Jamie is dead. The thought punched me in the brain, an unpleasant reminder of what just happened. No, I thought, don’t give in to it. Not yet. Get back to the cuffs.
And so I thought hard about everything I’d ever read that related to handcuffs or escapism.
Thanks to some brilliant comic book authors who had done their research, I knew that handcuffs had a bit on the inside that needed to be pressed back to trigger the release. I knew they had another pin on the outside that locked the cuffs in place so they wouldn’t tighten themselves. And I knew they could be picked, somehow, with a small thin object provided it was shaped properly.
A small sharp object. That’s what I needed. And it’s exactly what I didn’t have. What I had was a fat buckle on a dog collar.
With tears drying on my cheeks, I rested my head against the wall and racked my brain for a solution. Jamie is dead assaulted me again. I shook my head, slammed it back and let the physical pain push out the mental. The cold cement felt oddly refreshing on my scalp, like a compress. I was suddenly sleepy, sapped of energy, on the edge of forfeit. This was it, my last chance. How to make the buckle arm thinner? How to make it skinnier?
I played the mantra over and over in my mind, until it felt like it was eroding my skull. And that’s when it dawned on me-I needed to erode the buckle.
With a prayer, I placed the buckle arm against the concrete wall. . and rubbed.
It scraped over the concrete, flaking off bits of cement like dandruff. I did it a few times and then touched the tip. It was hot. It hadn’t gotten any skinnier, but I felt certain it would.
With black all around me, and silence filling my ears, I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed. I don’t know how much time passed. I don’t know how loud it actually was, though to me it sounded like a car engine. I just scraped that little piece of metal against the concrete until my biceps flared up, until I was gnashing my teeth like a child waiting for a tetanus shot. Little cold specks of cement tickled the backs of my legs as they flew up then drifted to the floor. After a long time, I stopped to check my progress and felt an incredible heat radiating off the metal. It had thinned ever so slightly, not enough, but it was enough to know this plan might work.
So I went back to work, and I rubbed and rubbed some more. My eyelids grew heavy; I had probably been up over forty hours by now. But sleep meant nothing to me; I had to keep rubbing.
Time was kept in relation to sounds from above. The television, a laugh track, Skinny Man talking, someone walking around, a voice I recognized, David Letterman, Skinny Man again. After awhile the television went silent. Maybe he was retiring for the night; maybe he was listening to them. Movies claimed the night was witching hour, and if so, shouldn’t he be on his way down? Maybe he thought the night was too quiet for screams, maybe he worked, maybe he was just tired. Who knew?
I didn’t stop again until my shoulder felt swollen, until the passing hours became a blur. Then I touched the small piece of metal and smiled. As I'd hoped, it had thinned into a pin. I couldn’t believe it, it had worked! Now all I had to do was pick the lock using the exact hand that was bound. Why, I thought vexingly, was every jumped hurdle met with an even larger one beyond it?
It was an issue of Chaos Legion, number twenty-one or twenty-two, if I remember correctly, where Stanley Horner-aka Greymatter, so named because he could steal your mind and leave you babbling like a retard-had to get out of handcuffs before a bomb turned him into what would be considered a delicacy in my present whereabouts. As a mental mutant with no elevated physical strength, he’d saved himself by pulling a nail out of a floorboard and using it as a key.
I sifted through the debris in my mind trying to remember the context of the comic. Bits and pieces started to come back to me like roaches to an open trash can, and soon I could visualize the page, the words, and the illustrations. Inside a handcuff was a sloped lever that allowed the cuff teeth to slide forward but not backward, so that the cuff tightened and wouldn’t slide open. Additionally, a tiny pin on the outside of the cuff, when pushed in, slid in over the sloped lever and blocked the cuff from sliding forward anymore, preventing the cuff from tightening itself further. But this pin could very easily be pushed out from the other side with something thin.
I decided to attack that challenge first. It took a few attempts, what with my hands all gimped up by the cuff, but by using my leg and the wall, I pushed the pin on the right cuff back out with the sharpened buckle. After I had done that, I swung the collar to my other hand and did the same thing over there. Now I had to be very careful; I could easily tighten the cuffs and snap my wrists.
Back inside my head, I reread Chaos Legion. What was Stanley telling me? Handcuff keys end in a small flag, like a P, which is turned to flatten the sloped lever and allow the cuff to slide back without the teeth hitting it. The flag is essential. Stanley had used the leg of his chair to bend the nail.
Using the wall and the cuff itself, I began bending the tip of the buckle arm at a ninety-degree angle. Despite still being hot and thin, the metal was as strong as the Hulk’s erection and I had to strain to get it shaped into a small hook. It wasn’t a flag but it was probably close enough, or so I hoped.
I put the buckle in my belt loop, the collar strap hanging down near my leg, leaving the buckle arm sticking straight out. Slowly, with grandma speed, I slid the cuff’s keyhole onto the “key” and pushed it in as a far as it could go. Then, using my wrist, I rotated the cuff.
The buckle arm fell out of the keyhole.
Shit, I mumbled, welcome to Dexterity 101. This wasn’t going to be easy.
CHAPTER 22
I repeated the process ad nauseam. Sticking the “key” out, pushing the cuff on it, turning my wrist. Hour after hour I kept at it, until I could faintly hear birds singing the ain’t-it-great-to-be-alive song in the trees outside. And then, as my eyes were sliding shut. . the key flattened the lever, and the cuff opened just enough for me to slide my hand out.
And that was that. No fireworks, no dancing bears, no parade. Just me holding my hand in front of my face, straining to see it in the dark, and feeling my lips spread wide in an involuntary smile. I stood like that for who knows how long, motionless, sweat dripping down the nape of my neck, not believing what I’d just done. How long before I was able to get my head straight? It felt like it had been in a blender, shot into space and time-warped back.
I went to work on the other cuff, which was much easier to manipulate with my one hand free. Working furiously, I picked it the same as the last one, but for some reason it wouldn’t come open, the “key” felt wrong, like maybe I had bent it out of shape somehow. I tried to pull it out to check on it, but it was stuck inside the lock. FUCK! I nearly screamed. Instead, I jimmied it and prayed it would find the lever. My desperation to escape was now beyond need, like a drug, an impulse I couldn’t fight.
The whole while the voice in my head kept saying, Calm down, you can do it, don’t give up. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say that voice sounded as if it came from somewhere else in the room as well. But I didn’t think on that too long. Besides, I was tired like a man forced to listen to a congressman’s speech, so I couldn’t be quite sure of what I was seeing or hearing. I just hoped it wasn’t a dream, because if I woke up and found myself still bound, well, I didn’t want to think on that either.
Maybe a half-hour passed, the faintest glow of light now seeping in under the door, when the cuff snapped back and the “key” dislodged.
I was free.
Soon as I rubbed my wrist to ease the pain I heard the voice again. Don’t stop, get free now.
Wasting no time, I went straight for the neck iron. Skinny Man was smarter than he let on, because the clamps around my neck prevented me from just leaning forward and stretching out for one of the tools against the far wall. Skinny Man was also a sly man.
I felt for the keyhole and plunged the sharpened buckle inside and rooted around. The lock was a different type than the cuffs, bigger and o
lder. It probably used a skeleton key with several teeth. Of course, I couldn’t be sure in the dark, but I had seen the one used on Tooth so I figured it was the same.
Out of nowhere a cool breeze ran across my face. It smelled like the trees in the mountains outside. It smelled like freedom. Where it came from I didn’t care, under the door, a crack in the foundation, it didn’t matter; it spurred me on despite my heavy fatigue. A fatigue that had me feeling like I was walking in a dream.
The makeshift lock pick was having about as much effect on this lock as a finger would have on a woman with ten kids. It was just too small for the hole. I ran the dog collar through my belt loops so it wouldn’t fall to the ground, and with both hands, grabbed the chain that connected the collar to the metal plate in the wall. It was stuck fast. Yanking only hurt my arms and back, and the metal plate had obviously been built into the wall somehow and wasn’t budging.
Spinning myself around, my legs in a painful X, I faced the wall and got my first real look at what was holding me. The chain from the collar was welded into a link in the wall plate. No way it was going to come loose no matter how hard I pulled. The back of the collar had a hinge, and unlike the front which was locked with a padlock, it was held tight by a long screw. The screw allowed the collar to open and close, but true to Skinny Man’s precautions, it had no crevice for a screwdriver; it was smooth and solid and held tight by a nut on the bottom. Years of rust had fused the nut to the screw and the top of the screw to the collar, and no matter how hard I twisted it wouldn’t come undone.
With a wrench I could make a go at it, but with nothing but a dog collar I was back to square one. At this point I was a firm believer in making do with what I had. If a wrench was what I needed, a wrench I would have to make. So taking my new wonder tool from my belt loop, I turned it over in the wan sunlight, thought about how to modify it. I stuck the flat end of the buckle under an exposed lip in the wall plate and bent it upwards. You’d be surprised how strong the metal of a dog collar buckle is. Small and thick, it damn near refused to give. I was forced to bend down and use both my legs and shoulders, thrusting my body up before it started folding. The pain this caused the palms of my hands was excruciating.
I kept at it till I had folded it at about a sixty degree angle, forming a V. Once bent, no amount of prying by my bare hands would open it, which hopefully meant it was strong enough to counter the screw’s resistance. The nut, to my surprise, fit snuggly in the V. There was no time to ponder the convenience of it all-I just gave the collar a hard turn. With the screw rusted to the hinge, the nut began to give. My heart was beating fast, my tongue hanging out in some stupefied expression of determination. I twisted harder, till my back cracked like a brick of firecrackers, until the nut spun free. I grabbed it and twisted it, spun it faster and faster until it fell to the floor. Then ramming my palm against the bottom of the screw, I shoved it up and out of the top of the hinge. I pulled the clamp apart and let it swing back against the wall.
Rubbing my neck, I felt the cheese grater scars the collar had inflicted. Terrified as I’d been, I hadn’t even noticed how it had eaten away my skin.
Clomp, clomp, clomp.
Footsteps echoed above me and before long dust was trickling down from the beams overhead. My heart did zero to sixty in one second, slamming against my ribs, trying to escape my body. My stomach was doing somersaults. If Skinny Man came down right now I was a goner, my legs still shackled as they were. I thought about slipping the collar back on and putting the handcuffs back, but loose enough that I could pull free if I needed to, but I knew he’d never be fooled. The footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs. He took out his keys and unlocked the door. I froze.
The door didn’t open.
“Butch,” he said, “get yer ass out here and stop trying to get in the garbage. Sometimes you piss me right off. Always cleaning up after you. C’mon, get out here now. Now sit and listen up. We got a lot to do today and I’m gonna need your help so stop messing around. First thing we gotta do-what the? Where’s your collar?”
My heartbeat went from sixty to one hundred. He knew! Trying desperately to be quiet, I put my arms over my head and slid down out of the waist chain and stood back up a free man but for my feet. Quickly, I sprawled out across the floor, and reached for the big ax that lay in the light spilling in under the door. It was close, my fingertips brushing against it, but I couldn’t get a good grip on it.
“Did you leave it downstairs?”
The door at the top of the stairs opened. Stretch, I told myself, stretch!
“It better not be festering in your food.” His footfalls bumped down the wooden steps.
Stretch! Just a little more!
Footsteps halfway down the stairs now. My fingers touching the handle but not enough to grab it. More steps, closer, near the door. Another couple steps and he’d be here. My fingers, walking on the handle, inching it into my grasp. There!
I worked it backwards with my fingers, grabbed the hilt like Babe Ruth and stood ready to swing. My heart was beyond miles per hour; it was doing warp speed. My palms filled with so much sweat the ax kept sliding around. Then Skinny Man stopped.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Did you bury it? Jesus Christ, you did, didn’t ya? That’s the millionth collar I’ve bought you this year. If you buried this one too, I’m gonna make you regret it. No, I don’t want to hear your excuses. Do you think I’m made of money or something? Shut up and let me talk for once, you don’t always need to interrupt. I’m not gonna buy you another so I suggest you go out and dig it up. Whatdya mean, ‘Help you?’ Why should I help you, you did it? Do you see me in the backyard digging up the dirt with my hands, dropping my shit in it and covering it up? When was the last time you saw me do that? Yeah, okay, Mr. Wiseguy, but aside from that, you’re the only one who buries shit out back. I swear it’s like you got the O-C-D. I couldn’t find the butter last night, did you bury that, too? What happened to the butter? Probably resting in a shallow grave out back, I bet. God, you make me so mad. No, I will not help you go look for it. Why should I, give me one good reason?”
There was a pause. I stood waiting, my sweat dripping down the ax handle.
“You better hope I don’t find anything else I been looking for out there. I swear, why you gotta bury everything is beyond me.”
He went back up and closed the door. Then the driveway door opened and he and his maniacal mutt drifted away. Thank God for insanity, I thought. With those two out of the house, I figured I had a couple minutes to improve my situation. I glanced at the ax. From the dim light I could see it was still covered in blood, most likely my sister’s, but I forced the image out of my head. What was important was that it was sharp and it was heavy.
Enough adrenaline was coursing through my body I felt I could jump to the moon. But it was also making me shake and I needed steady hands if I was going to get out of this alive. I took a couple deep breaths until my ability to focus returned.
I raised the ax over my head and brought it down on the chain connected to the leg irons.
CHUNK!
Metal and dirt resounded off the walls as the weapon struck. Weapon, I thought. Was it wrong I saw the tool as a weapon? I guess I always saw tools as weapons because of the horror movies I’d seen, but this was different; I honestly could not find another use for the instrument in my hands other than chopping someone up.
CHUNK!
I hit the chain again, tiny bits of dirt spitting up at my face. I hit it a third time and a fourth time and a fifth, fearing that each bang would bring Skinny Man running down the stairs with a knife in one hand and butter in the other.
CHUNK! CHUNK! CHUNK!
The chain broke, just a little, but I was able to slip the broken link off the rest of it. The leg iron was still attached to my ankle, but I was mobile. I hit the other chain that connected the other leg iron as hard as I could. Two times. Three times. Then the blade bit through one of the links and I separated the cuff, still on
my leg, from the chain.
I was free. Totally free.
First thing I did was listen for signs of Skinny Man outside. I could barely hear him, so next thing I did was go to the basement door and check the knob, which I already knew was locked. Using the ax, I slipped the blade into the door jamb and worked it like a crowbar. The cheap wood buckled easily with a loud crunch and the knob cracked out and fell to the floor. Again, I listened to see if the noise would bring Skinny Man but I could still hear his voice coming from outside.
Like a man playing with dynamite, I cautiously opened the door and placed a foot on the first step. The wood groaned under my weight, my leg iron chain jingled. Sunlight came through under the door at the top of the stairs, a bright blue that caught the dust motes and swirled them about like an enchanting spell. I took another step, listening to my heart pump a tribal drumbeat, squinting into the sunlight. How long had it actually been since I’d seen this much natural light? Two days? Three? More? Before I could take another step I heard something that nearly caused me to drop the ax.
I heard a moan. And it came from Jamie’s room.
My gut felt like lead, my knees buckled, I spun around and fell to my ass. It couldn’t be. She was dead, I had listened to her die. Oh God, my sister was alive, and I was suddenly so terrified I couldn’t bring myself to go back down the few steps I’d ascended. She moaned again, a guttural, confused tone that reminded me of a cat I’d once seen crawl into the woods and die after getting hit by a car. Then she coughed and went silent.
I sat for a few seconds, slowly going out of my mind once more, losing any sense of control I had maintained to this point. I felt my shoulders shaking and my head bobbing a bit. I saw the waves in California come back like a tsunami, rolling over me with oblivion. At some point, I could feel myself rising and walking over to the door that hid my sister, though my mind was beginning to drift away somewhere else, erecting defense barriers to deal with what I was about to see.
The Summer I Died Page 15