by Alten-Steve
Rabbi Steinberg turns to Dominique. “All three bodies were infected by the black tide. They had to be burned.”
Dominique closes her eyes, her body shaking.
Edie’s face appears back on-screen. “Doll, listen to me. We’re going to have a memorial service in two days. I want you to come home.”
“I’ll be there. I’m going to come home for a while. Okay?”
“What about your internship?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” She wipes back tears. “Edie, I’m really sorry—”
“Just come home.”
The gray afternoon sky is threatening by the time Dominique exits the ground-level entrance of the Hollywood Beach high-rise. She crosses A-1-A and unlocks the driver’s side door of the Pronto Spyder, tossing her suitcase onto the passenger seat. She inhales deeply, smelling the sea and the incoming rain, then climbs in.
Dominique keys the ignition and presses the starter switch, laying her forehead on top of the steering wheel while she waits for the antitheft and safety system to complete its analysis.
Iz is dead. He’s dead, and it’s my fault. She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head. It’s all my goddam fault.
The CD player activates.
The disc player is preset to Digital DJ. The Roadster’s built-in computer processor registers the temperature of her touch on the steering wheel, interpreting her mood.
The Best of the Doors CD clicks into place.
Think this thing through. The weather was calm, and Iz was too experienced a sailor for the boat just to sink. Something terrible, something unforeseen, must have happened out there.
The familiar sound of drumsticks dancing across a rod cymbal interlace with her thoughts. Haunting Eastern guitar licks reach out, feeding her sorrow, yet somehow soothing her. Memories of Iz flash across her mind’s eye. A deep sadness refuels her spent emotions as the lyrics tear at her heart, pushing her once more over the edge. Hot tears blind her as Jim Morrison’s melodic verse echoes in her ears.
This is the End … beautiful friend,
This is the End … my only friend, the End.
Mesmerized by the haunting epitaph, she lifts her head from the steering wheel as the first droplets of rain splatter across the windshield. She closes her eyes to the deluge as memories of Iz and Edie and Mick swirl uncontrollably across her mind’s eye.
“You look tired, Kiddo …”
“Just come home …”
Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain,
“If I wasn’t locked up … do you think … do you think you could have loved me?”
And all … the children … are insane,
Waiting for the summer rain, yeahhh …
“Four Ahau, three Kankin. You know what day that is, don’t you, Dominique?”
“Do you believe in God?”
“You look tired, Kiddo …”
“Do you believe in evil?”
There’s danger on the edge of town …
“You have to do something! The Chicxulub crater—the clock’s ticking …”
“Doll, you’re only one person. You can’t expect to save the world …”
“The clock’s ticking … and all of us are going to die!”
“You can’t expect to save the world …”
“The clock’s ticking …”
Father, I want to kill you …
Dominique slumps forward against the steering wheel, her sobs competing with Jim Morrison’s rants of Oedipal lust.
Mellowing again, as the Eastern licks regain control.
This is the End … beautiful friend,
This is the End … my only friend, the End,
“None of us have any control over the deck or the cards we’re dealt. What we do have is total responsibility as to how we play the hand.”
The Spyder’s engine jumps to life, startling her.
This is the End …
She shuts off the sound system and wipes the tears from her eyes as the rain continues pelting the windshield. Glances up, staring at herself in the rearview mirror.
Play the hand that’s dealt.
For several minutes, she continues staring straight ahead, determination replacing grief as her mind focuses on a plan. Then she activates the car phone and dials Rabbi Steinberg’s number.
“It’s me. No, I’m still downstairs. There’s something important I have to do before I head over to Sanibel, but I need your help.”
14
NOVEMBER 25, 2012: MIAMI, FLORIDA
9:54 p.m.
The black Pronto Spyder turns right onto Twenty-third Street, executes a U-turn, then parks next to a telephone pole by the curb, just adjacent to the twenty-foot-high, stark white concrete wall. The side street, which borders the asylum to the north, runs west another two blocks before dead-ending at an abandoned textile mill. The neighborhood is run-down, the street deserted, except for a Dodge minivan parked at the far end of the block.
Dominique exits the car, adrenaline pumping. She pops the trunk, verifies that no one is around, then removes a fifty-foot length of white, half-inch-thick nylon rope. Knots have been tied in the line at two-foot intervals. Bending down as if inspecting her right rear tire, she secures one end of the rope to the base of the telephone pole, then returns to the trunk.
She opens the large cardboard box and removes the thirty-two-inch radio-controlled model helicopter. A mechanical claw hangs from beneath the tiny landing gear. Dominique positions the last knot at the free end of the nylon rope within the claw’s grasp, then closes it.
Okay, don’t fuck this up. Keep the rope clear of the barbed wire.
She starts the miniature copter’s battery-powered engine, cringing at the loud, high-pitched whine of the rotors. The toy chopper lifts off, wobbling as it struggles to tow the nylon rope with it. Dominique maneuvers the model airship into a steep vertical climb high above the concrete security wall, taking up all the slack.
Okay, nice and easy …
Using the joystick, she guides the chopper past the wall and over the yard, then activates the claw, releasing the rope.
The freed knot drops to the yard, its length slipping between the coils of barbed wire to rest on top of the concrete barrier.
Perfect. Go! Dominique slams the joystick to the right. The model helicopter races toward the textile mill at the end of the street and disappears over the rooftop of the abandoned property. She powers the radio control OFF, hearing the telltale sound of plastic crashing in the distance.
Slamming the trunk closed, she climbs back in the roadster and guides the car into the staff parking lot.
Dominique checks her watch: 10:07. Almost time. She reaches into the glove compartment, removes the worn spark plug and ratchet, then turns off the car’s engine and pops the hood of the Spyder.
She closes the hood three minutes later, using a wet rag to wipe the grease from her hands. After fixing her makeup, she takes a moment to adjust the tight-fitting halter top before covering her half-exposed cleavage with the pink cashmere sweater.
Okay Mick, now it’s up to you.
She hurries to the entrance of the facility, praying that Mick had been lucid during their conversation earlier that afternoon.
10:14 p.m.
Michael Gabriel is seated on the edge of the wafer-thin mattress, his vacant black eyes staring at the floor. His mouth is open, saliva dripping from his lower lip. His bruised left forearm is turned palm side up and is resting on his thigh, an offering to the butcher. The right arm is tucked by his side, the fist slightly balled.
He hears the orderly approach. “Hey, Marvis, is it true? Is this the vegetable’s last night?”
Mick takes a breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. The presence of the seventh-floor security guard complicates things. You only have one shot. Take them both out if you have to.
Marvis turns off the television in the pod and finishes wiping down the grape-juice stains on the coffee table. “Yeah. Foletta’s taking him to Ta
mpa tomorrow.”
The door swings open. In his peripheral vision, Mick sees the sadist approach, the shadow of another man waiting by the door.
Not yet. Marvis will slam the door closed if you jump. Wait until it’s clear. Let the animal stick you.
The orderly grabs Mick’s left wrist, then jabs the syringe into the swollen vein, nearly breaking the tip of the needle off as he injects the Thorazine into the abused blood vessel.
Mick tightens his abdominal muscles in agony, forcing his upper body not to flinch.
“Hey, Barnes, go easy on him, or I’ll write you up again.”
“Fuck you, Marvis.”
Marvis shakes his head, then walks away.
Mick’s eyes roll up in his head. His body turns to Jell-O and he falls onto his left side, staring straight ahead on the bed like a zombie.
Barnes verifies that Marvis has left, then unzips his fly. “Hey, girlfriend, you wanna taste something?” He bends down and leans closer to Mick’s face. “How about we open that pretty little mouth of yours and—”
The orderly never sees the fist, only the explosion of purple light as Mick’s second and third knuckles slam into his exposed temple.
Barnes collapses to the floor, shaken but still conscious.
Mick pulls him up by the hair and looks into his eyes. “Trick or treat, motherfucker.” He drives his knee into Barnes’s face, careful not to get any blood on the orderly’s uniform.
10:18 p.m.
Dominique enters her numerical password, then waits while the infrared camera scans her face. The red light flashes green, allowing her to enter the central security station.
Raymond turns to face her. “Well, look who it is? Come to pay your last respects to your psycho boyfriend?”
“You’re not my boyfriend.”
Raymond slams his fist against the steel cage. “We both know who I’m talking about. Little bit later, I’m gonna be paying him a nice visit.” He flashes a yellow smile. “Yeah, Sunshine, me and your boy are gonna have a real good time.”
“Do whatever you want.” She heads for the elevator.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m through.” Dominique pulls an envelope from her purse. “See this? This is a letter of resignation. I’m dropping out of the internship program and quitting school. Is Foletta in his office?”
“You know he’s not.”
“Fine, then I’ll leave this with Marvis. Buzz me up to the seventh floor, if you think you can handle it.”
Raymond eyes her suspiciously. He activates the elevator, pressing the button on his console for the seventh floor, then watches her on the security-camera monitor.
Marvis is about to leave his desk to find Barnes when the elevator door opens. “Dominique? What are you doing here?”
She leads Marvis by the arm and walks him around the desk, turning him away from the elevator and the hallway leading to Mick’s pod. “I wanted to talk to you, but I don’t want that orderly Barnes to hear.”
“Hear what?”
Dominique shows him the envelope. “I’m resigning.”
“Why? Your semester’s almost over.”
Her eyes well with tears. “My—my father died in a boating accident.”
“Damn. Hey, I’m sorry.”
She gives a sob, then allows Marvis to comfort her. She lays her head on his shoulder, her eyes focused on the corridor leading to pod 7-C.
Mick staggers out of his room, dressed in Barnes’s uniform and baseball cap. He slams the door shut and heads for the elevator.
Dominique places her hand on Marvis’s neck as if hugging him, making sure he doesn’t turn around. “Would you do me a favor and make sure Dr Foletta gets this letter?”
“Yeah, sure. Hey, you wanna hang out, you know, talk or something?”
The elevator doors open. Mick staggers inside.
She pulls away. “No, I’m already late. I have to get on the road. The funeral ceremony’s tomorrow morning. Barnes, hold the elevator, please—”
A white sleeve prevents the doors from closing.
Dominique kisses Marvis on the cheek. “Take care of yourself.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Dominique hustles for the elevator, stepping inside just as the doors close. Instead of looking at Mick, she stares directly up at the camera situated in the far corner of the elevator’s ceiling.
Casually, she reaches into her purse. “What floor, Mr Barnes?”
“Three.”
She can hear the fatigue in his voice. She holds up three fingers to the camera, then one finger, continuing to stare at the lens as Mick takes the heavy pair of wire cutters from her other hand and pockets them.
The elevator stops at the third floor. The doors open.
Mick stumbles out, nearly falling on his face.
The doors close.
Mick find himself alone in the corridor. He staggers forward, the green-tiled hallway spinning in his head. The heavy dose of Thorazine is pulling him under, and there is nothing he can do now to fight back. He falls twice, then leans against the drywall and wills himself to the courtyard.
The night air momentarily revives him. He manages to reach the concrete steps and hugs the steel rail. Swirling in his vision are three steep flights of stairs. He blinks hard, unable to clear the fog from his vision. Okay, you can do this. Step … now, push your foot down. He stumbles down the first three steps, then catches himself. Concentrate! One at a time. Don’t lean …
He falls the last ten feet, landing painfully on his back.
For a dangerous moment, he allows his eyes to close, giving sleep an opportunity to gain a foothold. No! He rolls over, pushes himself to his feet, then staggers painfully toward the concrete monster spinning ahead of him.
Dominique unbuttons the cashmere sweater, takes a deep breath, and steps off the elevator. As she approaches the security station, she trains her eyes on the dozen security monitors at Raymond’s back which continuously provide alternating images of the facility.
She spots the view of the courtyard. A uniform-clad figure is struggling to pull his way up the stark concrete wall.
Raymond looks up and stares at her cleavage.
Mick’s arms are like rubber. Try as he may, he cannot seem to get his muscles to obey his commands.
He feels the nylon knot slip through his fingers and falls eight feet, nearly breaking both ankles on the hard sod.
Dominique sees Mick fall and stifles a cry. Before Raymond can react, she removes her sweater, revealing her cleavage. “God, why do you keep it so hot in here?”
Raymond’s eyes are bulging. He is out of his chair, standing by the gate. “You like fucking with me, don’t you?”
In her peripheral vision, she sees Mick stand. He begins climbing again. The image changes.
“Ray, let’s face it, with all the steroids pumping through that body of yours, you couldn’t keep it up long enough to please me.”
Raymond opens the gate. “Pretty nasty talk for a girl who nearly crushed my windpipe three weeks ago.”
“You don’t get it, do you? No girl enjoys it when it’s forced on her.”
“You fucking tease—you’re trying to get me to violate my probation, aren’t you?”
“Maybe I’m just trying to apologize.” Come on, Mick, move your ass …
The pain is keeping him conscious.
Mick grits his teeth harder, groaning as he pulls himself higher, walking the wall like a mountain climber. Three more steps, just three more, asshole, come on. Now two—two more, work your arms, squeeze your fists tighter. Good, good. Stop, catch your breath. Okay, last one, come on—
He reaches the top of the wall. Holding on for dear life, he quickly winds the rope a half dozen times around his left arm to keep from falling. The coil of barbed wire is inches from his forehead. Mick takes the wire cutters from his back pocket and lines the open blades along a section of coil just to the right of the rope.
He squ
eezes the clippers shut with all his might until the steel snaps in half. Repositioning the cutters, he struggles to focus on the next section of wire through the Thorazine haze, now closing fast on his peripheral vision.
Raymond leans against the wall and stares at the two perfect swells bulging beneath Dominique’s top. “So here’s the deal, Sunshine. You and me do the wild thing, and I promise I’ll leave your boy alone.”
She feigns an itch, catching a quick glimpse of the monitor through the security cage. Mick is still cutting through the barbed wire.
Stall the pig. “You want to do it here?”
His hand reaches higher along her arm. “You won’t be the first.” A wave of nausea washes over her as he rubs the outline of her nipple with the tip of his index finger.
Mick frees the section of barbed wire, then pulls himself on top of the wall, balancing precariously on his chest. He inches closer to the edge and looks down the other side at the twenty-foot drop. “Whoa …”
Grunting, he pulls the free end of the nylon rope toward him, then loops it several times around the remaining coils of wire, the barbs tearing holes in his flesh. Wrapping the free end of the rope around his wrists, he eases himself over the wall—and falls.
Mick drops twelve feet before the rope catches along the barbed wire, stopping his descent. Dangling by his wrists, he feels his weight pull the coils of wire away from the top of the cement wall as he drops onto the sidewalk below.
Seconds later, he is up on all fours, staring into the oncoming headlights like a disoriented deer.
“Wait, Ray, I said stop!” Dominique pushes his hand from her breast and pulls a small container of Mace from her purse.
“You fucking whore—you are fucking with me!”
She backs away. “No, I just decided that Mick’s life isn’t worth the price you’re asking.”
“You little bitch—”
She turns and presses her face to the thermal scan. Come on—She waits for the buzz, then wrenches the door open and slips out.
“All right, Sunshine, you made your choice. Now your boy’s gonna have to live with it.” Raymond opens his desk drawer. He removes a half-inch-thick length of rubber hose, then heads for the elevator.