Lifeline

by Gerry Boyle

  “Well, if you did, wouldn’t you kill any bastard who roughed her up? I mean, anybody who has any friggin’ morals at all. Hey, but I don’t mean to bad-mouth Randy. He’s kind of laid-back, and it was just him alone, I guess.”

  He took a breath.

  “So now she’s gone, why don’t these media people let her rest in peace, you know? Leave her be.”

  “I don’t know. That’s not what they’re paid to do, I guess.”

  “No, they keep stirring things up, prying into people’s business. I don’t know how they can friggin’ sleep at night.”

  “Probably isn’t easy,” I said, and I thanked him and he nodded and I walked back to the car.

  It wouldn’t be easy that night.

  When I got home, I heated soup but didn’t feel like eating. After I hadn’t eaten, I went out into the sodden woods, but as I moved between the trees, I didn’t hear birds. I heard Donna’s voice.

  I thought you might be better, Jack. I’d hoped you could help me. . . . I’d hoped you might be my ticket out. . . . I’d hoped you might be the one to deliver me from this mess. . . .

  Deliver her? She was the story of the week, something to fill a little blank space on a page dummy. But it wasn’t just that; Donna the casualty of journalism. It was Donna the casualty. It was Donna.

  It was her hair. It was her looks, the naive hope for something better. It was her purple paintings, the little laugh when she’d told that story on herself, the spatter of freckles across her nose. It wasn’t just the journalism thing, the subject of the story fed into the insatiable news mill. I could shrug that off or drink it off. This was Donna. She had broken through the wall, the professional facade. I had liked her. I had liked Donna very much.

  This wasn’t regret. This was grief.

  So I walked in circles, thought in circles, too. The trail kept bringing me back to the same place, the same moment when I’d looked right into Donna’s eager, hopeful face. Finally, I came home and sat down in the big chair by the window. It was quiet in the house, silent but for the hum of the refrigerator, and I sat for a long time. At four o’clock, I got up and got a beer and sat back down and sipped. At five I got up and got another one. The rifle was in the corner and the answering machine was on and all was unwell with the world.

  At six fifteen the phone rang but I didn’t answer it, and whoever it was hung up when the machine clicked on. Screw ’em, I thought. At seven, I was on my fourth beer and the phone rang again and the machine answered. There was breathing, then a click and the dial tone. At eight I got another beer and sat back down, heavily. I watched the light fade behind the trees and then I was dreaming: Donna and Roxanne in the same room. Donna sitting beside me and holding my hand and Roxanne glaring. Trying to explain but no words would come and Donna wouldn’t let go. Donna leaning over to kiss me and a hand on my shoulder, holding me down . . .

  “Jack,” a voice said. “You’re screwing up, my friend.”

  I looked up at Clair, standing over me. It was his big hand on my shoulder.

  “Anybody could have walked in here and killed you,” he said. “This isn’t the time to get drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk. I’m tired.”

  “You’ve got a woman murdered,” Clair went on. “A guy coming after you who’s got nothing to lose. Somebody who drove a knife through your windshield in the middle of the night. And you’re sitting here, swilling beer?”

  “I wasn’t swilling. I was pacing myself.”

  “Pacing yourself right into a grave.”

  “Oh, come on, Clair.”

  “Come on, nothing. That little girl probably decided to get drunk too. Look what happened to her.”

  “I know what happened to her,” I said.

  “Then what are you doing here, out cold with the doors open? An army could have marched in here.”

  “But Marines would have knocked.”

  “I’m totally serious, Jack,” Clair said. “I am goddamn serious. It’s time for you to be on your toes. If you were one of my soldiers, I’d drive you across the room. You’ve got to be sharp.”

  “I know.”

  “If you know, then do it.”

  Clair stood there as if he actually might slug me, just to make his point. But then the phone rang. I didn’t get up.

  “The secretary will get it,” I said.

  After four rings, the machine clicked and whirred and beeped.

  “Hi, Jack.”

  It was Roxanne’s voice. Soft and musical and bright.

  “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Call me when you get home. I love you.”

  There was a pause.

  “I really love you,” she said. “Bye.”

  Clair looked at me.

  “Do it for her if you won’t do it for yourself. You want to feel sorry for yourself about this girl, save it for later. Think of somebody else. That woman on the phone there depends on you. Other people do too.”

  He paused.

  “So don’t let ’em down, Jack,” Clair barked, and turned on his heel and walked to the door. He looked back at me, tall and erect and grim.

  “Switch to coffee. Don’t roll over and play dead, or you’ll end up dead for real. Don’t think it can’t happen. And keep that goddamn weapon loaded and ready.”

  The door closed. There was no such thing as an ex-Marine.

  19

  Roxanne’s phone had been busy. For hours. When I’d finally gotten through, a little after midnight, she’d just gone to sleep. Groggily, she told me she loved me, that she was talking to Jill in Colorado. I told her everything was fine, that I loved her and would call her Thursday.

  A half truth. Maybe a third.

  I woke up early, and felt as if there were a gauzy veil wrapped around my head. Too much beer. Too little sleep.

  The sun was out and the morning was steamy, with branches and leaves dripping outside the window. I lurched out of bed and down the stairs and put on water for tea. Taking a peek out the front window, I saw that there was nothing impaled on my windshield.

  Things were looking up.

  I drank that cup of tea and then another and half of a third. I still felt like hell, but at least my heart was racing. If I couldn’t be sharp, I could look wired. Jeff spent hundreds of dollars to feel just like this. No wonder he was irritable.

  At eight, I was showered, dressed, and ready to go. I considered calling Roxanne again, but it was too late, in more ways than one.

  The ride in was a good airing out, with lush woods, blue sky, and glimpses of a great blue heron and an osprey. I craned my neck under the windshield to follow the osprey, but it veered away over the tops of the spruces and dead crags, and I fought off the urge to pull the car over and chase after it and lose myself in the only place left that was pure and clean and full of wonder.

  But I had promises to keep. At eight thirty, I kept one by standing in the lobby at Fourth District Court. I eyed the throng and a few people on the benches eyed me. I eyed them back. Looked at my watch. Felt for my notebook in the back pocket of my jeans.

  “Good morning, Mr. McMorrow,” a voice boomed. “We’re honored by the presence of Jack McMorrow, ace reporter. Looking for a good story? Anybody have a story they want to tell Mr. McMorrow?”

  Tate leered at me, then slapped me on the back with her big painted paw. Everyone in the place stopped and stared.

  “Looking for anything in particular, McMorrow?” Tate went on, walking slowly by. “Nothing too juicy this morning, but you never know. Maybe somebody’ll break down on the stand. How would that be, Mr. McMorrow? Good and juicy? I don’t know, you’ve been finding some good stories in this little place. Writing those racy stories in the newspaper. Anybody going to do something racy today? Tell Mr. McMorrow here. He’ll make you famous.”

  Tate glanced at me over her shoulder as she walked toward the clerk’s window.

  “Don’t thank me,” she said, and grinned again.

  So much for being a fly on the
wall. I was the centerpiece now. On display. I stood there nakedly for a moment and then followed a bunch of guys out the door. One of them held the door for me and I said, “Thanks,” and then somebody was pushing me from behind, then still pushing, and there were hands on my shoulders and I was being guided to the left, boots catching at the backs of my sneakers. I turned to see who it was and saw only beards and hair and strangers.

  We turned the corner and a hand forced my head down, while others clamped onto my arms. I said, “Hey,” and “What the—,” and then I was pitching forward, onto the floor of a car, my face pressing into trash and bottles, my hands behind me, and somebody sprawling on top of me, somebody who smelled like body odor and booze and cigarettes, a weight that crushed the breath out of me.

  I started to scream and the motor started and the exhaust roared and we were moving. A hand grabbed me by the hair and pressed my face hard against the trash and cans and bottles, and something sharp sliced into my cheek and I was pressed down even harder, so my mouth couldn’t open and no sound would come out.

  The exhaust rumbled under my face and somebody whooped and somebody exclaimed, “Yes,” and another voice said, “Smooth as silk, boys. We are in the wrong business.”

  “Let’s see what business we’re in,” the guy on top of me said, and his hand dug into my back pocket, yanking out my wallet.

  “Seven friggin’ dollars,” he said. “What is this?”

  The hand let up and I lifted my face off the trash. It felt like my cheek was bleeding, and then there was a red droplet and then another and another. The car slowed, the rumble subsiding and then roaring again. I could hear other cars, a siren in the distance.

  “Seven bucks, man,” the guy above me said. “What’re we gonna do with seven bucks?”

  “He got a bank card?” the voice in the front said.

  “Lemme see. Oh, baby. Two of ’em. We’re in business again, ain’t we, chump?”

  “What bank?” another voice said.

  “Citibank. Where the hell is that?”

  I didn’t say anything. Tried to place their voices. It wasn’t Jeff. It wasn’t Donnie. I couldn’t place them. I had to keep them talking.

  “Wait a minute. The other one is for Central Marine Savings. Which one’s that?”

  “Main Street. Past the fire station,” the guy in the front said.

  “I can’t keep track of these goddamn things,” the guy above me said.

  “Deregulation,” I said, speaking for the first time. “Mergers and buyouts. Turned the banking world on its ear.”

  “What the—? What are you talking about?” the guy above me said.

  The other guy grabbed my arms and pushed them toward my neck. I grimaced but didn’t make a sound. The car rumbled along. The driver turned on the radio. Top 40.

  “Yuck,” I said.

  “Hey, shut the hell up, man,” the guy above me said. “This guy is friggin’ irking me, man.”

  “Yeah, we only need you to say one thing. That’s the number for this card.”

  It was the other guy in the back. The driver was silent. We stopped in traffic and he turned the radio up louder. My face, sticky with blood, was starting to ache. The car rumbled and creaked and the brakes ground.

  “Who owns this piece of crap?” I said.

  A fist slammed into the back of my neck, numbing me.

  “Don’t hit him there, man,” the guy above me said. “You’ll friggin’ paralyze the son of a bitch.”

  “Good, he owes me.”

  “He owes you a few hundred bucks, man. I ain’t in this to whack the guy. I’m in it to get some cash and split.”

  “Yeah, well, he owes me.”

  “There’s an echo in here,” I said.

  A boot against the back of my head.

  “Shut the hell up,” the guy with the fist said. “You owe me. You’re lucky I don’t friggin’ put you in the river.”

  I was thinking. Who did I owe?

  “Okay, start spitting numbers, dipshit,” the guy above me said.

  “Since you put it so nicely,” I mumbled against the floor. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—”

  The boot pushed and, a millisecond later, the fist again, hard against my back. I gasped.

  “The friggin’ number, you piece of shit,” the other guy said behind me. He shifted and loosened his grip on my arms, and I yanked them under me and pushed myself up on my knees and elbows. They both started yelling and the driver said, “Jeez,” and swerved and knees came down on my back and a boot on my head, but not before I twisted my head and looked up.

  And saw a guy I didn’t know. A guy I did.

  Leaman.

  “He seen me, the son of a bitch,” Leaman said.

  “Has seen me,” I said between clenched teeth. “I can’t stress enough the importance of good grammar if you are ever—”

  He was on my back, punching me like a punching bag. I didn’t feel pain, just flashes of sensation. My back. The back of my head. My ear. My forehead against the litter on the floor. The car revved up, as if the pace of the blows was somehow related to the flow of gas to the carburetor.

  The punches were on the back of my head, and I felt something warm in my hair. Blood.

  “Okay, okay,” the guy above me said. “Don’t friggin’ knock him out. I ain’t babysitting him all day. I just want to get the cash and dump this clown. There’s a case of Jack and an eight ball waiting for me.”

  “Here’s the bank,” the driver said.

  Leaman stopped punching.

  “What’s the number, McMorrow?” he said. “You owe me. Putting me out there in your goddamn article. My kids seen that, you son of a bitch. Wiseass newspaperman. How’s it feel now, huh? Thought you made me look stupid, huh? Well, how’s it feel?”

  “The number,” the guy above me said. “Four digits, right? Enter your personal identification number now. Just say the numbers, man.”

  “One, two, three, four,” I said.

  Leaman slammed the wind out of me.

  “Maybe that’s it,” the driver said.

  “No, nobody has one, two, three, four,” the guy above me said. “He’s playing goddamn games. Aren’t you, McMorrow?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Maybe that is it,” the driver said. “Should I pull in?”

  “No, you stupid nummy,” the guy above me said. “He’s got to be in front. They got cameras.”

  “Jeez, this is going all to hell,” the driver said. “Let’s dump him and this wreck and get the hell outta here.”

  “He’s seen us,” Leaman said.

  “Much better,” I murmured.

  “So what’re you gonna do? Whack him?”

  “This sucks,” the driver said.

  “Keep going,” Leaman said. “Down to the garage. We’ll make this pussy talk.”

  “Does this gas gauge work?” the driver said.

  “How the hell should I know?” the guy above me said.

  “I hope not,” the driver said. “I don’t feel like taking him to get gas.”

  “The garage, you numb nuts,” Leaman said. “The garage.”

  “Hey, I just wanted some blow,” the driver said. “I ain’t in for no—”

  “Just drive,” Leaman said. “God almighty. Does everything have to be this big goddamn deal?”

  “Five, six, seven, eight,” I said from the floor.

  A foot jammed against my neck.

  The garage wasn’t far. I counted four minutes, maybe five. The car swung to the left and to the right, five or six times. We were loafing along, doing maybe twenty-five, when the car turned hard to the left and stopped. The driver got out and left the car running. He got back in and pulled ahead into near darkness. The door opened again and he walked behind the car and I heard doors bang shut and the place went black.

  And a light went on, barely.

  “Take off your belt,” Leaman said.

  “Why should I take off my belt,” the g
uy above me said. “I like this—”

  “Take it off and strap his goddamn wrists together. Just do it, for once.”

  I heard leather snap, then circle my wrists. One of them jerked the belt tight and I winced.

  “You guys have been watching too much CNN,” I said.

  “Shut up,” Leaman said. “Let’s get him out.”

  They opened the door near my head and the driver came over and grabbed me by the armpits. They lifted me by the back of the jeans and shoved me forward and the driver pulled and I was piled out of the car and onto my face on a dirty concrete floor. I left a bloody stain.

  “Now we can friggin’ work on him,” Leaman said. “I give him five minutes.”

  I rolled over and looked up. Leaman was wearing jeans and a dark green T-shirt. His hair was pulled back and his face was grim. The guy beside me in the car was shorter than Leaman and blond, his face bony and narrow and inbred looking. The driver was a chunky guy in his late twenties, with a round, soft face and a silly fringe of a beard. He looked doubtful. The car was an old Pontiac, primer black and rust.

  “Hey, man,” he said. “I ain’t up for this. I didn’t know you were—”

  “I knew you’d wuss out,” Leaman said. “But it’s too late, champ. You’re in.”

  “I ain’t killing some guy. I thought this was gonna be a few quick bucks. I didn’t—”

  “Who said anything about killing anybody. Pick him up and bring him over to the hood.”

  The blond guy leaned over me and waited for the driver to step up. He did and they hoisted me to my feet, my hands behind me. I got my balance in a half second and kicked out and up, catching Leaman square in the groin, so hard that he was almost lifted off the ground.

  “Aaahhhh,” he said, and started to lunge toward me, but then crumpled, and I whirled toward the driver and he took a step back. The blond guy started to swing from my right, but without conviction, and I bulled past him and ran as fast as I could, shoulder down, into the wooden door.

  It banged open a foot, maybe two, and I started screaming as loud as I could as I stumbled and slipped to my knees. Somebody grabbed me by the neck from behind and I bit the forearm hard and it slipped loose and I was moving forward again, digging like a running back, still shrieking and screaming. I got ten feet outside into the glaring sunshine, glimpsed junky houses, some sumac trees, before the blond guy tackled me from behind.