The Estranged

by JG Koratzanis

  “Confess your sins to me,” he whispered.

  III

  “Hey,” Heather said as the steel loft door roared open. Cinching her robe tight, she walked to the door and leaned in for a kiss.

  “Hey, my little chutney-butt! What have you been up to,” he said. If it were anyone other than Jackie, chutney-butt would not have been acceptable.

  “Nothing. Thanks for coming over so fast,” she said.

  “What’s going on?” he said as he tossed his denim jacket to the sectional sofa. Loose change and a half-empty pack of cigarettes skittered across the cushions. “You said you had a bad dream or something?” he said.

  Heather nodded and folded into herself beside Jackie’s coat. He shifted the jacket and sat beside her.

  “What happened?”

  Heather released a breathy sigh before she answered. “It was real. So real. Your friend, Douglas, was about to kill me.”

  Jackie reeled back. His deep-set eyes widened.

  “Yeah. But it was where I was, what I heard, what I smelled! It was more real than you sitting right here.”

  “I unfriended him a while ago. After that night at Gary’s. I think Gary threatened to beat him up if he ever showed up at another party, though he hasn’t had any since. Hey, where’s Shawn? You guys in trouble?” Jackie said.

  “How’s Chase?” Heather responded. “Have you heard from him?”

  “I guess either you don’t want to talk about it or I don’t want to know what he said about me. Which is it?”

  “Both.”

  “Jackie, I promise you; I’m over him. Really.”

  He remained silent.

  “Really!” she reiterated.

  “I’m not sure I am,” Jackie finally said. “He’s not— I feel like I don’t even know him anymore. But you didn’t answer my question. Where’s Shawn?” Jackie said.

  “You mean Ian.”

  “Ian?” Jackie’s voice cracked. “Who’s Ian?”

  “This guy I met last week. He’s nice.”

  “What happened to Shawn?”

  “Ugh. He was a needy, jealous bitch,” she groaned. “I just couldn’t take his inquisitive whining anymore.

  The buzz of the doorbell startled Heather and roused Jackie from his comfort. Heather dashed to the intercom.

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  “Listen, asshole! Go bother someone else. Alright?”

  She waited for the no answer again and stepped away from the door.

  The rumble of a motorcycle filtered through the open windows of the loft. Absolute connection skewed her face as she slowly stood.

  They both stepped to the windows and glimpsed the taillight of the leather-clad rider speeding off on a blacked-out Harley before it turned off onto Second Avenue.

  CHAPTER 9

  PREY

  I

  Foul breath extinguished the matchstick in his fingers, and Douglas folded his legs as he sat on the floor and admired his nearly completed masterpiece.

  One hundred, eighty-seven photographs canvased the peeled wallpapered wall before him. Each one a different angle, different lighting, different clothing, but the subject remained the same. Her raven locks cascading over her shoulders, her dainty hand brushing it from her face, speaking into her phone, or laughing with her girlfriends at their usual bars and coffee shops. Some images, she wept, others she scorned, but her beauty endured. Those olive-green eyes that pierced through colorless days and moonless nights, the secrets behind her eyes remained.

  The seven candles, one for each day of the week, burned with the same ferocity of his intent. The table, his altar, reeked of the deceased from which it was composed. Pelts of several vermin, bones tied about in makeshift knots of leashes and collars for strength and stability held the construct together. It was uneven, unlevelled, but it served its purpose. The earthen bowl placed upon the center of the table leaned at an angled that threatened to spill its thick, opalescent liquid. The demand for his thoughts remaining pure for his first ceremony was not without consequence. It took Douglas several tries to muster up a nonsexual desire to relieve himself. There was no man, no woman that entered his mind. But the images of roadkill and his own hunted victims provided more than enough libidinous fodder to fuel the erection that wouldn’t quit once he finished.

  Douglas took to his feet, fixed on the one photograph, larger than the rest, where it appeared not only did she look directly into the camera, but smiled for it. He removed it, careful not to allow the tape to tear the delicate paper.

  “Thank you, Grace. For my enlightenment.”

  II

  Almost everyone in Dickinson’s ignored Rick’s presence. Almost.

  He wanted to be alone, he wanted to reflect, and he wanted a drink. Two out of three ain’t bad.

  “What’s going on with you, teddy-bear? I’ve never seen you this down,” Stacy said. Her straight, long blonde hair poured off her shoulders like a golden waterfall as she leaned over the bar. Rick shrugged and threw back his shot of whiskey. He chased it with a thick gulp of Sam Adams.

  “I get off in an hour,” she said. “How about we go back to my place, watch some Netflix and I’ll give you a little rub down?”

  He lost the short battle to a smile.

  “Maybe.”

  Detachment had been Rick’s strong suit for longer than he could remember. A lesson forced on him by his father for even longer.

  “You will be the one to die alone. No one will be there, they will survive. Just as if your friend dies. They will die alone. Don’t become too attached. Not even to family. Not even to me,” Rick’s father imparted his wisdom at Rick’s thirteenth birthday.

  It changed his perspective, all right. That man was wrong. Rick never wanted to become like his father.

  “You might not see it now, but you will. Wait until you get older. You’ll become jaded, calloused. We all do. It makes tough decisions easier.”

  Stacy turned away and stepped towards her more attentive patrons.

  “Hey, T? I’ll have another round, please,” he said. She stopped and whirled around.

  “What did you call me?”

  Rick went agape. He never called her that before. And he was damned sure he’d never call her that again.

  “I’m so sorry, I— I don’t know why that came out,” he said. She ripped a pint glass from the rack and yanked at the tap.

  Stacy was pissed and deservedly so. That nickname, that single letter reminded her of someone else. Someone she wanted to forget. She was jaded.

  Rick hadn’t seen him since he stormed out of Dickinson’s after a handful of minutes. Something was eating at Rick and he wanted, needed to get it off his chest. And Chase left before hearing it. Just like that. He was calloused.

  He raised his glass and awed before the blacked out electrical conduits and climate control vents.

  “Here’s to you, Pop. Maybe you were right after all.”

  “Right about what?” Stacy said as she slid a fresh beer and shot in front of him.

  “Nothing. My old man. It’s a long story.”

  “Maybe you can tell me later. I don’t want to go to bed alone tonight. And you look like you can use someone to talk to,” she said.

  “Maybe,” he grinned. She pinched his cheek and strode away.

  Rick downed the whiskey. A finger skated the rim of the colder mug as he stared aimlessly at the inflating head. The suds receded as soon as it contacted the salt and oils of his finger. Even beer knew when to call it quits, it seemed.

  Rick had never been a quitter. The nag of his father’s wisdom stoked those flames.

  Would it be quitting or fighting the good fight if he told him? He loved Chase. Chase deserved to know.

  Rick chugged his ice-cold brew and withdrew his phone. The wooden barstool creaked as he shifted. He powered it up, scrolled through his contacts and tossed the phone to the bar. He surrendered his han
ds and shook his head. The barfly beside him nudged an elbow.

  “You cool, buddy?”

  Rick turned to the man. He was older, perhaps his father’s age, if Richard were still alive. His hands were thick, chapped and suffering from some Rheumatory ailment. Not full-blown arthritis, but close enough. The deep gouges around his nose and mouth, the road mapped lines that sprang from his eyes suggested a man who smiled or squinted too much at the sun. Hair so thin, it was translucent, Rick wondered why he just didn’t shave it, and look less maniacal.

  “Yeah, Pop. I’m fine. Thanks. There’s just something I have to do,” Rick said and swiped at his phone.

  He watched the timer as the call connected, ensuring there was a connection before he put the phone to his ear. Four rings in, Rick pulled it away. His finger slowly made its way towards the red icon.

  “Hello,” he heard as his finger jerked away.

  “Hey, buddy.” All color flushed from Rick as he spoke. The phone slipped across his cheek. An arm swept up and wiped his face.

  “How’ve you been? I— I haven’t heard from you in a while.

  “Yeah, same here. Sorry to hear it.”

  Rick paused, watched the older man next to him smile and walk away.

  “Hey buddy, the reason I’m calling— I need to see you as soon as possible. There’s something— we need to talk.

  “Yeah, Thursday’s fine. That’s fine. Great.

  “So, what else have you been up—

  “You got to go? I just— Fine. I understand. Sure thing. See you next week.

  “Where? Um, how about Prospect Park.

  “No. I would like a little more privacy. Just you and me. It’s about time we talked.

  “No, this isn’t some bullshit. What the fuck, Chase? You’re my little brother. I’m the last one to pull one over on you. Will you—

  “Okay. Yeah. Nine o’clock, Thursday. Thanks, buddy. Later.”

  Rick disconnected the call and tossed the phone back to the bar and wiped the downpour of sweat from his face again.

  “Thanks, Pop. You were wrong.”

  III

  “What the hell are we doing here?”

  Heather turned the ignition key, shut the Ford Focus off, and left the radio on. Bon Jovi had only gotten to the second verse when she parked, and when Jovi’s playing, he stays playing.

  “Waiting,” she said.

  “Waiting for what,” Kelsey demanded. Patience had never been her strong suit. There was a moment Heather considered taking Emma along for the ride but knew they wouldn’t have even made it into the City, let alone out of the driveway before she drove Heather nuts with her rapid-fire spewing of everything that happened to her on her way into Brooklyn.

  “You see that shop down there,” Heather pointed through the rain and gloom of Spring Street. “I want to see who comes out of there.”

  “Why,” Kelsey huffed.

  Heather sipped from her Diet Coke. She wished she splashed it with the pint bottle that was stowed deep at the bottom of her purse. But the last thing she needed was to compound her regular problems with a ten-thousand-dollar court appearance after losing her driver’s license. If only that Goddamned, inept, useless Seabrook just gave her the pills she asked for, maybe her monthly budget wouldn’t include liquor.

  “Remember I told you about that woman who knew shit she shouldn’t? She’s there. And there’s someone else with her. I know it. People like her don’t work alone.”

  Kelsey sank her teeth into her Whopper. Heather watched as Kelsey wiped the drip of mayonnaise from the corner of her lips, lift her chin and suckle her finger.

  “Who’d you sleep with last night?” Heather chuckled. “You know what? Don’t answer that. I really don’t need to know.”

  “She was delicious,” Kelsey purred.

  “Whatever, can we get back to our mission?”

  “Mission? What the hell are we talking about? You trying to get us killed or something?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. I just need to know what’s going on. That bitch called me out of nowhere and told me shit that no one should have known. And she knew I wanted to find out what happened with Chase.”

  Kelsey choked on her soda.

  “Chase? This is about fucking Chase? I’m out of here,” Kelsey said and pawed at the door handle. Heather wrapped around her arm.

  “Please, don’t. I know you wouldn’t have come if I told you. I don’t want to do this alone.”

  “Why the hell are you doing this? You dumped him like two years ago. You really need to know when to say when,” Kelsey scoffed.

  “It’s not just about him. It’s about me too. I know I’m having a tough time moving on, I’m guilty, but at the same time, why did that woman contact me and tell me things she knew about me that I didn’t even tell you, or Bea or Emma?”

  Kelsey opened her raincoat and slammed back into the seat.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she’s like one of those psychics that feed off the shit you tell them. Like, there’s someone in your life with the letter C in their name, you attach Chase to it and ramble on about nonsense that she turns back on you. You have any idea how much money Emma’s lost on psychics and palm readers? Now that’s one gullible bitch if you ask me.”

  “No, that didn’t happen. As an example, I was holding one of Chase’s paintings he threw in the garbage. She asked me to bring it to her. Unless she had someone following me, how would she have known?”

  Kelsey slapped Heather on the arm repeatedly. It hushed her, and she followed Kelsey’s stare. Heather watched a behemoth of a man waddle out of the gallery. He covered his shaved head with a newspaper and muttered something the women couldn’t hear. His black leather jacket, classy, not classic, looked amiss on his girthy frame. Like a polished turd.

  He hurried along the sidewalk, shoving umbrella toting stragglers out of his way. The beep and lights of an exquisite Mercedes S-Class awoke in the gloom. He threw the door open and flopped inside.

  “You know who that is?” Kelsey gawked.

  Heather nodded. “I think so. That looks like the guy Chase was involved with. When everything turned to hell.”

  “No. That’s Leonard Bazzi! Don’t you read the news? He’s been accused of assault, extortion, murder, all that fucked up Mob stuff, but never convicted. That piece of shit has the devil’s luck.”

  Heather swallowed deep and started the car.

  The Mercedes jerked forward, then back, and splashed through the puddled street. Heather pulled out and remained a safe distance behind.

  “No, Heather. You’re not doing this. Not with me in the car, you’re not.”

  The car jolted as the Focus slammed into a pothole.

  “Sorry. And yes, we’re doing this. We’re only following him. What if he ends up back in Brooklyn. Or at my place. Maybe he was there that night looking for Chase, found me and told that slut what I was doing?”

  Traffic was unexpectedly light as they crossed the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn. Bad turned onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway South, and Heather followed. Kelsey remained silent as the sun dipped below the horizon and the streetlights flickered on. Heather was just as quiet. At least outwardly.

  Inside, question after burning question marched through her mind like a squad of Marines into the mouth of hell. He wanted to be a Marine. That didn’t work out. She was happy about that then. Now, she considered if a military discipline and regiment would have guided him to a better life.

  She licked and rubbed her lips. Her hand trembled before her, and she wanted to ease the tremors and calm the storm so badly, she could taste it.

  Maybe you’re in the middle of DT’s, she thought.

  Bullshit.

  The Mercedes signaled its exit at Thirty-Eighth Street. Her mouth went dry as she watched her apartment building draw near.

  The pedestrian signal flashed its red hand as she slowed down the off-ramp. The Mercedes slowed as the light turned yellow. Kelsey began to whistle. It was a h
abit Heather noticed from back in college the mornings of an exam.

  The light turned red, and the Mercedes spun its tires as it sped off onto Second Avenue. Heather remained at the light.

  “What do I do, what do I do?”

  Kelsey shook her head.

  “What if he saw us and is heading to my place now?”

  “Head South. Go to Bea’s,” Kelsey shouted.

  “Staten Island? Are you kidding me?”

  “You have a better idea? This is all your fault!”

  “My fault! I just wanted to—”

  A horn wailed behind her. She darted to the rearview mirror then to the green light. Heather floored the pedal and turned.

  “This is insane. I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “You better hope Bea opens the door for us. You know how she gets. She’s going to kill me when we tell her,” Heather said.

  They resumed their silence as Heather turned onto Fifty-Eighth Street towards the Expressway entrance. Accepting the green light, she turned onto Third Avenue.

  Tires screeched as their chests fought their restraints. The Focus stopped dead in the intersection, narrowly colliding into the black sedan that shot through the red light and halted before her.

  The large man stepped out of the Mercedes and slammed the door. He paused, sizing up Heather and Kelsey before he stepped over. They frantically questioned each other what to do next. A rap at the window silenced them.

  Heather turned and looked through the window. He knocked again, and Heather opened the window a few inches.

  The man leaned over and smiled. His sandy, handlebar mustache framed his lips and crooked teeth. He stood erect, slipped his fingers into the open window and ripped the glass from the door. Shrieks filled the coupe as the glass shattered on the street.

  “Ladies, ladies, now that I have your attention,” he said. Tears rambled down Kelsey’s cheeks. Heather fluids leaked from somewhere else.

  “May I ask why you were following me from Manhattan?”

  His voice was hoarse and uneducated, despite his failed attempt at proper speech. It sickened her. It had an unemotional disconnectedness and sarcastic concern.