A Good and Useful Hurt

by Aric Davis

  It was white and bare, just a toilet, bed, and a TV built into the wall, and then some other hospital stuff that he couldn’t identify. They told him to get out of the chair and get in the bed, and he did. They took the waist restraint off and hooked him to the bed at the ankles and wrists with leather straps before they removed the metal ones. The nice orderly who’d pushed him said he was going to give him something to help him rest, and Phil had said he didn’t want to rest. The orderly looked at the detective and the detective shrugged, and then the orderly was filling a syringe from a little bottle.

  Phil fought them, but they won. He was tied to a bed and exhausted, and they gave him the shot in the end. She came in his sleep, and he begged and pleaded, and she mocked his pleas as she cut him. She was at his side and on top of him all night, filleting, poking, and prodding, always wanting more and more, and he gave all she could take, gave more than he had to give, really. It went on like that for a long, long time.

  EPILOGUE

  One Year Later

  It was a good reception, and the wedding had been pretty darn good, too. Mike had felt a wave of emotions at being Lamar’s best man—mostly fear, but there was a fair amount of pride, both in having been asked, and of course in Lamar and Rani.

  The wedding had been a miracle, in Mike’s opinion. Rani had been working on her parents for months to get them to come around, and when they finally did, much to everyone’s surprise, they loved their future son-in-law. A Jew was what they would have preferred, they made that clear enough, but as long as their daughter was happy, so too would they be. Lamar had done his part to endear himself to them, and he’d actually converted to Judaism in the process. Mike had thought his friend looked hilarious with his tightly cropped, frizzy hair and yarmulke, but he was nice enough not to mention it too often.

  Mike knew from the second he met Rani that she was perfect for Lamar, and their eventual engagement was no surprise to him. She was smart, beautiful, and painted like a fiend possessed. More than once, Lamar had told stories of coming home from work and seeing a wall ruined with spatter, and Rani herself similarly ruined. She was a good person who, most importantly, was good to, and good for, his friend.

  Being best man, on the other hand, that was a bit of a surprise. The speech had been hard to write, but he felt he’d done pretty well by the end of it. He talked about the first time he met Lamar, and how that cocky young man had become one of the best people he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing. He talked briefly about how Lamar had been there through the worst times of his life, and had stood by to help keep both Mike’s business and Mike himself afloat. Mike didn’t mention Sidney or Deb by name, and knew he didn’t have to. Some people there would know what he was talking about and some wouldn’t, and that was just fine with Mike.

  He concluded the speech by wishing Rani and Lamar all the best in the world. He told them not to squander a minute, and when he said that, he almost did tear up, but held it together to toast them. When he embraced Lamar, who had teared up by then, he told him that they were no longer going to be employer and employee; they were going to be business partners. It was as good of a gift as Mike thought he had to give, and he could tell Lamar thought so as well.

  Becky had brought a date, of course, and one of her good friends had served as Mike’s escort for the evening. She was nice but far too enthusiastic about everything for Mike to deal with her for longer than the reception. That was OK, though, she was easy on the eyes and OK enough to talk to. He just hoped Becky hadn’t set them up as anything more than a wedding date.

  Becky was doing well, though she’d taken Deb’s passing harder than Mike had thought she would. She rarely brought Deb up in conversation, but Mike could see it on her lips and in her eyes all the same. He almost told her what had happened once, but he didn’t want to spoil it. Becky had let go and so had he, and that was as it should be.

  Mike hadn’t seen Doc in about six months; he’d accepted a teaching position in England. He was still present at the wedding, though, in the form of an enormous unwrapped gift that stood like a fortress on the table with all of the other presents. He e-mailed Becky on a regular basis and sent normal mail to Mike every now and again, but even when he’d still been in town, his visits had grown less and less frequent. Mike knew why, and he knew Doc knew why, but there was still no good way to fix it.

  What they’d been through had a polarizing effect on both men. For Mike, that meant that he would never wait to say something tomorrow that could be said today. Mike was pretty sure that for Doc, it had all been just a bit much, and he understood that too. Doc had been the rational one through everything, the one who put together the little pieces and answered the sea of questions that Mike bombarded him with. Mike knew they were still friends, knew he’d probably see him again, and he did not begrudge Doc’s need to leave even if it meant that he had to miss a good friend.

  The art had come back. It took a few weeks after the last time he’d spoken to Deb to really get himself all the way good, but it did come back. He’d started just doing small walk-ins, and he let Lamar and the two men they’d hired do the large custom stuff. When the art finally did reappear, though, it came with a vengeance. Mike painted more than he ever had before, and certainly more brilliantly.

  His first full project had been a series of oils of the eight women killed by the man named Phillip Marshall. It had been a hard project, but it was the one that felt right. He drew them from a fading memory, but they looked just as they had when they were alive. He had Becky e-mail the UICA early samples of what he’d been calling “Love and Blood,” and when they asked for more, he was shocked. Deb had been right.

  The show had run for six weeks that winter, and it had received a ton of local coverage. Papers in Detroit and Chicago picked up the story, and Mike received feature articles in five tattoo trade magazines. Juxtapoz had even sent a team to cover the opening, and Mike was as surprised as anyone at the reception the art had received. None of it meant more to him, though, than talking to an ashen-faced man Mike hadn’t thought he’d see again.

  Gabriel bought the painting of his daughter for one dollar, not that Mike couldn’t have gotten a lot more if he’d wanted. The man thanked him enough, though, thanked him with kindness and a knowing look that spoke volumes about how much he remembered Mike and what Mike and Doc had said. It was no surprise when he came by for a tattoo with ashes a few weeks later. All of the rest of the paintings made up the monetary difference. Eventually they all sold, even the one of Deb, and it was hard to let that one go, but he thought it better that it leave than stay. He had memories enough, and it just didn’t seem right to have her stuck to a wall in the apartment—far better that she go with someone else.

  Mike had let curiosity eat at him for about a month after it was finished before he called Detective Van Endel to see what had happened to Phillip Marshall. The detective offered to meet him at a bar, and Mike had suggested Founders, where, it turned out, the detective had his own mug as well.

  Marshall had died, the detective told him, as bad a death as he’d ever seen. No, worse. In the four days after his confession, he’d been sedated but still screaming constantly; when he was awake, he raved about how sorry he was, and he begged them to make the woman go away.

  “That was the funny thing,” said Van Endel. “It seemed impossible, but we were worried that there might be a woman somehow torturing him on the sly, a friend of one of the deceased, maybe.” He’d never gotten around to putting a camera in the room where they were holding Marshall, but he did watch the one in the hallway, and after Marshall died he watched all the tapes since his stay had begun. There was no woman, and no man, doing anything other than reported rounds and checkups. As was hospital policy when dealing with a violent and potentially psychotic individual, no one ever saw him alone.

  The news said Marshall died by choking. The detective confirmed this, but he said that what they left out was that it was on his own surgically removed dick.
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br />   Mike had said little to Van Endel after that. He knew exactly who had a bone to pick with Marshall; he just hadn’t realized her abilities extended that far. He bought the detective a round, and Van Endel bought him one, and for Mike, that was enough reminiscing about bad old times.

  Mike from North Carolina had kept up with him. Not as frequently as Mike would have liked, but the kid actually could draw, and every few weeks Mike would get a sheaf of paper full of drawings and missives, the writing invariably about how much everything sucked. It was good to hear from him, good in a pure way that was a nice reminder of that trip. It was just one more proof that good things can happen to good people, even when it seems impossible that they would.

  The tattoos with ashes didn’t stop. Mike would go months without doing one, and then someone hurting very badly would walk into the store. Mike had gotten to the point where he could tell what they were going to say before they asked him if he would do it.

  Lamar was spared the requests; in fact, Mike was the only person who worked at the store to be asked about the “special tattoos.” He thought that was fitting. If he owed a penance for Deb and everything else that had happened, then he was going to pay it. Mike had never told anyone the specifics of what would happen to them if they got a tattoo with ashes, until a story on the news about kids going missing and bones turning up gave him pause enough to call Van Endel and mention that there might have been a few details Mike had left out when they’d met at Founders.

  They caught the monster committing the crimes two days after Mike had called the detective, and nothing more had come of it. Mike knew eventually the detective would call though, and he just tried to be ready for it. Luckily between tattooing, running the shop, and training Mike from Carolina, there wasn’t much time to ponder what the other end of that conversation would be like.

  Mike wondered sometimes at night if she’d ever come back to him. She might not be able to, or might not want to. If she did, he knew exactly what he’d say: “I told you about Sid, and you owe me a story.”

  He figured it didn’t matter much either way. He’d known real love once in his life, and he figured that was a damn sight better than most people got. When he dreamed, it was of the Carolina beaches and sailors winding around storefronts, and in those dreams he knew Jack was wrong. Art wasn’t war at all—it was beauty and love and death. Art was everything, and it was eternal.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  On July 7, 2011, I was driving home from work an hour early so I could join Amazon editor Terry and freelance editor David in a conference call so we could discuss the book or digital file that you just finished reading. I was a little wired—writing and editing is still nerve-wracking to me, and I have a constant fear of saying the wrong thing during a call or e-mail.

  Because of this distraction, it took me longer than most to notice the police were blocking my usual route. I looped around a couple of side streets to avoid the blockage, got back on the main drag, and made my way home. I arrived about ten minutes early for the call, so I decided to check online to see what the hubbub was all about on Division Avenue.

  I read, left the computer, retrieved and loaded a pistol, and set it on the kitchen counter. A conference call had just gotten a lot less important.

  A man named Rodrick Dantzler would go on that day to perpetrate one of the worst crimes in Grand Rapids history, leaving eight people dead, including himself. Most troubling among the victims were the two young girls this book is dedicated to, Marissa Emkens and Kamrie Heeren Dantzler.

  I spent the time after the call (it went well, I shouldn’t be so nervous) sitting with a police scanner and watching television. The two houses where Rodrick Dantzler had killed are both very close in proximity to my own home, and he was still on the loose. Listening to the police chase edge closer and closer to my house was terrifying, and it was very hard to explain to my daughter. In the end, he kicked in the door of an apartment building about a mile from my home, took hostages, and finally killed himself.

  So what does that have to do with this book? Guys like the fictional Phil, and the unfortunately all too real Rodrick Dantzler, always seem to be remembered longer than their victims. Everyone knows who Jeffrey Dahmer was; few of us can recall anything about his victims, or even their names. I think the Debs of this world deserve better than the Phils.

  Thanks and love to my wife and daughter for their continued support in all of my literary endeavors. My mother and father deserve an ovation as well for their nonstop cheerleading when it comes to my writing efforts.

  Amazon as a publisher has far too many people to name, but it would be impossible not to thank my editor, Terry. Your continued support of my work means the world, and thank you so much for a second chance. To Sarah T., Jacque, Rory, Megan, the team, and everyone else at Amazon Publishing, I truly appreciate your constant hard work on behalf of your authors.

  Hats off to David, who handled the editing on both this book and my previous novel. It’s difficult to describe just how you’re able to get inside my head and tell me what to do, but I’m glad you have the ability. Truly, I appreciate your tireless efforts on this work so much, and I hope you are no longer belching on boat rides.

  Cheers to Jessica, who did this copy edit, and the one for Nickel Plated. You deal with my slop with what I hope is a smile. I totally owe you a cocktail for picking up after me.

  At the time of this writing, I don’t know if Sarah Burningham from Little Bird Publicity was able to work with me on this project. Either way, Sarah, you’re a great friend, and your help with my work—and mental state—is appreciated beyond measure.

  Thanks go to all of my first readers, Kevin, Greg, and of course, my dad. We had a different crew for this one, but I appreciated all of your help in making this book come to life in its infancy.

  There are quite a few more people I’d like to thank, but I’ve gone on long enough. Thank you for giving me a chance, and I hope I get to tell you another story someday.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Megan Davis of Silver Gallery Photography

  Aric Davis is married with one daughter and lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan where he has worked for the past fifteen years as a body piercer. A punk rock aficionado, Davis does anything he can to increase awareness of a good band. He likes weather cold enough to need a sweatshirt—but not a coat—and friends who wear their hearts on their sleeves. In addition to reading and writing, he also enjoys roller coasters and hockey. His debut novel, Nickel Plated, was published by AmazonEncore in March 2011.