by SP Durnin
She finally made it back to her building, her eyes still wild with panic, but her hand had begun to go cold. It helped with the pain and she was able to open the security door, then make it into the elevator before beginning to cry.
It seemed an eternity before the elevator made it to the fifth floor. The heavily scratched and scuffed mirrors on its doors showed discoloration under her eyes that Tracy couldn't account for. The vagrant hadn't punched her or connected with her face, but she was beginning to resemble a raccoon. Her lower lids had begun to get puffy and more than a little purple. Well, hiding that was the least of her problems. She could tell people she'd been bitten by a stray dog, and she could cover a couple of bruises with some creative eye shadow.
She leaned against the wall as she walked to her door, cradling her wounded hand to her stomach while searching her bottomless purse for keys with her other. The pain was horrible, but was losing its sharp edge. With any luck, her plan to sterilize and cover the bite would allow it to begin healing and keep her from the ever-embarrassing visit to the emergency room.
Dropping her purse inside as she entered, Tracy double locked her door and scurried to the half bath where she spent an agonizing twenty minutes cleaning her hand. Scrubbing the wound was far more painful than the liberal application of peroxide that followed. After her vision cleared, she smeared topical ointment to the now barely seeping bite and wrapped it with gauze. The pain was less now. Maybe cleansing it aided her body in deadening the nerves or something. Or she could be in shock.
She remembered that people going into shock should be kept warm and awake, so she wrapped up in her terrycloth robe before putting the kettle on to make some holy java goodness.
Her hand barely hurt at all now, just twinged a bit as she filled the mug. The smell of coffee was divine and she sat on her threadbare couch holding the mug just below her nose, inhaling the smoky richness, trying to calm down. So much had happened over the last six hours. Mike had turned out to be an ass, her friends had been revealed as backstabbing socialites, and she'd been mauled by a cracked-out executive bum.
Tracy leaned back and closed her eyes. Luckily, she had the weekend off. She would pull herself together, then face the world Monday a bit worse for wear but still ready to make it sit up and beg for its mother. She'd make damn sure word got around about Mr. Mike-fucking-Barron too.
The pain had faded to something just a bit more uncomfortable than a healthy sunburn and was losing intensity, being replaced with a cool numbness. Before she knew it, Tracy was beginning to nod off. She knew she shouldn't and decided to get up for another cup of coffee.
In just a minute or two...
* * *
Tracy drifted into the mercy of sleep minutes later, mug forgotten on the cushion next to her left hip.
Her arm fell off the couch into her lap, blood seeping through the gauze that was already tacky and half congealed.
She was already getting cold and the shapely legs she'd hoped to wrap around Mike Barron's well-muscled torso in animal pleasure had turned a disturbing shade of yellowish-gray. As time passed, she drifted deeper into REM sleep and beyond. Past any anticipation of well-planned social revenge, beyond any urges of sexual abandon, then finally into coma.
Over the next few minutes her breathing became less and less pronounced, then finally stopped altogether.
Ringing silence permeated the apartment, and the aroma of expensive coffee warred with the odor of a body just beginning its fall into the first stages of decay...
Chapter One
Jake was convinced that customer service made up at least one of the lower levels in Hell.
This belief was reinforced by the snide and disgustingly self-centered woman at the Supercenter pharmacy desk, currently bitching at the top of her lungs like a Russian drill sergeant. It seemed because she thought she was the by-God center of the universe, everyone in the world needed to realize how important her broad-beamed, Bible-thumping ass was and give way to Ms. Anna W. Bessendorfer of the lakeside Bessendorfers.
Jake wished she would just waddle back the way she'd come, walk out into traffic, and get hit by a fucking bus.
She'd pushed her way to the counter, past a single woman with her obviously sick toddler and the eighty-eight year old Mrs. Jennings, who'd been waiting almost forty-five minutes, to demand the prescription she'd called in during the ten-minute drive from her home.
The counter attendant, a young, Asian woman with a nametag that read "Kat" (whom Jake thought was very pretty, even with the odd hairstyle—streaks of what looked to be deep blue that went well with her exotic features) looked as if she'd rather be anywhere else on the planet. She attempted to explain to the ranting hag that it would take at least another two hours to have her airsickness medication filled. Twice now. Half the pharmacy staff had either called off or not shown up for work and they'd been behind since opening.
The single pharmacist, a Mr. Joe Pavek, looked as if he'd just run the entire three miles from there to midtown as he worked at breakneck pace. Sweat rolled down his forehead and his hands moved non-stop, filling order after order with robotic precision. Joe didn't envy Kat one bit right then. He understood that being polite and helping people was what they were there to do, but the insufferable Ms. Bessendorfer was beginning to grate on his nerves, as well.
"I understand your frustration ma'am," Kat said for the umpteenth time, trying heroically to keep anger out of her voice, "but we're really backed up due to being short staffed today and—"
"Does it look like I care about your problems?" Ms. Bessendorfer interjected snidely with a raised and oh-so-carefully penciled on eyebrow. "I need to catch a flight to our New York headquarters in less than two hours and I still have to stop by the office to pick up the quarterly reports. I don't have time for this! You people need to stop whining about how far behind you are and take fewer breaks!"
Does this broad realize how pretentious she sounds? Jake wondered, shaking his head and looking down at the faded CBGB t-shirt he'd opted for this morning.
He didn't have any clean button-ups.
The woman's attitude made him sick. One of the things his parents had impressed into him at a young age was that you were respectful to the elderly, especially those in obvious need of help. The fact that this ridiculous hag had all but shoved the aging Mrs. Jennings aside really irked him. He caught himself wishing for that missing piece of the Mir Space Station to come crashing through the roof and squish her like a bug, but he realized she'd still be an inconvenience to the pharmacy staff who would have to mop her up off the floor.
Kat soldiered on. "Ma'am we're working as fast as…"
"Don't ma'am me! I pay your salary! Without people like me you'd be out of a job, you ungrateful little stain!" Ms. Bessendorfer huffed.
* * *
Anna Bessendorfer had dealt with people like Kat before, people who just didn't understand that she had better things to do than stand around listening to the simpering of those who couldn't make something worthwhile of their lives. Well, that was never going to be Anna W. Bessendorfer. She was on the fast track at Beautyquest, where she'd worked for the past eight years, monitoring the quality of everything from shampoo to sea-salt infused foot scrub. She owned her own four-bedroom, two-bath home which she shared with no one but her dog, Baby. Her friends all said the dog was spoiled, but there was nothing wrong with letting your pet sleep in the bed with you, was there? Baby got lonely and whined if Anna didn't let her do so at night.
Anna was also in charge of the evangelistic committee at her church, where everyone just loved how excited she was about Jesus and bringing new members into the congregation.
So what if two (or three) times a week she drank herself into a pale ale infused stupor and catted around with everyone possessing external genitalia? She was doing good work. Her rewards in this world and the next were assured, so she didn't have to be treated like everyone else. She was above the petty, little problems other people had and didn't
care if they knew it.
"Do you have any idea what I do for a living?" Anna fumed. "I'm the one who approves the eye shadow you're wearing! I need that medication immediately! I can't be unsightly for tomorrow. There's far too much riding on making a good impression with the board. Possibly a promotion! Now you get back there and get my order, or I'm going to the store manager to let him know how incompetent you are!"
She drew one of her newly printed business cards out of the garish purse at her side and shoved it under Kat's nose. "Do you see this? That says Beautyquest Team Co-coordinator. That means I monitor people like you every day, and let me tell you something. If any of them did their job the way you're attempting to do yours, they'd be out on their narrow ass in the unemployment line!"
She sneered at Kat, giving her the once over, looking as if she just found a roach in her corn flakes.
"Do you realize how much I make?" Ms. Bessendorfer demanded, shaking her I'm-So-Important card in Kat's face. "I could probably buy you and every pathetic thing you own with about a week's salary!"
The lovely Asian's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Tell you what, Mizz Bessendorfer," Kat grated, causing Joe the pharmacist to look at her worryingly, "why don't you…"
"Do you mind?"
Both women jumped as Jake plucked the business card from Anna's hand.
* * *
He was the one who'd offered to drive the near homebound Mrs. Jennings to pick up medication that took the edge off the pain from her recent knee replacement. Actually, Jake had insisted. He wasn't about to let her try to take a bus or pay outrageous cab fares, because Gertrude Jennings had never been behind the wheel of a car in her life. He'd walked beside her as she'd driven the "silly little scooter" as she called it, so she wouldn't feel ashamed asking for help to get groceries from the higher shelves, or out of the freezer cases either. Jake didn't mind doing things for her. Like him, Gertrude Jennings had no family. Her husband had passed away years before and they never had children. Jake did have a younger brother, but they hadn't seen each other in years. When their parents split, their mother had taken Eddie to Boulder with her. Over the following year letters and phone calls began to come farther and farther apart, until finally they stopped altogether. His mother had remarried and changed her last name. Eddie was about eight at the time, so it wouldn't have been too difficult to convince him that he should have a new name too and Jake's search had come to an abrupt end.
His father wasted away after he left home, finally succumbing to depression after his son took an internship with Britain's SAS as a civilian journalistic consultant. Jake flew the eleven hours back to bury him and had been one of seven mourners at his father's wake. It was held in the dive bar over which the senior Mr. O'Connor had lived.
Afterwards Jake finished out the last five months of his assignment and returned to Buckeye Country—a bachelor's degree richer but totally alone.
He'd never been so depressed in his life.
Except for a couple of friends he'd stayed in touch with, Jake had no one. The next few years had been a series of assignments that kept him on the move. Nairobi, Alaska, Texas, the West Indies. He'd practically lived out of his suitcase until begging off the higher visibility jobs, opting instead for steady work as an editor/ghostwriter. It provided him some stability and, hopefully, the chance to get a life.
When Jake moved into her building, Gertrude made supper and brought it to him that first night, when he couldn't find a stinking pot amid the boxes to make himself a bowl of Ramen noodles. Hell, he couldn't even find the damn Ramen.
After that, he'd made a point of taking her along when he hit whatever grocery Supercenter was having sales that week. He wouldn't let her try to lug her trash outside, winter or not. She'd fuss every time she'd catch him as he ran out past her in the hall, jacket in one hand, current week's rewrites in the other, holding a stale bagel from his cupboard in his mouth to make his deadline. Those evenings sure enough, she'd ambush him at the landing refusing to take 'Thank you, but—' for an answer and Jake would be eating roast chicken for dinner. Or pot roast with potatoes. Or corned beef and cabbage, which he had a genetic weakness for anyway, being a Mick.
So, no one blamed him when he'd finally had enough of watching this self-important hypocrite shovel abuse into the atmosphere and decided to take steps. As Ms. Bessendorfer gaped and Kat looked on quizzically, he examined the card.
"Tell me, ma'am," Jake began, "have you ever heard of Murphy's Law?"
Anna gave him a quizzical look that said, what the hell is this guy talking about?
"What the hell are you talking about?" she asked.
"Murphy's Law states that the least desirable possibility will always exert itself. Or if anything can go wrong it will," Jake explained. "I prefer a slightly different version that states: the least desirable possibility will exert itself at the worst possible moment. Or if anything can go wrong it will, at the worst time."
Mrs. Bessendorfer looked as if she assumed he was on drugs.
That would fit with his punk-rocker shirt and combat boots, but he didn't display the wasted, malnourished, pasty look that junkies normally had. Jake was more lean than muscular. His six-foot frame looked nothing like the hulking behemoths so popular in action movies or muscle-building magazines, but his chest was deep and the cords in his arms rippled as he crossed them. He'd never been what most people considered handsome, but a narrow waist combined with broad shoulders and the weight his serious gaze carried tended to give his face a gravity that would win him many a conquest in the clubs.
Morals notwithstanding.
"I don't have time to discuss psychology with random strangers," Anna snapped, dismissing him with a wave. "I've got…"
"A perpetual case of constipation?"
She stood, mouth open at his audacity. "What?"
"I spoke clearly," Jake said. "Do you have a hearing deficiency? Along with the irritable bowel syndrome, I mean?"
Anna Bessendorfer was speechless.
"The Pepto's over there on the third shelf," he said helpfully, pointing up the aisle, past a display for the latest weight loss miracle pill. "You might want to get the economy size bottle. Better value, you know."
Anna's face began to turn red.
"Maybe you should consider calling your doctor, scheduling a colonoscopy," Jake recommended with a sympathetic look. "If you don't have your health... you don't have anything."
"Who do you think you're talking to?" She sputtered waving her arms in a fair impression of a flightless waterfowl. "What gives you the idea you can speak to me that way?"
Jake wasn't impressed.
"The fact I don't work here helps. It means I don't have to stomach abuse from a self-absorbed twit with an overinflated sense of self-importance. It also means I can say whatever I damn well please, just as you can in this country, and there's nothing you can do about it," he explained. "Also, since you think you can commit assault and get away with it, I—as a law-abiding member of the community—felt a deep personal responsibility to point out that you're opening yourself up to possibly dire financial consequences."
Anna stared at him in shock.
"Not that I have a problem with someone acting like a pompous ass," he admitted, "but seeing that you did basically just shove two people, one of which was holding a small child, in a public place... Well. Members of local law enforcement agencies would likely have a problem with that. And that would make it terribly hard to make that board meeting. Wouldn't it?"
"How dare you!" Ms. Bessendorfer ranted. "What business is it of yours?"
"It'd make a good article," Jake admitted. "I could call it, Power Corrupts: a Synopsis of Self-importance in Executive America. My editor would love it."
"Your...e-editor?"
"I have a column published nationally. Wouldn't be very difficult to make a couple of calls to the local TV stations. I'm sure they'd love to air related spots, especially with the magazine running articles on the subjec
t." He reached into his battered leather jacket hanging on the Supercenter scooter Gertrude occupied and pulled out the notepad he'd carried since his first year of college. Flipping it open, he took the ballpoint out of the spiral that held said pad together and clicked it out.
"Could I get your side of it? It would be a good idea to match it against video footage the security office keeps, and then compare it with psychological profiles of those with the same delusions." Jake began scribbling on his pad. "You said you work for Beautyquest. Can I ask for how long? Which department? Just so we can research as to whether this kind of behavior is a symptom of job related stress, or a side effect of another malady?"
Anna Bessendorfer's expression flashed from surprise to disgust and finally settled firmly into seething anger. "You print one word…"
"And you'll what?" he asked curiously. "Stab me with your eye liner? Give me a tumor with your Blackberry? Yell and scream and throw a hissy fit and try to intimidate me? Please. I spent time with the SAS. Let me tell you lady, they've got drill sergeants that make you look like a fluffy bunny by way of comparison. Now, I'm not a pushy guy. But I swear, if you don't wait your damn turn like these people have, I will make it my mission in life to see that you serve time for assault. I'm sure two victims, coupled with witness testimony from the employees and a concerned bystander, would go a long way towards that end."
Miss Bessendorfer was about to escalate into a full-blown scream when she caught a glimpse of Kat and Joe Pavek from the corner of her eye. The young woman was leaning on the register counter with a predatory grin, and Joe looked like he'd just found a stray Franklin in his pocket. To her right, the toddler's mother seemed ready to begin hostilities, and Mrs. Jennings wore a look of profound disapproval. Even if she did have to ride around in a silly little scooter.