Cargo: an edge of your seat thriller

by J. C. Maçek III

  But that Tom, that goddamn Tom, after all Anthony Peterson had done for him? The anger chased away his sleepiness for the moment. Oh, yes, he would be dreaming up some payback, that was for sure.

  Before he could plan out the rest of his revenge against Tom, in wakefulness or dreams, the phone rang again.

  “Yes?” he answered, expectantly.

  “Hey, it’s Tom.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Just wondering how it tastes.”

  “How what tastes?”

  “My shit, Anthony. You just ate my shit for a goddamn change.”

  Peterson scowled as Tom hung up again.

  15

  Mourning has Broken: 6:43 AM

  Anthony Peterson’s son Evan was angry and rightfully so.

  He stepped outside onto his porch holding a bottle of Irish whiskey, which he tipped back over his mouth and took two big glugs from.

  His father…that bastard. All of the money. Gone. The one good thing that Anthony had ever done for him. Gone.

  Oh, but he loved the old man, didn’t he, still?

  No. Not after this and never as much as he loved his mother.

  He drunkenly watched as the sun struggled to rise. The sun dragged its way up the sky lazily just as the son was hating the old man with all the fire he had. As the sky began to light, Evan staggered back inside the colonial home and prepared his mother a wakeup drink.

  He didn’t want to be alone in his hatred and anger. There is no telling what he might just do in that state.

  “Mom?” he shook the older lady in her bed and she didn’t stir. “Mom!” he said again with a heavier shake.

  “Mmm? Sully?”

  Sully again?

  Sully. His father’s former best friend and business partner. He had become his mother’s best friend and became more than that after his father had left. Fucking asshole that his father was. Who could blame them?

  “No, Mom, it’s not Sully. It’s…it’s me. It’s Evan.”

  Her eyes flickered open, and she smiled. “Oh, my baby boy! Has morning broken?”

  He leaned in and handed her the hot drink he had made for her. “Yes, ma’am. Just now. It’s day time, and here’s your coffee.”

  “Where’s Sully?” she asked impatiently.

  In his mother’s present state, the state she had been hanging on to for years now, she was not quite right in the head.

  His father had described her as being ‘on her deathbed’ and ‘an invalid.’ That was bullshit. Unbelievable bullshit. She wasn’t on her deathbed. Not even today. But she wasn’t quite right either.

  “Mom, try…try to remember. Try to understand. Mr. Sullivan is dead,” Evan told her. “He died a few years ago.”

  Mom’s continued delusions were not going to make his day any better. Somewhere in his heart, he also knew this wasn’t healthy for her. Believing Sully was still alive prevented her from properly mourning the man.

  The old lady scoffed, “Oh, now, of course he’s not dead, goddamn it!” she said and almost laughed. “Why would you say a horrible thing like that?”

  Evan sighed. He was still angry. He didn’t want to take his anger out on his mother, whether or not she could accept that Sully was long dead.

  “Drink, Ma,” Evan said. “I put a little Irish in your coffee.”

  She looked up at him in the slowly lightening room and said, “Why how thoughtful of you.” She took a sip and then looked back up at him. “That’s my boy!”

  Evan giggled like a kid again, but his mirth was short-lived. His thoughts turned back to Anthony, and immediately, Evan looked out the window, dejected again.

  “Oh, my boy, what’s so wrong with you this morning?” his mother asked with sweet concern.

  Evan coughed and shook his head. “Nothing…a lot…a whole lot.”

  Evan’s mother giggled. “You sound a bit more than conflicted.”

  Evan looked at her and then took a pull from the bottle.

  “What is it, son?”

  Evan coughed slightly and took in a deep breath. “It’s…it’s the prick. He’s finally getting what he deserves.”

  “Getting what he deserves?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You really hate your father, don’t you?”

  “I hate that prick. He was never much of a father to me, was he?”

  She made up a face as if deep in thought. She had her very thoughtful moments still. Sometimes, she was downright lucid, but other times, she was still lost.

  “I suppose not,” she agreed. “Sully was more of a daddy to you than Anthony ever was, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said, not truly agreeing. As far as Evan could remember, he was already in his late teens by the time Sully became more than a friend to his mother.

  “Where is he, by the way?”

  “That’s what I need to tell you. Dad’s in a… Dad’s been–”

  “No, no, not your father! I don’t give a shit about him. Where’s Harry?”

  “Harry?” Evan asked. She must be confused.

  His mother scoffed, then corrected herself. “Sully!”

  This again? Evan thought. Some days, she really couldn’t understand. She would ask for her mother, she would ask for her brother. Once, she even asked for Marilyn Monroe and then James Dean. She couldn’t accept when someone was dead.

  It was bad for her, mourning. She never moved on.

  But when it came to Mr. Sullivan, Mom was different somehow. The other assertions of the dead rising were clearly the products of dementia. Somehow, when she talked about Sully, she didn’t actually seem demented. She seemed…self-assured. Almost clear-minded. That was the worst part of this disease. The very worst goddamn part. Sometimes, she didn’t seem senile, even when Evan knew goddamn well that she was.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I have to tell you again, please try to understand. Sully is dead. He died a long time ago.”

  Mom laughed. “You keep saying that, but it’s not true.” She sipped her Irish coffee again and shook her head. “Sully isn’t dead, darlin’.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you went to the funeral?”

  “No, no, no. It wasn’t a real funeral. Sully is alive.”

  “Mom?”

  She patted his hand and said “He is. Trust me.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  She looked past his shoulder at the sunrise and smiled. “Because he promised he would always take good care of us. And Mister Sullivan…” she said, with mock reverence, “… was never the kind of man to make idle promises. He’s alive.”

  Evan shook his head and took another pull from the bottle. He decided to leave it alone. There was no convincing her of this any more than she believed him when he assured her that Abraham Lincoln had, in fact, not visited her a few months ago.

  Thus, Evan decided to move on. “So, about the prick.”

  “Your father?”

  “My father.”

  “The prick.” Now, it was Mom’s turn to giggle like a kid.

  “The same,” he said and took another swig.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s finally gotten what he deserves…I guess.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s…ah…” Unexpectedly, Evan’s eyes welled up with tears, but he kept his voice as steady as he could. “He’s been kidnapped, apparently. His bitch of a wife, too.”

  “That young thing?”

  “That young bitch.”

  Evan’s mother drank deeply and then looked back at her son. “That’s terrible,” she said matter-of-factly. Then, she narrowed her eyes in confusion. “Isn’t it?”

  Evan drank. The buzz was going to his head. He felt a tingling like his skull was filled with bees. “I guess, yeah. But to try to get out of this mess he got himself into, he’s…he’s…he’s cleared out my trust fund.”

  “He thinks he can save his own ass by stea
ling your money?”

  “Elena’s too.”

  She hissed in air through her teeth and looked out the window, as if deep in thought. “Can I have some of your whiskey?” she finally asked him.

  “That Irish isn’t enough for you?”

  She laughed. “It’s finished,” she said and held up the empty cup for him to see into.

  Evan leaned forward and prepared to pour a few shots into his mother’s cup.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “I’m not supposed to be drinking, you know. With the medication?”

  Evan paused. This was the reality of living with the former Mrs. Peterson. She would often forget her very stance on a subject and switch sides completely.

  “Uh…” Evan said, then poured a bit more. “How about just this once? You know, I hate to drink alone.”

  “That’s true,” she said with excitement. “I remember that.”

  “Well, good. Then it’ll be our little secret.”

  And they sipped together.

  “So, he’s in jail?”

  “No, Mom, no, Dad is…Anthony is…he took our money. He says he’s in a cargo container somewhere, and he’ll die if anyone interferes.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “I don’t know. I’m going back and forth. I mean, I hate him, but I…he’s still my–”

  “Evan. I mean, it’s horrible that he took your money.”

  Evan almost laughed, but sipped instead. She sounded so innocent, as if unaware she had just said something so cold.

  His mother continued. “And I could kill him for taking Elena’s money.”

  “She might find and kill him herself when she finds out.”

  “You haven’t told her yet?”

  “It’s six something AM. You’re the first to know.”

  She narrowed her eyes and nodded. “So, someone has him?”

  “And his bitch of a–” he sighed. “And his wife.”

  His mother sipped her whiskey from the coffee cup and smiled. “Then, you need to help him.”

  “What?”

  “Help him. He’s your father.”

  “No, Mom, I can’t.”

  “You can, Evan. Even if you hate him, you have to understand, he is still your father, and you must be the bigger person. Remember that’s what Sully always tells you. Be the better person.”

  Sully again? Evan sighed and nodded. “I can’t do that, Mom, I’m sorry. Dad says that if the police get involved, he’s dead. They’ll kill him at any sign of police.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Yeah.”

  She made up a face and looked out the window again. The rising sun lit her face up like a golden angel’s. She was truly beautiful in her old lady way.

  “I wonder if Sully knows.”

  Evan sighed. He couldn’t convince her, so he joined her. “Why don’t you ask him next time you see him?”

  “I haven’t seen him lately,” she asserted.

  “I wonder if that’s because the man is fucking dead!” Evan spat at her angrily. His mood was shifting as quickly as her reality, thanks to the booze.

  “Still on that, are you?” she said calmly, with a laugh in her voice.

  Evan grinded his teeth and laughed. “How is it that you remember that I’ve told you that Sully is dead, but you can’t remember that Sully is dead?”

  “You’ll see. He’s taking good care of us,” she smiled.

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Don’t you whatever me.” Mom laughed. “Remember what he told you. Be the better man. Always be the bigger person.”

  “It’s not hard to be better than Anthony Peterson.”

  “So, what do you do now?”

  Evan sucked in air through his teeth and felt that whiskey sting on his throat. “Nothing. He’s always held all the cards. Do you know what he said to me? He said he was just calling as a goddamn courtesy. He didn’t have to ask me to make me destitute. He just… took it.”

  “How awful of him,” Mother said. “So, what happens now?”

  “I…I don’t know. I know I fucking hate him.”

  “Evan.”

  “You should too. After all he did to you?”

  “And Sully has always been here for us.”

  “No, Mom, I…goddamn it.” Evan was too drunk to reason with her, and he couldn’t deal with this Sully bullshit.

  “What does your heart tell you?”

  He paused. That was a stupid question. Fucking stupid. Who the fuck cared? Who asks a question like that? “I don’t know, Mom.” Evan said impatiently. “What the hell would you do?”

  Mom nodded several times as she thought about the situation. “That’s a good question. Well, he is your father, taken for all with all,” she said and nodded again at him. “So, yes. I would help him.”

  “You would? After all of this? All he did? All we’ve been through? You would actually help that man?”

  “Why of course I would,” Mom said.

  “After all he did?”

  “Yes,” she said and drank some more. “This is some really good scotch.”

  “That’s Irish whiskey.”

  “That.”

  Evan sighed. “After all he did…after all he did…” he repeated. He felt he couldn’t say the futile phrase enough.

  “Be the bigger person.”

  “But, Mom, nobody knows where he is. And he might even get out on his own with all our money.”

  “That was a lot of money,” she agreed.

  “And I can’t help him anyway,” Evan insisted. “Don’t you remember? Don’t you understand? If I call the police, the kidnappers will kill him and his…his…his fucking trophy wife.”

  “Evan! Language.”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Besides…” she said with a laugh. “I fucking remember. And yes… After all of this…after all he’s done…I think it’s very clear that you should be the bigger person.”

  “Mom, I can’t.”

  “Oh, I heard you,” she said, with an innocent smile. “I believe…that considering all…there is no other option. You’ve got to help him.”

  Senility. Dementia. Even with a buzz like this, Evan had already gotten his fill of his mother’s bullshit.

  “Mom, try to understand, they will kill him!”

  “Evan? Help…him!” she said as she darted her face from the window back to her son and locked eyes with him. Her smile and her eyes had a determined, serious look as if she was trying to make something very clear. Was that right, or was she in her cloud of dementia again?

  “Mom?”

  “Help…him. The way you know he deserves.” She kept that same look on her face and stared him directly in the eyes without blinking. Without looking away. This was not dementia. This was lucidity. Marie Peterson knew exactly what she was saying at that moment.

  Finally, Evan reached into his breast pocket and retrieved his phone. Was this what she was urging him to do? Even if she didn’t realize what she was saying, Evan did. He nodded, then took a deep breath, and then a deep pull from the bottle. “I have to go,” he said.

  “And what are you going to do, Evan?” she asked boldly.

  He sighed. “I’m going to help Dad.”

  Her smile faded, then returned in a friendlier, less intense grin. “That’s…my boy.”

  And with that, Evan Peterson left the room and made one incredibly important phone call.

  16

  The Raggedy Man: 7:28 AM

  Anthony Peterson dreamed he was a toy. More specifically, Anthony Peterson dreamed of himself as a nice, handmade, stuffed male doll that someone had been careless enough to shove into a small – too small for him – cardboard box.

  Who would have been so ungrateful as to do such a thing for a doll so grand?

  He was alone, but he felt something painful. He, the doll, was being held in place by a long, red pin straight through the forehead.

  A beam through the forehead again! How careless.

 
Then, he saw his owner. He stood over Anthony Peterson like a god and laughed at him. Although Anthony Peterson could not see the face, he instinctively knew who it was… It was the cocksucker motherfucker who had kidnapped him in the first place and stuffed him in here.

  He hated that person, but he tried reaching up to him for help anyway.

  And to Anthony Peterson’s surprise, the owner did indeed reach down to him, but instead of taking him out and helping him, he ripped a piece of him off.

  His leg. The right one.

  The pain was excruciating, and Anthony Peterson wanted to scream out, but he realized with horror that his mouth was only painted on.

  How could he then scream? It was very unfair!

  Then, the owner reached back down and yanked out a bit of fluff from where his leg used to be.

  Had Anthony Peterson blood to shed, he surely would have bled profusely. But Anthony Peterson was a dry, cotton toy.

  Then, the figure moved on, but another took his place. Someone he did recognize. It was Sully. This time, Sully came to him and ripped off another piece of him. His foot from the other side.

  Then, Evan came to him and ripped out part of his middle. Then, Elena. He recognized his daughter as she came and grabbed a string and pulled and pulled until much more of him was gone.

  Then, Tom. Tom would help him, wouldn’t he? No. Tom took another piece of him, then came back for more. Then, the original assailant returned and reached down to grab and pull at another thread.

  And Anthony Peterson knew that he would soon be no more.

  The box would be empty, and the doll would be destroyed.

  A ringing awoke him from this new, terrible nightmare. He had already been through hell since he woke up the first time, and he had reached a level of depression like he had never felt before.

  When he was depressed, he wanted to sleep. He hadn’t slept yet since the kidnappers awoke him, not really…but he drifted off after Tom’s insult-to-injury extortion.

  Now, his whole life was a nightmare, and his dreams were no consolation.

  And there was that ringing. But Anthony was groggy, and his mind wasn’t clicking properly. What was that weird sound, and where was it coming from? Who could help him get rid of that noise?