“I'm sorry about the finger Mr. Cunningham, sorry about all of this... but it's just the way things worked out.” Barry mumbled when he felt me wince after trying to make a fist with my right hand.
“Given the situation Barry, you should probably just call me Tyler. The kidnapper/murderer-victim relationship is such that we can skip over social niceties. Just out of curiosity, if you don't mind... how much bigger than your parents are you?” I didn't care much about Barry's firsthand experience with the 47XYY karyotype, but it was something to talk about, and significantly more fun than thinking about the impending end of everything, from my point of view.
“My pop is tiny, about 5'6”, and Ma is about an inch taller. I was bigger than both of them by the time I was in 5th grade, and outgrew my bed by the end of 6th grade. Do you know about me... about people like me?” he asked, almost shyly, looking at me sideways, head bent over to fit in the crew cab. “Ma always thought it was because they were so old when they had me”
“It wasn't. Based on what I've read, some in British and Scottish studies, it just happens. It's also possible that you have some issues with the regulation of your pituitary gland, although doctors probably would have picked up on that by this point in your life and growth.”
“What's all this then?” Justin's arrival back in the front seat upset the sympathetic mood that had been growing in the backseat in the last few minutes, and Barry literally shook himself free of those thoughts and the mood and renewed his bruising grip on my neck. Barry grumbled something about being bored and wanting to get on with it, looked guiltily at me, and then turned to look out the window, as Justin took the back way around town, to the boat dock at Ampersand Bay, on Lower Saranac Lake.
We pulled around to the boat launch. Justin reversed the truck so that the rear wheels were in the water and then went over to the docks to bring around a big covered pontoon boat. As it was a bit chilly and cloudy and the sun was about to dip behind the tallest trees, almost everyone that had been on the water was already home by this time, or just finishing putting their boats in the dock slips, or up on their car roofs (in the case of smaller boats). I heard a boat start, catch with a throaty rumble, seconds later begin to run smoothly, and a minute after that saw Justin chugging back over towards us.
He nosed the front of the boat right up against the tailgate and chopped the engine. He nimbly skipped up to the front of the boat from the control panel in back, and tied a line from the boat to a knob on the back of the truck before dropping the tailgate down to make a ramp between the boat and truck. That done, it took him two minutes to transfer all of the stuff from the truck to the boat, including the rolling dumpster filled with some of the stuff from the hardware store, a bunch of bags of cement, some of the straps that people use to tie boats to their cars, and finally... a cooler. He gave a nod, and Barry and I climbed out of the rear of the truck, stretched out the kinks, and climbed up into the boat; me first and then Barry. Justin stood back a bit, with a hand in his fleece jacket's pocket holding what I assumed was a gun to cover me if I had been brave enough to try something... I wasn't.
He motioned me to sit down, and pulled the small handgun out a bit, to show me, in case I hadn't figured it out already. He tossed the truck keys to Barry and told him to untie the boat and then park the truck. Barry did as he was told, forgetting to raise the tailgate, which clanked a bit when he pulled forward, but probably didn't matter much to anyone except me. I was paying special attention to everything around me, as it might be the last time that I saw any of it. A minute later, Barry walked out into the water and pulled himself up into the boat as though he weighed a quarter of his bulk. The boat bobbed up and down, settling towards him a bit, before Justin started it up again and pulled away. I looked around as we reversed and turned, and couldn't see a soul I knew, much less a rescue on the way. I could feel my way into the future and see myself disappearing beneath the waves out here in a hundred slightly varying futures; but couldn't see one where I somehow made it back to Smart Pig for a bowl of oatmeal and a coke.
I knew from fishing with Frank that one of the deepest spots in the lake was a bit more than a mile WSW from the boat launch, and it seemed from his heading that Justin knew about it also. It was about 50 feet deep, which was more than enough for what I guessed they were planning for me. The wind and cold and my need to pee all worked together to help focus my mind a bit; after the car ride, I needed to get back in control of myself a little if I was going to be able to try anything.
Justin and Barry seemed so calm, almost bored, and prepared for this trip out on the water, that I had to ask, “Did you guys take Cynthia on this same trip?” I was reasonably sure that I already knew the answer, but wanted, needed, to hear them say it; to make it real, and to help me get angry again instead of just being scared.
“If you’re as smart as you're supposed to be, you know that we did. I can walk you through it, if you want, though.” Justin offered. “We get out to the deeps, find our mark, a spot almost 60 feet deep, we mix some cement, Barry shuts you down painlessly, load you and your crap and the cement in the roller, and over you go. If you feel like screaming for help, the only difference will be that I shoot you first, and you spend a couple of minutes bleeding and hurting before the end, and maybe you go in the water still alive.”
“You're monologuing.” Barry said under his breath, which impressed me, until I figured out that he was riffing off of 'The Incredibles'.
“Shut the fuck up, Barry.” Justin didn't even look his way before continuing, “Your friend... she was quiet... no muss, no fuss. Not a baby like you about the finger or any of this. Don't feel too bad, though, you're not the worst; we had a guy, couple of years ago, that puked on Barry with the finger, and screamed at the launch... didn't matter, nobody sees, nobody hears... he spent the ride trying to hold his blood and shit inside himself with his hands and crying like a little girl.”
“Not to rush things along, but why not kill me now?” I asked out of stupid curiosity, as if from a distance, feeling my mouth getting dry and lips going tacky from stress and adrenalin.
“George figured this out before Barry and me started; the less time you have a body on the boat, the better. If you can hold out, we'd like to mix the cement and put your things in first, leave you until the end. If you start to lose your shit, like your wobbly knees suggest that you might be, we can change up the order of things... but we'd prefer not, unless we have to do it.” Justin looked up from my legs, and searched my eyes and face, then nodded to himself.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to attack them both with my bare hands. But what I did instead was stand and shiver and sweat and not come up with any plan better than screaming or running or attacking the guys barehanded who could crush or shoot me without any difficulty or qualms. The detestable phrase, “if rape is inevitable, relax and enjoy it” went through my head. The thought made me want to throat-punch whoever originally gave tongue to it, and then I segued around a bit and came up with a really crappy plan. If it hadn't been so much better than no plan at all, and significantly better than anything else that had gone through my head in the last hour, I would have laughed or cried. It was not a plan that Spenser or Parker or Travis would have liked, but it was the one I had, so as we slowed down, and Justin turned into the chop, I got ready to put my plan into action.
Barry moved over closer to me, and Justin scooped up a gallon or so of water in a five gallon bucket before pouring in some cement mix. He stirred it around with a length of rebar, added a bit more water, and then stirred it some more before pouring it into the bottom of the rolling garbage can... he did this several more times as I worked up my nerve to try my idea; I figured that it had about a one in five chance of working without my ending up dead, which, although lousy, was significantly better than any other alternative I could see. Justin threw in my laptop and the rest of the contents of the duffel-bag. I cringed when I saw my parents' valuables go in the cement with a plop, a
nd Barry had his hand on my neck in a quarter second, gripping tightly enough to bring stars to the edges of my vision.
“Barry, no worries, I'm ok... ish. That stuff belonged to my parents, and that's all I have of them now... but it occurs to me that I'll be with them forever in a few minutes, so who gives a fuck.” I didn't want him to break my neck now, before I had a chance to try my lame idea. “Before you... do it... can I pee? Those cokes are killing me, and I don't want to pee myself at the end.” I couldn't tell if that sounded plausible, or hard-boiled, or silly, but I tried to sell it with a number three smile, even though he couldn't see my face.
“Ok, but I'm not letting go of your neck, and if you try to dive over or stomp my foot or anything, I'll hurt you before I kill you...maybe break your arms.” Barry was giving me my chance, and I could feel every muscle, every joint, every inch of me getting ready. I felt myself hyperventilating and starting to get light-headed; so I shuffled, with Barry holding onto my neck like he was ready to pop it off, to the edge of the pontoon boat and unzipped my fly.
At first I couldn't pee, and I was positive that Barry would notice and call me on it, and snap my neck. I strained like I was giving birth, and finally it started, a couple of drips at first, and then a steady stream. As things were winding up, I caught the last bit in my cupped hand and without zipping up or even pausing to tuck myself back in, I threw my secret weapon, a handful of pee, into the spot where I desperately hoped Barry's eyes were. He squealed like a little girl getting her pigtails pulled, and swatted me off to one side in his rush to get both hands to his eyes. I was a bit off balance from spinning around, but my butt hit the rail, and I had a momentary hope that I might get off scot-free.
Justin must have stopped getting the garbage-can ready when he heard Barry and me talking. He had stepped off to one side to keep an eye on the proceedings, with a clear view of me not eclipsed by Barry's bulk. Barry swatting me to one side distracted him for a split-second, but by the time my butt hit the railing of the pontoon boat he had his gun out, and in one of those slow-motion moments generally reserved for dropping whole trays of drinks, I watched him shoot me. I saw what looked like a huge hole in the barrel of the handgun flash from black to white-yellow, and simultaneously felt something poke me hard in the upper chest on my left side. I fought the impulse to keep my balance, and instead I let myself fall (in what I hoped was a convincingly boneless manner) over the railing and into the water.
I hit the water, turned around under the surface, opened my eyes and felt for the curved metal of the pontoon. I tried to orient myself by the fading light of the day, as I swam gently back under the boat, trying for as little disturbance as was possible. I came up underneath the boat and was surprised by a third pontoon in the middle; luckily I had my right hand up above me and was able to slow and adjust my course without bonking loudly into the middle pontoon. I kept my nose and an ear above the surface of the water and tried to breathe quietly and listen for what Justin and Barry were doing; if either or both dove in to try and find me, I was probably screwed.
“Fuck you! He threw piss in my fucking eye... let's see you man-up through that!” shouted Barry
“Well, I hit him hard and center-mass, and I bet he sank like a fucking stone, in those jeans and boots and jacket.” replied Justin.
“The sound of that hand-cannon probably stopped peoples' suppers at camps all over the lake.” Barry quipped back.
“Well, what the fuck was I gonna do after you let him go, let him dive in and swim away? Speaking of which, Barry, I haven't seen him come up for air yet, have you?” asked Justin.
“No... You sure you hit him? Maybe he's holding his breath or something.” suggested Barry.
“I hit him hard... look, there's his blood on the railing, where he went over. Give me a hand dumping this garbage-roller off the front, then we'll clean up the blood. Nobody can hold their breath that long... we still don't see him, he's dead for sure. He'll come up in a day or two, but that's a problem for another day... we need to take care of this shit now!” replied Justin, with a tone of finality in his voice.
I was starting to think that I had run through all of my bad luck and might live to see another day. They couldn't think of the underside of the boat as a place to hide, because in their worldviews, this boat was a flat thing that moved across the water, nothing more; nobody hid under boats. I could feel a spreading warmth inside my jacket, and the stinging in my chest shifting from an ache to a throbbing pain, and wondered how much blood I was losing; I briefly panicked about sharks before I got un-stupid again. The sound of the garbage-can dropping off the front of the boat almost made me shriek, which would have been poor form, but luckily my mouth was below water when it happened, as I was just breathing through my nose to keep as low a profile as was possible.
A minute later, talking quietly enough to themselves that I couldn't hear them clearly, they must have reached some decision, because the engine started. I took a couple of deep breaths and as the boat started moving away in a wide arc back towards the boat landing, I dove down a couple of body lengths to avoid the prop as well as being seen. The negative buoyancy of my clothes and boots made it easy to stay down once I had gone deep enough. I stayed down until my lungs were burning and then another thirty seconds; long and deep enough so that I barely made it back up to the surface with all of the drag from my sodden clothes.
I came up with the top of my head facing the thrum of the motor. I stuck my nose out just enough to suck in some air after blowing out what remained in my lungs on the way up. I hoped that my dark hair and the fading light of dusk would camouflage my head a bit if they were still looking. I kept anticipating the bullet splashing through the water and into my skull, but it didn't come. A few minutes later, I started to sink and sputtered my way to the surface. I couldn't see Justin and Barry, or the boat, at all. I held my breath and curled into a fetal position long enough to lose my boots and socks, took a breath, and then did the same with my pants, and then my shirt and jacket. Once these things fell away from me, I felt less as though some weird gravity at the lake-bottom was dragging me down, but I felt so tired, and my chest was screaming at me, drowning out even the ache of my pinky.
I swam for the nearby-ish north shore of the lake, broke a window in an attractive summer cabin with no discernible remorse or regret, and called Dorothy on the pre-Cambrian rotary-dial phone attached to the wall in the kitchen. “Hi Dot, remember when you said to call if I needed anything. Well...”
TLAS, 8:41, 9/6/2012
“Hi Tyler... well... shit... uhhh... are we going to the hospital?” was how Dorothy greeted me when she pulled up in her little Suzuki SUV on the dirt road leading to the summer cabin I had her phoned from. I had been hiding in the woods, shivering and watching for Justin and Barry until I saw the familiar, narrow configuration of her lights, and stepped out to flag her down. She had laid the passenger seat all the way back, and draped a blanket (possibly one that I had donated to the shelter) over it. I settled gratefully on it and thanked her for coming.
“I'm sorry to do this to you Dorothy, but I didn't want to go the ambulance and police route. I haven't bled to death or drowned in blood and I can sort of move, so I think not the hospital, but I might raid your supplies at the shelter if that's OK.” I had stolen two dishtowels from the summer cabin, packed them over the wound(s?) awkwardly using my right hand which was increasingly ouchy each time I bumped it, and wrapped a twin sheet around my shoulder toga-style to keep it in place. I drank a quart of slightly pond-y tasting water from the kitchen tap that reminded me of summer when I was a kid (thank goodness for caretakers not shutting camps down until the last minute). I cleaned up the blood and mess that I could see before turning off the light, closing the door, and heading down the driveway to wait for Dorothy. I honestly believed that I might pass out at any point from the second Dorothy answered her phone until I pulled the door closed, banging my pinky... again... in the process.
“What's a frien
d for, if not to drive a getaway vehicle after you've been shot?” she quipped sarcastically. I thought that, given the circumstances, it would have been rude, and possibly dangerous, to correct her, so I held my tongue. She drove, as always, slightly too fast for every road and each bump made me want to cry; given the sort of day I'd been having, I gave myself permission to do just that. She looked over and opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it, maybe out of pity. I don't think Spenser or Travis ever cried when Hawk or Meyer rescued them (and Parker never needed anyone to rescue him).
She pulled in to the TLAS parking lot a few minutes later and parked behind the dumpster around back. She came around and helped me out of the car and up the stairs into their clinic area, where she pushed me back onto the wide and short stainless steel table that they use for cleanings and performing minor surgeries. My legs hung over from the knees down, which wasn't uncomfortable enough to prevent me from starting to fall asleep until Dorothy unwrapped the sheet, pulled the dishtowels and cut my shirt off. She made an onomatopoetic yuck sound and poured half a bottle of unreasonably cold Betadine all over me, from neck to nipple and out to the tip of my left shoulder. Then she grabbed me roughly by my hip and neck and turned me halfway around so as to pour the rest of the bottle on my back in the same general area. Then she let me lay back on a puddle of the stuff.
Here Be Monsters (Tyler Cunningham) Page 9