High Risk

by Rick R. Reed

  He came toward her and she could do nothing more than stand and gape at him.

  “Is everything okay?”

  She let loose a giggle, going for light, breezy, but sounding inane. “Of course. Except I feel like the biggest fool,” she said, looking at the oak parquet floor. She raised her head, forcing her to meet his blue gaze. Genuine tears threatened to brim over in her eyes. “I just wanted to surprise you. I thought we could go to lunch.” She shook her head. “Somewhere I got the idea that you were free today.”

  He grinned, but she could see the way he regarded her: not quite as though she was crazy, but as if something was up. Of course he was suspicious, she knew it. He had to be…and growing more suspicious all the time.

  “Beth…when am I ever free? Except for the occasional Sunday?”

  “I know. It was stupid of me. I was downtown, doing some shopping and had one of my bright ideas.” She wanted to turn and run. But where, she wondered, would she run to? Was there any place safe for her anymore? She wondered if perhaps Abbott had shown up and she had missed him. It wouldn’t take him long to spill his story to Mark.

  “That couple in there? Have you been with them long?”

  “Most of the morning. Lots to sort out. We go to trial tomorrow.” He stared at her, cold. “Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing,” she whispered. “I should let you get back to work.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you at home, Beth.”

  She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Sure.”

  She started walking away, then turned once to look at his retreating figure. He also turned back, obviously unaware that she was watching. His eyebrows came together, his mouth slightly open. Suspicion and confusion writ large.

  Beth hurried from the office.

  Outside, she saw a beat-up Monte Carlo parked across the street in a tow zone. Its emergency flashers were blinking. Patches of rust and dents scarred the car’s pale, colorless finish. Aged vinyl on the hood cracked and peeled.

  Abbott sat inside, watching her.

  Grinning.

  Her heartbeat quickened, the blood rushed in her ears, uncomfortably. Her focus filtered everything out but the man across the street, her accuser and tormentor, studying her.

  She felt caught: an animal in a trap, the kind from which creatures chewed off their own limbs in order to escape.

  She envisioned Mark staring down from his office window, observing their mute interplay.

  Crazy. He’s driving you crazy. And maybe that’s just his intention.

  Beth turned and began running west on Ohio, back to where she had parked her car. Let it happen, then. Just let it all happen. The tears finally ran down her face, choking sobs escaped her as she by dashed by people who turned to stare.

  She imagined Mark coming downstairs, heading out onto the street.

  Abbott would roll down his window. “Hey, buddy. Yeah, you. Can you come over here for a second?”

  She envisioned Mark standing by the rusting hulk of Abbott’s car, head bent low as Abbott told him everything, in a raspy, low tone, the kind guys used for dirty jokes. She saw Mark’s expression, one of anger at this guy, but one of nausea, too, as a part of him realized it was the truth. The pieces fit together too well. What other explanation could there be?

  Beth reached her own car, at last. With trembling hands, she fished her keys from her purse, got the car started and merged jerkily into traffic.

  I have to do something. This has to end.

  Could she go to the police? she wondered once more. Weren’t there laws against harassment? Against breaking into someone’s home?

  What proof did she have? Her husband was a lawyer, and even a divorce lawyer could tell her that the law required proof in order to make charges stick, in order to make charges period. Without concrete proof, the police could do nothing against Abbott. His name and number were once on their caller ID, but Beth had been quick to erase those from the display, afraid that Mark might call him back.

  And what had he really done to her, anyway? Called her? Sent her a glass of wine in a restaurant? There was the incident with her undergarments, but there was no proof that Abbott had done it. No proof. But no doubt, either.

  He had written her husband a letter. She could imagine a police officer asking, “What did the letter say, ma’am?” And if she told the truth, she would be the one who looked guilty. She would be the one upon whom doubt and suspicion would rest. Especially when she told the police she had destroyed the letter.

  Why would she do that if she was innocent?

  Was there a law against haunting someone’s nightmares?

  Beth changed lanes on Michigan, cutting off another taxi, this one blaring its horn, making her jump. The taxi loomed up behind her, almost kissing her bumper, its brights flashing. Beth shifted to another lane, then headed north on Lake Shore Drive.

  What if she did tell Mark everything? Would he understand? Or would he send her back to Evanston, where she could live once more with her parents? Or maybe, she thought, with a bitter laugh, she could become a prostitute. Then she could have all the men she wanted and get paid, too. Why not? She was good at it. She certainly had learned a thing or two in her afternoons. And—with a quick glance in the rearview mirror at her wide green eyes—she was beautiful. She could probably command a pretty good price. Be one of those high-priced call girls, like Jane Fonda in Klute.

  The thought made her stomach turn. Made her wonder if she shouldn’t just find a cheap hair salon, have them take out some Wahl clippers and free her of her mane of red hair, that fiery beacon that had drawn so many men to her. One guy used to like to come in her hair.

  Her mouth went dry. She could take up her mother on her offer of some recipes and let her body go, get fat, just like Mom.

  Then no one would want her.

  And she would be free.

  She had been crying throughout these thoughts, unaware of the tears until she tasted salt at the corner of her mouth. She wiped angrily at the moisture.

  She could tell Mark about Abbott, but give the story a different spin. “It was just a harmless slip, honey. I don’t really even believe I would have acted on it. I was bored and I flirted.” Insert sheepish grin here. “He was aggressive, wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. And when I finally did get rid of him, he was angry, threatened to expose me.” Insert embarrassed giggle. “Expose me for what?”

  She could beg his forgiveness. After all, she hadn’t really had sex with Abbott. It was just a harmless little flirtation, it meant nothing. “I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you, sweetheart.” A light kiss, cool, across his lips, then: “You know you’re the only man for me.”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t. What if it didn’t work?

  She took a deep breath, and at a stop sign, closed her eyes. Almost unbidden, another image rose up before her. Abbott, his throat slit, a thin trickle of blood. Murder as art.

  Dead. Out of her life for good.

  Problem solved.

  Add murder to her sins of adultery.

  Why not?

  It was what he deserved, anyway. He was cruel. The world would be a better place without him.

  Her world certainly would.

  Beth jumped when the car behind her honked and continued west on Fullerton. Abbott dead. It would return her life to normal. Give her a second chance. And chances were slim that she’d get caught. Who would ever make the connection?

  She pictured the blood again, a red pool beneath his body, spreading, draining and taking with it all the bile and hatred. She would be free.

  The thought calmed her, set her choked breathing back to normal. She smiled.

  But the peace was only momentary. She could never kill anyone.

  Chapter 6

  Abbott sat on the boulders lining the shore of Lake Michigan. Behind him: Chicago’s skyline. The air off the water was cool and had a slightly fishy odor. Below him, the spray from the waves against the rocks dampened the bott
om of his jeans.

  Abbott closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, the sky had gone dark. His heart began to thud. He could no longer feel the boulder beneath him, only a sickening dizzy sensation of being suspended in mid-air. The chill water below him rose and fell, rose and fell, and in spite of its cold, Abbott broke out in a sweat, wondering when his denial of gravity would come to an end, and he would plunge into the dark, churning lake.

  He could not swim.

  The wind picked up, shrieking.

  He tried to turn, to move, to find purchase for his dangling legs. But there was nothing in this pitch.

  He was paralyzed.

  Lightning streaked above the lake, pearlescent and gray. The sky’s fissure reflected the water below, silver and flecked with foam. It had begun a swirl that grew faster as Abbott watched, dumbstruck. He saw the water rising, forming itself into a funnel. Bits of seaweed swirled in the spinning mass, fish moving through it, unaware of the peril and turmoil surrounding them.

  Finally, Abbott felt a tingling in his extremities and he pressed back with his shoulders, kicking, trying to move away from the column of water.

  Something was forming inside. Something dark, darker even than the sky surrounding it…

  The top of the column frothed.

  And at last the thing emerged.

  Abbott wanted to scream, but could find no voice.

  A beast rose from the water, its head that of a dog, eyes blazing yellow, red-veined. The fur and flesh of the head peeled away, revealing a network of bloody muscle, slick. When the dog opened its mouth and howled, it revealed row upon row of fangs, impossible, going all the way down its throat.

  The thing had bat-like wings that churned the water even more as it flapped them. The flapping brought a putrid odor to Abbott’s nose: something rotten and decaying. He gagged. The flesh of the creature was ridden with maggots, and bits of bloody flesh dripped away from its body, which was muscular, that of a man’s, but with the skin rent away…the same network of bloody muscle. The creature’s body ended in squat legs. Between them, a tail, spiked, moved restlessly back and forth.

  Finally, Abbott’s voice awakened, and with a choking cough, at last he screamed.

  Screamed and screamed as the monster began to move toward him…

  * * * *

  Abbott jolted awake, dream images dispersing like the cockroaches in his kitchen did when he flicked on the light in the middle of the night, running for filth and darkness. In less than a few seconds, he could remember nothing more than a bloody dog head. He sat up, his temples pounding, beating out a rhythm of pain so severe it made his eyes water and caused his hands to fly to his face, trying to force the pain, by pressure, from his head.

  Why wouldn’t the headaches go away? Where did the nightmares come from? Did he have a tumor, something growing inside his brain, flowering and taking over?

  Abbott leaned back in the recliner in which he had fallen asleep, trying to calm himself. His perspiration had damped the chair’s corduroy. He knew he’d feel better if he could just lower his pulse rate, stop his heart from pounding, take his breathing down a notch…and cool off. His face burned hot; it and his back and armpits ran slick with sweat.

  After a few moments, Abbott felt well enough to cross the room to the refrigerator, crack open an Old Style and down half of it in a single gulp. He glanced at the clock. Almost 7 P.M. He was due at Bennie’s in an hour. One more hour before facing the hordes, being forced to bear witness to their empty lives, their preening, their egos.

  He wasn’t sure he could make it through another night there. Watching them made him want to puke.

  He drank the rest of the beer, leaning against the windowsill and peering into the darkness.

  * * * *

  Beth sat in the living room, alone. A pillar candle on the coffee table provided the only light, flickering and casting shadows. Philip Glass tinkled softly, just above audible, from the stereo speakers. Outside, darkness pressed in at the windows, an almost palpable force.

  She had sat in this same spot for hours, watching the sky go from pewter to a mix of magenta, pink, and violet, until dark, and tried not to think. Tried not to wonder how long it would be before her infidelity was exposed and Mark would throw her out, and she’d no longer be able to watch the afternoon wind down into dusk and finally evening through leaded glass. Tried not to wonder just how much longer it would be until Mark confronted her, with the evidence he already had, or with more that Abbott would probably pile on top.

  She would be found out. Beth couldn’t be sure if her exposure would come from the intervention of a crazy man, a careless slip, or her bringing home a sexually transmitted disease.

  “Honey, what’s the sore on my dick?”

  Beth shivered.

  Mark would know one day. She couldn’t keep going as she had without something giving way.

  She leaned forward and lifted the glass of white burgundy to her lips. She swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment. Irony. Was that what her thoughts were right now? Because in spite of all this, thoughts of sex had interlaced themselves. She couldn’t deny that sex would take away the pain and the fear for a little while. Couldn’t deny that out there, somewhere, perhaps a little tipsy in some corner bar after staying for one-too-many after work, would be a handsome man who would throw her up against a door and fuck her until she could think of nothing else save the pleasure and the pain she got from him pounding her, from the slick intermingling of their juices running down her thighs…

  Stop it.

  A different image came to her, unbidden. Her father’s face, the cold fire of his blue eyes cutting into her with the precision of a scalpel.

  Had there ever been a time when she was innocent? Had there even been a time when she was free of this relentless hunger, a hunger that went against all of her best impulses and on occasion seemed like something that wasn’t even a part of her? How long ago had it been?

  * * * *

  “Beth? Are you almost ready? The dance is in an hour, you know. Walter and his mom will be here anytime now to pick you up.”

  Beth got up from her vanity table. “Don’t worry! I’ll be ready when they get here,” she called through her door, hoping her voice carried down the stairs. “You’ll have plenty of time to appreciate your handiwork.”

  She sat back down at the vanity table. Eighth grade and her first dance…the sweetheart dance at Wells Junior High. She looked at herself and sighed.

  Everyone told her how pretty she was, how striking, but she didn’t believe it. Look at you. All that red hair, so thick it was often hard to even run a comb through it. A smile that was too broad, as if she had more teeth, and bigger ones, than the average person. She was ungainly, towering over all the other girls in her class. She was already 5’10,” a size that caused her to walk around hunched over her books, trying to make herself smaller, trying to hide the breasts that had developed well ahead of schedule.

  What was I thinking? Why did I even agree to go with Walter to the Sweetheart Dance anyway? They’re just going to laugh at us…at me. Beth was taller than Walter by a couple of inches. Should they even attempt a dance, especially a slow one, she didn’t even want to begin to imagine how comical it would look. Their awkward silences and shy glances would give everyone fodder for jokes…and she was sure they would all be watching.

  Get a grip, Beth. You’re not that important.

  She picked up her dress. It was deep forest green…velvet. It had a low cut, rounded bodice and a high waistline. It looked medieval. But when she held it up to herself and hazarded a glance in the mirror, she saw how the green complimented her hair and brought out the color in her eyes.

  She smiled.

  Then flung the dress to the floor. Where had she gotten such a big mouth?

  Get through it, Beth. It’s just for a few hours.

  She began dotting her face with foundation and blending it into her skin. Maybe, if she didn’t sweat, she cou
ld hide the freckles across the bridge of her nose for one night.

  When Beth went downstairs, her mother put aside the Chicago Tribune and stood. A slow smile spread across her face. She bit her lower lip. “Oh honey, you look beautiful.”

  Beth grinned, staring at the floor. “It’s just the dress.”

  “The dress nothing. It’s the young lady in it.” Her mother touched Beth’s hair and shook her head. “You’re growing into a real beauty. Ted, look at your daughter.”

  Her father twisted in his recliner, taking his eyes away from the TV for just a moment. Blue eyes registered nothing. “Very nice.” He turned back to the TV, where the evening news was just concluding.

  Beth’s mother threw up her hands. “Men.”

  Beth caught a glance of herself in the hall mirror. The dress had done wonders. Her mother came up behind her and put her hands on Beth’s shoulders. Beth shivered for just a moment, embarrassed at her mother’s girth and wondering what Walter would think of her. But then she thought how unkind it was, especially when she could see the love and appreciation in her mother’s gaze reflected in the mirror.

  What if her mother wasn’t humoring her? What if it wasn’t just the expensive dress? What if she was actually turning into something men would turn their heads to look at? When she straightened up and stood tall, even she had to admit she had the beginnings of a good figure. Her skin was smooth and pale, unblemished. Her hair was thick and its color was striking, noticeable in a way that wasn’t necessarily bad, but just the opposite. And her smile…yes, it was wide, but her teeth were perfect.

  Beth turned and hugged her mother and whispered, “Thanks. Thanks for the dress.”

  * * * *

  Walter’s hand sought out Beth’s in the darkness of the back seat. His fingers intertwined with hers and squeezed. Beth squeezed back, even though she was a little repelled by the copious amounts of sweat coating his palm.

  He was nervous. And she was making him that way. The realization made her feel oddly powerful.