by Rick Hautala
Wandering from room to room, he admired the elegance and taste of the décor—the gold fixtures—real gold—spigots in the bathroom sink and shower—plush white carpet in the living room that was thicker than most animal’s pelts—china and crystal place-settings in a hand-carved hutch made of the same dark mahogany as the dining room table and chairs that could seat twenty people comfortably.
Jay wondered if he could ever get used to living like this as he meandered over to the wet bar, picked up a bottle of the very best vodka, and poured himself a healthy couple of shots—make that three—into a crystal shot glass. He inhaled deeply and tilted his head back in appreciation of the first belt, letting the liquor burn a path slowly down his throat to his stomach.
Yes, indeedy-do, maybe he could get used to living like this. He knocked back the second drink, savoring the experience.
But he wasn’t going to get rich lingering around over drinks in a dead woman’s penthouse when he had work to do. He came here to get a photograph, and just in case that woman at the desk had noticed him and called hotel security, he’d best be getting about his business.
He cautioned himself to be careful about leaving fingerprints behind. The police had obviously already combed the residence, so he wasn’t concerned about being framed or under suspicion for Marie’s demise, although with what she paid him and the way she allowed the managing editor to squelch his stories, he could imagine getting angry enough to do … something. Even though he hadn’t been “amused” by Marie’s death, the truth was he wasn’t exactly broken up about it, either.
Okay … maybe there was a bit of the ghoul in him after all. He wanted to see and photograph for all the world to see where she had “gone over.”
Still, it paid to be cautious, so before he unlocked the sliding glass door that led out onto the balcony, he slipped on a pair of latex gloves. He reminded himself to make sure he wiped the shot glasses and vodka bottle before he left, too. All he needed was one picture, and he’d be gone.
The balcony was considerably wider than it looked from street level. He hadn’t been expecting that, but then again—people like Marie Kilburn did everything larger than ordinary people—people like Jay—did. It was late spring, and the reclining chairs—which probably cost more than Jay’s entire living room ensemble—had already been put out. A warm breeze curled into the alcove and, from below, Jay could hear the faint sounds of traffic passing by. He tossed back about half of the third shot of vodka, wanting the pleasure to last, and then walked over to the railing. He was dizzy when he leaned over and peered down.
It wasn’t hard to imagine what might have happened that night.
Marie, for whatever reasons—either something dramatic had happened recently or, more likely, the accumulated desperation of her shallow life had finally caught up with her—had scribbled a self-pitying note and then, probably without much hesitation or forethought because she had always been a hard-charging, decisive woman, she had walked over to … right … about … here … Jay guessed, climbed up onto the railing—probably awkwardly for such an old woman—and with one last step, dropped into the night where the next stop was eighteen stories down.
It was rather sad, really … pathetic, even … and maybe even actually tragic when you thought about it, and by “you” Jay meant everyone who had a pulse and was drawing breath. Here was a woman who, in the eyes of the world had everything a person could possibly want—money, prestige, celebrity, friends (of a sort), and—yes, power. And none of it … not one iota of it was enough to keep her from pitching herself headlong over the railing and falling to the pavement eighteen stories below.
It was too bad, Jay thought, that he hadn’t thought to hire an actress to dress up like Marie Kilburn, put on a wig and dress like the one Marie had worn that night, so he could get a photo he could pass off as an authentic shot of Marie Kilburn’s body splattered on the sidewalk. He could have photo-shopped in some blood later. The Morning Express would never have run it, but he could have sold something like that to some tabloid or other … probably for a lot more money than he was making at the Express. Maybe then he’d be able to live a lifestyle at least approaching what he’d seen in Marie’s penthouse.
But it was too late for that.
This was his only chance.
He had to get the best shot he could tonight because he couldn’t risk trying to come back tomorrow and breaking in again after finding an actress who was willing to pose as a corpse. Jay took another sip of vodka and decided to have a smoke while he lined up his shot. Holding his drink in one hand, he fished a pack of cigarettes and his lighter from his pockets with the other. He shook out a cigarette, pegging it to his lower lip, and had just clicked the lighter when he heard someone open the door to the penthouse.
He wheeled around to see who it was, expecting hotel security or the cops. He was raising the flame of the lighter to the cigarette in his mouth when his jacket fetched up on the edge of the balcony railing. The sudden jolt made him spill what was left of his drink over the front of his jacket. Without thinking, he dropped his hand to wipe it away, forgetting for a moment that he was still holding a flaming cigarette lighter in that hand.
In a flash, the alcohol on his jacket caught fire. A large blue tongue of flame blossomed across his chest. He let out an involuntary scream that obviously caught the attention of whomever had entered the apartment.
Was it security, following up on a call from the front desk?
Or did the couple in the elevator get suspicious and report him to security?
Whatever …
As Jay was frantically beating at the flames spreading across his chest, a silhouette loomed behind the gauzy curtain that obscured one side of the sliding glass door.
When Jay took a single step backwards, the edge of his jacket, which was still snagged on the railing, pulled him off balance. Before he could catch himself, he pitched backwards and fell over the railing, his feet kicking up over his head. Fed by the rush of fresh air, the flames spread, engulfing his chest and face. He tried to scream, but instead he inhaled a blast of flame and heat that fried his vocal cords and lungs.
He was falling … plummeting like a comet through the night to the dark street below. Wind whistled in his ears, and he only had a few seconds to wonder what the headline would read in tomorrow’s newspaper. Then his neck hit a telephone wire, catching him under the chin at just the right angle to snap his head clean off his shoulders.
Although now separated, Jay’s body and head—according to one eyewitness—hit the sidewalk at the exact same instant.
Oilman: A Tale of the “Little Brothers”
—December, 1992—
"Looks to me like what you got here’s a stuck intake valve."
The man from the oil company—he had the name “Phil” stitched above the breast pocket of his olive-colored Dixon Oil Company jacket—struggled as he heaved his two hundred and seventy-five-plus pounds up from the cellar floor. He brushed cement grit off both hands onto the knees of his grease-stained bib overalls. They looked like they used to be blue, once upon a time, but now they were black and shiny.
Standing close to her daddy, Holly Brewer watched as the oilman grunted and hiked up his pants. The frayed shoulder straps looked like they weren't quite doing their job. Holly thought it was a good thing the bib covered as much of his bulging gut as it did because she could see that his work shirt was missing a few buttons. The straining bib was the only thing that prevented his belly from hanging out like a huge water-filled balloon. He winked at her and grinned, exposing big, yellow teeth. Holly thought his smile looked a lot like the Big Bad Wolf’s in her Little Red Riding Hood storybook.
"Won't take but a coupla of minutes to fix 'er up for yah," Phil said. His voice had a phlegmy rattle to it that Holly didn’t like.
Standing off to one side, Ken Brewer—Holly’s daddy—nodded as he shifted from one foot to the other. She could tell he was trying not to let her see how cold he was, but ev
en with his jaw clenched, his teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. He glanced at his wristwatch, then smiled down at Holly. His left hand rested on her thin shoulder, patting it lightly. Her thin body shivered beneath his touch, but like him, she was trying not to let it show how cold she was even wearing her winter coat.
“It’s about four o’clock in the morning,” her daddy said to Phil. “You sure you got the part in your truck?”
Phil made a funny, pig-like face that made him look even scarier, Holly thought. She moved a step closer to her daddy, clinging to his leg.
“If there ain’t one in the truck, I know we got one back at the shop. I keep plenty of 'em on hand. Standard part, yah know.”
“How long will it take?” her daddy asked. “The house is an icebox.”
Holly could hear the exasperation in his voice as he glanced at her again. She tried to return the smile to show just how brave she was being during this family emergency.
"Fifteen minutes each way, if I have’ta go back to the shop ‘n get one,” Phil said. “Maybe a little longer ‘cause of the snow. No more ‘n half hour to install it ‘n make sure it’s workin’ proper.” He paused and smiled at Holly again before getting down on one knee and rummaging through the chaos that was his toolbox. All the tools were smeared with oil and grease.
“Don’t you worry, little lady,” he said, still smiling his scary wolf smile. “We’ll have you all nice ‘n toasty ‘fore long.”
"Figures, don’t it?” her daddy said. “That the furnace would crap out right in the middle of our first winter storm?"
“That’s the way it goes,” Phil replied. “Don’t really depend on ‘em in the summer.”
In the brief silence that followed, Holly listened to the low whistle of the winter wind outside the cellar window. Pellets of snow hissed against the glass, sounding like fingernails scraping against metal. The cellar light at the foot of the stairs reflected from the glass, making it look like polished black marble. Although she couldn't see how much snow there was, she hoped it was piling up fast so there wouldn’t be school in the morning. As far as she was concerned, the snow could pile up to the first floor windows … as long as the furnace got fixed.
"Oh, by th'way,” Phil said as he wiped his hands on an oily rag, “you folks ain't missing a cat or anythin', are yah?"
Holly’s daddy gave a quick shake of the head and said, "No. Why do you ask?"
Phil scratched his beard-stubbled jowls, leaving a long soot streak that ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. "Nothin’. It’s just—when I first got down here, I thought I heard somethin'. Sounded like somethin’ scratchin' behind the wall there."
He cocked his head toward the cellar wall where a wide, gray pipe ran from the furnace into the chimney. A hinged metal cover on the side kept flapping back and forth, making a faint squeaking noise with every sudden gust of wind. After they all listened for a moment or two, Phil exhaled softly and shook his head.
"Nope. Don't hear it now."
"Maybe it was the wind fluting in the chimney," Holly’s daddy offered. "Or it might’ve been someone moving around upstairs. I think my wife’s up in the living room, trying to stay warm." He sighed. “Times like these, I wish to hell we had a fireplace.”
“They do come in handy, but I’ll have ‘er fixed up in a jiff.”
Without even looking at her daddy, Holly could tell that all he wanted was for the oilman to stop gabbing, get whatever part he needed from the truck, and get the furnace up and running so the house could start warming up. A wayward draught blew along the cement floor, snaking around her ankles and making her shiver.
"Well, then,” Phil said, “lemme see if I got it in the truck."
He stood up and flipped his toolbox shut with the scuffed toe of his work boot, then zipped up his oil-stained jacket, pulled the woolen hat he was wearing down to his eyebrows, and slipped his hands into his thick, leather work gloves.
"Back in a jiff."
Holly wondered why he kept using that word jiff. As far as she knew, it was the name of her favorite peanut butter.
Holly’s daddy nodded to the oilman and stepped to one side, pulling her with him as the fat man passed by and clumped heavily up the stairs. Holly thought her daddy might ask her to go back upstairs, too. Truth was, there was no reason for her to freeze down here while the scary oilman monkeyed around with their furnace. Then again, there wasn't much point in going upstairs, either. In fact, it was probably warmer down here. And no matter what, she didn’t want to go upstairs until the furnace was fixed because there was no way she wanted to listen to her mommy complain that it was all her daddy’s fault because he had wanted to save money this year and had canceled the annual furnace cleaning service. She was tired of listening to them fight.
“You okay there, baby?” Her daddy pulled her close and scruffed her hair.
She looked up at him and smiled bravely. She knew how worried he always was about money and things, but she was actually enjoying this little emergency. As long as the oilman knew he could fix the furnace, it was a fun adventure just being down here with him especially so late at night when she should have been in bed hours ago. She was about to tell him that when a sudden noise caught her attention. At first, she thought it was the oilman, slamming the door behind him as he went outside, but she immediately realized that the sound—a faint, scratching rasp—had come from the wall behind the furnace.
“Did you—?” she started to say, then stopped herself.
“Did I what?” her daddy asked following a brief silence.
Holly looked at her daddy and sawed her teeth over her lower lip.
“Oh, nothing,” she said, shaking her head and letting her gaze slide past him to the furnace. “I just—”
“Maybe you should run upstairs and see how momma’s doing,” her daddy suggested. He was using that calm, patient voice he used whenever he wanted her to behave, but Holly heard an edge of nervousness behind it.
“I wanna stay with you,” she said, trying not to sound whiny.
Her daddy’s smile widened as he pulled her close to him. Because of the cold, his hug wasn’t as warm as it usually was, but she reached her arms around his waist and held on tightly. She was about to tell him how much she loved him when the dull, scraping sound was repeated, only this time it was louder.
Holly looked at the wall behind the furnace, then up at her daddy.
“Daddy … What was that?” she asked.
A cold, tingly rush ran up her back, but she tried not to let it show. She wanted her daddy to know that she was a brave girl and that she could handle whatever was going on.
Holly wasn’t sure if her daddy had heard the sound or not, but it had been clear enough to her this time, and she was certain that it had come from the wall behind the cold, silent furnace.
“I dunno, baby,” her daddy said as his eyes twitched back and forth, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Stacked against the wall was a large dust-covered pile of junk—numerous cardboard boxes, rusty tools, old books and magazines, coils of frayed rope and electrical wire, half-empty cans of paint, and an assortment of other useless stuff that her momma had said should have been carted off to the dump years ago but which had accumulated down here instead.
Her daddy took a breath and held it as he leaned forward and scanned the junk pile. Holly was thinking something must have shifted in the pile. She was afraid it might be a mouse or maybe even a rat scrambling for cover because of all the racket down here in the cellar.
“You wanna run upstairs and get Daddy a flashlight?” her daddy asked.
For a moment, Holly couldn’t move. There wasn’t a trace of nervousness in his voice, but she stood there and stared at the deep shadows cast by the junk pile. The darkness looked as dark as ink. Chunks of cement and dust covered the floor by the junk pile. Holly was sure if her daddy looked behind there, he’d find a rat’s nest or something maybe even worse.
But she didn’t have
to be asked twice. Anxious to please her daddy, she turned and dashed upstairs.
The cellar steps creaked and snapped under her feet, and halfway up, she had the sudden frightening feeling that something was chasing after her. That fear propelled her even faster up the rest of the stairs until she reached the relative safety of the kitchen. In a matter of seconds, she rifled through some cabinets and drawers and found a flashlight.
“Got it!” she yelled, closing her hand on the slick, metal tube.
“What have you got?” her mother shouted from the living room.
“Nothing … Just helpin’ dad,” Holly replied as she raced back down the cellar stairs and over to her daddy. Smiling, she held the flashlight out to him. He scruffed her hair again and thanked her as he flicked the switch and directed the beam of light over to the junk pile.
“I’m surprised the batteries work,” her daddy muttered as the weak, yellow beam wavered back and forth across the junk. The oval of light rippled along the irregular surfaces, casting sharply defined shadows that swung from left to right as her daddy shifted it from side to side.
“See anything?” Holly asked. She was filled with anticipation as she moved forward a step behind her daddy, just to stay close to him. As nervous as she was, she wanted to prove to him she was brave. She was always safe and brave whenever her daddy was around.
Holding the flashlight in his right hand—his swinging hand, she thought, like maybe he thinks he might see something and have to whack it!—her daddy stepped up closer to the pile.
“Here,” he said, holding the flashlight out to her. “Hold the light for me, will yah?”
Holly took the flashlight and tried to keep it steady as her daddy started removing a few boxes from the top of the pile, placing them to one side. The pile was taller than Holly, and it looked like it might fall over on her, but her daddy moved everything slowly and carefully so nothing would fall. Clouds of dust swirled into the air. A dry, stinging sensation reached deep into her nose and throat, making her gag.