by Mark Souza
Jack returned her smile. He had imagined events progressing differently. He thought he’d have to lure her out to a place like this, come up with an excuse, something that would pass her scrutiny. In the city this span was know as Jumper’s Bridge because of its popularity with the terminally depressed. It was so nice that she'd taken the initiative, convenient really. The opportunity was too good to pass up. Traffic was nonexistent. Just a check that the road was clear, a quick heave-ho, a frantic call to 911, and his new life could begin.
“I know what you did, Jack.” She was so calm, her voice so self-assured. “And I know what you’re planning to do.”
Jack froze. It felt as though his chest had shrunk around his lungs. Did she really know? ‘I know what you did and what you’re planning to do’ could be referring to the party, or anything for that matter. Her eyes glistened in the glow of the streetlights and her smile turned cruel.
“Don’t play dumb,” she said, “I’m not an idiot. I found out about your mistress and your so called business trips. I feared you might try something, which is why I changed the insurance policy.” She hesitated. Her expression seemed to implore him to respond, to try to deny what she was saying. When he didn’t, she continued on.
“Everyone has been so hush-hush about my accident. The only thing I’m sure of is that whatever happened to me; you were the one who did it. So what’s the plan now — tell my friends I’m depressed to pave the way for my suicide? Was I supposed to hang myself, take pills?” She looked over the edge. “Or jump off a bridge?”
Jack furrowed his brow and let his mouth hang open in feigned surprise. “What? Where do you get this from?”
Marianne leaned back into the rail, akimbo. She looked in control and comfortable. She had a surprise coming to her. Confronting him on a dark bridge was a fatal mistake.
“Carol told me what you said to her tonight about me being depressed lately. Nice.”
Jack didn’t try to deny it this time. She’d always been a bright cookie, maybe too bright for her own good. But what did it matter anymore? She’d signed her death warrant when she walked onto the bridge.
“You were never the sharpest pencil in the box, were you, Jack? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
Jack marveled at her attempts to belittle him and throw him off balance. She was the Chihuahua convinced it was a mastiff. He thought back to that day by the river when he’d held her head under the water. Her mouth hadn’t saved her then, and it wouldn’t save her now. He remembered the feeling of her strength ebbing in his hands, and the moment when he knew she was dead. It was freedom. It was success. Gemini Insurance had stolen that from him once, but not this time. His smile returned.
“Did you think I would wait in the wings while you showered your attentions on Abby Meacham? Did you think I was incapable of finding someone else? Have you ever heard the saying, what goes around comes around?” Marianne glanced to her right.
Jack followed her eyes toward the end of the bridge to see if anyone was coming. The bridge was empty. From the corner of his eye he spotted movement near a pillar. A man stepped out of the shadows. He was tall and broad shouldered. Dark eyes peered out from beneath a thick thatch of dark hair.
Marianne arched her brows at Jack’s surprise. “Did you think I’d let you get me alone on a bridge without a plan? Jack, meet Brad. He’s a cop and my boyfriend. Brad, this is my husband Jack. He’s already killed me once, and I think he’d like to do it again.”
Marianne stepped away and Brad advanced. Jack reacted too late. Brad had him cornered against the rail. Jack tightened his hand into a fist and lunged. Brad easily ducked the roundhouse and shoved. Jack hit the rail hard and buckled. Momentum sent Jack’s legs hurtling over the rail. Jack clutched the vertical balusters to save himself. When his body jerked at the bottom of its arc, the force ripped his hands from the bars. Jack clawed at the air desperate to stop his fall, desperate for a second chance. He tried to scream but his throat clamped shut. Marianne’s laughter rang out from the bridge deck.
Marianne peered through the blinds. Tova Burke stood on the doorstep with his eyes cast down at his briefcase and his mouth set in a tight line that made his lips disappear. Dejection creased furrows and folds in Burke’s face. Something was wrong. She invited him inside and made him a cup of tea.
“I should have seen this coming, Mrs. Duncan. Jack was behaving so oddly. But I was so focused on you, I didn’t see it. I’m sorry. I should have been paying attention. I can’t help but feel his suicide is partially my fault.”
“Nonsense. I don’t blame you. At the time, I didn’t see it either. In retrospect, maybe the signs were there.”
Burke grimaced and Marianne knew there was more eating at him. Was there a witness? No, there couldn’t be, or it would have been the police at her door, not Burke. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Burke wagged his head. “I hate being the bearer of bad news. But with two claims in such a short period, I’m afraid Gemini is dropping you as a client. It’s corporate policy. I’m truly sorry.”
Marianne rested her hand on Burke’s shoulder while inwardly she breathed a sigh of relief. “Policy is policy, I understand. I’d just like to put this whole incident behind me.”
Burke’s face brightened. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. I do have one bit of good news. Are you aware that your husband changed the terms of his life insurance last week?”
Marianne looked confused and shook her head.
“Yes,” Burke said, his grin forged deep dimples in his cheeks. “He opted for a clone, the same as you. It’s a fresh start for both of you, like a second honeymoon. It’s what I like most about living in these times. With modern technology, not even death can stop true love.”
Second Honeymoon Tidbits
The story, Second Honeymoon, first appeared in the Pill Hill Press anthology, Patented DNA. The theme was open to anything DNA, cloning, or genetic science related. I happen to have quite a few relatives in the insurance business. It occurred to me, that in the future, when cloning is perfected, why wouldn’t a person have the option with their life insurance to eschew a monetary payout in favor of coming back to their lives as a clone?
That thought spawned a trio of delicious problems. How would the clone deal with the knowledge of their death? The answer was, not well. So I came up with the idea that this trauma would be omitted from memory to prevent psychological issues. That created another problem. Wouldn’t the clone also be disturbed by the missing time in their memory, and fixate on finding out what happened during that time.
The third revelation in the case of the unhappy couple was, when the murdered spouse is returned, isn’t the situation rolled right back to the circumstances that led to the first murder? Cloning seemed to set up an endless Tom & Jerry-like cycle of violence.
About the Author
Mark Souza lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, two children, and mongrel beast-dog, Tater. When he’s not writing, he’s out among you trying to look and act normal (whatever that is), reminding himself that the monsters he’s created are all in his head, no more real than campaign promises.
Upcoming Titles
My novel Robyn’s Egg will be released in the spring of 2012
A collection of my short stories, Try 2 Stop Me, will be released in September of 2012
Other FREE short stories coming soon:
Cupid’s Maze
Murphy’s Law
Appliances Included
The Diary of Horatio White
The Comfort Shack
Connect With Me Online:
My Website: https://www.marksouza.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/souzawrites
An Excerpt From
Murphy’s Law
By Mark Souza
When I was a kid, I jumped off our garage with a towel tucked into my collar emulating Superman. Seconds passed like minutes. Wind raced through the bristles of my crew cut. Not until the last few f
eet did I have doubts I would fly. That’s the kind of sucker I am. Hero complex is what the shrink at the hospital said. It was the first time I’d broken my nose, though far from the last. Murphy’s Law has been in effect ever since.
A few weeks ago at Frank’s Bar, I was shooting off my mouth with just enough of a buzz on that I didn’t feel ashamed to admit I’d had my pistol in my mouth with the safety off. My intent was to show I had at least contemplated whether continuing to live was worthwhile. Most people never even consider the question. They live their lives without thought, unaware they have a choice. At least I had faced the choice. I live now because I choose to.
“Does he ever shut up?” the bartender asked.
“Only when he passes out,” someone yelled. Laughter erupted around the bar. The bartender turned away to wash glasses. He wasn’t buying my bravado. Maybe he sensed that I was only alive because I was too chicken to pull the trigger.
They say it doesn’t hurt, that death is instantaneous, but how does anyone really know? While lining up the shot, trying to extrapolate the best angle through my brain, my hands shook and the gun barrel chattered against my teeth. I finally quit, worried that in a few more seconds, eight years of orthodontia might be ruined. I left that part out. Why ruin a good tale?
My story hadn’t gotten very far when a pretty blonde in her mid-thirties strutted through the door. Stuffed into a little red sausage skin that passed for a dress, she was hard to miss.
I drink at Frank’s because it’s just a neighborhood bar that’s not aspiring to be more. There’s no dance floor, funky lights, or music, and drinks aren’t priced pretentiously high. And the fact that it’s walking distance from my place comes in handy for the stagger home. The point is it’s not the kind of place that normally attracts the likes of her. She stuck out from the regulars like a cat in a dog show.
By the time I finished my story my fifth scotch at Frank’s was a dead soldier and needed refilling. I was in the zone. Bobby the bartender – I think it’s Bobby - came carrying a cheap bottle of scotch looking annoyed, jaw set and molars grinding. He was no more than a freckle-faced kid resembling Sunny Jim more than anything. I smiled and jingled the ice in my glass signaling him to pour. He raised an eyebrow expectantly, and moved the bottle away.
“Put it on my tab,” I said.
“Your tab is over four-hundred bucks. Pay it off and we can talk.” The turnover for bartenders at Frank’s is high. Even so, the kid knew enough to make me pony up. I smacked a fin down on the bar. Bobby snatched it up and refilled my tumbler. I checked to see if the blonde had been listening while Bobby announced the dismal status of my finances. Her attention seemed rapt on a glass of Chardonnay. Maybe I’d lucked out and she hadn’t heard the deadbeat tag being applied. I moved down a couple of stools for a closer look.
She appeared a little hard around the edges, but tasty enough. Though she had been around the block a time or two, there was still enough tread left on the tires to turn heads. A faint band of lighter skin on her ring finger hinted at a recent divorce. I’m a private investigator. It’s my job to notice little things like that. She was here trolling, and not for Mr. Right. Reality had lowered her expectations. No, she was here looking for Mr. Just-Good-Enough -- hard work on a weeknight. She probably had a chick or two back in the nest who could benefit from a second income. She looked over at me and I gave her the winning McEvoy smile. Her brows pinched and she rolled her tired green eyes as if to say, Puleeeease.
Sure, I was over a decade older than she was and maybe twenty over fighting weight, but I was still tall, dark, and had most of my hair. I’m not a bad looking guy. It was more than that, though. In a fraction of a second she had labeled me a loser with no prospects. The part that stung was that she had utterly nailed it.
I turned toward her and leaned forward slightly to let my coat drape away so she could see my gun. Some women like a touch of danger in their men.
“Pills, next time,” she said. “Pills are painless.” I love a helper. She must have overheard my conversation a minute earlier with Bobby the bartender.
“I don’t like the thought of puking,” I replied.
She looked up from her wine. “If you mix the pills with alcohol it increases their potency and you won’t puke. You look to me like you have half that equation perfected already.” She turned her attention back to her drink, which was just as well. She was losing appeal by the syllable.
I moved off to a corner booth to salve my wounds. For a while I watched her. She put out an aura as effective as porcupine quills, further fortified by Exhibit A, her public filleting of me. No one else even tried.
After finishing my drink, I didn’t feel like hanging around anymore. The mood in the bar had flat-lined. I gathered up my coat and stood to put it on. A hand on my arm stopped me. When I turned, it was the blonde.
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