would be a hellstorm of legal hassles. Yes, it would cost him his marriage, and his law firm would no doubt let him go.
But his kids might forgive him. He wasn’t the first husband to cheat, after all. And he would have plenty of money to build a new house. And he’d be free of Greta’s incessant carping.